A Face which could he see (but Heaven was kind,
And, to indulge his Self-Love, made him Blind)
He durst not stir abroad, for fear to meet
Curses of teeming Women in the Street.

...

Such is our charming Strephon's outward Man,
His inward Parts let those describe who can.
Ere-while he honour'd Bertha with his Flame,
And now he chaunts no less Louisa's name.
For when his Passion has been bubbling long,
The Scum at last boils up into a Song:
And sure no mortal creature at one time
Was e'er so far be-gone with Love and Rhyme.
To his dear Self of Poetry he talks,

His hands and feet are scanning as he walks:
His squeezing Looks, his Pangs of Wit accuse,
The very symptoms of a breeding Muse;
And all to gain the great Louisa's Grace:
But never Pen did pimp for such a Face.

There's not a Nymph in City, Town, or Court,
But Strephon's Billets-doux have been her sport.

[Duch. of Port-mouth

His pertinacity in courtship and in versifying wins no triumphs, although he is careful to limit himself like a modern Blue-ribbonite, and with no better success : "Small beer and gruel are his meat and drink-The diet he prescribed himself to think." But thin potations suit thin brains; drivelling follows bilge-water regimen. What Fate unlucky Strephon does attend,

Never to get a Mistress, or a Friend!
Strephon alike both Wits and Fools detest,

Because, like Esop's Bat, half bird, half beast;

For Fools to Poetry have no pretence,

And common Wit supposes common sense:
Not quite so low as Fool, nor quite a-top,

He hangs between them both, and is a Fop.

His morals like his wit are motley too,

He keeps from arrant Knave with much ado;
But vanity and lying so prevail,

That one grain more of each would turn the scale.

So much for the supposed and probable author of the Heroical Epistle to Doll Common, of the Roxburghe Collection. Even Lord Mulgrave did not stigmatize Sir Car Scroop as a Fool positive, for in his Essay upon Satyr, when marking the comparative indemnity secured by mere dolts, like Monmouth's "Western Friend" Tom Thynne of Longleat, "Tom of Ten Thousand," he is careful to add concerning "half-wits" or fops, like Scrope, the discriminating question, Who would not be as silly as Dunbar,

As dull as Monmouth,1 rather than Sir Carr?

The almost universal opinion regarding the absence of brilliancy or judgement in Monmouth's social conversation is conclusive, in that age when to be a lively companion outweighed many faults. Compare De Grammont (our p. 501) on his inability to retain possession of women's fancy. "Brawny Dunbar " (Constable, third Viscount Dunbar) is mentioned again in “The Cabal,” p. 583.

A warm corner for men with a "Blunderbuss of Satire." 573

It cannot have been such a trifle as this ambiguous reference to Sir Car (written by Mulgrave, although this was kept secret) that impelled Tom Shadwell, soon after February, 168, to accuse Dryden of having libelled Scroop. The reference is, more probably, to the already-quoted Familiar Epistle to Julian; which also had been mistakenly attributed to Dryden. Addressing his Muse, after the murder of Thynne, the sham-Dryden Shadwell declares,

I, like Borosky by the false Count hir'd,
On Scroop my Blunderbuss of Satyr fir'd;

In cool blood call'd him Fool, Knave, Coward too:
What more to Hall or Cranborn cou'd I do?

[Ct. Königsmarck.

We believe this to have been wholly false, and that Dryden had been friendly until the time when Scroop died in 1680. But it was the fate of Dryden to be punished for other men's faults; cudgelled for Mulgrave's and caluminated for Buckingham's libels.

Now as to the occasion of the "Heroical Epistle." To Sir George Etherege is attributed the poem known as "Ephelia : "

Poor George grows old, his Muse worn out of fashion,
Hoarsely she sung Ephelia's Lamentation.

So Buckingham declared, and in his Timon makes Dingboy say that "Etherege writes airy Songs and soft Lampoons the best of any man," but knows no grammar. In some versions the poem is entitled wrongly "To the Right Honourable the Earl of Rochester; Ophelia's Lamentation;" the correct name is Ephelia's Lamentation.

Ow far are they deceiv'd, who hope in vain

All the dear Sweets we promise or expect,
After Enjoyment turn to cold Neglect.
Cou'd Love a constant Happiness have known,
The mighty wonder had in me been shown;
Our Passions are so favoured by Fate,

As if she meant them an eternal date.

So kind you lookt, such tender words you spoke, 'Twas past belief such vows shou'd e're be broke. Fixt on my Eyes, how often did you say

You cou'd with pleasure gaze an Age away?

When Thoughts too great for words had made you mute,
In kisses you wou'd tell my Hand your suit.

So great your Passions were, so far above
The common Gallantries that pass for Love,

At worst, I thought, if you unkind shou'd prove,
Your ebbing Passion wou'd be kinder far,
Than the first Transports of all others are.

In

Nor was my Love or Fondness less than yours,
you I centred all my Hopes fof cures ;]
For you, my Duty to my Friends forgot,
For you, I lost
alas! what lost I not?

Fame, all the valuable things of Life,
To meet your Love by a less name than Wife ;
How happy was I then, how dearly blest,
When you lay panting on my tender Breast,
Acting such things as ne'er can be exprest.
Thousand fresh looks you gave me every hour,
Whilst greedily I did those Looks devour;

Till quite o'ercome with Charms I trembling lay,
At every look you gave, melted away:
I was so highly happy in your Love,
Methoughts I pitied them that dwelt above.

S

Think then, thou greatest, loveliest, falsest Man,
How you have vow'd, how I have lov'd, and then
My Faithless Dear, be cruel if you can.
How I have lov'd! I cannot, need not tell.;
For every act has shown I lov'd too well.

Since first I saw you, I ne'er had a Thought
Was not entirely yours; to you I brought
My Virgin Innocence, and freely made
My Love an offering to your noble bed.

Since when ye 'ave been the Star by which I steer'd,
And nothing else but you I lov'd or fear'd.
Your smiles I only live by; and I must,
Whene'er you frown, be shatter'd into dust.

O! can the Coldness which you show me now,
Suit with the generous Heat you once did show?
I cannot live on pity or respect;

A thought so mean wou'd my whole Love infect;
Less than your Love I scorn, Sir, to expect.
Let me not live in dull Indiff'rency,
But give me rage enough to make me Die:
For if from you I needs must meet my Fate,
Before your Pity, I wou'd choose your Hate.

25

50

[Roxburghe Collection, III. 819.]

A Very Heroical Epistle from my Lord All-Pride to Doll-Common.

The Argument.

Dol-Common being forsaken by my Lord All-Pride, and having written him a most lamentable Letter, his Lordship sends her the following answer.1

F you're deceived, it is not by my cheat,

IF

For all disguises are below the great.
What Man or Woman upon earth can say
I ever us'd 'em well above a day?
How is it then that I inconstant am?
He changes not, who alwayes is the same.
In my dear self, I center every thing,

prove,

My Servants, Friends, my Mistress, and my King,
Nay, Heaven and earth to that one point I bring.
Well-manner'd, honest, generous and stout,
(Names by dull Fools to plague mankind found out)
Should I regard, I must my self constrain,
And 'tis my maxim to avoid all pain.
You fondly look for what none e're could find,
Deceive your self, and then call me unkind;
And by false reasons would my falshood
For 'tis as natural to Change as Love.
You may as justly at the Sun repine,
Because alike it does not alwayes shine.
No glorious thing was ever made to stay,
My Blazing Star but visits and away;
As Fatal too, it shines as those i' th' Skies,
'Tis never seen, but some great Lady dies.
The boasted favour you so precious hold,
To me's no more than changing of my gold.

25

That by this "most lamentable Letter" was meant "Ephelia's Lamentation," written by Sir George Etherege and already given, can scarcely be doubted, or that the reference is ironical. The name of Doll Common is borrowed from a character in Ben Jonson's comedy, "The Alchemist," first performed in 1610.

What e're you gave, I paid you back in bliss,
Then where's the obligation, pray, of this?
If heretofore you found grace in my eyes,
Be thankful for it, and let that suffice.
But Women, Beggar-like, still haunt the door
Where they've receiv'd a Charity before.
O happy Sultan! whom we "barbarous" call,
How much refin'd art thou above us all!
Who envies not the joys of thy Serrail?

Thee, like some God, the trembling crowd adore,
Each man's thy slave, and Woman-kind thy ooч.
Methinks I see thee underneath the shade

Of golden Canopies supinely laid ;

Thy crowching Slaves all silent as the night,
But at thy nod all active as the light:
Secure in solid Sloath there thou dost reign,
And feel'st the joys of Love without the pain.
Each Female courts thee with a wishing eye,
While thou with awful pride walk'st careless by;
Till thy kind pledge at last marks out the dame
Thou fanciest most to quench thy present flame:
Then from thy bed submissive she retires,
And, thankful for thy grace, no more requires.
No loud reproach, nor fond unwelcome sound
Of Women's tongues thy sacred ear dares wound:
If any do, a nimble Mute straight tyes
The true-love-knot, and stops her foolish cries.
Thou fear'st no injur'd Kinsman's threatning blade,
Nor Midnight ambushes by Rivals laid:
While here with aking hearts our joys we taste,
Disturb'd by Swords, like Damocles' his feast.

50

[Supposed to be by Sir Car Scroop, or Earl Rochester.] [No woodcut on original broadside, on the same leaf as the "Epigram upon My Lord All-Pride," which is declared to have been Printed in the Year 1679: Therefore, about half a year before the death of Earl Rochester. The Sword of Damocles, mentioned in final line, belonged to ancient legend, of Syracusan Dionysius, but has now acquired fresh interest for us in the graceful but sad romance by Margaret Veley: one of the most beautiful of modern novels.]