Did ever Life so immaturely end?
For thee the tuneful Swains provided Lays,
And ev’ry Muse prepar’d thy future Praise.
For thee the busie Nymphs stripp’d ev’ry Grove,
And Myrtle Wreaths and Flow’ry Chaplets wove. 115
But now, ah dismal Change! the tuneful Throng
To loud Lamentings turn the chearful Song.
Their pleasing Task the weeping Virgins leave,
And with unfinish’d Garlands strew thy Grave.
There let me fall, there, there lamenting lie, 120
There grieving grow to Earth, despair, and die.
This said, her loud Complaint of force she ceas’d,
Excess of Grief her faultring Speech suppress’d.
Along the Ground her colder Limbs she laid,
Where late the Grave was for Amyntas made; 125
Then from her swimming Eyes began to pour,
Of softly falling Rain a Silver Show’r;
Her loosely flowing Hair, all radiant bright,
O’er-spread the dewy Grass like Streams of Light:
As if the Sun had of his Beams been shorn, 130
And cast to Earth the Glories he had worn.
A Sight so lovely sad, such deep Distress
No Tongue can tell, no Pencil can express.
And now the Winds, which had so long been still,
Began the swelling Air with Sighs to fill; 135
The Water-Nymphs, who motionless remain’d,
Like Images of Ice, while she complain’d,
Now loos’d their Streams; as when descending Rains
Roll the steep Torrents headlong o’er the Plains.
The prone Creation, who so long had gaz’d, 140
Charm’d with her Cries, and at her Griefs amaz’d,
Began to roar and howl with horrid Yell,
Dismal to hear, and terrible to tell;
Nothing but Groans and Sighs were heard around,
And Eccho multiply’d each mournful Sound. 145
When all at once an universal Pause
Of Grief was made, as from some secret Cause.
The balmy Air with fragrant Scents was fill’d,
As if each weeping Tree had Gums distill’d.
Such, if not sweeter, was the rich Perfume 150
Which swift ascended from Amyntas Tomb;
As if th’Arabian Bird her Nest had fir’d,
And on the spicy Pile were new expir’d.
And now the Turf, which late was naked seen,
Was sudden spread with lively springing Green; 155
And Amaryllis saw, with wond’ring Eyes,
A flow’ry Bed, where she had wept, arise;
Thick as the pearly Drops the Fair had shed,
The blowing Buds advanc’d their Purple Head;
From ev’ry Tear that fell, a Violet grew, 160
And thence their Sweetness came, and thence their
mournful Hew.
Remember this, ye Nymphs and gentle Maids,
When Solitude ye seek in gloomy Shades;
Or walk on Banks where silent Waters flow,
For there this lonely Flow’r will love to grow. 165
Think on Amyntas, oft as ye shall stoop
To crop the Stalks and take ’em softly up.
When in your snowy Necks their Sweets you wear,
Give a soft Sigh, and drop a tender Tear:
To lov’d Amyntas pay the Tribute due, 170
And bless his peaceful Grave, where first they grew.
TO CYNTHIA, WEEPING AND NOT SPEAKING.
ELEGY.
WHY are those Hours, which Heav’n in pity lent
To longing Love, in fruitless Sorrow spent?
Why sighs my Fair? Why does that Bosom move
With any Passion stirr’d, but rising Love?
Can Discontent find Place within that Breast, 5
On whose soft Pillows ev’n Despair might rest?
Divide thy Woes, and give me my sad part,
I am no Stranger to an aking Heart;
Too well I know the Force of inward Grief,
And well can bear it, to give you Relief: 10
All Love’s severest Pangs I can endure;
I can bear Pain, tho’ hopeless of a Cure.
I know what ’tis to Weep, and Sigh, and Pray,
To wake all Night, yet dread the breaking Day;
I know what ’tis to Wish, and Hope, and all in vain, 15
And meet, for humble Love, unkind Disdain;
Anger, and Hate, I have been forc’d to bear,
Nay Jealousie — and I have felt Despair.
These Pains, for you, I have been forc’d to prove,
For cruel you, when I began to Love. 20
‘Till warm Compassion took at length my part,
And melted to my Wish your yielding Heart.
O the dear Hour, in which you did resign!
When round my Neck your willing Arms did twine,
And, in a Kiss, you said your Heart was mine. 25
Thro’ each returning Year, may that Hour be
Distinguish’d in the Rounds of all Eternity;
Gay be the Sun, that Hour, in all his Light,
Let him collect the Day, to be more bright,
Shine all, that Hour, and let the rest be Night. 30
And shall I all this Heav’n of Bliss receive
From you, yet not lament to see you grieve!
Shall I, who nourish’d in my Breast Desire,
When your cold Scorn, and Frowns forbid the Fire;
Now, when a mutual Flame you have reveal’d, 35
And the dear Union of our Souls is seal’d,
When all my Joys compleat in you I find,
Shall I not share the Sorrows of your Mind?
O tell me, tell me All — whence does arise
This Flood of Tears? whence are these frequent Sighs? 40
Why does that lovely Head, like a fair Flow’r
Oppress’d with Drops of a hard-falling Show’r,
Bend with its weight of Grief, and seem to grow
Downward to Earth, and kiss the Root of Woe?
Lean on my Breast, and let me fold thee fast, 45
Lock’d in these Arms, think all thy Sorrows past;
Or, what remain, think lighter made by me;
So I should think, were I so held by thee.
Murmur thy Plaints, and gently wound my Ears;
Sigh on my Lip, and let me drink thy Tears; 50
Join to my Cheek, thy Cold and Dewy Face,
And let pale Grief to glowing Love give place.
O speak — for Woe in Silence most appears;
Speak, e’er my Fancy magnifie my Fears.
Is there a Cause, which Words cannot express! 55
Can I nor bear a part, nor make it less?
I know not what to think — Am I in Fault?
I have not, to my Knowledge, err’d in Thought,
Nor wander’d from my Love, nor wou’d I be
Lord of the World, to live depriv’d of thee. 60
You weep a-fresh, and at that Word you start!
Am I to be depriv’d then? — must we part!
Curse on that Word so ready to be spoke,
For through my Lips, unmeant by me, it broke.
Oh no, we must not, will not, cannot part, 65
And my Tongue talks, unprompted by my Heart.
Yet speak, for my Distraction grows apace,
And racking Fears, and restless Doubts increase;
And Fears and Doubts to Jealousie will turn,
The hottest Hell, in which a Heart can burn. 70
AMORET.
I.
FAIR Amoret is gone astray;
Pursue and seek her, ev’ry Lover;
I’ll tell the Signs, by which you may
The wandring Shepherdess discover.
II.
Coquet and Coy at once her Air, 5
Both
study’d, tho’ both seem neglected;
Careless she is with artful Care,
Affecting to seem unaffected.
III.
With Skill her Eyes dart ev’ry Glance,
Yet change so soon you’d ne’er suspect ’em; 10
For she’d persuade they wound by chance,
Tho’ certain Aim and Art direct ’em.
IV.
She likes her self, yet others hates
For that which in her self she prizes;
And while she Laughs at them, forgets 15
She is the Thing that she despises.
LESBIA.
WHEN Lesbia first I saw so heav’nly Fair,
With Eyes so bright, and with that awful Air,
I thought my Heart, which durst so high aspire,
As bold as his, who snatch’d Coelestial Fire.
But soon as e’er the beauteous Idiot spoke, 5
Forth from her Coral Lips such Folly broke,
Like Balm the trickling Nonsense heal’d my Wound,
And what her Eyes enthrall’d, her Tongue unbound.
DORIS.
DORIS, a Nymph of riper Age,
Has ev’ry Grace and Art;
A wise Observer to engage,
Or wound, a heedless Heart.
Of Native Blush, and Rosie Dye, 5
Time has her Cheek bereft;
Which makes the prudent Nymph supply,
With Paint, th’injurious Theft.
Her sparkling Eyes she still retains,
And Teeth in good Repair; 10
And her well-furnish’d Front disdains
To grace with borrow’d Hair.
Of Size, she is nor short, nor tall,
And does to Fat incline
No more, than what the French wou’d call, 15
Aimable Embonpoint.
Farther, her Person to disclose
I leave — let it suffice,
She has few Faults, but what she knows,
And can with Skill disguise. 20
She many Lovers has refus’d,
With many more comply’d;
Which, like her Cloaths, when little us’d,
She always lays aside.
She’s one, who looks with great Contempt 25
On each affected Creature,
Whose Nicety would seem exempt,
From Appetites of Nature.
She thinks they want or Health or Sense,
Who want an Inclination; 30
And therefore never takes Offence
At him who pleads his Passion.
Whom she refuses, she treats still
With so much sweet Behaviour,
That her Refusal, through her Skill, 35
Looks almost like a Favour.
Since she this Softness can express
To those whom she rejects,
She must be very fond, you’ll guess,
Of such whom she affects. 40
But here our Doris far outgoes,
All that her Sex have done;
She no Regard for Custom knows,
Which Reason bids her shun.
By Reason, her own Reason’s meant, 45
Or if you please, her Will
For when this last is Discontent,
The first is serv’d but ill.
Peculiar therefore is her Way;
Whether by Nature taught, 50
I shall not undertake to say,
Or by Experience bought.
But who o’er-night obtain’d her Grace,
She can next Day disown,
And stare upon the Strange-Man’s Face, 55
As one she ne’er had known.
So well she can the Truth disguise,
Such artful Wonder frame,
The Lover or distrusts his Eyes,
Or thinks ’twas all a Dream. 60
Some, Censure this as Lewd and Low,
Who are to Bounty blind;
For to forget what we bestow,
Bespeaks a noble Mind.
Doris, our Thanks nor asks, nor needs, 65
For all her Favours done
From her Love flows, as Light proceeds
Spontaneous from the Sun.
On one or other, still her Fires
Display their Genial Force; 70
And she, like Sol, alone retires,
To shine elsewhere of Course.
TO SLEEP.
ELEGY.
O SLEEP! thou Flatterer of happy Minds,
How soon a troubled Breast thy Falshood finds!
Thou common Friend, officious in thy Aid,
Where no Distress is shown, nor Want betray’d:
But oh, how swift, how sure thou art to shun 5
The Wretch, by Fortune or by Love undone!
Where are thy gentle Dews, thy softer Pow’rs,
Which us’d to wait upon my Midnight Hours?
Why dost thou cease thy hov’ring Wings to spread,
With friendly Shade around my restless Bed? 10
Can no Complainings thy Compassion move?
Is thy Antipathy so strong to Love!
O no! thou art the prosp’rous Lover’s Friend,
And dost uncall’d his pleasing Toils attend.
With equal Kindness, and with rival Charms, 15
Thy Slumbers lull him in his fair One’s Arms;
Or from her Bosom he to thine retires,
Where sooth’d with Ease, the panting Youth respires,
‘Till soft Repose restore his drooping Sense,
And Rapture is reliev’d by Indolence. 20
But oh, what Fortune does the Lover bear,
Forlorn by thee, and haunted by Despair!
From racking Thoughts by no kind Slumber freed,
But painful Nights his joyless Days succeed.
But why, dull God, do I of thee complain? 25
Thou didst not cause, nor canst thou ease my Pain.
Forgive what my distracting Grief has said,
I own, unjustly I thy Sloth upbraid.
For oft I have thy proffer’d Aid repell’d,
And my Reluctant Eyes from rest with-held; 30
Implor’d the Muse to break thy gentle Chains,
And sung with Philomel my nightly Strains.
With her I sing, but cease not with her Song,
For more enduring Woes my Lays prolong.
The Morning Lark to mine accords his Note, 35
And tunes to my Distress his warbling Throat:
Each setting and each rising Sun I mourn,
Wailing alike his Absence and Return.
And all for thee — What had I well nigh said?
Let me not name thee, thou too charming Maid. 40
No — as the wing’d Musicians of the Grove,
Th’Associates of my Melody and Love,
In moving Sounds alone relate their Pain,
And not with Voice articulate complain;
So shall my Muse my tuneful Sorrows sing, 45
And lose in Air her Name from whom they spring.
O may no wakeful Thoughts her Mind molest,
Soft be her Slumbers, and sincere her Rest:
For her, O Sleep, thy balmy Sweets prepare;
The Peace I lose for her, to her transfer. 50
Husht as the falling Dews, whose noiseless Show’rs
Impede the folded Leaves of Ev’ning Flow’rs,
Steal on her Brow: And as those Dews attend,
‘Till warn’d by waking Day to re-ascend;
So wait thou for her Morn; then, gently rise, 55
And to the World restore the Day-break of her Eyes.
TO SIR GODFREY KNELLER,
Occasion’d By L — y — s Picture.
I YIELD, O Kneller, to superior Skill,
Thy Pencil triumphs o’er the Poet’s Quill:
If yet my vanquish’d Muse exert her Lays,
It is no more to Rival thee, but Praise.
Oft have I try’d, with unavailing Care,
5
To trace some Image of the much-lov’d Fair;
But still my Numbers ineffectual prov’d,
And rather shew’d how much, than whom, I lov’d:
But thy unerring Hands, with matchless Art,
Have shewn my Eyes th’Impression in my Heart; 10
The bright Idea both exists and lives,
Such vital Heat thy Genial Pencil gives:
Whose daring Point, not to the Face confin’d,
Can penetrate the Heart, and paint the Mind.
Others some faint Resemblance may express, 15
Which, as ’tis drawn by Chance, we find by Guess.
Thy Pictures raise no Doubts, when brought to View,
At once they’re known, and seem to know us too.
Transcendent Artist! How compleat thy Skill!
Thy Pow’r to act, is equal to thy Will. 20
Nature and Art, in thee, alike contend,
Not to oppose each other, but befriend:
For what thy Fancy has with Fire design’d,
Is by thy Skill, both temper’d and refin’d.
As in thy Pictures, Light consents with Shade, 25
And, each, to other is subservient made,
Judgment and Genius so concur in thee,
And both unite in perfect Harmony.
But after-Days, my Friend, must do thee right,
And set thy Virtues in unenvy’d Light. 30
Fame due to vast Desert, is kept in store,
Unpay’d, ‘till the Deserver is no more.
Yet, thou, in present, the best Part hast gain’d,
And from the Chosen Few Applause obtain’d:
Ev’n He who best cou’d judge and best cou’d praise, 35
Has high extoll’d thee, in his deathless Lays;
Ev’n Dry den has immortaliz’d thy Name;
Let that alone suffice thee, think that, Fame.
Unfit I follow, where he led the way,
And court Applause, by what I seem to pay. 40
My self I praise, while I thy Praise intend,
For ’tis some Virtue, Virtue to commend:
And next to Deeds, which our own Honour raise,
Is, to distinguish them who merit Praise.
TO A CANDLE.
ELEGY.
THOU watchful Taper, by whose silent Light,
I lonely pass the melancholly Night;
Thou faithful Witness of my secret Pain,
To whom alone I venture to complain;
O learn with me, my hopeless Love to moan; 5
Complete Works of William Congreve Page 9
