by Paul Keegan
O’re all th’Italian fields where still doth sway
The triple Tyrant: that from these may grow
A hunderd-fold, who having learnt thy way
Early may fly the Babylonian wo.
JOHN MILTON To Mr. Cyriack Skinner upon His Blindness
Cyriack, this three years day these eys, though clear
To outward view, of blemish or of spot;
Bereft of light thir seeing have forgot,
Nor to thir idle orbs doth sight appear
Of Sun or Moon or Starre throughout the year,
Or man or woman. Yet I argue not
Against heavns hand or will, nor bate a jot
Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer
Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask?
The conscience, Friend, to have lost them overply’d
In libertyes defence, my noble task,
Of which all Europe talks from side to side.
This thought might lead me through the worlds vain mask
Content though blind, had I no better guide.
(written 1655; 1694)
JOHN MILTON The Fifth Ode of Horace. Lib. I
Quis multa gracilis te puer in Rosa, Rendred almost word for word without Rhyme according to the Latin Measure, as near as the Language will permit.
What slender Youth bedew’d with liquid odours
Courts thee on Roses in some pleasant Cave,
Pyrrha for whom bind’st thou
In wreaths thy golden Hair,
Plain in thy neatness; O how oft shall he
On Faith and changed Gods complain: and Seas
Rough with black winds and storms
Unwonted shall admire:
Who now enjoyes thee credulous, all Gold,
Who alwayes vacant, alwayes amiable
Hopes thee; of flattering gales
Unmindfull. Hapless they
To whom thou untry’d seem’st fair. Me in my vow’d
Picture the sacred wall declares t’ have hung
My dank and dropping weeds
To the stern God of Sea.
JOHN DRYDEN from Marriage A-la-Mode
Song
Whil’st Alexis lay prest
In her Arms he lov’d best,
With his hands round her neck,
And his head on her breast,
He found the fierce pleasure too hasty to stay,
And his soul in the tempest just flying away.
When Cœlia saw this,
With a sigh, and a kiss,
She cry’d, Oh my dear, I am robb’d of my bliss;
’Tis unkind to your Love, and unfaithfully done,
To leave me behind you, and die all alone.
The Youth, though in haste,
And breathing his last,
In pity dy’d slowly, while she dy’d more fast;
Till at length she cry’d, Now, my dear, now let us go,
Now die, my Alexis, and I will die too.
Thus intranc’d they did lie,
Till Alexis did try
To recover new breath, that again he might die:
Then often they di’d; but the more they did so,
The Nymph di’d more quick, and the Shepherd more slow.
JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER Love and Life. A Song 1677
All my past life is mine noe more
The flying Houres are gon
Like transitory Dreames giv’n ore
Whose Images are kept in Store
By Memory alone.
What ever is to come is not
How can it then be mine,
The present Moment’s all my Lott
And that as fast as it is got
Phillis is wholy thine.
Then talke not of Inconstancy,
False Hearts, and broken Vows,
If I, by Miracle can be,
This live-long Minute true to thee,
Tis all that Heav’n allows.
APHRA BEHN Song. Love Arm’d
Love in Fantastique Triumph satt,
Whilst Bleeding Hearts a round him flow’d,
For whom Fresh paines he did Create,
And strange Tyranick power he show’d;
From thy Bright Eyes he took his fire,
Which round about, in sport he hurl’d;
But ’twas from mine, he took desire,
Enough to undo the Amorous World.
From me he took his sighs and tears,
From thee his Pride and Crueltie;
From me his Languishments and Feares,
And every Killing Dart from thee;
Thus thou and I, the God have arm’d,
And sett him up a Deity;
But my poor Heart alone is harm’d,
Whilst thine the Victor is, and free.
APHRA BEHN
A thousand martyrs I have made,
All sacrific’d to my desire;
A thousand beauties have betray’d,
That languish in resistless fire.
The untam’d heart to hand I brought,
And fixed the wild and wandering thought.
I never vow’d nor sigh’d in vain
But both, tho’ false, were well receiv’d.
The fair are pleas’d to give us pain,
And what they wish is soon believ’d.
And tho’ I talk’d of wounds and smart,
Love’s pleasures only touched my heart.
Alone the glory and the spoil
I always laughing bore away;
The triumphs, without pain or toil,
Without the hell, the heav’n of joy.
And while I thus at random rove
Despis’d the fools that whine for love.
1679
JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER from A Letter from Artemiza in the Towne to Chloe in the Countrey
Chloe, in Verse by your commande I write;
Shortly you’l bid mee ride astride, and fight.
These Talents better with our sexe agree,
Then lofty flights of dang’rous poetry.
Amongst the Men (I meane) the Men of Witt
(At least they passt for such, before they writt)
How many bold Advent’rers for the Bayes,
(Proudly designing large returnes of prayse)
Who durst that stormy pathlesse World explore,
Were soone dash’t backe, and wreck’t on the dull shore,
Broke of that little stocke, they had before?
How would a Womans tott’ring Barke be tost,
Where stoutest Ships (the Men of Witt) are lost?
When I reflect on this, I straight grow wise,
And my owne selfe thus gravely I advise.
Deare Artemiza, poetry’s a snare:
Bedlam has many Mansions: have a Care.
Your Muse diverts you, makes the Reader sad;
You Fancy, you’r inspir’d, he thinkes, you mad.
Consider too, ’twill be discreetly done,
To make your Selfe the Fiddle of the Towne,
To fynd th’ill-humour’d pleasure att their need,
Curst, if you fayle, and scorn’d, though you succeede.
Thus, like an Arrant Woman, as I am,
Noe sooner well convinc’d, writing’s a shame,
That Whore is scarce a more reproachfull name,
Then Poetesse;
Like Men, that marry, or like Maydes, that woe,
’Cause ’tis the very worst thing they can doe,
Pleas’d with the Contradiction, and the Sin,
Mee-thinkes, I stand on Thornes, till I begin.
(… )
Where I was visiting the other night,
Comes a fine Lady with her humble Knight,
Who had prevayl’d on her, through her owne skill,
At his request, though much against his will,
To come to London.
As the Coach stop’t, wee heard her Voyce more loud,
Then a great belly’d Womans
in a Crowd,
Telling the Knight, that her afayres require,
Hee for some houres obsequiously retire.
I thinke, shee was asham’d, to have him seene
(Hard fate of Husbands) the Gallant had beene,
Though a diseas’d ill-favour’d Foole, brought in.
‘Dispatch,’ sayes shee, ‘that bus’nesse you pretend,
Your beastly visitt to your drunken freind;
A Bottle ever makes you looke soe fine!
Mee-thinkes I long, to smell you stinke of Wine.
Your Countrey-drinking-breath’s enough, to kill
Sowre Ale corrected with a Lemmon pill.
Prithy farewell – wee’le meete againe anon’;
The necessary thing bows, and is gone.
She flyes up stayres, and all the hast does show,
That fifty Antique postures will allow,
And then bursts out – ‘Deare Madam, am not I
The alter’dst Creature breathing? Let me dye,
I fynde my selfe ridiculously growne
Embarassé with being out of Towne,
Rude, and untaught, like any Indian Queene;
My Countrey nakednesse is strangely seene.
How is Love govern’d? Love, that rules the State,
And, pray, who are the Men most worne of late?
When I was marry’d, Fooles were a la mode,
The Men of Witt were then held incommode,
Slow of beleife, and fickle in desire,
Who e’re they’l be persuaded, must inquire,
As if they came to spye, not to admire.
With searching Wisedome fatall to their ease
They still fynde out, why, what may, should not please;
Nay take themselves for injur’d, when Wee dare,
Make ’em thinke better of us, then Wee are:
And if Wee hide our frailtyes from their sights,
Call Us deceitefull Gilts, and Hypocrites.
They little guesse, who att Our Arts are greiv’d,
The perfect Joy of being well deceaved.
Inquisitive, as jealous Cuckolds, grow,
Rather, then not bee knowing, they will know,
What being knowne creates their certaine woe.
Women should these of all Mankind avoyd;
For Wonder by cleare knowledge is destroy’d.
Woman, who is an Arrant Bird of night,
Bold in the Duske, before a Fooles dull sight,
Should flye, when Reason brings the glaring light:
But the kinde easy Foole apt, to admire
Himselfe, trusts us, his Follyes all conspire,
To flatter his, and favour Our desire.
Vaine of his proper Meritt he with ease
Beleaves, wee love him best, who best can please.
On him Our grosse dull common Flatt’ries passe,
Ever most Joyfull, when most made an Asse.
Heavy, to apprehend, though all Mankinde
Perceave Us false, the Fopp concern’d is blinde,
Who doating on himselfe,
Thinkes ev’ry one, that sees him, of his mynde.
These are true Womens Men’ – Here forc’d, to cease
Through Want of Breath, not Will, to hold her peace,
Shee to the Window runns, where she had spy’de
Her much esteem’d deare Freind the Monkey ti’de.
With fourty smiles, as many Antique bows,
As if’t had beene the Lady of the House,
The dirty chatt’ring Monster she embrac’t,
And made it this fine tender speech att last
‘Kisse mee, thou curious Miniature of Man;
How odde thou art! How pritty! How Japan!
Oh I could live, and dye with thee’ – then on
For halfe an houre in Complement shee runne.
I tooke this tyme, to thinke, what Nature meant,
When this mixt thinge into the World shee sent,
Soe very wise, yet soe impertinent.
One, who knew ev’ry thinge, who, God thought fitt,
Should bee an Asse through choyce, not want of Witt:
Whose Foppery, without the helpe of Sense,
Could ne’re have rose to such an Excellence.
Nature’s as lame, in making a true Fopp,
As a Philosopher; the very topp,
And Dignity of Folly wee attaine
By studious Search, and labour of the Braine,
By observation, Councell, and deepe thought:
God never made a Coxecombe worth a groate.
Wee owe that name to Industry, and Arts:
An Eminent Foole must bee a Foole of parts;
And such a one was shee, who had turn’d o’re
As many Bookes, as Men, lov’d much, reade more,
Had a discerning Witt; to her was knowne
Ev’ry ones fault, and meritt, but her owne.
All the good qualityes, that ever blest
A Woman, soe distinguisht from the rest,
Except discretion onely, she possest.
(…)
But now ’tis tyme, I should some pitty show
To Chloe, synce I cannot choose, but know,
Readers must reape the dullnesse, writers sow.
By the next Post such storyes I will tell,
As joyn’d with these shall to a Volume swell,
As true, as Heaven, more infamous, then Hell;
But you are tyr’d, and soe am I. Farewell.
JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER from A Satyr against Reason and Mankind
Were I (who to my cost already am
One of those strange prodigious Creatures Man)
A Spirit free, to choose for my own share,
What Case of Flesh, and Blood, I pleas’d to weare,
I’d be a Dog, a Monkey, or a Bear,
Or any thing but that vain Animal,
Who is so proud of being rational.
The senses are too gross, and he’ll contrive
A Sixth, to contradict the other Five;
And before certain instinct, will preferr
Reason, which Fifty times for one does err.
Reason, an Ignis fatuus, in the Mind,
Which leaving light of Nature, sense behind;
Pathless and dang’rous wandring ways it takes,
Through errors Fenny – Boggs, and Thorny Brakes;
Whilst the misguided follower, climbs with pain,
Mountains of Whimseys, heap’d in his own Brain:
Stumbling from thought to thought, falls headlong down,
Into doubts boundless Sea, where like to drown,
Books bear him up awhile, and make him try,
