Classic Poem

PROLOGUE

When first our poet set himself to write,
Like a young bridegroom on his wedding-night
He laid about him, and did so bestir him,
His Muse could never lie in quiet for him:
But now his honeymoon is gone and past,
Yet the ungrateful drudgery must last,
And he is bound, as civil husbands do,
To strain himself, in complaisance to you;
To write in pain, and counterfeit a bliss
Like the faint smackings of an after-kiss.
But you, like wives ill-pleas'd, supply his want:
Each writing Monsieur is a fresh gallant;
And tho', perhaps, 'twas done as well before,
Yet still there 's something in a new amour.
Your several poets work with several tools:
One gets you wits, another gets you fools;
This pleases you with some by-stroke of wit,
This finds some cranny that was never hit.
But should these jaunty lovers daily come
To do your work, like your good man at home,
Their fine small-timber'd wits would soon decay:
These are gallants but for a holiday.
Others you had who oft'ner have appear'd,
Whom for mere impotence you have cashier'd:
Such as at first came on with pomp and glory,
But, over-straining, soon fell flat before ye.
Their useless weight with patience long was borne,
But at the last you threw 'em off with scorn.
As for the poet of this present night,
Tho' now he claims in you an husband's right,
He will not hinder you of fresh delight.
He, like a seaman, seldom will appear;
And means to trouble home but thrice a year:
That only time from your gallants he'll borrow;
Be kind to-day, and cuckold him to-morrow.

EPILOGUE

M Y part being small, I have had time today
To mark your various censures of our play:
First, looking for a judgment or a wit,
Like Jews I saw 'em scatter'd thro' the pit;
And where a knot of smilers lent an ear
To one that talk'd, I knew the foe was there.
The club of jests went round; he who had none
Borrow'd o' th' next, and told it for his own.
Among the rest they kept a fearful stir
In whisp'ring that he stole th' Astrologer;
And said, betwixt a French and English plot
He eas'd his half-tir'd Muse, on pace and trot.
Up starts a Mounsieur , new come o'er and warm
In the French stoop, and the pull-back o' th' arm:
" Morbleu , " dit-il , and cocks, " I am a rogue,
But he has quite spoil'd The Feign'd Astrologue . "
" Pox, " says another, " here's so great a stir
With a son of a whore farce that's regular;
A rule, where nothing must decorum shock!
Damme 'ts as dull as dining by the clock.
An evening! Why the devil should we be vex'd
Whether he gets the wench this night or next? "
When I heard this, I to the poet went,
Told him the house was full of discontent,
And ask'd him what excuse he could invent.
He neither swore nor storm'd as poets do,
But, most unlike an author, vow'd 'twas true;
Yet said, he us'd the French like enemies,
And did not steal their plots, but made 'em prize.
But should he all the pains and charges count
Of taking 'em, the bill so high would mount
That, like prize-goods, which thro' the office come,
He could have had 'em much more cheap at home.
He still must write, and, banquier-like, each day
Accept new bills, and he must break or pay.
When thro' his hands such sums must yearly run,
You cannot think the stock is all his own.
His haste his other errors might excuse,
But there 's no mercy for a guilty Muse;
For, like a mistress, she must stand or fall,
And please you to a height, or not at all.

SONGS

I

I

Y OU charm'd me not with that fair face,
Tho' it was all divine:
To be another's is the grace
That makes me wish you mine.

II

The gods and Fortune take their part,
Who like young monarchs fight,
And boldly dare invade that heart
Which is another's right.

III

First, mad with hope, we undertake
To pull up every bar;
But, once possess'd, we faintly make
A dull defensive war.

IV

Now, every friend is turn'd a foe,
In hope to get our store;
And passion makes us cowards grow,
Which made us brave before.

II

I

A FTER the pangs of a desperate lover,
When day and night I have sigh'd all in vain,
Ah what a pleasure it is to discover,
In her eyes pity, who causes my pain.

II

When with unkindness our love at a stand is,
And both have punish'd ourselves with the pain,
Ah what a pleasure the touch of her hand is,
Ah what a pleasure to press it again!

III

When the denial comes fainter and fainter,
And her eyes give what her tongue does deny,
Ah what a trembling I feel when I venture,
Ah what a trembling does usher my joy!

IV

When, with a sigh, she accords me the blessing,
And her eyes twinkle 'twixt pleasure and pain,
Ah what a joy 'tis, beyond all expressing,
Ah what a joy to hear: " Shall we again? "

III

I

C ALM was the even, and clear was the sky,
And the new-budding flowers did spring,
When all alone went Amyntas and I
To hear the sweet nightingal sing.
I sate, and he laid him down by me,
But scarcely his breath he could draw;
For when with a fear, he began to draw near,
He was dash'd with: " A ha ha ha ha! "

II

He blush'd to himself, and lay still for a while,
And his modesty curb'd his desire;
But straight I convinc'd all his fear with a smile,
Which added new flames to his fire.
" O Sylvia, " said he, " you are cruel,
To keep your poor lover in awe; "
Then once more he press'd with his hand to my breast,
But was dash'd with: " A ha ha ha ha! "

III

I knew 'twas his passion that caus'd all his fears,
And therefore I pitied his case;
I whisper'd him softly: " There's nobody near, "
And laid my cheek close to his face:
But as he grew bolder and bolder,
A shepherd came by us and saw,
And just as our bliss we began with a kiss,
He laugh'd out with: " A ha ha ha ha! "

IV

I Damon .

C ELIMENA , of my heart,
None shall e'er bereave you:
If with your good leave I may
Quarrel with you once a day,
I will never leave you.

II Celimena .

Passion's but an empty name
Where respect is wanting:
Damon, you mistake your aim;
Hang your heart, and burn your flame,
If you must be ranting.

III Damon .

Love as dull and muddy is
As decaying liquor:
Anger sets it on the lees,
And refines it by degrees,
Till it works it quicker.

IV Celimena .

Love by quarrels to beget
Wisely you endeavor;
With a grave physician's wit,
Who, to cure an ague fit,
Put me in a fever.

V Damon .

Anger rouses love to fight,
And his only bait is:
'Tis the spur to dull delight,
And is but an eager bite,
When desire at height is.

VI Celimena .

If such drops of heat can fall
In our wooing weather;
If such drops of heat can fall,
We shall have the devil and all
When we come together.