Now such as the beast was, even such was the rider, With a head like a nutmeg, and legs like a spider; A voice like a cricket, a look like a rat, The brains of a goose, and the heart of a cat : Even such was my guide and his beast; let them pass, The one for a horse, and the other an ass. ST WINIFRED'S WELL. FROM THE SAME. O'ER hills and o'er valleys uncouth and uneven, I thought it the pool of Bethesda had been, Before I did farther proceed in devotion: I went into the kitchen, where victuals I saw, Both beef, veal, and mutton, but all on't was raw ; And some on't alive, but it soon went to slaughter, For four chickens were slain by my dame and her daughter; Of which to saint Win, ere my vows I had paid, They said I should find a rare fricassée made. JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER. BORN 1630-DIED 1680. UPON NOTHING. NOTHING! thou elder brother ev'n to Shade, Ere Time and Place were, Time and Place were not, When primitive Nothing, Something straight be got, Then all proceeded from the great united-What. Something, the general attribute of all, 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, With Form and Matter, Time and Place did join, 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, Yet this of thee the wise may freely say, Great Negative! how vainly would the wise Is, or is not, the two great ends of Fate, That perfect or destroy the vast designs of Fate; When they have rack'd the politician's breast, And, when reduc'd to thee, are least unsafe and best. But Nothing, why does Something still permit, 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, 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. JOHN DRYDEN. BORN 1631-DIED 1700. CYMON AND IPHIGENIA. IN that sweet isle where Venus keeps her court, Fair, tall, his limbs with due proportion join'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 loath'd to see what nature made him love; A squire among the swains, and pleased with banishment. His corn and cattle were his only care, That to the green-wood shade he took his way; For Cymon shunn'd the church, and used not much to pray. M |