The Temple of Death, Art of Poetry, Duel of the Stags, etc (1695)/To Melpomene against Complaint
TO
MELPOMENE
AGAINST
COMPLAINT.
By the same Author.
In soft Complaints no longer ease I find,
That latest refuge of a Tortur'd Mind;
Romantick Heros may their Fancy please
In telling of their Griefs to senceless Trees.
'Tis now to me no pleasure to rehearse
A doleful Tale in Melancholy Verse!
Men are more Deaf than Trees, more Wild than Seas:
Complaints and Tears will sooner Storms appease,
Than draw soft pity from an Humane Breast.
All Sooth the Happy, and Despise the Opprest.
Each Man who lives, of sorrow hath his share,
Or else of Pride, and cannot pity spare,
For those whose weight is more than one can bear.
All who are happy, do their Merit boast,
Think Heaven ows 'em more, and Heav'n is Just.
Still they observe the Opprest with Partial Eyes,
And think their Crimes draw Vengeance from the Skies.
But were they gentle, pitiful, and mild,
Not (as they are) rough, unconcern'd and wild.
What Joy can pity bring on other's Grief?
For what I feel, affords me no relief;
To see another's Eyes with pity melt,
For wretched me, would add to what I felt.
Since in Complaints there can no ease be found,
For such an Heart as mine in sorrow drown'd.
Sleep, sleep, Melpomene, thou, mournful Muse:
For of my Torments, I will thee accuse.
I'll say thou keep'st 'em waking with thy Charms,
And drives soft slumbers from my Longing Arms.
Sleep, sleep, my Muse, and let my Cares alone;
But if thou wilt not, since thy Harp is strung,
Attend a while, and, like a dying Swan,
My latest Accents shall be sweetly sung.
That latest refuge of a Tortur'd Mind;
Romantick Heros may their Fancy please
In telling of their Griefs to senceless Trees.
'Tis now to me no pleasure to rehearse
A doleful Tale in Melancholy Verse!
Men are more Deaf than Trees, more Wild than Seas:
Complaints and Tears will sooner Storms appease,
Than draw soft pity from an Humane Breast.
All Sooth the Happy, and Despise the Opprest.
Each Man who lives, of sorrow hath his share,
Or else of Pride, and cannot pity spare,
For those whose weight is more than one can bear.
All who are happy, do their Merit boast,
Think Heaven ows 'em more, and Heav'n is Just.
Still they observe the Opprest with Partial Eyes,
And think their Crimes draw Vengeance from the Skies.
But were they gentle, pitiful, and mild,
Not (as they are) rough, unconcern'd and wild.
What Joy can pity bring on other's Grief?
For what I feel, affords me no relief;
To see another's Eyes with pity melt,
For wretched me, would add to what I felt.
Since in Complaints there can no ease be found,
For such an Heart as mine in sorrow drown'd.
Sleep, sleep, Melpomene, thou, mournful Muse:
For of my Torments, I will thee accuse.
I'll say thou keep'st 'em waking with thy Charms,
And drives soft slumbers from my Longing Arms.
Sleep, sleep, my Muse, and let my Cares alone;
But if thou wilt not, since thy Harp is strung,
Attend a while, and, like a dying Swan,
My latest Accents shall be sweetly sung.