And gently op'ning Lid, the Cafement,
Look'd out, but yet with fome Amazement.
SWORD. See Armour, Battel, Soldier War.
His puiffant Sword unto his Side,
Near his undaunted Heart was ty'd;
The trenchant Blade, Toledo trufty,
For want of fighting was grown rufty,
And eat into it felf for lack
Of fomebody to hew and hack.
The peaceful Scabbard where it dwelt,
The Rancour of its Edge had felt ;
For of the lower End two handful
It had devour'd, 'twas fo manful.
With his refulgent Sword he hew'd his Way.
From his broad Belt he drew a fhining Sword,
Magnificent with Gold Lyacon made,
And in an iv'ry Scabbard fheath'd the Blade.
A Sword with glitt'ring Gems diverfify'd,
For Ornament, not Ufe, hung idly by his Side.
SYBIL. See Enthufiafm.
The mad prophetick Sybil you fhall find
Dark in a Cave, and on a Rock reclin'd:
She fings the Fates, and in her frantick Fits,
The Notes and Names infcrib'd to Leafs commits :
What the commits to 'Leafs, in order laid,
Before the Cavern's Entrance are difplay'd;
Unmov'd they lie, but if a Blaft of Wind
Without, or Vapours iffue from behind,
The Leafs are born aloft in liquid Air,
And the refumes no more her mufeful Care,
Nor gathers from the Rocks her scatter'd Verfe,
Nor fets in order what the Winds difperfe.
Thus many not fucceeding, moft upbraid
The Madness of the vifionary Maid,
And with loud Curfes leave the myftick Shade.
Have you been led thro' the Cumaan Cave,
And heard the impatient Maid divinely rave?
I hear her now, I fee her rowling Eyes,
And panting, Lo! the God! the God, fhe cries:
With Words not hers, and more than human Sound,
She makes th'obedient Ghofts peep trembling thro' the TEARS. See Funeral, Grief, Sorrow, Weeping.
I'll teach him a Receipt to make
Words that weep and Tears that fpeak ;
I'll teach him Sighs like thofe in Death,
At which the Soul goes out too with the Breath.
A rifing Storm of Paffion fhook her Breaft;
Her Eyes a piteous Show'r of Tears let fall,
And then the figh'd as if her Heart were breaking.
Tears not fqueez'd by Art,
But fhed from Nature like a kindly Show'r.
She then look'd down and figh'd,
While from her unchang'd Face the filent Tears
Drop'd as they had not Leave, and ftole their parting. Dryd. All Her Head reclin'd, as hiding Grief from view,
Droops like a Rofe furcharg'd with morning Dew. Dryd. Auren.
He begg'd Relief
With Tears, the dumb Petitioners of Grief;
With Tears fo tender as adorn'd his Love,
And any Heart but only hers would move.
Believe thefe Tears, which from my wounded Heart
Thy Heart is big, get thee apart and weep: Paffion I fee is catching; for my Eyes
Seeing thofe Beads of Sorrow ftand in thine,
He thrice affay'd to fpeak, and thrice in fpight of Scorn,
Tears fuch as Angels weep burft forth: At laft
Words interwove with Sighs found out their way.
She acts the Jealous, and at will the cries;
For Womens Tears are but the Sweat of Eyes.
The waiting Tears ftood ready for Command,
And now they flow to varnish the falfe Tale.
I found her on the Floor
In all the Storm of Grief, yet beautiful;
Sighing fuch Breath of Sorrow, that her Lips
Which late appear'd like Buds, were now o'erblown;
Pouring forth Tears at fuch a lavish Rate,
That were the World on fire, they might have drown'd
The Wrath of Heaven, and quench'd the mighty Ruin. Lee Mith. 'Twould raife your Pity, but to fee the Tears
Force thro' her fnowy Lids their melting Course,
To lodge themfelves on her red murm'ring Lips,
That talk fuch mournful things; when ftrait a Gale
Of starting Sighs carries thofe Pearls away,
As Dews by Winds are wafted from the Flow'rs.
She mix'd her Speech with mournful Cries,
And fruitless Tears came trickling from her Eyes. Dryd. Virg. Mine is a Grief of Fury, not Defpair;
And if a manly Drop or two fall down,
It fcalds along my Cheeks, like the green Wood,
That fputt'ring in the Flames, works outward into Tears. Dr.
From Atlas far, beyond a Wafte of Plains,
Proud Teneriff his giant Brother reigns.
With breathing Fire his pitchy Noftrils glow,
As from his Sides, he fhakes the fleecy Snow.
Around their hoary Prince, from watry Beds
His fubje& Islands raise their verdant Heads:
The Waves fo gently wafh each rifing Hill,
The Land seems floating, and the Ocean ftill.
TEMPEST. See Storm.
Things that love Night,
Love not fuch Nights as thefe: The wrathful Skies
Gallow the very Wanderers of the Dark,
And make them keep their Caves. Since I was Man,
Such Sheets of Fire, fuch Burfts of horrid Thunder,
Such Groans of roaring Winds and Rain, I never
Remember to have heard. Man's Nature cannot carry
Th'Affliction, and not fear. Let the great Gods
That keep this dreadful Pother o'er. our Heads,
Find out their Enemies now. Tremble thou Wretch,
That haft within thee undivulged Crimes
Unwhipp'd of Juftice. Hide thee, thou bloody Hand,
Thou perjur'd, and thou Similar of Virtue,
That art inceftuous: Caitiff, to Pieces fhake
That under Covert and convenient Seeming,
Haft practis'd on Man's Life. Clofe pent-up Guilt,
Rive your concealing Continents, and cry
Thefe dreadful Summoners Grace.
Let my Tears thank you, for I cannot fpeak;
Words were not made to vent fuch Thoughts as mine. Dryd.
O my more than Father!
Let me not live, but at thy very Name
My eager Heart fprings up and leaps with Joy.
When I forget the vaft Debt I owe thee,
Forget! but 'tis impoffible; then let me
Forget the Use and Privilege of Reason,
Be driven from the Commerce of Mankind,
To wander in the Defart among Brutes,
To bear the various Fury of the Seafons,
The Night's unwholfom Dew, and Noon-day's Heat,
To be the Scorn of Earth, and Curfe of Heaven. Row. Fair Pen. My grateful Thoughts fo throng to get abroad,
They over-run each other in the Crowd:
To you with hafty Flight they take their Way,
And hardly for the Drefs of Words will stay.
And now fuch Hafte to tell their Meffage make,
They only ftammer what they meant to speak.
Words would but wrong the Gratitude I owe you:
Should I begin to fpeak, my Soul's fo full,
That I fhould talk of nothing else all Day.
With what becoming Thanks can I reply,
Not only Words lie lab'ring in my Breaft,
But Thought it felf is by thy Praise opprefs'd.
Oh let me unlade my Breast!
Pour out the Fulness of my Soul before you,
Shew ev'ry tender, ev'ry grateful Thought
This wond'rous Goodness ftirs: But 'tis impoffible,
And Utt'rance all is vile; fince I can only
Swear you reign here, but never tell how much. Row, Fair Pen, For fhould our Thanks awake the rifing Sun,
And lengthen as his lateft Shadows run,
That, tho' the longest Day, would foon, too foon be done.
A Pilferer, defcry'd in fome dark Corner,
Who there had lodg'd with mischievous Intent
To rob and ravage at the Hour of Reft,
And do a midnight Murther on the Sleepers.
Oh wretched Man! whofe too too bufy Thoughts
Ride swifter than the galloping Heavens round,
With an eternal Hurry of the Soul:
Nay, there's a Time when ev'n the rolling Year
Seems to ftand ftill; dead Calms are in the Ocean,
When not a Breath difturbs the drowzy Waves:
But Man, the very Monster of the World,
Is ne'er at reft, the Soul for ever wakes.
Thoughts fucceed Thoughts, like reftlefs troubled Waves Dafhing out one another.
Reflefs Thoughts, that like a deadly Swarm
Of Hornets arm'd, in Throngs come rufhing on me.
I have been studying how to compare
The Prifon where I live unto the World;
And for becaufe the World is populous,
And here is not a Creature but my felf,
I cannot do it. Yet I'll hammer't out:
My Brain I'll prove the Female to my Soul,
My Soul the Father; and thefe two beget
A Generation of ftill breeding Thoughts,
And these fame Thoughts people this little World,
In Humours like the People of this World,
For no Thought is contented. The better fort,
As Thoughts of things divine, are intermix'd
With Scruples, and do fet the Faith it felf
Against the Faith.
Thoughts tending to Ambition, they do plot
Unlikely Wonders; how thefe vain weak Nails
May tear a Paffage thro' the flinty Ribs
Of this hard World, my ragged Prifon Walls;
And, for they cannot, die in their own Pride.
Thoughts tending to Content, flatter themselves
That they are not the first of Fortune's Slaves,
And fhall not be the laft: Like filly Beggars,
Who fitting in the Stocks, refuge their Shame
That many have, and others must be there;
And in this Thought they find a kind of Ease,
Bearing their own Misfortunes on the Back
Of fuch as have before endur'd the like.
Thus play I in one Prifon many People,
And none contented. Sometimes am I King,
Then Treafon makes me with my felf a Beggar,
And fo I am: Then crufhing Penury
Perfwades me I was better when a King;
Then I am King'd again; and by and by
Think that I am unking'd by Bullingbrook,
And ftreight am nothing. But whate'er I am,
Nor I, nor any Man, but that Man is,
With nothing fhall be pleas'd, till he be eas'd
By being nothing.
[poken by Rich. 2.]
Thus my Thoughts are tir'd
With tedious Journeys up and down my Mind:
Sometimes they lofe their Way; fometimes as flow
As Beafts o'er-loaded heavily they move,
Prefs'd by the Weight of Sorrow and of Love. How. Vest. Virg.
Allow my melancholy Thoughts this Privilege,
To let them brood in fecret o'er their Sorrows. Row. Fair Pen.
Some melancholy Thought that fhuns the Light,
Lurks underneath that Sadness in thy Vifage.
Turn not to Thought, my Brain, but let me find
Some unfrequented Shade; there lay me down,
And let forgetful Dulnefs fteal upon me,
To foften and affwage this Pain of thinking.
Thought is Damnation; 'tis the Plague of Devils To think on what they are.
Her thoughtful Soul labours with fome Event Of high Import, which juftles like an Embryo In its dark Womb, and longs to be difclos'd.
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