Sweet Swan of Avon! What a sight it were,
To see thee in our waters yet appear;
And make those flights upon the banks of Thames,
That so did take ELIZA, and our JAMES!
But, stay! I see thee in the hemisphere
Advanced; and made a Constellation there!
Shine forth, thou Star of Poets! and with rage,
Or influence, chide, or cheer, the drooping Stage!
Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourned like
night
And despairs day, but for thy Volume's light.
A NYMPH'S PASSION.
I LOVE, and He loves me again;
Yet dare I not tell, Who!
For if the Nymphs should know my Swain;
I fear they'd love him too!
Yet if it be not known ;
The pleasure is as good as none!
For that 's a narrow joy, is but our own!
I'll tell! that, if they be not glad,
They may yet envy me!
But then, if I grow jealous mad,
And of them pitied be;
It were a plague 'bove scorn!
And yet it cannot be forborne,
Unless my heart would, as my thought, be torn!
He is (if they can find him!) fair!
And fresh and fragrant too,
As summer's sky, or purgèd air!
And looks as lilies do
That are, this morning, blown!
Yet, yet, I doubt, He is not known;
And fear much more, that more of him be shown!
But He hath Eyes so round and bright,
As make away my doubt!
Where Love may all his torches light;
Though hate had put them out!
But then, t' increase my fears,
What Nymph soe'er, his Voice but hears,
Will be my rival! though she have but ears.
I'll tell no more! and yet I love,
And He loves me! Yet no
One unbecoming thought doth move
From either heart, I know!
But so exempt from blame;
As it would be, to each a fame!
If love, or fear, would let me tell his name.
THOUGH I am young, and cannot tell Either what DEATH, or Love, is well: Yet I have heard, They both bear darts; And both do aim at human hearts!
And then again, I have been told,
IME Toes with heat; as DEATH, with cold!
I fear, they do but bring
touch and mean one thing.
ve it call
brown up, or fall;
e way may have,
gor a wave :
saft, or brand,
DEATH'S cold hand!
the virtue have,
out of the grave.
DEATH OF
SS OF PEMBROKE.
this sable hearse, et of all Verse,
PEMBROKE'S mother!
thou hast killed another,
ed, and good, as she;
w a dart at thee!
et no Man raise
or after-days!
Woman, born as she,
AS NIOBE,
ble; and become
The Humble Petition of poor BEN to the best of Monarchs, Masters, Men, King CHARLES.
Doth most humbly show it
To your Majesty, your Poet:
That whereas your royal father,
JAMES the blessèd, pleased, the rather
Of his special grace to Letters,
To make all the Muses debtors
To his bounty, by extension
Of a free poetic Pension,
A large hundred Marks annuity,
To be given me in gratuity
For done service, and to come.
And that this so accepted sum,
Or dispensed in books, or bread
(For with both, the Muse was fed!);
Hath drawn on me, from the Times,
All the envy of the Rhymes
And the rattling pit-pat noise
Of the less poetic boys,
When their pop-guns aim to hit,
With their pellets of small wit,
Parts of me, they judged decayed:
But we last out, still unlaid!
Please your Majesty to make,
Of your grace, for goodness sake,
Those your father's Marks, your Pounds!
Let their spite, which now abounds,
Then go on, and do its worst!
This would all their envy burst;
And so warm the Poet's tongue,
You'ld read a snake, in his next Song!
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