from The Empress of Morocco
The Earl of Rochester
Wit has of late took up a trick t'appear
Unmannerly, or at the best severe,
And poets share the fate by which we fall
When kindly we attempt to please you all.
'Tis hard your scorn should against such prevail
Whose ends are to divert you, though they fail.
You men would think it an ill-natured jest
Should we laugh at you when you did your best,
Then rail not here, though you see reason for 't:
If wit can find itself no better sport.
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The Earl of Rochester again
While on those lovely looks I gaze
To see a wretch pursuing,
In raptures of a blest amaze,
His pleasing, happy ruin,
'Tis not for pity that I move:
His fate is too aspiring
Whose heart broke with a load of love,
Dies wishing and admiring.
But if this murder you'd forgo,
Your slave from death removing,
Let me your art of charming know,
Or learn you mine of loving.
But whether life or death betide,
In love 'tis equal measure:
The victor lives with empty pride,
The vanquished die with pleasure.
