Posts tagged ‘1683’

Wednesday, 8 August 2018

Prologue from “Canidia, or, The Witches, A Rhapsody, etc.” by Robert Dixon

Fair Ladies ’tis past time of Woing,
More Work’s cut out, up and be doing;
Censure severely all Male-contents,
Inflict Impartial Punishments;
Spare none that shall deserve your Ire,
Though you set all the World a Fire.
Hanging and Burning, you know the worst,
To be counted of all Accurst.
Bussle through all Orders, Run the Rounds,
And scorn the Military Frowns:
Venture at any Thing that’s Evil,
Be bold, and fear not Man nor Devil.

From: Dixon, Robert, Canidia, or, The Witches a rhapsody, in five parts, 2009, Text Creation Partnership: Ann Arbor, Michigan and Oxford, pp. [unnumbered].
(http://name.umdl.umich.edu/A36182.0001.001)

Date: 1683

By: Robert Dixon (16??-1688)

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Wednesday, 8 February 2017

Speech of Tom. Ross’s Ghost, to his Pupil, the Duke of Monmouth by Wentworth Dillon

Shame of my life, disturber of my tomb,
Base as thy mother’s prostituted womb;
Huffing to cowards, fawning to the brave,
To knaves a fool, to cred’lous fools a knave,
The king’s betrayer, and the peoples slave.
Like Samuel, at thy negromantic call,
I rise, to tell thee, God has left thee, Saul.
I strove in vain th’infected blood to cure;
Streams will run muddy when the spring’s impure.
In all your meritorious life, we see
Old Taff’s invincible sobriety.
Places of master of the horse, and spy,
You, like Tom. Howard, did at once supply:
From Sidney’s blood your loyalty did spring;
You show us all your parents, but the king,
From whose too tender, and too bounteous arms,
(Unhappy he who such a viper warms;
As dutiful a subject, as a son)
To your true parent, the whole town, you run.
Read, if you can, how th’ old apostate fell,
Out-do his pride, and merit more than hell:
Both he and you were glorious and bright,
The first and fairest of the sons of light;
But when, like him, you offer’d at the crown,
Like him, your angry father kick’d you down.

From: Dillon, Wentworth, The Poetical Works of the Right Honourable, Wentworth Dillon, Earl of Roscommon, 1749, R. Urie: Glasgow, pp. 58-59.
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=AqoDAAAAQAAJ)

Date: 1683

By: Wentworth Dillon (c1633-1685)

Note: James Scott (also known as James Croft), Duke of Monmouth, was Charles II’s illegitimate son with Lucy Waters. He was born in 1649 and Thomas Ross (died 1675) was appointed as his tutor around 1658. In 1683, the Duke of Monmouth was accused of being involved in a plot to assassinate Charles II and the Duke of York which aimed to put him on the throne. Charles II spared him but is said to never have trusted him again. In 1685, after Charles II’s death, Monmouth was involved in a rebellion to gain the kingship. He was executed for this at Tower Hill. The executioner took five strokes to partially behead him and then had to complete the job with a knife.

Friday, 17 June 2016

Song by Thomas Bishop

When Wit and charming Beauty meet,
To form an excellence divine,
I own the conquest is compleat,
And with a willing joy my heart resign:
What fool so mad to hope for liberty
When chains like yours can make us more than free?

’Tis true, Eugenia, your fair eyes,
Had gain’d the conquest long before,
They made my heart your beauty’s prize,
But now your tongue has added something more.
Myself your slave by double force I find
You first attack’d my passions, now my mind.

From: Nichols, John (ed.), A Select Collection of Poems with Notes, Biographical and Historical, The Fourth Volume, 1780, J. Nichols: London, p. 25.
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=_mUzAQAAMAAJ)

Date: 1683

By: Thomas Bishop (fl. 1683)

Sunday, 2 August 2015

Enemies by Mary Astell

I Love you whom the World calls Enemies,
You are my Vertues exercise,
The usefull Furnace to refine
My dross, the Oil that maks my Armour shine.

Nay you’re the best of men because you are
The Truest Friends, tho this appear
A Paradox to them who seem,
The only men of Wit & of esteem;

Who measure Friendship by the Rule of Pow’er,
And love him best who has most store;
Who prostitute that sacred Name,
Unto the part’ners of their sin and shame.

Yet if the merits of a Friend be weigh’d,
His worth in a just balance laid,
Light Flattery will blow away,
And just reproof will the rest out-weigh.

But a Friend’s loving eyes are sometimes blind,
And will not any blemish find,
Or if a secret ulcer they espie,
They’l sooner Balsom than sharp Wine apply.

Kind Monitors you tell me of my faults,
Your spurs correct & mend my  halts,
With cleansing Physick purge my mind,
That no crude humours may remain behind.

Meekness wou’d lose her vast inheritance
If you were not the evidence;
You bring to light our Charitie,
Without you we shou’d but half Christians be.

Best Benefactors! let Earth’s Children pray
For those who give them loads of Clay,
Who puff their bubbles, I’le for you
Implore, & think it God-like so to do.

From: Millman, Jill Seal and Wright, Gillian (eds.), Early Modern Women’s Manuscript Poetry, 2005, Manchester University Press: Manchester, pp. 187-188.
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=FuUllPOJK9IC)

Date: 1683

By: Mary Astell (1666-1731)

Sunday, 10 August 2014

Prologue to “Constantine the Great” by Thomas Otway

What think ye meant wise Providence, when first
Poets were made? I’d tell you, if I durst,
That ‘twas in Contradiction to Heaven’s Word,
That when its Spirit o’er the Waters stirr’d,
When it saw All, and said, That All was good,
The Creature Poet was not understood.
For, were it worth the Pains of six long Days,
To mould Retailers of dull Third-Day-Plays,
That starve out threescore Years in hopes of Bay.
‘Tis plain they ne’er were of the first Creation,
But came by meer Equiv’cal Generation.
Like Rats in Ships, without Coition bred;
As hated too as they are, and unfed.
Nature their Species sure must needs disown,
Scarce knowing Poets, less by Poets known.
Yet this poor Thing, so scorn’d, and set at nought,
Ye all pretend to, and would fain be thought.
Disabl’d wasting Whore-Masters are not
Prouder to own the Brats they never got,
Than Fumbling, itching Rhimers of the Town,
T’ adopt some base-born Song that’s not their own.
Spite of his State, my Lord sometimes descends,
To please the Importunity of Friends.
The dullest He, thought most for Business fit,
Will venture his bought Place, to aim at Wit.
And though he sinks with his Imploys of State,
‘Till Commen Sense forsake him, he’ll Translate.
The Poet and the Whore alike complains,
Of trading Quality, that spoils their Gains;
The Lords will Write, and Ladies will have Swains.
Therefore, all you who have Male Issue born,
Under the Starving Sign of Capricorn;
Prevent the Malice of their Stars in time,
And warn them early from the Sin of Rhime:
Tell ’em how Spencer stary’d, how Cowley mourn’d,
How Butler’s Faith and Service was return’d;
And if such Warning they refuse to take,
This last Experiment, O Parents, make!
With Hands behind them see the Offender ty’d,
The Parish Whip, and Beadle by his Side
Then lead him to some Stall that does expose
The Authors he loves most, there rub his Nose;
‘Till like a Spaniel lash’d, to know Command,
He by the due Correction understand,
To keep his Brains clean, and not foul the Land.
‘Till he against his Nature learn to strive,
And get the Knack of Dullness how to thrive.

From: Otway, Thomas, The Works of Thomas Otway; Volume the Second. Containing The Atheist, The Orphan, Caius Marius, Venice Preserv’d with his Poems Upon Several Occasions, 1712, J. Tonson:London, pp. 394-395.
(https://archive.org/stream/worksofmrthomaso02otwa#page/394/mode/2up)

Date: 1683

By: Thomas Otway (1652-1685)