But for a fit Comparison must seek
In Virgil's Latin, or in Homer's Greek.
Anger is mad; and Choler mere Disease:
His Mufc fought what was fweet, and what would please:
Still led where Nature's beauteous Rays entice;
Not touching vile Deformities, or Vice.
Here no Chimara skips, no Goblin frights;
No Satyr's here, nor Monster elfe, that bites.
Sweetness his very Vinegar allay'd;
And all his Snakes in Ladies Bofom play'd.
Nature rejoic'd beneath his charming Power;
His lucky hand made every thing a Flower.
So every Shrub to Jeffamin improves ;
And rudeft Holts, to goodly Myrtle Groves.
Some, from a Sprig he carelefly had thrown,
Have furnish'd a whole Garden of their own.
Some, by a Spark that from his Chariot came,
Take Fire, and blaze, and raise a deathlefs Name.
Others a luckless Imitation try;
And, whilft they foar, and whilft they venture high,
Flutter and flounce, but have not Wing to fly.
Some, in loose Words their empty Fancies bind,
Which whirl about, with Chaff, before the Wind.
Here, brave Conceits in the Expreffion fail :
There, big the Words, but with no Senfe at all.
Still Waller's Sense might Waller's Language traft;
Both pois'd, and always bold, and always juft.
None e'er may reach that ftrange Felicity,
Where Thoughts are eafie, Verse fo fweet, and free,
Yet not defcend one Step from Majefty.
On the Infanta of Portugal.
WOW Cruel was Alonzo's Fate,
H To fix his Love fo high;
That he muft perish for her Hate,
Or for her Kindness dye?
Tortur'd and Mangl'd, Cut and Maim'd,
I'th' midst of all his Pain,
He with his dying Breath proclaim'd,
'Twas better than Disdain.
The Gentle Nymph long since design'd,
For the proud Mounfieur's Bed;
Now to a Holy Goal confin'd,
Drops Tears for every Bead.
An Epitaph on the Lord Fairfax.
By the D. of Buckingham.
TNder this Stone does lie
None born for Victory.
Fairfax the Valiant, and the only He,
Who e'er for that alone a Conqueror would be.
Both Sexes Virtues were in him combin'd:
He had the Fiercenefs of the manlieft Mind,
And eke the Meeknefs too of Womankind.
He never knew what Envy was, or Hate;
His Soul was fill'd with Worth and Honesty,
And with another thing quite out of date,
He ne'er feem'd impudent, but in the Field ; a Place Where Impudence it felf dares feldom fhew her Face; Had any Stranger spy'd him in the Room
With fome of those whom he had overcome,
And had not heard their Talk, but only feen
Their Gesture and their Mien,
They would have fworn he had the Vanquish'd been;
For as they brag'd, and dreadful would appear,
While they their own ill lucks in War repeated,
His Modefty ftill made him blufh to hear
How often he had them defeated.
Through his whole Life the part he bore
Was Wonderful and Great;
And yet, it fo appear'd in nothing more,
Than in his private laft Retreat :
For it's a franger thing to find
One Man of fuch a glorious Mind,
As can difmifs the Pow'r h' has got,
Than Millions of the Polls and Braves,
Those despicable Fools and Knaves,
Who fuch a Pother make,
Through Dulness and Miftake,
In feeking after Power, but get it not.
When all the Nation he had won,
And with Expence of Blood had bought
Store great enough he thought,
Of Fame and of Renown;
He then his Arms laid down,
With full as little Pride
As if he had been of his Enemy's fide,
Or one of them cou'd do that were undone
He neither Wealth nor Places fought;
For others, not himself he fought.
He was content to know,
For he had found it fo,
That when he pleas'd to conquer, he was able, And left the Spoil and Plunder to the Rabble : He might have been a King,
But that he understood
How much it is a meaner thing
To be unjustly Great, than honourably Good,
This from the World did Admiration draw,
And from his Friends both Love and Awe,
Remembring what in Fight he did before:
And his Foes lov'd him too,
As they were bound to do,
Because he was refolv'd to fight no more.
So bleft of all, he dy'd; but far more bleft were we,
If we were fure to live, 'till we could fee
A Man as great in War, in Peace as juft as he.
To the Memory of my Noble Friend, Mr. WALLER.
OT Sleep, beneath the Shade in Flow'ry Fields, To th' weary Traveller more Pleasure yeilds; Nor, to affwage his Thirst, the living Spring, I'th' heat of Summer, more delight does bring; Than unto me thy well tun'd Numbers do, In which thou dost both please and profit too. Born in a Clime where Storms and Tempests grow; Far from the Place where Helicon does flow: The Mufes travel'd far to blefs thy Sight, And taught thee how to Think, and how to Write, Th'* Afcraan Shepherd tells us he indeed Had feen them dancing, while his Flocks did feed, Not Petrarch's Laura, nor bright Stella's Fame, Shall longer live than Sacharia's Name. Thou do'ft not write like thofe, who brand the Times, And themselves moft, with fharp Satyrick Rhimes : Nor does thy Mufe, with fmutty Verfes, tear The modeft Virgin's chaft and tender Ear. Free from their Faults, what e'er thy Mufe indites, Not Ovid, nor Tibullus fofter writes.
The choice of tuneful Words t'express our Thought,
By thy Example we have first been taught.
Our English Virgil, and our Pindar too, Cowley,
In this ('tis faid) fome Negligence did shew.
I'll add but this, left while I think to raife.
Thy Worth, I kindly injure thee with Praise ;
Thy Verfes have a Genius, and muft
Live until all things crumble into Dust.
Upon my Noble Friend, Mr. WALler.
By Sir Thomas Higgons.
'Hough I can add but little to his Name,
giv'n him fuch immortal Fame;
Yet, in the Crowd of those who dress his Hearse,
I come to pay the Tribute of a Verfe.
Athens and Rome, when Learning flourish'd moft,
Could never fuch a finifh'd Poet boaft:
Whofe matchlefs foftnefs in the English Tongue
Out-does what Horace, or Anacreon Sung.
Judgment does fome to Reputation raise;
And for Invention others wear the Bayes:
He possest both, with such a Talent still,
As fhew'd not only force of Wit, but Skill,
So faultlefs was his Mufe, 'tis hard to know
If he did more to Art, or Nature awe.
Read where you will, he's Mufick all along,
And his Senfe eafie, as his Thought is ftrong.
Some ftriving to be Clear, fall Flat and Low;
And when they think to mount, obfcure they grow,
He is not darker for his lofty Flight;
Nor does his Eafinefs deprefs his Height;
But ftill perfpicuous, wherefoe'er he fly,
And, like the Sun, is brightest, when he's high,
Ladies admire, and tafte his gentle Vein,
Which does the greatest Statesmen entertain,
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