LXXXIII.

THE CONTENTED MAN.

HAPPY the man whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,

Content to breathe his native air

In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire;
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,

In winter, fire.

Blest, who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away
In health of body, peace of mind,

Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mix'd, sweet recreation
And innocence, which most doth please

With meditation.

Thus let me live unseen, unknown;
Thus, unlamented, let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone

Tell where I lie.

Alexander Pope.

LXXXIV.

PHILLIS UNWILLING.

A CHOIR of bright beauties in spring did appear,
To choose a May-lady to govern the year;

All the nymphs were in white, and the shepherds in green,
The garland was given, and Phillis was queen:

But Phillis refused it, and sighing did say,

I'll not wear a garland while Pan is away.

While Pan and fair Syrinx are fled from our shore,
The Graces are banish'd, and love is no more :
The soft god of pleasure, that warm'd our desires,
Has broken his bow, and extinguish'd his fires;
And vows that himself and his mother will mourn
Till Pan and fair Syrinx in triumph return.

Forbear your addresses, and court us no more,
For we will perform what the deity swore:

But if you dare think of deserving our charms,
Away with your sheep-hooks, and take to your arms;
The laurels and myrtles your brows shall adorn,
When Pan, and his son, and fair Syrinx, return.
John Dryden.

LXXXV.

TELL me no more I am deceived,
That Chloe's false and common;
I always knew (at least believed)
She was a very woman:

As such I liked, as such caress'd,
She still was constant when possess'd,
She could do more for no man.

But O! her thoughts on others ran;
And that you think a hard thing!
Perhaps she fancied you the man ;
And what care I one farthing?

You think she's false, I'm sure she's kind,
I take her face, and you her mind,

-Who has the better bargain?

William Congreve.

LXXXVI.

FORTUNE.

A Fragment.

FORTUNE, that, with malicious joy,
Does man her slave oppress,

Proud of her office to destroy,
Is seldom pleased to bless :
Still various and unconstant still,
But with an inclination to be ill,
Promotes, degrades, delights in strife,
And makes a lottery of life.

I can enjoy her while she's kind;
But when she dances in the wind,

And shakes her wings and will not stay,
I puff the prostitute away:

The little or the much she gave, is quietly resign'd:
Content with poverty, my soul I arm;

And virtue, tho' in rags, will keep me warm.

John Dryden.

LXXXVII.

FAIR Amoret is gone astray,

Pursue, and seek her, every lover;
I'll tell the signs by which you may
The wandering shepherdess discover.

Coquet and coy at once her air,

Both studied, tho' both seem neglected;
Careless she is, with artful care,

Affecting to seem unaffected.

With skill her eyes dart every glance,

Yet change so soon you'd ne'er suspect them; For she'd persuade they wound by chance, Though certain aim and art direct them.

She likes herself, yet others hates

For that which in herself she prizes;

And, while she laughs at them, forgets
She is the thing that she despises.

William Congreve.

LXXXVIII.

FABLE, RELATED BY A BEAU TO ÆSOP.

A BAND, a Bob-wig, and a Feather,
Attack'd a lady's heart together.
The Band, in a most learned plea,
Made up of deep philosophy,

Told her, if she would please to wed
A reverend beard, and take, instead
Of vigorous youth,

Old solemn truth,

With books and morals, into bed,
How happy she would be.

The Bob, he talked of management,
What wondrous blessings heaven sent
On care, and pains, and industry:
And truly he must be so free
To own he thought your airy beaux,
With powder'd wigs, and dancing shoes,
Were good for nothing (mend his soul !)
But prate, and talk, and play the fool.

He said 'twas wealth gave joy and mirth,
And that to be the dearest wife

Of one, who labour'd all his life
To make a mine of gold his own,

And not spend sixpence when he'd done,
Was heaven upon earth.

When these two blades had done, d'ye see,
The Feather (as it might be me)

Steps out, sir, from behind the screen,
With such an air and such a mien-
"Look you, old gentleman,”-in short,
He quickly spoil'd the statesman's sport.

It proved such sunshine weather,
That you must know, at the first beck
The lady leapt about his neck,

And off they went together!

LXXXIX.

Sir John Vanbrugh.

A PAIR WELL MATCHED.

FAIR Iris I love, and hourly I die,
But not for a lip, nor a languishing eye;
She's fickle and false, and there we agree,
For I am as false and as fickle as she;
We neither believe what either can say,
And neither believing, we neither betray.

'Tis civil to swear, and to say things of course;
We mean not the taking for better or worse:
When present we love; and when absent agree;
I think not of Iris, nor Iris of me :

The legend of Love no couple can find,
So easy to part, or so equally join'd.

John Dryden.

XC.

THE BAG OF THE BEE.

ABOUT the sweet bag of a bee,
Two Cupids fell at odds;

And whose the pretty prize should be,
They vow'd to ask the gods.

Which Venus hearing, thither came,
And for their boldness stript them;
And taking thence from each his flame,
With rods of myrtle whipt them.

Which done, to still their wanton cries,
When quiet grown she'd seen them,
She kist, and wiped their dove-like eyes;
And gave the bag between them.

Robert Herrick.

XCI.

CUPID MISTAKEN.

As after noon, one summer's day,
Venus stood bathing in a river;
Cupid a-shooting went that way,

New strung his bow, new fill'd his quiver.

With skill he chose his sharpest dart :
With all his might his bow he drew:
Swift to his beauteous parent's heart
The too-well-guided arrow flew.

I faint! I die! the goddess cried:
O cruel, could'st thou find none other
To wreck thy spleen on: Parricide!

Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother.

Poor Cupid sobbing scarce could speak; "Indeed, mama, I did not know ye: Alas! how easy my mistake?

I took you for your likeness, Chloe."

Matthew Prior.