SONG. My dear Mistress has a heart Soft as those kind looks she gave me ; When, with love's resistless art, And her eyes, she did enslave me; But her constancy's so weak, She's so wild and apt to wander, That my jealous heart would break Should we live one day asunder. Melting joys about her move, Killing pleasures, wounding blisses, She can dress her eyes in love, And her lips can arm with kisses; Angels listen when she speaks, She's my delight, all mankind's wonder, But my jealous heart would break Should we live one day asunder. CONSTANCY. I cannot change, as others do, Though you unjustly scorn, Since that poor swain that sighs for you, For you alone was born; No, Phillis, no, your heart to move A surer way I'll try, And to revenge my slighted love, Will still love on, and die. When, killed with grief, Amintas lies, And you to mind shall call The sighs that now unpitied rise, The tears that vainly fall, That welcome hour that ends his smart, Will then begin your pain, For such a faithful tender heart Can never break in vain. THE BOWL. Contrive me, Vulcan, such a cup Shew all thy skill to trim it up, Make it so large, that, filled with sack Vast toasts on that delicious lake, Engrave not battle on his cheek, Let it no name of planets tell, But carve thereon a spreading vine; Cupid and Bacchus my saints are, SONG. [From Valentinian.] Nymph. Injurious charmer of my vanquished heart, Canst thou feel love, and yet no pity know? Since of myself from thee I cannot part, For what with joy thou didst obtain, In time will make thee false and vain, Shepherd. Frail angel, that would'st leave a heart forlorn, Thrown from thy dear-lov'd breast; He merits not to live at all, Who cares to live unblest. SONG. When on those lovely looks I gaze, To see a wretch pursuing, In raptures of a blest amaze, His pleasing happy ruin, His fate is too aspiring, Whose heart, broke with a load of love, But if this murder you'd forego, The vanquished dies with pleasure. SONG. Absent from thee I languish still, To wish all day, all night to mourn. Dear, from thine arms then let me fly, That tears my fixed heart from my love. When, wearied with a world of woe, To thy safe bosom I retire, Where love and peace and honour flow, Lest once more wandering from that heaven, Faithless to thee, false, unforgiven, EPITAPH ON CHARLES II. Here lies our Sovereign Lord the King, Who never said a foolish thing, Nor ever did a wise one. THOMAS OTWAY. [THOMAS OTWAY was born at Trottin, in Sussex, March 3, 1651, and died at Tower Hill, April 14, 1685, choked by a mouthful of bread ravenously eaten when he was at the brink of starvation. His most famous tragedies, The Orphan, and Venice Preserved, were printed respectively in 1680 and 1682.] This is not the place to dwell on the splendid tragic genius of Otway, or to discuss his abject failure as a comedian. He claims our attention here on the score of two slender quartos of nondramatic verse, The Poet's Complaint of his Muse, 1680, and Windsor Castle, 1685. The latter is a political and descriptive piece in the heroic measure; it is modelled on Denham's Cooper's Hill, and betrays, notwithstanding some felicitous passages, the fatigue which was stealing over the dying author. But The Poet's Complaint of his Muse is a much more original and powerful poem ; it is written in the irregular measure called 'Pindaric,' and contains a satirical portrait of the poet and of his times, drawn without charm or colour, but in firm, bold lines, like a harsh engraving. Otway displays more observation of nature than most of his contemporaries; but when he draws the world we live in, he is a draughtsman even sterner than Crabbe. We quote as an example of this important but rugged and unattractive poem the first strophe, which contains some picturesque and vivid lines. It should be remarked that Otway was absolutely unable to write even a fairly good song. EDMUND W. GOSSE. |