To SIR WILLIAM CLIFTON.
Sir,
I am very sensible how the ill-natur’d World has been pleased to Judge of almost all Dedications, and when not addrest to themselves will not let ‘em pass without the imputation of Flattery; for there is scarce any Man so just to allow those Praises to another in which he does not immediately share in some degree himself, nor can the Fantastic Humors of the Age agree in point of Merit, but every Mans Vertue is measured according to the sence another has of it, and not by its own intrinsic value, so that if another does not see with my Eyes and judge with my Sence, I must be Branded with the Crime of Fools and Cowards; nor will they be undeceived in an Error that so agreeably flatters them, either by a better knowledge of the Person commended, or by a right understanding from any other Judgment; they hate to be convinced of what will make no part of their satisfaction when they are so, for as ’tis natural to despise all those that have no vertue at all, so ’tis as natural to Envy those we find have more than our selves instead of imitating ‘em: and I have heard a Man rail at a Dedication for being all over Flattery, and Damn it in gross, who when it has been laid before him, and he has been asked to answer according to his Conscience, and upon Honour to every particular, could not contradict one single Vertue that has been justly given there, yet angry at being convinced has cry’d, with a peevish, uneasie tone. — YET I DON’T KNOW HOW, NOR I DON’T KNOW WHAT-BUT ‘TIS ALL TOGETHER METHINKS A PIECE OF FLATTERY — When indeed the business was, he did not know how to afford him so good a Character, nor he did not know what other reason he had to find fault with it, and was only now afflicted to find ’twas all true; whereas before he charged it all on the effects of some little sinister end or advantage of the Author.
’Tis therefore, Sir, that I have taken the Liberty here of addressing my self to one, whose Generosity and Goodness has prevented any such Scandal, and secured me from the imputation of Flattery by rend’ring this, but a small part of that Duty only, which I have so long owed you; ’tis only, Sir, my debt of gratitude I pay, or rather an humble acknowledgment of what I ought to pay you; for favours of that nature are not easily returned, and one must be a great while discharging it out of the Barren Stock of Poetry; but where my own failed, I borrowed of my Friends, who were all ready to give me Credit for so good and just an occasion, and we all soon agreed where first we should begin the work of gratitude. For, Sir, your worth is every where known, and valued; it bears the Royal stamp and passes for currant to every ready hand; Loyalty being that standard Vertue of the Soul which finds its price all over the World; nor is it in these our glorious days, who bears that Rate now, but who has always done so through Fate and Fortune; dyed in the true Grain, not to be varied with every glittering Sun-shine, nor lost in every falling Shower, but stanch to its first beautiful colour, endures all weathers.
Nor is it enough that where you are known, you are beloved and blest, but you, whose Quality and Fortune elevate you above the common Crowd, ought to have your Loyal Names fixed every where, as great and leading Examples to the rest, as the Genius of your Country and the Star that influences, where your Lustre shines. You, who in spight of all the Follies we import from France so much in fashion here, still retain, and still maintain the good old English Customs of Noble Hospitality, and treat the underworld about you, even into good nature and Loyalty; and have kept your Country honest, while elsewhere for want of such great Patrons and Presidents, Faction and Sedition have over-run those Villages where Ignorance abounded, and got footing almost every where, whose Inhabitants are a sort of Bruits, that ought no more to be left to themselves than Fire, and are as Mischievous and as Destructive. While every great Landlord is a kind of Monarch that awes and civilizes ‘em into Duty and Allegiance, and whom because they know, they Worship with a Reverence equal to what they would pay their King, whose Representative they take him at least to be if not that of God himself, since they know no greater or more indulgent; and are sure to be of his opinion, he’s their Oracle, their very Gospel, and whom they’ll sooner credit; never was new Religion, Misunderstanding, and Rebellion known in Countries till Gentlemen of ancient Families reformed their way of living to the new Mode, pulled down their great Halls, retrenched their Servants, and confined themselves to scanty lodgings in the City, starved the Poor of their Parish, and rackt their Tenants to keep the Tawdry Jilt in Town a hundred times more expensive, but you, Sir, retain still the perfect measure of true Honour, you understand the joys and comforts of life and blest retreat; you value Courts tho you do not always shine there, you dare be brave, liberal, and honest tho you do not always behold the Illustrious Pattern of all Glorious Vertue in your King, and absent from the lavish City. You are pleased and contented with the favour of your Monarch, tho you have no need of his Bounty, dare serve him with your Life and Fortune, and can find your reward in your own Vertue and Merit; this I dare avow to all the World is your Character in short, for which your lasting Name shall live, when the turbulent, busie hot-brain’d disturbers of their own tranquillity and the Kingdoms Peace, shall live in fear, die in Shame and their memory rot in the forgotten Grave, or stand to after Ages Branded and Reproached, while we can never enough Celebrate that Glorious one of yours; nor knew we where to fix it to render it Durable to all Eternity so well as to lasting Verse, that out-wears Time and Marble. If anything within can contribute to the diversion of your Hours of least concern, ‘twill be sufficient recompence to all who beg your Patronage here, especially
Sir,
Your obliged
and most humble Servant,
A. BEHN.
MISCELLANY, 1685.
On the Death of the late Earl of Rochester, by Mrs. A. B.
Mourn, Mourn, ye Muses, all your loss deplore,
The Young, the Noble Strephon is no more.
Yes, yes, he fled quick as departing Light,
And ne’re shall rise from Deaths eternal Night,
So rich a Prize the Stygian Gods ne’re bore,
Such Wit, such Beauty, never grac’d their Shore.
He was but lent this duller World t’ improve
In all the charms of Poetry, and Love;
Both were his gift, which freely he bestow’d,
And like a God, dealt to the wond’ring Crowd.
Scorning the little Vanity of Fame,
Spight of himself attain’d a Glorious name.
But oh! in vain was all his peevish Pride,
The Sun as soon might his vast Lustre hide,
As piercing, pointed, and more lasting bright,
As suffering no vicissitudes of Night.
Mourn, Mourn, ye Muses, all your loss deplore,
The Young, the Noble Strephon is no more.
Now uninspir’d upon your Banks we lye,
Unless when we wou’d mourn his Elegie;
His name’s a Genius that wou’d Wit dispense,
And give the Theme a Soul, the Words a Sense.
But all fine thought that Ravisht when it spoke,
With the soft Youth eternal leave has took;
Uncommon Wit that did the soul o’recome,
Is buried all in Strephon’s Worship’d Tomb;
Satyr has lost its Art, its Sting is gone,
The Fop and Cully now may be undone;
That dear instructing Rage is now allay’d,
And no sharp Pen dares tell ‘em how they’ve stray’d;
Bold as a God was ev’ry lash he took,
But kind and gentle the chastising stroke.
Mourn, Mourn, ye Youths, whom Fortune has betray’d,
The last Reproacher of your Vice is dead.
Mourn, all ye Beauties, put your Cyprus on,
The truest Swain that e’re Ador’d you’s gone;
Think how he lov’d, and writ, and sigh’d, and spoke,
Recall his Meen, his Fashion, and his Look.
By what dear Arts the Soul he did surprize,
Soft as his Voice, and charming as his Eyes.
Bring Garlands all of never-dying Flow’rs,
Bedew’d with everlasting falling Show’rs;
Fix your fair eyes upon your victim’d Slave,
Sent Gay and Young to his untimely Grave.
See where the Noble Swain Extended lies,
Too sad a Triumph of your Victories;
Adorn’d with all the Graces Heav’n e’re lent, }
All that was Great, Soft, Lovely, Excellent }
You’ve laid into his early Monument. }
Mourn, Mourn, ye Beauties, your sad loss deplore,
The Young, the Charming Strephon is no more.
Mourn, all ye little Gods of Love, whose Darts
Have lost their wonted power of piercing hearts;
Lay by the gilded Quiver and the Bow,
The useless Toys can do no Mischief now,
Those Eyes that all your Arrows points inspir’d,
Those Lights that gave ye fire are now retir’d,
Cold as his Tomb, pale as your Mothers Doves;
Bewail him then oh all ye little Loves,
For you the humblest Votary have lost
That ever your Divinities could boast;
Upon your hands your weeping Heads decline,
And let your wings encompass round his Shrine;
In stead of Flow’rs your broken Arrows strow,
And at his feet lay the neglected Bow.
Mourn, all ye little Gods, your loss deplore,
The soft, the Charming Strephon is no more.
Large was his Fame, but short his Glorious Race,
Like young Lucretius liv’d and dy’d apace.
So early Roses fade, so over all
They cast their fragrant scents, then softly fall,
While all the scatter’d perfum’d leaves declare,
How lovely ’twas when whole, how sweet, how fair.
Had he been to the Roman Empire known,
When great Augustus fill’d the peaceful Throne;
Had he the noble wond’rous Poet seen,
And known his Genius, and survey’d his Meen,
(When Wits, and Heroes grac’d Divine abodes,)
He had increas’d the number of their Gods;
The Royal Judge had Temples rear’d to’s name.
And made him as Immortal as his Fame;
In Love and Verse his Ovid he’ad out-done,
And all his Laurels, and his Julia won.
Mourn, Mourn, unhappy World, his loss deplore,
The great, the charming Strephon is no more.