HAT find I here?
WE
Fair Portia's counterfeit !-What demi-god
Hath come fo near creation! Move thefe eyes?
Or, whether, riding on the balls of mine,
Seem they in motion ?-Here are fever'd lips,
Parted with fugar breath: fo fweet a bar
Should funder fuch fweet friends.-Here, in her hairs,
The painter plays the fpider, and hath woven.
A golden mesh t' intrap the hearts of men
Fatter than gnats in cobwebs. But her eyes--
How could he fee to do them! having made one,
Methinks it should have power to steal both his,
And leave itself unfinish'd!
I SAW young Harry, with his beaver on,
His cuiffes on his thighs, gallantly arm'd,
Rife from the ground, like feathered Mercury
And vaulted with fuch ease into his feat,
As if an angel dropp'd down from the clouds,
To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus,
And witch the world with noble horsemanship.
HEAR him but reafon in divinity
And, all admiring, with an inward wish,
You would defire the king were made a prelate.
Hear him debate of commonwealth affairs-
You'd fay, it hath been all in all his study.
Lift his discourse of war-and you shall hear
A fearful battle render'd you in mufic.
Turn him to any cause of policy-
The Gordian knot of it he will unloofe,
S 3
Familiar as his garter. When he speaks-
The air, a charter'd libertine, is ftill;
And the mute wonder lurketh in men's ears,
To fteal his sweet and honey'd fentences.
XI. HAUGHT INESS.
MA
AKE thy demands to thofe that own thy power! Know, I am ftill beyond thee. And tho' fortune Has ftripp'd me of this train, this pomp of greatness, This outfide of a king, yet ftill my foul, Fix'd high, and on herfelf alone dependant, Is ever free and royal; and, even now, As at the head of battle-does defy thee!
GIVE me leave to tell you, that, at my birth,
The front of heaven was full of fiery fhapes;
The goats ran from the mountains; and the herds
Were ftrangely clam'rous in the frighted fields.
Thefe figns have-mark'd me extraordinary;
And all the courses of my life do fhew
I am not in the roll of common men.
Where is he living, clipp'd in with the fea
That chides the banks of England, Wales, or Scotland,
Who calls me pupil, or hath read to me?
And bring him out, that is but woman's fon,
Can trace me in the tedious ways of art,
Or hold me pace in deep experiments.
XII. CONTEMPT.
A
WAY!-no woman could defcend fo low.
A skipping, dancing, worthiefs tribe you are;
Fit only for your yourfelves. You herd together;
And when the circling glass warms your vain hearts,
You talk of beauties that you never faw,
And fancy raptures that you never knew.
GO, gentlemen, go; each man to his charge,
Let not babbling dreams affright our fouls.
Confcience is but a word that cowards ufe;
Devis'd, at first, to keep the ftrong in awe.
Remember whom you are to cope
withal:
A fort of vagabonds, of rafcals, runaways;
A fcum of Britons, and bafe lackey-peasants;
Whom their o'er cloy'd country vomits forth
To defperate adventures and deftruction.
And who doth lead them, but a paltry fellow,
Long kept in Bretagne, at his mother's coft?
A milk-fop; one, that never in his life
Felt fo much cold as over fhoes in fnow.
Let's whip thefe ftragglers o'er the seas again;
Lash hence thefe over-weening rags of France,
These famifh'd beggars, weary of their lives;
Who, but for dreaming on this fond exploit,"
For want of means, poor rats, had hang'd themselves.
If we be conquer'd, let men conquer us;
And not these baftard Britons, whom our fathers
Have, in their own land, beaten, bobb'd, and thump'd,
And left on record heirs of fhame.
XIII. RESIGNATIO N.
YET
', yet endure-nor murmur, O my foul ! For, are not thy tranfgreffions great and numberless? Do they not cover thee, like rifing floods ? And press thee, like a weight of waters, down? Does not the hand of righteousness afflict thee ?And who fhall plead against it? who shall say, To Pow'r Almighty, Thou haft done enough; Or bid his dreadful rod of vengeance stay ?Wait, then, with patience, till the circling hours Shall bring the time of thy appointed reft, And lay thee down in death.
A
XIV. IMPATIENCE.
Hrid me of this torture, quickly there,
My Madam with the everlafting voice.
'The bells, in time of peftilence, ne'er made
Like noife, or were in that perpetual motion.
All my house,
But now,
fteam'd like a bath, with her thick breath.
A lawyer could not have been heard, nor fcarce
Another woman, fuch a hail of words
She has let fall.
XV. MELANCHOLY.
HERE is a fupid weight upon my fenfes ;
A difmal fullen ftillness, that fucceeds
The form of rage and grief, like filent death,
After the tumult and the noise of life.
TH
Would it were death, as fure 'tis wond'rous like it ;
For
For I am fick of living. My foul is pall'd:
She kindles not, with anger, or revenge.
Love was th' informing active fire within:
Now, that is quench'd; the mafs forgets to move,
And longs to mingle with its kindred earth.
XVI.
REMORSE AND
DESPAIR.
HENCEFORTH, let no man truft the first false step
Of guilt. It hangs upon a precipice,
Whofe fteep descent in lait perdition ends.
How far am I plung'd down, beyond all thought
Which I this evening fram'd!-
Confummate horror! guilt beyond a name !-
Dare not, my foul, repent. In thee, repentance
Were fecond guilt; and 'twere blafpheming Heav'n
To hope for mercy. My pain can only cease
When gods want power to punish.-Ha! the dawn-
Rife never more, O fun !-let night prevail :
Eternal darkness close the world's wide fcene-
And hide me from myself.
and yet
WHY do they lay me on a couch of thorns?
How should I reft ?-They bid me clofe my eyes-
But, through the lids, I fee a thousand forms ;
Numberlefs terrors !-I fhut both ears-
1 hear infernal Howlings -Death and defpair
Have laid hold upon me!-Oh, miferable that I am!
Wou'd I had died as innocent as Gloucester !
Let me think no more!- -Is there no physician
Can cure the mind? Nothing to kill reflection ?-
That I could drink oblivion down!-Oh! when
Shall I have reft?
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