And, cherish'd with the warm Sun's quick'ning heat,
Her porous bosom doth rich odours sweat;
Whose perfumes through the ambient air diffuse
Such native aromatics, as we use

No foreign gums, nor essence fetch'd from far,
No volatile spirits, nor compounds that are
Adulterate; but, at Nature's cheap expense,
With far more genuine sweets refresh the sense.
Such pure and uncompounded beauties bless
This mansion with an useful comeliness
Devoid of art; for here the architect
Did not with curious skill a pile erect
Of carved marble, touch, or prophecy,
But built a house for hospitality.

No sumptuous chimney-piece of shining stone
Invites the stranger's eye to gaze upon,

And coldly entertain his sight; but clear
And cheerful flames cherish and warm him here.
No Doric nor Corinthian pillars grace

With imagery this structure's naked face:
The lord and lady of this place delight
Rather to be in act, than seem, in sight.
Instead of statues to adorn their wall,

They throng with living men their merry hall,
Where, at large tables fill'd with wholsome meats,
The servant, tenant, and kind neighbour eats:
Some of that rank, spun of a finer thread,
Are with the women, steward, and chaplain, fed
With daintier cates; others, of better note,
Whom wealth, parts, office, or the herald's coat,
Have sever'd from the common, freely sit
At the lord's table, whose spread sides admit
A large access of friends to fill those seats
Of his capacious sickle, fill'd with meats

Of choicest relish, till his oaken back
Under the load of pil'd-up dishes crack.
Nor think, because our pyramids and high
Exalted turrets threaten not the sky,

That therefore Wrest of narrowness complains,

Or straighten❜d walls; for she more numerous trains
Of noble guests daily receives, and those
Can with far more conveniency dispose,
Than prouder piles, where the vain builder spent
More cost in outward gay embellishment
Than real use; which was the sole design
Of our contriver, who made things not fine,
But fit for service. Amalthea's horn*
Of plenty is not in effigy worn

Without the gate; but she within the door
Empties her free and unexhausted store.

Nor crown'd with wheaten wreaths doth Ceres stand
In stone, with a crook'd sickle in her hand:
Nor on a marble tun, his face besmear'd
With grapes, is curl'd, uncizar'd, Bacchus rear'd.
We offer not, in emblems, to the eyes,
But to the taste, those useful deities:
We press the juicy god, and quaff his blood,
And grind the yellow goddess into food.
Yet we decline not all the work of Art;
But where more bounteous nature bears a part,
And guides her handmaid, if she but dispense
Fit matter, she with care and diligence

Amalthea was the daughter of Melissus, king of Crete. She is fabled to have fed Jupiter, while an infant, with the milk of a goat, whose horn the god afterwards made her a present of, endued with this virtue, that whoever possessed it, should have every thing they wished for. Hence it was called the horn of plenty:

Employs her skill; for where the neighbour source Pours forth her waters, she directs her course, And entertains the flowing streams in deep And spacious channels, where they slowly creep In snaky windings, as the shelving ground Leads them in circles, till they twice surround This island mansion, which, i' th' centre plac'd, Is with a double crystal Heaven embrac❜d; In which our wat'ry constellations float, Our fishes, swans, our waterman and boat, Envy'd by those above, which wish to slake Their star-burnt limbs in our refreshing lake; But they stick fast nail'd to the barren sphere, Whilst our increase, in fertile waters here, Disport, and wander freely where they please "Within the circuit of our narrow seas.

With various trees we fringe the water's brink, Whose thirsty roots the soaking moisture drink, And whose extended boughs in equal ranks Yield fruit, and shade, and beauty to the banks. On this side young Vertumnus sits, and courts His ruddy-cheek'd Pomona; Zephyr sports On the other with lov'd Flora, yielding there Sweets for the smell, sweets for the palate here. But did you taste the high and mighty drink Which from that luscious fountain flows, you'd think The god of wine did his plump clusters bring, And crush the Falern* grape into our spring; Or else, disguis'd in wat'ry robes, did swim To Ceres' bed, and make her beg of him,

The grape of Falernus is celebrated by all antiquity. It was produced from vines of a peculiar strength and flavour which grew in the Falernian fields in Campania.

Begetting so himself on her: for know,
Our vintage here in March doth nothing owe
To theirs in autumn; but our fire boils here
As lusty liquor as the Sun makes there.

Thus I enjoy myself, and taste the fruit
Of this blest place; whilst, toil'd in the pursuit
Of bucks and stags, th' emblem of war, you strive
To keep the memory of our arms alive.

TO MY WORTHY FRIEND,

MASTER D'AVENANT,*

UPON HIS EXCELLENT PLAY, THE JUST ITALIAN,

I'LL not mispend in praise the narrow room
I borrow in this leaf; the garland's bloom
From thine own seeds, that crown each glorious page
Of thy triumphant work; the sullen age
Requires a satyr. What star guides the soul
Of these our froward times, that dare controul,
Yet dare not learn to judge? When didst thou fly
From hence, clear, candid Ingenuity?

I have beheld, when perch'd on the smooth brow
Of a fair modest troop, thou didst allow
Applause to slighter works; but then the weak
Spectator gave the knowing leave to speak.

* This gentleman, who was supposed, but with the greatest improbability, to be a natural son of Shakespeare, was one of the first poets of his time. It was he who harmonized the stage. He first introduced scenery, and the order and decorum of the French theatre upon the British one. He succeeded Ben Jonson as poetlaureate to Charles.

Now noise prevails, and he is tax'd for drowth
Of wit, that with the cry spends not his mouth.
Yet ask him reason why he did not like;
Him, why he did; their ignorance will strike
Thy soul with scorn and pity: mark the places
Provoke their smiles, frowns, or distorted faces,
When they admire, nod, shake the head, they'll be
A scene of mirth, a double comedy.

But thy strong fancies (raptures of the brain,
Drest in poetic flames) they entertain

As a bold impious reach; for they'll still slight
All that exceeds Red Bull* and Cockpit flight.
These are the men in crowded heaps that throng
To that adulterate stage, where not á tongue
Of th' untun'd kennel can a line repeat

Of serious sense, but the lips meet like meat;
Whilst the true brood of actors, that alone
Keep nat❜ral, unstrain❜d Action in her throne,
Behold their benches bare, though they rehearse
The terser Beaumont's or great Jonson's verse.
Repine not thou then, since this churlish fate
Rules not the stage alone; perhaps the state
Hath felt this rancour, where men great and good
Have by the rabble been misunderstood.

* After the restoration, there were two companies of players formed, one under the title of the king's servants, the other under that of the duke's company, both by patent from the crown; the first granted to Mr. Killigrew, and the latter to Sir William D'Avenant. The king's servants acted first at the Red Bull, in St. John's street, and afterwards at the Cockpit, in Drury Lane; to which place our poet here alludes. It seems, by the verses before us, that though Killigrew's company was much inferior to D'Avenant's it was more successful; though the company of the latter, who performed at the duke's theatre in Lincoln-Inn-Fields, acted the pieces of Shakespeare, Jonson, Beaumont, and were headed by the celebrated Betterton.