The Penguin Book of English Verse

by Paul Keegan

  Lovely, as is the dawning East,

  Was this Marble’s frozen Guest;

  As soft, and Snowy, as that Down

  Adorns the Blow-balls frizled Crown;

  As straight and slender as the Crest,

  Or Antlet of the one-beam’d Beast;

  Pleasant as th’odorous Month of May:

  As glorious, and as light as Day.

  Whom I admir’d, as soon as knew,

  And now her Memory pursue

  With such a superstitious Lust,

  That I could fumble with her Dust.

  She all Perfections had, and more,

  Tempting, as if design’d a Whore,

  For so she was; and since there are

  Such, I could wish them all as fair.

  Pretty she was, and young, and wise,

  And in her Calling so precise,

  That Industry had made her prove

  The sucking School-Mistress of Love:

  And Death, ambitious to become

  Her Pupil, left his Ghastly home,

  And, seeing how we us’d her here,

  The raw-bon’d Rascal ravisht her.

  Who, pretty Soul, resign’d her Breath,

  To seek new Letchery in Death.

  CHARLES COTTON To My Dear and Most Worthy Friend, Mr. Isaak Walton

  Whilst in this cold and blust’ring Clime,

  Where bleak winds howl, and Tempests roar,

  We pass away the roughest time

  Has been of many years before;

  Whilst from the most tempest’ous Nooks

  The chillest Blasts our peace invade,

  And by great Rains our smallest Brooks

  Are almost navigable made;

  Whilst all the ills are so improv’d

  Of this dead quarter of the year,

  That even you, so much belov’d,

  We would not now wish with us here;

  In this estate, I say, it is

  Some comfort to us to suppose,

  That in a better Clime than this

  You our dear Friend have more repose;

  And some delight to me the while,

  Though nature now does weep in Rain,

  To think that I have seen her smile,

  And haply may I do again.

  If the all-ruling Power please

  We live to see another May,

  We’ll recompence an Age of these

  Foul days in one fine fishing day:

  We then shall have a day or two,

  Perhaps a week, wherein to try,

  What the best Master’s hand can doe

  With the most deadly killing Flie:

  A day without too bright a Beam,

  A warm, but not a scorching Sun,

  A Southern gale to curl the Stream,

  And (Master) half our work is done.

  There whilst behind some bush we wait

  The Scaly People to betray,

  We’ll prove it just with treach’rous Bait

  To make the preying Trout our prey;

  And think our selves in such an hour

  Happier than those, though not so high,

  Who, like Leviathans, devour

  Of meaner men the smaller Fry.

  This (my best Friend) at my poor Home

  Shall be our Pastime and our Theme,

  But then should you not deign to come

  You make all this a flatt’ring Dream.

  1691

  JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER A SONG of a Young LADY. To Her Ancient Lover

  Ancient Person, for whom I,

  All the flattering Youth defy;

  Long be it e’re thou grow Old,

  Aking, shaking, Crazy Cold.

  But still continue as thou art,

  Ancient Person of my Heart.

  On thy withered Lips and dry,

  Which like barren Furrows lye;

  Brooding Kisses I will pour,

  Shall thy youthful Heat restore.

  Such kind Show’rs in Autumn fall,

  And a second Spring recall:

  Nor from thee will ever part,

  Antient Person of my Heart.

  Thy Nobler part, which but to name

  In our Sex wou’d be counted shame,

  By Ages frozen grasp possest,

  From his Ice shall be releast:

  And, sooth’d by my reviving hand,

  In former Warmth and Vigor stand.

  All a Lover’s wish can reach,

  For thy Joy my Love shall teach:

  And for thy Pleasure shall improve,

  All that Art can add to Love.

  Yet still I love thee without Art,

  Antient Person of my Heart.

  JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER A Song

  Absent from thee I languish still,

  Then ask me not, when I return?

  The straying Fool ’twill plainly kill,

  To wish all Day, all Night to Mourn.

  Dear, from thine Arms then let me flie,

  That my Fantastick mind may prove,

  The Torments it deserves to try,

  That tears my fixt Heart from my Love.

  When wearied with a world of Woe,

  To thy safe Bosom I retire

  Where Love and Peace and Truth does flow,

  May I contented there expire.

  Lest once more wandring from that Heav’n

  I fall on some base heart unblest;

  Faithless to thee, False, unforgiv’n,

  And lose my Everlasting rest.

  JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER The Mistress. A Song

  An Age in her Embraces past,

  Would seem a Winters day;

  Where Life and Light, with envious hast,

  Are torn and snatch’d away.

  But, oh how slowly Minutes rowl,

  When absent from her Eyes

  That feed my Love, which is my Soul,

  It languishes and dyes.

  For then no more a Soul but shade,

  It mournfully does move;

  And haunts my Breast, by absence made

  The living Tomb of Love.

  You Wiser men despise me not;

  Whose Love-sick Fancy raves,

  On Shades of Souls, and Heaven knows what;

  Short Ages live in Graves.

  When e’re those wounding Eyes, so full

  Of Sweetness, you did see;

  Had you not been profoundly dull,

  You had gone mad like me.

  Nor Censure us You who perceive

  My best belov’d and me,

  Sigh and lament, Complain and grieve,

  You think we disagree.

  Alas! ’tis Sacred Jealousie,

  Love rais’d to an Extream;

  The only Proof ’twixt her and me,

  We love, and do not dream.

  Fantastick Fancies fondly move;

  And in frail Joys believe:

  Taking false Pleasure for true Love;

  But Pain can ne’re deceive.

  Kind Jealous Doubts, tormenting Fears,

  And Anxious Cares, when past;

  Prove our Hearts Treasure fixt and dear,

  And make us blest at last.

  JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER from the Latin of Lucretius. De rerum natura, 1.44–9

  The Gods, by right of Nature, must possess

  An Everlasting Age, of perfect Peace:

  Far off, remov’d from us, and our Affairs:

  Neither approach’d by Dangers, or by Cares:

  Rich in themselves, to whom we cannot add:

  Not pleas’d by Good Deeds; nor provok’d by Bad.

  THOMAS HEYRICK On an Indian Tomineois, the Least of Birds

  I’me made in sport by Nature, when

  Shee’s tir’d with the stupendious weight

  Of forming Elephants and Beasts of State;

  Rhinoceros, that love the Fen;

  The Elkes, that scale the hills of Snow,

  And Lions
couching in their awfull Den:

  These do work Nature hard, and then,

  Her wearied Hand in Me doth show

  What she can for her own Diversion doe.

  Man is a little World (’tis said),

  And I in Miniature am drawn,

  A Perfect Creature, but in Short-hand shown.

  The Ruck, in Madagascar bred,

  (If new Discoveries Truth do speak)

  Whom greatest Beasts and armed Horsemen dread,

  Both him and Me one Artist made:

  Nature in this Delight doth take,

  That can so Great and Little Monsters make.

  The Indians me a Sunbeam name,

  And I may be the Child of one:

  So small I am, my Kind is hardly known.

  To some a sportive Bird I seem,

  And some believe me but a Fly;

  Tho’ me a Feather’d Fowl the Best esteem:

  What e’re I am, I’me Nature’s Gemm,

  And like a Sunbeam from the Sky,

  I can’t be follow’d by the quickest Eye.

  I’me the true Bird of Paradise,

  And heavenly Dew’s my only Meat:

  My Mouth so small, ’twill nothing else admit.

  No Scales know how my weight to poise,

  So Light, I seem condensed Air;

  And did at th’End of the Creation rise,

  When Nature wanted more Supplies,

  When she could little Matter spare,

  But in Return did make the work more Rare.

  1692

  SIR CHARLES SEDLEY On a Cock at Rochester

  Thou cursed Cock, with thy perpetual Noise,

  May’st thou be Capon made, and lose thy Voice,

  Or on a Dunghil may’st thou spend thy Blood,

  And Vermin prey upon thy craven Brood;

  May Rivals tread thy Hens before thy Face,

  Then with redoubled Courage give thee chase;

  May’st thou be punish’d for St. Peter’s Crime,

  And on Shrove-tuesday, perish in thy Prime;

  May thy bruis’d Carcass be some Beggar’s Feast,

  Thou first and worst Disturber of Man’s Rest.

  1693

  JOHN DRYDEN from The Sixth Satyr of Juvenal

  In Saturn’s Reign, at Nature’s Early Birth,

  There was that Thing call’d Chastity on Earth;

  When in a narrow Cave, their common shade,

  The Sheep the Shepherds and their Gods were laid:

  When Reeds and Leaves, and Hides of Beasts were spread

  By Mountain Huswifes for their homely Bed,

  And Mossy Pillows rais’d, for the rude Husband’s head.

  Unlike the Niceness of our Modern Dames

  (Affected Nymphs with new Affected Names:)

  The Cynthia’s and the Lesbia’s of our Years,

  Who for a Sparrow’s Death dissolve in Tears.

  Those first unpolisht Matrons, Big and Bold,

  Gave Suck to Infants of Gygantick Mold;

  Rough as their Savage Lords who Rang’d the Wood,

  And Fat with Akorns Belcht their windy Food.

  For when the World was Bucksom, fresh, and young,

  Her Sons were undebauch’d, and therefore strong;

  And whether Born in kindly Beds of Earth,

  Or strugling from the Teeming Oaks to Birth,

  Or from what other Atoms they begun,

  No Sires they had, or if a Sire the Sun.

  Some thin Remains of Chastity appear’d

  Ev’n under Jove, but Jove without a Beard:

  Before the servile Greeks had learnt to Swear

  By Heads of Kings; while yet the Bounteous Year

  Her common Fruits in open Plains expos’d,

  E’re Thieves were fear’d, or Gardens were enclos’d:

  At length uneasie Justice upwards flew,

  And both the Sisters to the Stars withdrew;

  From that Old Æra Whoring did begin,

  So Venerably Ancient is the Sin.

  Adult’rers next invade the Nuptial State,

  And Marriage-Beds creak’d with a Foreign Weight;

  All other Ills did Iron times adorn;

  But Whores and Silver in one Age were Born.

  JOHN DRYDEN from The First Book of Ovid’s Metamorphoses

  [‘Deucalion and Pyrrha, sole survivors of the Flood, renew Creation by casting stones behind them’]

  This Earth our mighty Mother is, the Stones

  In her capacious Body, are her Bones.

  These we must cast behind: with hope and fear

  The Woman did the new solution hear:

  The Man diffides in his own Augury,

  And doubts the Gods; yet both resolve to try.

  Descending from the Mount, they first unbind

  Their Vests, and veil’d, they cast the Stones behind:

  The Stones (a Miracle to Mortal View,

  But long Tradition makes it pass for true)

  Did first the Rigour of their Kind expell,

  And, suppl’d into softness, as they fell,

  Then swell’d, and swelling, by degrees grew warm;

  And took the Rudiments of Humane Form.

  Imperfect shapes: in Marble such are seen

  When the rude Chizzel does the Man begin;

  While yet the roughness of the Stone remains,

  Without the rising Muscles, and the Veins.

  The sappy parts, and next resembling juice,

  Were turn’d to moisture, for the Bodies use:

  Supplying humours, blood, and nourishment;

  The rest, (too solid to receive a bent;)

  Converts to bones; and what was once a vein

  Its former Name, and Nature did retain.

  By help of Pow’r Divine, in little space

  What the Man threw, assum’d a Manly face;

  And what the Wife, renew’d the Female Race.

  Hence we derive our Nature; born to bear

  Laborious life; and harden’d into care.

  1694

  JOHN DRYDEN To My Dear Friend Mr. Congreve, on His Comedy, Call’d The Double-Dealer

  Well then; the promis’d hour is come at last;

  The present Age of Wit obscures the past:

  Strong were our Syres; and as they Fought they Writ,

  Conqu’ring with force of Arms, and dint of Wit;

  Theirs was the Gyant Race, before the Flood;