Anne Finch, The Spleen

THE SPLEEN
A Pindarik Poem

Or fix thee to remain in one continued Shape.
Still varying thy perplexing Form,
A Calm of stupid Discontent,
Then, dashing on the Rocks wilt rage into a Storm.
Trembling sometimes thou dost appear,
On Sleep intruding dost thy Shadows spread,
Thy gloomy Terrours round the silent Bed,
Or, when the Midnight Hour is told,
And drooping Lids thou still dost waking hold,
Thy fond Delusions cheat the Eyes,
Before them antick Spectres dance,
Unusual Fires their pointed Heads advance,
And airy Phantoms rise.
Such was the monstrous Vision seen, 20
When Brutus (now beneath his Cares opprest,
And all Rome^s Fortunes rolling in his Breast,
Before his Fate did to Octavius lead)
Falsly, the Mortal Part we blame
Which, till the First degrading Sin
Let Thee, its dull Attendant, in,
Still with the Other did comply, 30

Nor, whilst in his own Heaven he dwelt,
Whilst Man his Paradice possest,
His fertile Garden in the fragrant East,
And all united Odours smelt,
No armed Sweets, until thy Reign,
A flusht, unhandsom Colour place.
We faint beneath the Aromatick Pain,
And Pleasure we resign for short, and nauseous Ease.

New are thy Motions, and thy Dress:
Thy false Suggestions must attend,

Whilst in the light, and vulgar Croud, 50
Thy Slaves, more clamorous and loud,
In the Imperious Wife thou Vapours art,
In Clouds to the attractive Brain,
Until descending thence again,

He the disputed Point must yield,
Till Lordly Man, born to Imperial Sway,
Compounds for Peace, to make that Right away,
The Fool, to imitate the Wits,
Complains of thy pretended Fits,

Because, sometimes, thou dost presume
Into the ablest Heads to come:
Impatient of unequal Sence,
Such slow Returns, where they so much dispense,

I feel my Verse decay, and my crampt Numbers fail.
As Dark, and Terrible as Thee,
An useless Folly, or presumptuous Fault: 80
Whilst in the Muses Paths I stray,
Whilst in their Groves, and by their secret Springs
My Hand delights to trace unusual Things,
Nor will in fading Silks compose
Fill up an ill-drawn Bird, or paint on Glass
The threatning Angel, and the speaking Ass.

feign’d Excuse,
When the ill Humour with his Wife he spends,
And bears recruited Wit, and Spirits to his Friends.
As to the Glass he still repairs,
Pretends but to remove thy Cares,
Snatch from thy Shades one gay, and smiling Hour,

And, changing hastily the Scene
From Light, Impertinent, and Vain,
Assumes a soft, a melancholy Air,

The thoughtful, and composed Face,
Proclaiming the withdrawn, the absent Mind,
Allows the Fop more liberty to gaze,
The Cause, indeed, is a Defect in Sense, 110

But these are thy fantastic Harms,
The Tricks of thy pernicious Stage,

By Thee Religion, all we know,

With anxious Doubts, with endless Scruples vext,



Whilst they a purer Sacrifice design,
Do but the Spleen obey, and worship at thy Shrine.
In vain all Remedies apply,
In vain the Indian Leaf infuse, 130
Some pass, in vain, those Bounds, and nobler Liquors use.
Now Harmony, in vain, we bring,
Inspire the Flute, and touch the String.
Musick but soothes thee, if too sweetly sad,
And if too light, but turns thee gayly Mad.

Yet doft thou baffle all his studious Pains.

The secret, the mysterious ways,
By which thou dost surprise, and prey upon the Mind.
With unsuccessful Toil he wrought,

And sunk beneath thy Chain to a lamented Grave. 150