JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER.
NOTHING! thou elder brother ev'n to Shade,
That hadst a being ere the world was made,
And (well fixt) art alone of ending not afraid.
Ere Time and Place were, Time and Place were
When primitive Nothing, Something straight be
Then all proceeded from the great united-What.
Something, the general attribute of all,
Sever'd from thee, its sole original,
Into thy boundless self must undistinguish'd fall.
Yet Something did thy mighty power command, And from thy fruitful emptiness's hand, Snatch'd men, beasts, birds, fire, air, and land.
Matter, the wicked'st offspring of thy race,
By Form assisted, flew from thy embrace,
And rebel Light obscur'd thy reverend dusky face.
With Form and Matter, Time and Place did join,
Body, thy foe, with thee did leagues combine,
To spoil thy peaceful realm, and ruin all thy line.
But turn-coat Time assists the foe in vain,
And, brib'd by thee, assists thy short-liv'd reign,
And to thy hungry womb drives back thy slaves
again.
Though mysteries are barr'd from laic eyes,
And the divine alone, with warrant pries
Into thy bosom, where the truth in private lies:
Yet this of thee the wise may freely say,
Thou from the virtuous nothing tak'st away,
And to be part with thee the wicked wisely pray.
Great Negative! how vainly would the wise
Inquire, define, distinguish, teach, devise ?
Didst thou not stand to point their dull philoso-
phies.
Is, or is not, the two great ends of Fate,
And, true or false, the subject of debate,
That perfect or destroy the vast designs of Fate;
When they have rack'd the politician's breast,
Within thy bosom most securely rest,
And, when reduc'd to thee, are least unsafe and best.
But Nothing, why does Something still permit,
That sacred monarchs should at council sit,
With persons highly thought at best for nothing
fit?
Whilst weighty Something modestly abstains From princes' coffers, and from statemen's brains, And nothing there like stately Nothing reigns.
Nothing, who dwell'st with fools in grave disguise, For whom they reverend shapes and forms devise, Lawn sleeves, and furs, and gowns, when they like thee look wise.
French truth, Dutch prowess, British policy,
Hibernian learning, Scotch civility,
Spaniards' despatch, Danes' wit, are mainly seen in thee.
The great man's gratitude to his best friend, Kings' promises, whores' vows, towards thee they bend,
Flow swiftly into thee, and in thee ever end.
CYMON AND IPHIGENIA.
IN that sweet isle where Venus keeps her court,
And every Grace, and all the Loves, resort;
Where either sex is form'd of softer earth,
And takes the bent of pleasure from her birth;
There lived a Cyprian lord, above the rest
Wise, wealthy, with a numerous issue bless'd.
But as no gift of fortune is sincere,
Was only wanting in a worthy heir;
His eldest born, a goodly youth to view,
Excell'd the rest in shape and outward shew;
Fair, tall, his limbs with due proportion join'd,
But of a heavy, dull, degenerate mind.
His soul belied the features of his face;
Beauty was there, but beauty in disgrace.
A clownish mien, a voice with rustic sound,
And stupid eyes that ever loved the ground.
He look'd like Nature's error, as the mind
And body were not of a piece design'd,
But made for two, and by mistake in one were join'd.
The ruling rod, the father's forming care, Were exercised in vain on wit's despair; The more inform'd, the less he understood, And deeper sunk by floundering in the mud. Now scorn'd of all, and grown the public shame, The people from Galesus changed his name, And Cymon call'd, which signifies a brute, So well his name did with his nature suit.
His father, when he found his labour lost,
And care employ'd that answer'd not the cost,
Chose an ungrateful object to remove,
And loath'd to see what nature made him love;
So to his country farm the fool confined;
Rude work well suited with a rustic mind.
Thus to the wilds the sturdy Cymon went,
A squire among the swains, and pleased with
banishment.
His corn and cattle were his only care,
And his supreme delight, a country fair.
It happen'd on a summer's holiday,
That to the green-wood shade he took his way; For Cymon shunn'd the church, and used not much to pray.
His quarter-staff, which he could ne'er forsake,
Hung half before and half behind his back.
He trudged along, unknowing what he sought,
And whistled as he went for want of thought.
By chance conducted, or by thirst constrain'd,
The deep recesses of the grove he gain'd;
Where, in a plain defended by the wood,
Crept through the matted grass a crystal flood;
By which an alabaster fountain stood;
And on the margin of the fount was laid
(Attended by her slaves) a sleeping maid.
Like Dian and her nymphs, when tired with sport
To rest by cool Eurotas they resort:
The dame herself the goddess well express'd,
Not more distinguish'd by her purple vest,
Than by the charming features of her face,
And ev'n in slumber a superior grace:
Her comely limbs composed with decent care,
Her body shaded with a slight cymar;
Her bosom to the view was only bare,
Where two beginning paps were scarcely spy'd,
For yet their places were but signify'd.
The fanning wind upon her bosom blows,
To meet the fanning wind the bosom rose;
The fanning wind, and purling streams, continue
her repose.
The fool of nature stood with stupid eyes,
And gaping mouth, that testify'd surprise,
Fix'd on her face, nor could remove his sight,
New as he was to love, and novice to delight:
Long mute he stood, and, leaning on his staff,
His wonder witness'd with an idiot laugh;
Then would have spoke, but by his glimmering sense First found his want of words, and fear'd offence :
|