The princes applaud with a furious joy;

And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy;
Thais led the way,

To light him to his prey,

And, like another Helen, fired another Troy.

CHORUS: And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy, etc.

VII

Thus, long ago,

Ere heaving bellows learned to blow,
While organs yet were mute,

Timotheus, to his breathing flute

And sounding lyre,

Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.
At last divine Cecilia came,

Inventress of the vocal frame;

The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,
Enlarged the former narrow bounds,

And added length to solemn sounds,

With nature's mother wit, and arts unknown before.
Let old Timotheus yield the prize,

Or both divide the crown:

He raised a mortal to the skies;
She drew an angel down.

GRAND CHORUS

At last divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the vocal frame;

The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,
Enlarged the former narrow bounds,

And added length to solemn sounds,

With nature's mother wit, and arts unknown before.
Let old Timotheus yield the prize,

Or both divide the crown:

He raised a mortal to the skies;
She drew an angel down.

MILTON

THREE poets, in three distant ages born,
Greece, Italy, and England did adorn.
The first in loftiness of thought surpass'd,
The next in majesty, in both the last.
The force of Nature could no farther go;
To make a third she join'd the former two.

WILLIAM CONGREVE [1670-1729]

AMORET

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, though 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 'em; For she'd persuade they wound by chance, Though certain aim and art direct 'em.

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.

LADY WINCHILSEA [1661-1720]

TO THE NIGHTINGALE

EXERT thy voice, sweet harbinger of Spring!
This moment is thy time to sing,
This moment I attend to praise,
And set my numbers to thy lays;
Free as thine shall be my song,
As thy music, short or long;
Poets, wild as thou, were born,
Pleasing best when unconfined,
When to please is least designed,
Soothing but their cares to rest;
Cares do still their thoughts molest,
And still th' unhappy poet's breast

Like thine, when best he sings, is placed against a thorn. She begins! Let all be still!

Muse, thy promise now fulfil!

Sweet, oh! sweet, still sweeter yet!

Can thy words such accents fit?

Canst thou syllables refine,

Melt a sense that shall retain

Still some spirit of the brain,

Till with sounds like these it join?
"Twill not be! then change thy note,
Let division shake thy throat!
Hark! division now she tries,
Yet as far the Muse outflies!

Cease then, prithee, cease thy tune,
Trifler, wilt thou sing till June?
Till thy business all lies waste
And the time of building's past?
Thus we poets that have speech
Unlike what thy forests teach,
If a fluent vein be shown

That's transcendent to our own,
Criticise, reform or preach,
Censuring what we cannot reach.

MATTHEW PRIOR [1664-1721]

TO A CHILD OF QUALITY FIVE YEARS OLD

LORDS, knights, and 'squires, the numerous band,
That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters,
Were summoned by her high command,
To show their passions by their letters.

My pen among the rest I took,

Lest those bright eyes that cannot read
Should dart their kindling fires, and look
The power they have to be obeyed.

Nor quality, nor reputation,

Forbid me yet my flame to tell;
Dear Five-years-old befriends my passion,
And I may write till she can spell.

For, while she makes her silk-worms beds
With all the tender things I swear;
Whilst all the house my passion reads
In papers round her baby's hair;

She may receive and own my flame;

For, though the strictest prudes should know it,
She'll pass for a most virtuous dame,
And I for an unhappy poet.

Then, too, alas! when she shall tear

The lines some younger rival sends;

She'll give me leave to write, I fear,
And we shall still continue friends.

For, as our different ages move,

'Tis so ordained, (would Fate but mend it!)

That I shall be past making love,

When she begins to comprehend it.

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-filled 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, mamma, I did not know ye:
Alas! how easy my mistake!

I took you for your likeness, Chloe.

THE DYING ADRIAN TO HIS SOUL

POOR, little, pretty, fluttering thing,

Must we no longer live together?

And dost thou prune thy trembling wing

To take thy flight, thou know'st not whither?

Thy humourous vein, thy pleasing folly,

Lies all neglected, all forgot:

And pensive, wavering, melancholy,

Thou dread'st and hop'st, thou know'st not what.