Both gifts destructive to the givers prove;
Alike both lovers fall by those they love.
Yet guiltless too this bright destroyer lives,
At random wounds, nor knows the wound she
gives:

She views the story with attentive eyes,
And pities Procris, while her lover dies.

IV.

COWLEY.

THE GARDEN.

AIN would my Muse the flow'ry
Treasures sing,

And humble glories of the youthful

Spring;

Where opening Roses breathing sweets diffuse,
And soft Carnations show'r their balmy dews;
Where Lilies smile in virgin robes of white, 5
The thin Undress of superficial Light,
And vary'd Tulips show so dazzling gay,
Blushing in bright diversities of day.
Each painted flow'ret in the lake below
Surveys its beauties, whence its beauties grow;
And pale Narcissus on the bank, in vain
Transformed, gazes on himself again.
Here aged trees Cathedral Walks compose,
And mount the Hill in venerable rows:
There the green Infants in their beds are laid,
The Garden's Hope, and its expected shade. 16
Here Orange-trees with blooms and pendants
shine,

And vernal honours to their autumn join;
Exceed their promise in the ripen'd store,
Yet in the rising blossom promise more.

II

20

There in bright drops the crystal Fountains

play,

By Laurels shielded from the piercing day:
Where Daphne, now a tree as once a maid,
Still from Apollo vindicates her shade,

Still turns her Beauties from th' invading

beam,

25

Nor seeks in vain for succour to the Stream. The stream at once preserves her virgin leaves, At once a shelter from her boughs receives, Where Summer's beauty midst of Winter stays, And Winter's Coolness spite of Summer's rays.

30

WEEPING.

While Celia's Tears make sorrow bright,
Proud Grief sits swelling in her eyes;
The Sun, next those the fairest light,

Thus from the Ocean first did rise:
And thus thro' Mists we see the Sun,
Which else we durst not gaze upon.

These silver drops, like morning dew,
Foretell the fervour of the day:
So from one Cloud soft show'rs we view,
And blasting lightnings burst away.
The Stars that fall from Celia's eye
Declare our Doom in drawing nigh.

The Baby in that sunny Sphere

So like a Phaethon appears,

5

IO

That Heav'n, the threaten'd World to spare, 15
Thought fit to drown him in her tears;

Else might th' ambitious Nymph aspire
To set, like him, Heav'n too on fire.

V.

E. OF ROCHESTER.

ON SILENCE.

I.

ILENCE! coeval with Eternity,
Thou wert, ere Nature's-self began

to be,

'Twas one vast Nothing, all, and all slept fast in thee.

II.

Thine was the sway, ere heav'n was form'd, or earth,

Ere fruitful Thought conceiv'd creation's

birth,

5

Or midwife Word gave aid, and spoke the infant forth.

III.

Then various elements against thee join'd, In one more various animal combin'd, And fram'd the clam'rous race of busy Humankind.

And wicked Wit arose, thy most abusive foe.

V.

But rebel Wit deserts thee oft' in vain;

Lost in the maze of words he turns again, And seeks a surer state, and courts thy gentle

reign.

15

VI.

Afflicted Sense thou kindly dost set free,
Oppress'd with argumental tyranny,

And routed Reason finds a safe retreat in thee.

VII.

With thee in private modest Dulness lies, And in thy bosom lurks in Thought's disguise; Thou varnisher of Fools, and cheat of all the

Wise !

VIII.

21

Yet thy indulgence is by both confest; Folly by thee lies sleeping in the breast, And 'tis in thee at last that Wisdom seeks for rest.

IX.

Silence! the knave's repute, the whore's

good name,

25

The only honour of the wishing dame; Thy very want of tongue makes thee a kind of Fame.

X.

But could'st thou seize some tongues that now are free,

How Church and State should be oblig'd to

thee!

At Senate, and at Bar, how welcome would'st

cause:

Then pompous Silence reigns, and stills the noisy Laws.

XII.

Past services of friends, good deeds of foes, What Fav'rites gain, and what the Nation

owes,

35

Fly the forgetful world, and in thy arms repose.

XIII.

The country wit, religion of the town,

The courtier's learning, policy o' th' gown, Are best by thee express'd; and shine in thee alone.

XIV.

The parson's cant, the lawyer's sophistry, 40 Lord's quibble, critic's jest; all end in thee, All rest in peace at last, and sleep eternally.

VI.

E. OF DORSET.

ARTEMISIA.

HO' Artemisia talks, by fits,

Of councils, classics, fathers, wits;
Reads Malbranche, Boyle, and
Locke;

Yet in some things methinks she fails,

'Twere well if she would pare

And wear a cleaner smock.

her nails,

5

Haughty and huge as High-Dutch bride,
Such nastiness and so much pride

Are oddly join'd by fate:

On her large squab you find her spread,
Like a fat corpse upon a bed,

That lies and stinks in state.

IO