Complete Works of William Congreve Read online

  HARD is the Task, and bold th’adventrous Flight

  Of Him, who dares in Praise of Beauty write;

  For when to that high Theme our Thoughts ascend,

  ’Tis to detract, too poorly to commend.

  And he, who praising Beauty, do’s no wrong, 5

  May boast to be successful in his Song:

  But when the Fair themselves approve his Lays,

  And one accepts, and one vouchsafes to praise,

  His wide Ambition knows no farther Bound,

  Nor can his Muse with brighter Fame be crown’d. 10

  EPIGRAM

  WRITTEN after the Decease of Mrs. Arabella Hunt, under her Picture drawn playing on a Lute.

  WERE there on Earth another Voice like thine,

  Another Hand so blest with Skill Divine!

  The late afflicted World some Hopes might have,

  And Harmony retrieve thee from the Grave.

  SONG. PIOUS SELINDA GOES TO PRAY’RS

  I.

  PIOUS Selinda goes to Pray’rs,

  If I but ask the Favour;

  And yet the tender Fool’s in Tears,

  When she believes I’ll leave her.

  II.

  Wou’d I were free from this Restraint, 5

  Or else had hopes to win her;

  Wou’d she cou’d make of me a Saint,

  Or I of her a Sinner.

  A HYMN TO HARMONY.

  In HONOUR of St. CECILIA’s Day,

  MDCCI.

  Set to Musick by Mr. JOHN ECCLES.

  II.

  O Harmony, to thee we sing,

  To thee the grateful Tribute bring

  Of Sacred Verse, and sweet resounding Lays;

  Thy Aid invoking while thy Pow’r we praise.

  All Hail to thee 5

  All-pow’rful Harmony!

  Wise Nature owns thy undisputed Sway,

  Her wond’rous Works resigning to thy Care;

  The Planetary Orbs thy Rule obey,

  And tuneful roll, unerring in their way, 10

  Thy Voice informing each melodious Sphere.

  CHORUS.

  All Hail to thee

  All-pow’rful HarmonyI

  II.

  Thy Voice, O Harmony, with awful Sound

  Could penetrate th’Abyss profound, 15

  Explore the Realms of ancient Night,

  And search the living Source of unborn Light.

  Confusion heard thy Voice and fled,

  And Chaos deeper plung’d his vanquish’d Head.

  Then didst thou, Harmony, give Birth 20

  To this fair Form of Heav’n and Earth;

  Then all those shining Worlds above

  In Mystick Dance began to move

  Around the radiant Sphere of Central Fire,

  A never ceasing, never silent Choir. 25

  CHORUS.

  Confusion heard thy Voice and fled,

  And Chaos deeper plung’d his vanquish’d Head.

  III.

  Thou only, Goddess, first could’st tell

  The mighty Charms in Numbers found;

  And didst to Heav’nly Minds reveal 30

  The secret force of tuneful Sound.

  When first Cyllenius form’d the Lyre,

  Thou didst the God inspire;

  When first the vocal Shell he strung,

  To which the Muses sung: 35

  Then first the Muses sung; melodious Strains Apollo plaid,

  And Musick first begun by thy auspicious Aid.

  Hark, hark, again Urania sings!

  Again Apollo strikes the trembling Strings!

  And see, the list’ning Deities around 40

  Attend insatiate, and devour the Sound.

  CHORUS.

  Hark, hark, again Urania sings!

  Again Apollo strikes the trembling Strings!

  And see, the list’ning Deities around

  Attend insatiate, and devour the Sound. 45

  IV.

  Descend Urania, Heav’nly Fair!

  To the Relief of this afflicted World repair;

  See how with various Woes opprest,

  The wretched Race of Men is worn;

  Consum’d with Cares, with Doubts distrest, 50

  Or by conflicting Passions torn.

  Reason in vain employs her Aid,

  The furious Will on Fancy waits;

  While Reason still by Hopes or Fears betray’d,

  Too late advances or too soon retreats. 55

  Musick alone with sudden Charms can bind

  The wandring Sense, and calm the troubled Mind.

  CHORUS.

  Musick alone with sudden Charms can bind

  The wandring Sense, and calm the troubled Mind.

  V.

  Begin the pow’rful Song, ye Sacred Nine, 60

  Your Instruments and Voices join;

  Harmony, Peace, and sweet Desire,

  In ev’ry Breast inspire.

  Revive the melancholy drooping Heart,

  And soft Repose to restless Thoughts impart. 65

  Appease the wrathful Mind,

  To dire Revenge and Death inclin’d:

  With balmy Sounds his boiling Blood asswage,

  And melt to mild Remorse his burning Rage.

  ’Tis done; and now tumultuous Passions cease; 70

  And all is husht, and all is Peace.

  The weary World with welcome Ease is blest,

  By Musick lull’d to pleasing Rest.

  CHORUS.

  ’Tis done; and now tumultuous Passions cease;

  And all is husht, and all is Peace. 75

  The weary World with welcome Ease is blest,

  By Musick lull’d to pleasing Rest.

  VI.

  Ah, sweet Repose, too soon expiring!

  Ah, foolish Man, new Toils requiring!

  Curs’d Ambition, Strife pursuing, 80

  Wakes the World to War and Ruin.

  See, see, the Battel is prepar’d!

  Behold the Hero comes!

  Loud Trumpets with shrill Fifes are heard;

  And hoarse resounding Drums. 85

  War, with discordant Notes and jarring Noise,

  The Harmony of Peace destroys.

  CHORUS.

  War, with discordant Notes and jarring Noise,

  The Harmony of Peace destroys.

  VII.

  See the forsaken Fair, with streaming Eyes 90

  Her parting Lover mourn;

  She weeps, she sighs, despairs and dies,

  And watchful wastes the lonely livelong Nights,

  Bewailing past Delights

  That may no more, no never more return. 95

  O sooth her Cares

  With softest, sweetest Airs,

  ‘Till Victory and Peace restore

  Her faithful Lover to her tender Breast,

  Within her folding Arms to rest, 100

  Thence never to be parted more,

  No never to be parted more.

  CHORUS.

  Let Victory and Peace restore

  Her faithful Lover to her tender Breast,

  Within her folding Arms to rest, 105

  Thence never to be parted more,

  No never to be parted more.

  Enough, Urania, heav’nly fair!

  Now to thy Native Skies repair,

  And rule again the Starry Sphere; 110

  Cecilia comes, with holy Rapture fill’d,

  To ease the World of Care.

  Cecilia, more than all the Muses skill’d!

  Phoebus himself to her must yield,

  And at her Feet lay down 115

  His Golden Harp and Lawrel Crown.

  The soft enervate Lyre is drown’d

  In the deep Organ’s more majestick Sound.

  In Peals the swelling Notes ascend the Skies;

  Perpetual Breath the swelling Notes supplies, 120

  And lasting as her Name,

  Who form’d the tuneful Frame, />
  Th’immortal Musick never dies.

  GRAND CHORUS.

  Cecilia, more than all the Muses skill’d!

  Phoebus himself to her must yield, 125

  And at her Feet lay down

  His Golden Harp and Lawrel Crown.

  The soft enervate Lyre is drown’d

  In the deep Organ’s more majestick Sound.

  In Peals the swelling Notes ascend the Skies; 130

  Perpetual Breath the swelling Notes supplies,

  And lasting as her Name,

  Who form’d the tuneful Frame,

  Th ‘immortal Musick never dies.

  VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF GRACE LADY GETHIN

  Occasioned by reading her Book, Intitled RELIQUIÆ GETHINIANÆ.

  AFTER a painful Life in Study spent,

  The Learn’d themselves their Ignorance lament;

  And aged Men, whose Lives exceed the Space,

  Which seems the Bound prescrib’d to mortal Race,

  With hoary Heads, their short Experience grieve, 5

  As doom’d to die before they’ve learn’d to live.

  So hard it is true Knowledge to attain,

  So frail is Life, and fruitless Human Pain!

  Who-e’er on this reflects, and then beholds,

  With strict Attention, what this Book unfolds, 10

  With Admiration struck, shall question

  Who So very long could live, so much to know?

  For so compleat the finish’d Piece appears,

  That Learning seems combin’d with Length of Years;

  And both improv’d by purest Wit, to reach 15

  At all that Study, or that Time can teach.

  But to what height must his Amazement rise!

  When having read the Work, he turns his Eyes

  Again to view the foremost op’ning Page,

  And there the Beauty, Sex, and tender Age 20

  Of Her beholds, in whose pure Mind arose

  Th’Ætherial Source from whence this Current flows!

  When Prodigies appear, our Reason fails,

  And Superstition o’er Philosophy prevails.

  Some heav’nly Minister we strait conclude, 25

  Some Angel-Mind with Female Form indu’d,

  To make a short Abode on Earth, was sent,

  (Where no Perfection can be permanent)

  And having left her bright Example here,

  Was quick recall’d, and bid to disappear. 30

  Whether around the Throne, Eternal Hymns

  She Sings, amid the Choir of Seraphims;

  Or some refulgent Star informs, and guides,

  Where she, the blest Intelligence, presides;

  Is not for us to know who here remain; 35

  For ‘twere as Impious to enquire, as Vain:

  And all we ought, or can, in this dark State,

  Is, what we have admir’d, to imitate.

  EPITAPH UPON ROBERT HUNTINGTON, OF STANTON HARCOURT, ESQ; AND ROBERT HIS SON.

  THIS peaceful Tomb does now contain

  Father and Son, together laid;

  Whose living Virtues shall remain,

  When they, and this, are quite decay’d.

  What Man shou’d be, to Ripeness grown, 5

  And finish’d Worth shou’d do, or shun,

  At full was in the Father shown;

  What Youth cou’d promise, in the Son.

  But Death obdurate, both destroy’d

  The perfect Fruit, and op’ning Bud:

  First seiz’d those Sweets we had enjoy’d,

  Then robb’d us of the coming Good.

  TO MR. DRYDEN, ON HIS TRANSLATION OF PERSIUS.

  AS when of Old Heroick Story tells

  Of Knights imprison’d long by Magic Spells,

  ‘Till future Time the destin’d Hero send,

  By whom, the dire Enchantment is to end:

  Such seems this Work, and so reserv’d for thee, 5

  Thou great Revealer of dark Poesie.

  Those sullen Clouds, which have for Ages past,

  O’er Persius’s too-long-suff’ring Muse been cast,

  Disperse, and flie before thy Sacred Pen,

  And, in their room, bright tracks of Light are seen. 10

  Sure Phcebus self thy swelling Breast inspires,

  The God of Musick, and Poetick Fires:

  Else, whence proceeds this great Surprise of Light!

  How dawns this Day, forth from the Womb of Night!

  Our Wonder, now, does our past Folly show, 15

  Vainly Contemning what we did not know:

  So, Unbelievers impiously despise

  The Sacred Oracles, in Mysteries.

  Persius, before, in small Esteem was had,

  Unless, what to Antiquity is paid; 20

  But like Apocrypha, with Scruple read,

  (So far, our Ignorance, our Faith mis-led)

  ‘Till you, Apollo’s darling Priest, thought fit

  To place it in the Poet’s Sacred Writ.

  As Coin, which bears some awful Monarch’s Face, 25

  For more than its intrinsick Worth will pass:

  So your bright Image, which we here behold,

  Adds Worth to Worth, and dignifies the Gold.

  To you, we, all this following Treasure owe,

  This Hippocrene, which from a Rock did flow. 30

  Old Stoick Virtue, clad in rugged Lines,

  Polish’d by you, in Modern Brillant shines:

  And as before, for Persius, our Esteem

  To his Antiquity was paid, not him:

  So now, whatever Praise from us is due, 35

  Belongs not to Old Persius, but the New.

  For still Obscure, to us no Light he gives;

  Dead in himself, in you alone he lives.

  So, stubborn Flints their inward Heat conceal,

  Till Art and Force th’unwilling Sparks reveal; 40

  But thro’ your Skill, from those small Seeds of Fire,

  Bright Flames arise, which never can Expire.

  THE ELEVENTH SATIRE OF JUVENAL.

  THE ARGUMENT.

  The Design of this Satire is to expose and reprehend all Manner of Intemperance and Debauchery; but more particularly that exorbitant Luxury used by the Romans, in their Feasting. The Poet draws the Occasion from an Invitation, which he here makes to his Friend, to dine with him; very artfully preparing him, with what he was to expect from his Treat, by beginning the Satire with a particular Invective against the Vanity and Folly of some Persons, who having but mean Fortunes in the World, attempted to live up to the heighth of Men of great Estates and Quality. He shews us, the miserable End of such Spend-thrifts and Gluttons; with the Manner and Courses, which they took to bring themselves to it; advising Men to live within Bounds, and to proportion their Inclinations to the Extent of their Fortune. He gives his Friend a Bill of Fare, of the Entertainment he has provided for him; and from thence he takes Occasion to reflect upon the Temperance and Frugality of the Greatest Men, in former Ages: To which he opposes the Riot and Intemperance of the present; attributing to the latter a visible Remisness, in the Care of Heaven over the Roman State. He instances some lewd Practices at their Feasts, and by the by, touches the Nobility, with making Vice and Debauchery consist with their principal Pleasures. He concludes with a repeated Invitation to his Friend; advising him (in one particular somewhat freely) to a neglect of all Cares and Disquiets, for the present; and a moderate use of Pleasures, for the future.

  IF Noble Atticus make splendid Feasts,

  And with expensive Food indulge his Guests;

  His Wealth and Quality support the Treat:

  Nor is it Luxury in him, but State.

  But when Poor Rutilus spends all he’s Worth, 5

  In hopes of setting one good Dinner forth;

  ’Tis down-right Madness; for what greater Jests,

  Than Begging Gluttons, or than Beggars Feasts?

  But Rutilus is now notorious grown, 10

  A
nd proves the Common Theme of all the Town.

  A Man, in his full Tide of youthful Blood,

  Able for Arms, and for his Country’s good;

  Urg’d by no Pow’r, restrain’d by no Advice,

  But following his own inglorious Choice:

  Whom, their despairing Creditors, may find 20

  Lurking in Shambles; where with borrow’d Coin

  They buy choice Meats, and in cheap Plenty dine;

  Such, whose sole Bliss, is Eating; who can give

  But that one Brutal Reason why they live.

  And yet what’s more ridiculous: Of these, 25

  The poorest Wretch, is still most hard to please;

  And he whose thin transparent Rags, declare

  How much, his tatter’d Fortune wants repair,

  Wou’d ransack ev’ry Element, for Choice

  Of ev’ry Fish and Fowl, at any Price; 30

  If brought from far, it very dear has cost,

  It has a Flavour then, which pleases most,

  And he devours it with a greater Gust.

  In Riot thus, while Mony lasts, he lives,

  And that exhausted, still new Pledges gives; 35

  ‘Till forc’d of meer Necessity, to eat,

  He comes to pawn his Dish, to buy his Meat.

  Nothing of Silver, or of Gold he spares,

  Not what his Mother’s Sacred Image bears;

  The broken Relick, he with speed devours, 40

  As he wou’d all the rest of’s Ancestors,

  If wrought in Gold, or if expos’d to Sale,

  They’d pay the Price of one Luxurious Meal.

  Thus certain Ruin treads upon his Heels,

  The Stings of Hunger, soon, and Want he feels; 45

  And thus is he reduc’d at length, to serve

  Fencers, for miserable Scraps, or starve.

  Imagine now, you see a plenteous Feast:

  The Question is, at whose Expence ’tis drest.

  In great Ventidius, we, the Bounty prize; 50

  In Rutilus, the Vanity despise.