Manes.
See Funerals.

--To Polydore we first perform
His Obsequies: a lofty Pile of Earth
Is rais'd: and Altars to the Manes built,
Mournful with fun'ral Wreaths, and gloomy Boughs
Of Cypress: With their Tresses scatter'd loose
(Such is th' accustom'd Rite) the Trojan Dames
Stand round: We offer Jars of tepid Milk,
And frothing Bowls of consecrated Blood:
Within the Grave compose his Soul to Rest,
Invoke him loud, and take our last Farewel.--

--Close in a Grove,
Andromache the mournful Off'rings paid,
And solemn Sacrifice at Hector's Tomb,
His empty Tomb: which, with two Altars built
On the green Turf, th' Incentives of her Grief,
She consecrated: and with Tears invok'd
His Manes.--

--Æneas summons his assembled Friends,
And thus bespeaks them from a rising Ground:
Ye gen'rous Trojans! sprung from Blood divine:
One yearly Circle is by rolling Months
Compleat, since in the Grave we laid to Rest
The mortal Relicks of my godlike Sire,
And consecrated Fun'ral Altars rais'd.
And now That Day, if I remember right,
Is come, by me (so You, ye Gods, decreed)
For ever honour'd, and for ever mourn'd.
This Day, did I on Lybia's barren Sands
In Exile live, or on the Grecian Sea
Detain'd, or in Mycenae: annual Vows
Ev'n then I would perform, and solemn Pomps,

And on his Altars pile th' Oblations due.
Now to my Father's Self, his Bones, and Dust
(Not without Providence, and Heav'n's Design,
As I suppose,) we come, and enter safe
These friendly Ports. Come on then, let Us all
Honour this Festival with Joy, implore
From him propitious Winds, and Leave to pay
These annual Oblations.--

He said: and with his Mother's Myrtle Wreath
His Temples crowns. Directly to the Tomb
He from th' Assembly goes, by Thousands round
Attended. For Libation here he pours
Two Bowls of Wine, unmix'd, upon the Ground,
Two of warm Milk, and two of Holy Blood:
Then scatters purple Flow'rs, and Thus he speaks.

Hail sacred Sire! Again, Ye Ashes, hail;
In vain revisited! and Thou, the Ghost
Of him who gave me Birth!

Five Sheep, obsequious to th' accustom'd Rite,
He sacrifices: next, as many Sows,
And Heifers black: then pours the Wine from Bowls,
Invoking great Anchises' Soul, dismiss'd
From Acheron. Nor less his Friends, as each
With Store was furnish'd, offer Gifts, and load
The Altars, sacrificing Oxen slain:
Others in order Cauldrons fix: and, stretch'd
Along the Grass, o'er Heaps of burning Coals
Place Spits, and fry the Entrails on the Fire.--

Hither in Throngs they crowded to the Bank:
Matrons, and Men, Souls of brave Heroes dead,
Boys, and unmarried Girls, and Youths consum'd
On Fun'ral Piles before their Parents Eyes.
Unnumber'd, as the Leaves, which fall in Woods,
By Autumn's first sharp Blasts: Or as the Birds
Which flock from Sea to Land, when the cold Year
Drives them beyond Sea, seeking warmer Climes.
Praying they stood, first to be wafted o'er:
And, longing for the farther Bank, their Hands
Extended: But the surly Boatman, deaf
To all their Cries, now These, now Those receives:
But drives the rest at distance from the Beach.
Æneas, (for that Tumult much surpriz'd,
And struck his Soul) thus speaks: O sacred Maid!
Tell me, what means this Concourse to the Lake?
What do the Ghosts desire? And why distinct
Leave These the Banks, while Others sweep with Oars
The livid Ford?--To Him in brief replies
The aged Priestess:--You see
Profound Cocytus, and the Stygian Pool:
Whose Deity the Gods by Oaths revere,
And dread to violate. This Crowd is All
Distress'd, and unintomb'd: That Ferryman
Is Charon; Those who sail the Lake, interr'd.
But 'tis not giv'n to pass the horrid Banks,
And hoarse resounding fluent: till in Graves
Their Bones are laid: An hundred Years they rove,
And flutter round these Shores, and then at length
Admitted, to the wish'd for Stream return.--

Soon as Cornelia reach'd the friendly Strand,
Pompey's last Rites employ her pious Hand:
To his dear Shade she builds a fun'ral Pile,
And decks it proud with many a noble Spoil.
There shone his Arms, with antick Gold inlaid,
There the rich Robes which she herself had made:
Robes to imperial Jove in Triumph thrice display'd:
The Relicks of his past victorious Days,
Now this his latest Trophy serve to raise,
And in one common Flame together blaze,
Such was the weeping Matron's pious Care:
The Soldiers, taught by her, their Fires prepare:
To ev'ry valiant Friend, a Pile they build,
That fell for Rome in curs'd Pharsalia's Field:
Stretch'd wide along the Shores, the Flames extend,
And grateful to the wandring Shades, ascend.--
Manners.
See Dress.

The Antient's Manners other Men may please,
Not me; thank Heav'n I'm born in Days like these!
Not because Gold now from the Mines is brought,
And distant Shores for Orient Pearls are sought:
Nor for, that Hills exhaust their Marble Veins,
And Moles are made, whose Bulk the Sea restrains:
But that the World is civiliz'd of late,
And polish'd from the Rust of antient Date.--

First, learn good Manners, Fair Ones! I advise:
'Tis that secures the Conquest of your Eyes.
Age, Beauty's Foe, will, o'er your charming Brow,
Do all you can, injurious Furrows plow:
The Time will come you'll hate the Tell--tale Glass,
That shews the frightful Ruins of your Face:
But, if Good--Nature to the last remain,
Ev'n Age will please, and Love his Pow'r retain.--

Let no rude Passions in your Looks find place,
For Fury will deform the finest Face.--

Let Looks with Looks, and Smiles with Smiles be paid:
And when Another bows, incline your Head.--

Manners unseemly, Actions base and vile,
Much worse than Dirt the finest Dress defile:
But whoso acts with Truth and Honesty,
Commands Esteem, tho' mean his Habit be.--
Marriage.
See Wedding.

Her Father seal'd my Hopes with Rites divine:
Her firmer Love before had made her mine.
Men call'd me blest, and blest I was indeed.--
What pleasing Images Remembrance draws
Of those fair Days, when new to Hymen's Laws,
I with my Procris led the Spring of Life,
The happiest Husband and the happiest Wife!
So high the Tide of our Affection run,
Our Love, our Care, our Passions all were one.
Had Jove made Love, great Jove she had despis'd,
And I my Procris more than Venus priz'd:
Love had to both so just a Portion dealt,
Such equal Flames our mutual Bosoms felt.--

--Within this humble Cot
Old Baucis and Philemon led their Life:
Both equal--ag'd:--In this their Youth they spent,
In this grew old: rich only in Content.
With chearful Minds their Poverty they bore,
Nor aim'd at Wealth, professing to be poor.
For Master, or for Servant, here to call,
Was all alike, where only two were All.
Command was none, where equal Love was paid:
Or rather, both commanded, both obey'd.--

Thrice happy They, who long as Life,
Without Complainings, Noise, or Strife,
Preserve unloos'd the nuptial Tye,
Nor cease to Love until they die.--

Oh! how I wish that Love, with flutt'ring Wing,
The golden Marriage Chains would hither bring!
Chains which for ever bind, tho' Age comes on,
With Wrinkles, and grey Hairs, and Beauty's Charms be gone.--

Perpetual Concord bless their nuptial State,
And Love and Union make their Joys compleat!
May She love him in Age, and He behold
Her, tho' in Years, yet not believe her old!--
Mediocrity.
See Happiness. Nature requires little.

Believe me, Friend! 'tis much the safest Way,
Nor with too bold a Sail to trust the Sea:
Nor, while you dread the threatning Tempest's roar,
Too close to creep along the rocky Shore.

Who shuns Extreams, and wisely steers between;
Whose equal Mind approves the golden Mean:
That happy Man shall spend his Days secure,
From the Contempt, and Want that gall the Poor:
Secure from splendid Cares, and Envy's Stings,
Th' insidious Plague of Courts, and Scourge of Kings.

Th' ambitious Winds with greater Spite combine,
To shock the Grandeur of the stately Pine:
The Height of Structure makes the Ruin large,
And Clouds against high Hills their hottest Bolts discharge.

An even well--pois'd Mind, an evil State
With Hope, a Good with Fear, doth moderate.
The Summer's Pride by Winter is brought down,
And Flowers again the conquering Season crown.

Take Heart, nor of the Laws of Fate complain,
Tho' now 'tis cloudy, 'twill clear up again:
The Bow Apollo does not always use,
But with his milder Lyre sometimes awakes the Muse.

When adverse Tides retard your destin'd Course,
With lab'ring Oars oppose their surging Force:
But if with prosp'rous Gales your Streamers play,
Wisely contract the Sails, and scud away.--
A City Mouse, (for so does Story tell,)
His good old Friend--
A Country Mouse receiv'd in his poor Cell.
This Mouse was thrifty, yet would kindly feast
When Time requir'd, and nobly treat his Guest.
In short, now striving every Way to please,
He freely brought his hoarded Oats and Pease,
His nibbled Bacon, and his mellow Pears,
Whate'er the Fields produce, or Country bears:
His Nuts, his Grapes well dry'd; and try'd his best,
By choice Variety to please the Guest:
Who sat as if afraid to hurt his Mouth,
And nibbl'd here and there with dainty Tooth.
The Landlord only Tares or Barley eats,
(Whilst on a Heap of new--thresh'd Chaff he sits)
Leaving his Guest the more delicious Meats.

At last, the City Mouse begins, My Friend,
How can you bear in Woods your Days to spend?
Would you not rather live in Town than here,
And Men's Converse to that of Beasts prefer?
Then go with me: I'll get you better Chear.
Since every Creature must resign it's Breath,
Nor Great, nor Little, is exempt from Death,
Enjoy your Time in Pleasure, Mirth and Sport,
And live like one that knows his Life is short.

These Words prevail'd upon the Country Mouse,
Who strait consents, and jocund leaves the House.
The Travellers together journey on,
And steal by Night unseen into the Town.
Twelve strikes the Clock: the Friends together come
To a Lord's House, and find a stately Room,
Where purple Cushions grac'd each Ivory Seat,
And much was left of last Night's costly Treat.

The City Mouse first seats his Country Guest
On Cloth of State, and waits, and carves the Feast:
Course after Course, a thousand dainty Things,
And like a Servant, tastes what--e'er he brings.
The Country Mouse, pleas'd with his Seat of State,
And various Dainties, bless'd his change of Fate:
Feeds heartily: when, lo! the Servants come,
And Dogs rush in, and bark about the Room.
Both start: both leave their Seats with eager Haste:
Trembling, for Life they fly, and hardly 'scape at last.

Then says the Country Mouse, I plainly see
This Kind of Life is not a Life for me:
False Joys, adieu: give me the quiet Wood,
Where I am safe, tho' Acorns be my Food.--

With Care and Trouble great Estates we gain:
When got, we keep 'em with more Care and Pain.
The rich Licinus' Servants ready stand,
Each with a Water--Bucket in his Hand,
Keeping a Guard, for fear of Fire, all Night:
Yet is Licinus always in a Fright.
His curious Statues, Amber--Works, and Plate,
Still fresh encreasing Pangs of Mind create.
The naked Cynick's Tub ne'er flames:--if broken;
'Tis quickly sodder'd, or a new bespoken.

When Alexander first beheld the Face
Of the great Cynick, in that narrow Space:
His own Condition thus he did lament:
How much more happy Thou, who art content
To live within this little Hole, than I
Who after Empire, that vain Quarry, fly;
Grappling with Dangers where--soe'er I roam.
While Thou hast conquer'd all the World at Home.

Fortune a Goddess is to Fools alone,
The Wise are always Masters of their own.--

O Thou, for ever dear, but now best known;
A Friend at Need by my Misfortunes shewn:
If on my long Experience thoul't rely,
Live to thyself, from Courts and Greatness fly:
Live to thyself; by Virtue seek Renown:
Avoid the Great: Destruction waits their Frown:
Nor all the Wealth and Pow'r they can bestow,
Deserve the Risque with them we undergo.
In Storms with lower'd Sails the Port we gain;
The Shrouds full spread would drown us in the Main.
See the light Cork above the Surface rise:
The Net, with all its Weights, sunk, at the Bottom lies.--

Grant me, Ye Gods! a Life of Ease,
Toss'd on the rough Ægoean Seas,
The Sailor cries, when Darkness hides
The Moon, and every Star that guides.

For Ease the furious Thracian fights,
'Tis Ease the Mede to War excites;
Ease wish'd by all, which can't be sold
For Robes of State, or Gems, or Gold.

Nor Wealth, nor regal Pomp, we find
Can quell the Tumults of the Mind:
Or drive away the Cares that wait
Around the Palace of the Great.

Happy the Man with little blest,
Of what his Father left possess'd,
Whose sweet Repose no Terrors break,
Nor Avarice can keep awake.

Since fleeting Life so soon must end,
What can our vain Pursuits intend?
From Shore to Shore why should we roam,
When none can leave himself at home?

Tho' under Sail, malicious Care
Climbs the tall Ship, and takes us there:
Pursues the Horseman close behind,
The Stag out--runs, out--flies the Wind.

The Mind that can rejoyce to Day,
Should cast all future Cares away,
And temper Grief with laughing Mirth,
For none's compleatly blest on Earth.

Achilles great in youthful Pride,
Worn out by Age Tithonus dy'd:
And Years, which Fate denies to Thee,
It may perhaps allow to Me.

Ten thousand Sheep o'er--spread thy Ground,
Thy num'rous Heifers low around:
Four pamper'd Mares thy Chariot draw,
Thy purple Robes the Vulgar awe:

Of small Extent, an humble Farm,
A Breast the Muses gently warm,
On me hath gracious Heav'n bestow'd,
With Pride enough to scorn the Crowd.--

Climb at Court for me that will,
Tottering Favour's Pinnacle!
All I seek is to lie still.
Settled in some secret Nest,
In calm Leisure let me rest:
And far off the public Stage,
Pass away my silent Age!
Thus when, without Noise, unknown,
I have liv'd out all my Span,
I shall die without a Groan,
An old honest Country--man.
Who, expos'd to other's Eyes,
Into his own Heart ne'er pries,
Death's to him a strange Surprize.--

Place me, Ye Powers! in some obscure Retreat:
O keep me innocent! make Others Great!
In quiet Shades, content with rural Sports,
Give me a Life, remote from guilty Courts:
Where free from Hopes or Fears, in humble Ease,
Unheard of I may live, and die in Peace!
Happy the Man who thus retir'd from Sight,
Studies himself, and seeks no other Light:
But most unhappy he, who sits on high,
Expos'd to ev'ry Tongue, and ev'ry Eye:
Whose Follies, blaz'd about, to all are known,
And are a Secret to himself alone:
Worse is an evil Fame, much worse than none.