Poetical Works of Edmund Waller and Sir John Denham Part 31

Thus says our author, not content to see That others write as carelessly as he; 20 Though he pretends not to make things complete, Yet, to please you, he'd have the poets sweat.

In this old play, what's new we have express'd In rhyming verse, distinguish'd from the rest; That as the Rhone its hasty way does make (Not mingling waters) through Geneva's lake, So having here the different styles in view, You may compare the former with the new.

If we less rudely shall the knot untie, Soften the rigour of the tragedy, 30 And yet preserve each person's character, Then to the other this you may prefer.

'Tis left to you: the boxes and the pit, Are sov'reign judges of this sort of wit.

In other things the knowing artist may Judge better than the people; but a play, (Made for delight, and for no other use) If you approve it not, has no excuse.

[1] 'Maid's Tragedy': Waller altered this tragedy without success.

[2] 'Marble last': these lines occur in a previous poem.

EPILOGUE TO THE 'MAID'S TRAGEDY.'

SPOKEN BY THE KING.

The fierce Melantius was content, you see, The king should live; be not more fierce than he; Too long indulgent to so rude a time, When love was held so capital a crime, That a crown'd head could no compa.s.sion find, But died--because the killer had been kind!

Nor is't less strange, such mighty wits as those Should use a style in tragedy like prose.

Well-sounding verse, where princes tread the stage, Should speak their virtue, or describe their rage. 10 By the loud trumpet, which our courage aids, We learn that sound, as well as sense, persuades; And verses are the potent charms we use, Heroic thoughts and virtue to infuse.

When next we act this tragedy again, Unless you like the change, we shall be slain.

The innocent Aspasia's life or death, Amintor's too, depends upon your breath.

Excess of love was heretofore the cause; Now if we die, 'tis want of your applause. 20

ANOTHER EPILOGUE TO THE 'MAID'S TRAGEDY.'

DESIGNED UPON THE FIRST ALTERATION OF THE PLAY, WHEN THE KING ONLY WAS LEFT ALIVE.

Aspasia bleeding on the stage does lie, To show you still 'tis the Maid's Tragedy.

The fierce Melantius was content, you see, The king should live; be not more fierce than he; Too long indulgent to so rude a time, When love was held so capital a crime, That a crown'd head could no compa.s.sion find, But died--because the killer had been kind!

This better-natured poet had reprieved Gentle Amintor too, had he believed 10 The fairer s.e.x his pardon could approve, Who to ambition sacrificed his love.

Aspasia he has spared; but for her wound (Neglected love!) there could no salve be found.

When next we act this tragedy again, Unless you like the change, I must be slain.

Excess of love was heretofore the cause; Now if I die, 'tis want of your applause.

EPIGRAMS, EPITAPHS, AND FRAGMENTS.

UNDER A LADY'S PICTURE.

Such Helen was! and who can blame the boy[1]

That in so bright a flame consumed his Troy?

But had like virtue shined in that fair Greek, The am'rous shepherd had not dared to seek Or hope for pity; but with silent moan, And better fate, had perished alone.

[1] Paris.

OF A LADY WHO WRIT IN PRAISE OF MIRA.

While she pretends to make the graces known Of matchless Mira, she reveals her own; And when she would another's praise indite, Is by her gla.s.s instructed how to write.

TO ONE MARRIED TO AN OLD MAN.

Since thou wouldst needs (bewitch'd with some ill charms!) Be buried in those monumental arms, All we can wish is, may that earth lie light Upon thy tender limbs! and so good night.

AN EPIGRAM ON A PAINTED LADY WITH ILL TEETH.

Were men so dull they could not see That Lyce painted; should they flee, Like simple birds, into a net So grossly woven and ill set, Her own teeth would undo the knot, And let all go that she had got.

Those teeth fair Lyce must not show If she would bite; her lovers, though Like birds they stoop at seeming grapes, Are disabused when first she gapes; The rotten bones discover'd there, Show 'tis a painted sepulchre.

EPIGRAM UPON THE GOLDEN MEDAL.[1]

Our guard upon the royal side!

On the reverse our beauty's pride!

Here we discern the frown and smile, The force and glory of our isle.

In the rich medal, both so like Immortals stand, it seems antique; Carved by some master, when the bold Greeks made their Jove descend in gold, And Danae[2] wond'ring at their shower, Which, falling, storm'd her brazen tower.

Britannia there, the fort in vain Had batter'd been with golden rain; Thunder itself had fail'd to pa.s.s; Virtue's a stronger guard than bra.s.s.

[1] 'Golden Medal': it is said that a Miss Stewart, the favourite of the unprincipled king, is the original of the figure of Britannia on the medals to which the poet here alludes.

[2] Transcriber's note: The original text has a single dot over the second "a" and another over the "e", rather than the more conventional diaresis shown here.