Farewell, Ungrateful Traitor!

FAREWELL, ungrateful traitor!

Farewell, my perjur'd swain!

Let never injur'd woman

Believe a man again.

The pleasure of possessing

Surpasses all expressing,

But 'tis too short a blessing,

And love too long a pain.

'Tis easy to deceive us

In pity of your pain,

But when we love, you leave us

To rail at you in vain.

Before we have descried it,

There is no joy beside it,

But she that once has tried it

Will never love again.

The passion you pretended

Was only to obtain,

But once the charm is ended,

The charmer you disdain.

Your love by ours we measure

Till we have lost our treasure,

But dying is a pleasure

When living is a pain.

John Dryden

A Song for St. Cecilia's Day, 1687

          I

FROM Harmony, from heav'nly Harmony

   This universal Frame began.

When Nature underneath a heap

   Of jarring Atoms lay,

And could not heave her Head,

The tuneful Voice was heard from high,

   Arise ye more than dead.

Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry,

In order to their stations leap,

   And MUSICK's pow'r obey.

From Harmony, from heav'nly Harmony

   This universal Frame began;

   From Harmony to Harmony

Through all the compass of the Notes it ran,

The Diapason closing full in Man.

          II

What Passion cannot MUSICK raise and quell!

   When Jubal struck the corded Shell,

His list'ning Brethren stood around

And wond'ring, on their Faces fell

To worship that Celestial Sound.

Less than a God they thought there cou'd not dwell

   Within the hollow of that Shell

   That spoke so sweetly and so well.

What Passion cannot MUSICK raise and quell!

          III

The TRUMPET's loud Clangor

   Excites us to Arms

With shrill Notes of Anger

   And mortal Alarms.

The double double double beat

   Of the thund'ring DRUM

Cries, hark the Foes come;

Charge, Charge, 'tis too late to retreat.

          IV

The soft complaining FLUTE

In dying notes discovers

The Woes of hopeless Lovers,

Whose Dirge is whisper'd by the warbling LUTE.

          V

Sharp VIOLINS proclaim

Their jealous Pangs, and Desperation,

Fury, frantick Indignation,

Depth of Pains, and height of Passion,

For the fair, disdainful Dame.

          VI

But oh! what Art can teach

What human Voice can reach

The sacred ORGAN's praise?

Notes inspiring holy Love,

Notes that wing their heav'nly ways

   To mend the Choires above.

          VII

Orpheus cou'd lead the savage race;

And Trees unrooted left their place;

   Sequacious of the Lyre:

But bright CECILIA rais'd the wonder high'r;

When to her ORGAN, vocal Breath was giv'n

An Angel heard, and straight appear'd

   Mistaking Earth for Heaven.

          Grand CHORUS

As from the pow'r of sacred Lays

   The Spheres began to move,

And sung the great Creator's praise

To all the bless'd above;

So when the last and dreadful hour

This crumbling Pageant shall devour,

The TRUMPET shall be heard on high,

The Dead shall live, the Living die,

And MUSICK shall untune the Sky.

John Dryden

An Ode, On the Death of Mr. Henry Purcell

     I

MARK how the Lark and Linnet Sing,

With rival Notes

They strain their warbling Throats,

To welcome in the Spring.

But in the close of Night,

When Philomel begins her Heav'nly lay,

They cease their mutual spite,

Drink in her Music with delight,

And list'ning and silent, and silent and list'ning,

      And list'ning and silent obey.

     II

So ceas'd the rival Crew when Purcell came,

They Sung no more, or only Sung his Fame.

Struck dumb they all admir'd the God-like Man,

      The God-like Man,

Alas, too soon retir'd,

As He too late began.

We beg not Hell, our Orpheus to restore,

Had He been there,

Their Sovereign's fear

Had sent Him back before.

The pow'r of Harmony too well they know,

He long e'er this had Tun'd their jarring Sphere,

And left no Hell below.

     III

The Heav'nly Choir, who heard his Notes from high,

Let down the Scale of Music from the Sky:

They handed him along,

And all the way He taught, and all the way they Sung.

Ye Brethren of the Lyre, and tuneful Voice,

Lament his Lot: but at your own rejoice.

Now live secure and linger out your days,

The Gods are pleas'd alone with Purcell's Lays,

      Nor know to mend their Choice.

John Dryden