Miscellany poems upon several occasions consisting of original poems / by the late Duke of Buckingham, Mr. Cowly, Mr. Milton, Mr. Prior, Mrs. Behn, Mr. Tho. Brown, &c. ; and the translations from Horace, Persius, Petronius Arbiter, &c. ; with an essay upon satyr, by the famous M. Dacier.
      
       
         
           1692
        
      
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         ESTC R21564
         12180374
         ocm 12180374
         55621
         
           
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         (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A70171)
         Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 55621)
         Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 762:6 or 1145:12)
      
       
         
           
             Miscellany poems upon several occasions consisting of original poems / by the late Duke of Buckingham, Mr. Cowly, Mr. Milton, Mr. Prior, Mrs. Behn, Mr. Tho. Brown, &c. ; and the translations from Horace, Persius, Petronius Arbiter, &c. ; with an essay upon satyr, by the famous M. Dacier.
             Buckingham, George Villiers, Duke of, 1628-1687.
             Cowley, Abraham, 1618-1667.
             Milton, John, 1608-1674.
             Behn, Aphra, 1640-1689.
             Congreve, William, 1670-1729.
             Dacier, André, 1651-1722.
             Gildon, Charles, 1665-1724.
          
           [32], 112 p.
           
             Printed for Peter Buck ...,
             London :
             1692.
          
           
             "The index": prelim. p. [31]-[32].
             "Epistle dedicatory" signed: Charles Gildon.
             This work appears at reel 762:6 as Wing G733A, and at reel 1145:12 as Wing B5315 (Wing number cancelled in Wing (CD-ROM, 1996)).
             Reproduction of originals in the University of Illinois (Urbana-Champaign Campus). Library and Huntington Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           English poetry.
        
      
    
     
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           MISCELLANY
           POEMS
           UPON
           Several
           Occasions
           :
           Consisting
           of
           Original
           Poems
           ,
           BY
           The
           late
           Duke
           of
           Buckingham
           ,
           Mr
           Cowly
           ,
           Mr.
           Milton
           ,
           Mr.
           Prior
           ,
           Mrs.
           Behn
           ,
           Mr.
           
             Tho.
             Brown
          
           ,
           &c.
           
        
         
           And
           the
           Translations
           from
           Horace
           ,
           Persius
           ,
           Petronius
           Arbiter
           ,
           &c.
           
        
         
           WITH
           An
           Essay
           upon
           Satyr
           ,
           By
           the
           Famous
           
             M.
             DACIER
          
           .
        
         
           Licens'd
           May
           21.
           1692.
           
        
         
           LONDON
           ,
           Printed
           for
           
             Peter
             Buck
          
           ,
           at
           the
           Sign
           of
           the
           Temple
           ,
           near
           Temple-Bar
           ,
           in
           Fleetstreet
           .
           1692.
           
        
      
       
         
         
         
           The
           Epistle
           Dedicatory
           ,
           TO
           Mr.
           
             CARDELL
             GOODMAN
          
           .
        
         
           
             SIR
             ,
          
        
         
           THere
           are
           a
           sort
           of
           
             Spleenatic
             ,
             Ill
             naturd
          
           Gentlemen
           in
           the
           World
           ,
           who
           are
           so
           very
           Critical
           upon
           Dedications
           ,
           that
           if
           they
           find
           the
           Author
           touching
           never
           so
           lightly
           on
           the
           just
           Praise
           of
           his
           Patron
           ,
           they
           presently
           condemn
           him
           of
           Flattery
           ,
           as
           if
           't
           were
           impossible
           that
           any
           Man
           of
           THIS
           Age
           cou'd
           deserve
           a
           good
           Word
           .
           Among
           this
           number
           ,
           I
           am
           sorry
           to
           find
           the
           Ingenious
           Sir
           
             George
             Mackenzie
          
           in
           his
           Epistle
           to
           Mr.
           Boyle
           ,
           because
           I
           am
           confident
           if
           he
           had
           consulted
           Reason
           (
           the
           subject
           of
           his
           Book
           )
           he
           must
           at
           least
           have
           mollify'd
           the
           severity
           of
           his
           Opinion
           ,
           as
           I
           hope
           will
           appear
           from
           what
           I
           have
           here
           to
           say
           .
           This
           great
           Name
           
           has
           serv'd
           many
           of
           the
           smaller
           Critics
           ,
           who
           build
           their
           Judgment
           ,
           and
           Reputation
           on
           Authority
           ,
           as
           a
           safe
           Retreat
           against
           the
           Onsets
           of
           Reason
           ,
           with
           which
           the
           Majority
           of
           them
           are
           at
           mortal
           odds
           .
           These
           Misanthropes
           are
           arriv'd
           to
           that
           extremity
           now
           ,
           that
           they
           will
           not
           give
           a
           Man
           leave
           to
           discover
           his
           own
           private
           Knowledg
           of
           an
           other
           ,
           if
           to
           his
           Advantage
           ,
           under
           the
           unpleasant
           Penalty
           of
           being
           receiv'd
           as
           a
           
             servile
             ,
             nauseous
             Sycophant
          
           .
        
         
           This
           Hazard
           ,
           Sir
           ,
           I
           must
           run
           ,
           if
           I
           will
           declare
           in
           Public
           what
           I
           know
           of
           those
           excellent
           Accomplishments
           ,
           which
           render
           you
           so
           dear
           to
           all
           that
           are
           acquainted
           wi●h
           you
           .
           Your
           WIT
           ,
           and
           your
           Courage
           are
           things
           not
           to
           be
           mention'd
           ,
           much
           less
           your
           GENEROSITY
           ,
           that
           being
           a
           Vertue
           that
           never
           resides
           alone
           .
           There
           are
           some
           Vertues
           that
           are
           Solitary
           ,
           and
           like
           Hermits
           dwell
           in
           Deserts
           ,
           over-run
           with
           the
           Wilds
           of
           every
           
             vicious
             Deformity
          
           in
           Nature
           :
           But
           GENEROSITY
           is
           the
           King
           of
           Vertues
           ,
           and
           never
           goes
           unattended
           ,
           which
           makes
           me
           sometimes
           fancy
           ,
           't
           is
           the
           Result
           of
           all
           other
           Vertues
           ,
           when
           they
           meet
           together
           ;
           The
           Harmony
           ,
           which
           proceeds
           from
           the
           Active
           Agreement
           of
           all
           the
           rest
           .
           This
           I
           am
           sure
           ,
           —
           't
           is
           the
           noblest
           Emotion
           of
           the
           Soul
           ,
           and
           that
           which
           gives
           the
           most
           finishing
           ,
           and
           visible
           Stroaks
           to
           the
           
           Image
           of
           our
           Maker
           .
           Therefore
           these
           morose
           Gentlemen
           would
           never
           forgive
           me
           ,
           if
           I
           should
           tell
           the
           World
           ,
           that
           you
           are
           Generous
           almost
           to
           a
           Fault
           (
           if
           't
           were
           possible
           that
           could
           be
           criminal
           in
           Man
           ,
           for
           which
           alone
           all
           the
           World
           does
           ,
           and
           ever
           has
           worship'd
           a
           Deity
           )
           tho'
           I
           know
           it
           to
           be
           true
           to
           the
           utmost
           Extent
           ;
           because
           that
           will
           make
           the
           considering
           part
           of
           Mankind
           conclude
           you
           adorn'd
           with
           all
           other
           Vertues
           ,
           inseparable
           Companions
           of
           this
           .
           They
           will
           never
           consider
           the
           Reasons
           I
           have
           to
           aver
           this
           ,
           viz.
           my
           own
           Knowledg
           ,
           and
           the
           Experience
           of
           several
           others
           And
           tho'
           I
           urge
           ,
           that
           I
           have
           found
           you
           Generous
           beyond
           the
           extravagance
           of
           Hopes
           ,
           when
           the
           Bonds
           of
           Nature
           ,
           the
           Laws
           of
           Humanity
           ,
           and
           of
           
             God
             himself
          
           ,
           could
           not
           obtain
           the
           least
           regard
           from
           those
           ,
           who
           had
           not
           a
           little
           Reputation
           in
           the
           World
           for
           better
           Principles
           :
           Yet
           will
           they
           cry
           out
           I
           am
           a
           FLATTERER
           ,
           if
           I
           express
           my
           Gratitude
           to
           you
           in
           Print
           .
           Strange
           effects
           of
           a
           profligate
           Age
           ,
           when
           ill
           Nature
           and
           profess'd
           Scandal
           ,
           dress'd
           in
           a
           Politer
           sort
           of
           Bilingsgate
           ,
           shall
           be
           sufficient
           to
           establish
           a
           Man's
           Fame
           (
           spite
           of
           all
           the
           most
           monstrous
           absurdities
           of
           the
           contexture
           )
           as
           a
           Wit
           :
           And
           the
           most
           deserv'd
           Praise
           enough
           to
           stigmatize
           the
           Writer
           with
           
             indeleble
             Infamy
          
           .
           For
           if
           any
           
             Bold
             Man
          
           dare
           celebrate
           the
           Vertues
           of
           any
           one
           ,
           they
           gaze
           upon
           
           him
           ,
           and
           shake
           their
           Heads
           as
           if
           it
           were
           an
           impudent
           Imposture
           ,
           or
           at
           best
           a
           Prodigy
           as
           incredible
           as
           a
           circular
           Rainbow
           ,
           or
           any
           other
           unusual
           Phaenomenon
           ,
           that
           there
           should
           be
           any
           thing
           Vertuous
           and
           Brave
           in
           
             OUR
             Age.
          
           
        
         
           Not
           that
           I
           am
           so
           very
           fond
           of
           this
           Opinion
           ,
           that
           Vertues
           are
           in
           being
           at
           this
           time
           ,
           and
           in
           the
           Practice
           of
           Men
           ,
           as
           to
           take
           every
           appearance
           for
           a
           Reality
           .
           Nor
           do
           I
           admit
           a
           great
           many
           that
           pass
           for
           mighty
           Lovers
           of
           Vertue
           ,
           into
           that
           number
           ;
           in
           particular
           ,
           none
           of
           those
           ,
           that
           are
           fam'd
           for
           a
           noisy
           Zeal
           in
           the
           controverted
           Points
           of
           Religion
           ,
           which
           prompts
           an
           inconsidering
           Generation
           to
           cut
           one
           another's
           Throats
           ,
           because
           they
           can't
           agree
           in
           what
           themselves
           allow
           uncertain
           .
           Nor
           those
           ,
           who
           with
           a
           
             Precise
             Behaviour
          
           ,
           make
           an
           Ostentatious
           Shew
           of
           being
           the
           most
           intimate
           Friends
           of
           God
           Almighty
           in
           Public
           ,
           but
           shake
           Hands
           with
           the
           Devil
           in
           a
           corner
           with
           no
           little
           Ardor
           .
           Nor
           shall
           I
           grace
           with
           the
           noble
           Title
           of
           VERTVE
           ,
           those
           sorts
           of
           
             Religious
             Charities
          
           ,
           that
           have
           not
           the
           Equitable
           good
           of
           Mankind
           for
           their
           end
           ,
           but
           only
           vain
           Glory
           in
           
             particular
             Reputation
          
           .
           I
           could
           name
           some
           ,
           that
           are
           very
           forward
           in
           contributing
           largely
           to
           the
           Building
           any
           public
           Structure
           ,
           which
           may
           commend
           their
           Names
           to
           Posterity
           ,
           as
           well
           as
           to
           the
           present
           time
           ,
           but
           are
           inexorable
           to
           the
           nearest
           
           Relations
           who
           seek
           for
           a
           private
           Assistance
           ,
           tho'
           a
           Trifle
           would
           save
           a
           whole
           Family
           .
           That
           which
           affects
           the
           view
           of
           the
           World
           ,
           is
           the
           Child
           of
           Pride
           ,
           and
           is
           not
           at
           all
           to
           be
           valu'd
           by
           any
           considering
           Man
           ;
           the
           other
           is
           the
           Off-spring
           of
           Vertue
           ,
           having
           nothing
           but
           the
           good
           of
           another
           for
           its
           end
           ,
           and
           yet
           it
           obtains
           generally
           a
           more
           lasting
           Fame
           ,
           and
           especially
           if
           it
           meet
           with
           Ability
           and
           Gratitude
           to
           commend
           it
           to
           Posterity
           ,
           in
           a
           nobler
           way
           ,
           than
           in
           dead
           Piles
           of
           Building
           .
        
         
           Tho'
           I
           deny
           all
           this
           to
           be
           Vertue
           ,
           yet
           I
           can
           never
           be
           of
           their
           Mind
           ,
           who
           exclude
           it
           intirely
           from
           
             Human
             Race
          
           ,
           since
           I
           am
           sensible
           't
           is
           to
           be
           found
           in
           a
           great
           many
           at
           this
           day
           ,
           particularly
           in
           your self
           .
           I
           am
           therefore
           of
           a
           much
           contrary
           Opinion
           ,
           to
           those
           Man-haters
           I
           have
           mention'd
           those
           Devotes
           to
           Satyr
           (
           as
           they
           call
           it
           )
           for
           I
           have
           always
           thought
           it
           a
           far
           nobler
           Task
           to
           be
           conversant
           with
           the
           Vertues
           of
           Mankind
           ,
           than
           with
           the
           Vices
           ;
           and
           if
           Fiction
           must
           be
           made
           use
           of
           (
           as
           't
           is
           every
           day
           by
           our
           Prose-Satyrists
           )
           I
           am
           sure
           't
           is
           more
           reasonable
           to
           admire
           an
           Angel
           of
           our
           own
           forming
           ,
           than
           to
           combat
           a
           Devil
           of
           ones
           own
           conjuring
           up
           ;
           one
           gives
           us
           a
           greater
           ,
           and
           juster
           Idea
           of
           the
           noblest
           of
           God's
           Works
           ,
           the
           other
           flyes
           in
           the
           face
           of
           Providence
           ,
           and
           wou'd
           render
           that
           Being
           ridiculous
           ,
           and
           contemptible
           ,
           that
           was
           made
           by
           the
           Power
           and
           Wisdom
           of
           
           INFINITY
           ,
           and
           which
           God
           seems
           more
           than
           once
           to
           take
           no
           small
           Pleasure
           in
           .
        
         
           The
           greatest
           Patrons
           of
           Satyr
           ,
           I
           am
           sure
           ,
           cannot
           prove
           that
           it
           answers
           the
           End
           ,
           they
           pretend
           ,
           't
           was
           design'd
           for
           ,
           viz.
           the
           
             Reformation
             of
             Vice
          
           ,
           especially
           that
           Satyr
           ,
           which
           names
           Men
           ,
           and
           tends
           to
           a
           personal
           abuse
           .
           For
           instead
           of
           Reforming
           Vice
           it
           only
           gratifies
           the
           ill-nature
           of
           most
           ,
           and
           that
           Criminal
           delight
           they
           have
           in
           hearing
           an
           other
           abus'd
           ,
           without
           any
           influence
           on
           the
           Manners
           of
           those
           it
           aims
           to
           Correct
           ;
           unless
           it
           be
           to
           return
           the
           Author
           's
           with
           a
           Satyr
           of
           dry
           Bastinade
           .
           The
           Minds
           of
           all
           men
           have
           something
           ,
           that
           is
           with
           more
           Modesty
           conceal'd
           ,
           than
           expos'd
           to
           view
           ,
           as
           well
           as
           the
           Body
           ;
           which
           Satyr
           is
           continually
           setting
           before
           the
           Eyes
           of
           the
           World
           ;
           whilst
           Panegyric
           draws
           a
           decent
           Veil
           over
           it
           .
           Panegyric
           paints
           Vertue
           ,
           in
           its
           most
           taking
           Colours
           ,
           and
           shews
           the
           more
           Beautiful
           parts
           of
           Mankind
           ,
           whilst
           Satyr
           is
           continually
           raking
           in
           the
           Augean
           Stable
           of
           its
           Follies
           ,
           and
           
             Vices
             .
             Panegyric
          
           gives
           a
           Noble
           ,
           and
           taking
           prospect
           of
           Virtue
           ,
           stirring
           up
           Emulation
           ,
           in
           others
           ,
           and
           a
           Caution
           in
           him
           that
           is
           Prais'd
           ,
           not
           to
           be
           guilty
           of
           any
           thing
           contrary
           to
           the
           character
           the
           World
           has
           of
           him
           ,
           that
           he
           may
           be
           thought
           really
           to
           deserve
           it
           .
           Nor
           can
           I
           ever
           believe
           ,
           but
           that
           
             Virgils
             Aeneids
          
           have
           contributed
           more
           to
           the
           Progress
           of
           Vertue
           ,
           than
           
           
             Horace's
             Satyrs
          
           :
           The
           first
           forming
           Noble
           images
           in
           the
           Mind
           ,
           making
           it
           in
           Love
           with
           Honor
           ,
           the
           last
           ,
           at
           best
           exposing
           but
           the
           deformity
           of
           some
           
             Vice
             ,
             or
             folly
          
           ,
           which
           when
           we
           avoid
           we
           ramble
           so
           in
           the
           dark
           by
           their
           directions
           ,
           that
           we
           can
           never
           find
           out
           Vertue
           ,
           and
           so
           may
           well
           fall
           into
           the
           contrary
           extream
           ;
           Satyr
           only
           giving
           negative
           definitions
           of
           Virtue
           ,
           like
           
             Mr.
             Cowlys
          
           of
           Wit
           :
           But
           in
           
             Epic
             posie
          
           and
           Panegyric
           all
           goes
           in
           the
           clear
           ,
           and
           evident
           affirmative
           ,
           presenting
           so
           exact
           a
           portraiture
           of
           Vertue
           ,
           that
           you
           can't
           mistake
           ,
           or
           not
           know
           it
           at
           first
           sight
           .
        
         
           But
           that
           which
           is
           most
           of
           all
           ,
           Panegyric
           has
           the
           effectual
           force
           Satyr
           pretends
           to
           ,
           in
           chacing
           away
           Vice
           and
           Folly
           ,
           by
           discovering
           the
           Properties
           ,
           and
           Beauties
           of
           their
           contraries
           ;
           and
           if
           it
           be
           plac'd
           on
           an
           undeserving
           Subject
           ,
           it
           carries
           as
           severe
           a
           Sting
           :
           For
           who
           is
           it
           that
           reads
           those
           Verses
           of
           Lucan
           upon
           Nero
           ,
           but
           thinks
           them
           a
           severe
           Satyr
           ,
           tho
           they
           bear
           the
           Face
           of
           Praise
           —
           for
           having
           reckond
           up
           the
           Mischiefs
           of
           
             Civil
             War
          
           ,
           he
           cries
           out
           —
           
             
               Quod
               si
               non
               aliam
               venturo
               fata
               Neroni
            
             
               Invenere
               viam
               ,
               magnoque
               aeterna
               parantur
            
             
               Regna
               deis
               ,
               coelumque
               suo
               servire
               Tonanti
            
             
               Non
               nisi
               saevorum
               potuit
               post
               bella
               Gigantum
               :
            
             
               Jam
               nihil
               o
               superi
               querimur
               ,
               scelera
               ipsa
               ,
               nefasque
            
             
             
               Hac
               mercede
               placent
               ,
               &c
               —
            
             
               'T
               would
               be
               to
               tedious
               too
               quote
               the
               rest
               .
            
          
        
         
           This
           I
           am
           sure
           was
           the
           safest
           way
           of
           abusing
           that
           Prince
           .
           An
           extravagant
           Praise
           of
           one
           ,
           that
           merits
           nothing
           ,
           is
           the
           most
           effectual
           of
           
             Satyrs
             .
             Panegyric
          
           is
           like
           a
           Lawful
           ,
           and
           Mild
           Prince
           ,
           that
           wins
           obedience
           by
           Love
           :
           Whilst
           Satyr
           like
           a
           Tyrant
           would
           force
           it
           by
           threats
           and
           servile
           fear
           ;
           the
           first
           is
           the
           Noblest
           ,
           as
           well
           as
           the
           surest
           way
           .
           The
           Custom
           of
           the
           Lacedemonians
           of
           making
           their
           Slaves
           drunk
           ,
           to
           represent
           to
           their
           Youth
           the
           Folly
           and
           Odiousness
           of
           that
           Vice
           ,
           as
           it
           was
           proportion'd
           to
           the
           grossness
           of
           their
           Genius
           so
           it
           seems
           to
           have
           a
           likeness
           to
           Satyr
           ,
           which
           pretends
           to
           put
           Vice
           out
           of
           Countenance
           ,
           by
           exposing
           it
           ,
           which
           it
           generally
           does
           in
           such
           terms
           ,
           that
           it
           only
           pleases
           the
           vitiated
           Appetites
           of
           some
           with
           the
           lively
           descriptions
           of
           what
           they
           delight
           in
           .
           But
           Panegyric
           ,
           like
           the
           Wiser
           State
           of
           Athens
           ,
           gives
           us
           Examples
           ,
           and
           descriptions
           of
           Vertue
           ,
           justly
           imagining
           ,
           that
           ,
           where
           those
           Attractives
           ,
           are
           no
           man
           can
           be
           drawn
           from
           Beauty
           to
           Deformity
           .
           '
           Twoud
           be
           too
           tedious
           to
           run
           this
           consideration
           of
           the
           Preheminence
           of
           Panegyrick
           to
           Satyr
           any
           farther
           ,
           having
           said
           enough
           already
           (
           I
           hope
           )
           to
           satisfie
           any
           sensible
           man
           of
           the
           truth
           of
           what
           I
           assert
           .
        
         
         
           Having
           thus
           vindicated
           Panegyric
           from
           the
           Odium
           it
           lies
           under
           ,
           and
           plac'd
           it
           in
           its
           due
           rank
           ,
           nothing
           could
           hinder
           me
           from
           attempting
           one
           on
           you
           ,
           Sir
           ,
           who
           so
           e'ry
           way
           deserve
           it
           ,
           but
           my
           Inabilities
           ,
           which
           perswade
           me
           to
           say
           nothing
           of
           that
           Excellence
           I
           value
           ,
           since
           I
           am
           Conscious
           that
           I
           cannot
           say
           enough
           ,
           nor
           perform
           that
           Task
           with
           the
           Wit
           and
           Eloquence
           it
           requires
           .
        
         
           As
           to
           the
           Book
           Sir
           ,
           I
           present
           you
           with
           ▪
           I
           am
           extreamly
           satisfy'd
           to
           know
           ,
           that
           it
           is
           a
           Present
           worth
           your
           acceptance
           ;
           for
           I
           may
           say
           that
           there
           has
           scarce
           been
           a
           Collection
           which
           visited
           the
           World
           ,
           with
           fewer
           trifling
           Verses
           in
           it
           .
           I
           except
           my
           own
           ,
           which
           I
           had
           the
           more
           encouragement
           to
           print
           now
           ,
           since
           I
           had
           so
           good
           an
           opportunity
           of
           making
           so
           large
           an
           Attonement
           ,
           with
           the
           Wit
           of
           others
           for
           my
           own
           Dulness
           ,
           and
           that
           I
           hope
           will
           chiefly
           excuse
           them
           to
           you
           ,
           as
           well
           as
           convince
           the
           World
           of
           the
           real
           Value
           I
           have
           for
           you
           ,
           when
           it
           sees
           me
           prefix
           your
           Name
           to
           no
           
             Vulgar
             Book
          
           ,
           of
           my
           own
           Composing
           ,
           but
           to
           one
           that
           ows
           its
           excellence
           to
           the
           generous
           contribution
           of
           my
           Friends
           of
           undoubted
           
             Wit.
             Statius
          
           in
           his
           Epistle
           dedicatory
           to
           Stella
           ,
           seems
           to
           put
           his
           Sylvae
           in
           balance
           with
           his
           Thebaidos
           ,
           for
           their
           being
           the
           productions
           of
           a
           suddain
           Heat
           ,
           or
           Inspiration
           ,
           the
           same
           is
           applicable
           to
           these
           ;
           All
           ,
           or
           most
           of
           them
           being
           writ
           when
           the
           Soul
           was
           in
           tune
           ,
           and
           not
           by
           a
           
             Mercenary
             End
          
           ,
           forc'd
           upon
           
           a
           task
           ,
           it
           was
           not
           at
           all
           dispos'd
           to
           .
           Besides
           which
           ,
           they
           have
           most
           had
           the
           advantage
           of
           good
           Iudgments
           to
           prune
           the
           Luxuriancy
           of
           a
           flowing
           Fancy
           ,
           which
           Statius
           would
           not
           give
           himself
           the
           trouble
           of
           .
           This
           Book
           I
           may
           therefore
           say
           (
           without
           any
           self-esteem
           )
           will
           (
           if
           any
           thing
           in
           Poetry
           have
           perpetuity
           )
           convey
           
             your
             Name
          
           to
           posterity
           ,
           and
           with
           it
           the
           Testimony
           —
           how
           great
           a
           value
           I
           put
           upon
           your
           Worth
           ,
           and
           how
           much
           I
           am
           Sir
           ,
           without
           reserve
           ,
        
         
           
             Your
             humble
             Servant
             Charles
             Gildon
             .
          
        
      
       
         
         
           AN
           Essay
           upon
           Satyr
           ,
           FROM
           M.
           DACIER
           .
        
         
           EXpecting
           several
           Satyrs
           for
           this
           Collection
           more
           than
           I
           met
           with
           ,
           I
           designed
           an
           Essay
           upon
           Satyr
           ,
           as
           to
           its
           Etymology
           ,
           Progress
           ,
           and
           Vertues
           ,
           with
           a
           short
           Examen
           of
           what
           we
           have
           had
           publish'd
           in
           English
           ,
           in
           that
           Nature
           ,
           and
           finally
           a
           Collation
           of
           that
           with
           the
           Ancient
           ;
           believing
           a
           Discourse
           on
           that
           Subject
           would
           not
           be
           ungrateful
           to
           the
           Ingenious
           ,
           as
           being
           both
           New
           ,
           and
           Curious
           ;
           which
           made
           me
           promise
           
           my
           Bookseller
           to
           attempt
           it
           :
           But
           finding
           my self
           disappointed
           in
           my
           Expectations
           ,
           I
           was
           of
           Opinion
           such
           an
           Essay
           would
           not
           be
           altogether
           so
           proper
           :
           But
           to
           make
           the
           Bookseller
           a
           large
           Amends
           (
           and
           to
           gratify
           the
           Town
           with
           an
           agreeable
           Entertainment
           )
           I
           got
           ,
           of
           a
           very
           Ingenious
           Friend
           of
           Mine
           ,
           this
           Preface
           of
           
             M.
             Dacier
          
           ,
           to
           the
           sixth
           Tome
           of
           Horace
           ,
           which
           tho
           it
           be
           not
           of
           that
           extent
           ,
           as
           to
           take
           in
           all
           the
           Points
           I
           design'd
           to
           treat
           of
           ,
           yet
           Horace
           being
           now
           in
           that
           just
           Esteem
           he
           deserves
           ,
           I
           thought
           I
           could
           not
           better
           gratify
           his
           Admirers
           ,
           than
           to
           let
           our
           English
           World
           see
           those
           hidden
           Beauties
           of
           this
           great
           Poet
           ,
           discover'd
           by
           
             M.
             Dacier
          
           ,
           with
           no
           less
           Wit
           ,
           than
           Judgment
           .
        
      
       
         
           The
           Preface
           of
           
             M.
             Dacier
          
           .
        
         
           HOrace
           entitles
           his
           two
           Books
           of
           Satyrs
           indifferently
           ,
           Sermones
           ,
           and
           Satyrae
           ;
           And
           since
           these
           two
           Names
           give
           different
           Ideas
           ;
           for
           certain
           Reasons
           it
           is
           necessary
           to
           explain
           what
           the
           Latins
           understood
           by
           the
           
           Word
           Satyr
           .
           The
           Learned
           Casaubon
           is
           the
           first
           ,
           and
           only
           Man
           that
           has
           with
           Success
           attempted
           to
           shew
           what
           was
           the
           
             Satyrical
             Poesie
          
           of
           the
           Greeks
           ,
           and
           the
           Satyr
           of
           the
           Romans
           .
           His
           Book
           is
           an
           inestimable
           Treasure
           ,
           and
           I
           confess
           I
           have
           had
           great
           Helps
           from
           it
           ;
           which
           is
           the
           use
           we
           ought
           to
           make
           of
           the
           Works
           of
           those
           extraordinary
           Men
           ,
           who
           have
           only
           gone
           before
           us
           to
           be
           our
           Guides
           ,
           and
           serve
           us
           as
           Torches
           in
           the
           thick
           Darkness
           of
           Antiquity
           .
           But
           you
           must
           not
           have
           your
           Eyes
           so
           continually
           fixt
           on
           them
           ,
           as
           not
           to
           regard
           whither
           they
           lead
           you
           ;
           for
           they
           deviate
           sometimes
           into
           Paths
           ,
           where
           you
           cannot
           safely
           follow
           them
           .
           This
           Rule
           I
           my self
           have
           observ'd
           ,
           in
           forsaking
           my
           Guides
           ,
           and
           past
           that
           Way
           which
           no
           Body
           before
           me
           has
           done
           ,
           as
           the
           following
           Discourse
           will
           convince
           you
           .
        
         
           Satyr
           is
           a
           kind
           of
           Poesie
           ,
           only
           known
           to
           the
           Romans
           ,
           being
           not
           at
           all
           related
           to
           the
           
             Satyrical
             Poesie
          
           of
           the
           Greeks
           ,
           as
           some
           learned
           Men
           have
           pretended
           .
           Quintilian
           leaves
           us
           no
           Doubt
           upon
           this
           Point
           ,
           when
           he
           writes
           in
           Chap.
           10.
           
           
             Satira
             quidem
             tota
             nostra
             est
          
           .
           The
           same
           Reason
           makes
           Horace
           call
           it
           in
           the
           last
           Satyr
           of
           Book
           1.
           
           
             Graecis
             intactum
             Carmen
          
           .
           The
           Natural
           and
           true
           Etymology
           is
           this
           :
           The
           Latins
           called
           it
           
             SATVR
             ,
             quasi
             plenum
          
           ,
           to
           which
           there
           was
           
           nothing
           wanting
           for
           its
           Perfection
           .
           Thus
           
             Satur
             color
          
           ,
           when
           the
           Wool
           has
           taken
           a
           good
           Dye
           ,
           and
           nothing
           can
           be
           added
           to
           the
           Perfection
           of
           it
           .
           From
           Satur
           they
           have
           made
           Satura
           ,
           which
           they
           wrote
           sometimes
           with
           an
           
             i
             ,
             Satira
          
           ;
           They
           used
           in
           other
           Words
           ,
           the
           same
           Variation
           of
           the
           Letter
           u
           into
           i
           ,
           as
           in
           
             Maxumus
             ,
             Maximus
             ,
             optumus
             ,
             optimus
             .
             Satura
             ,
          
           is
           an
           Adjective
           ,
           which
           has
           reference
           to
           a
           Substantive
           understood
           ;
           for
           the
           Ancient
           Romans
           said
           Saturam
           ,
           understanding
           Lancem
           .
           And
           
             Satura
             Lanx
          
           ,
           was
           properly
           a
           Bason
           fill'd
           with
           all
           sorts
           of
           Fruit
           ,
           which
           they
           offer'd
           every
           Year
           to
           Ceres
           ,
           and
           Bacchus
           ,
           as
           the
           First
           Fruits
           of
           all
           they
           had
           gathered
           .
           These
           Offerings
           of
           different
           things
           mixt
           together
           ,
           were
           not
           unknown
           to
           the
           Greeks
           ,
           who
           call'd
           'em
           
             〈◊〉
             〈◊〉
             〈◊〉
             〈◊〉
             〈◊〉
          
           ,
           
             a
             Sacrifice
             of
             all
             sorts
             of
             Fruit
             ,
             
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
            
             &
             
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
            
             ,
             an
             Offering
             of
             all
             sorts
             of
             Grain
             ,
          
           when
           they
           offer'd
           Potherbs
           .
           The
           Grammarian
           Diomedes
           has
           perfectly
           describ'd
           both
           the
           Custom
           of
           the
           Romans
           ,
           and
           the
           Word
           Satura
           ,
           in
           this
           Passage
           
             Lanx
             referta
             variis
             multisque
             primitiis
             ,
             sacris
          
           Cereris
           
             inferebatur
             ,
             &
             a
             copia
             &
             Saturitate
             rei
             ,
          
           Satura
           
             vocabatur
             :
             cujus
             generis
             lancium
             &
          
           Virgilius
           in
           Georgicis
           
             meminit
             ,
             cum
             hoc
             modo
             dicit
             ,
          
           
             Lancibus
             &
             pandis
             fumantia
             reddimus
             exta
             ▪
             and
             —
             lancesque
             &
             liba
             feremus
             .
          
           
           From
           thence
           the
           Word
           Satura
           was
           apply'd
           to
           many
           other
           Mixtures
           ,
           as
           in
           
             Festus
             :
             Satira
             cibi
             genus
             ,
             ex
             variis
             rebus
             conditum
             .
          
           From
           hence
           it
           past
           to
           the
           Works
           of
           the
           Mind
           ;
           for
           they
           call'd
           some
           Laws
           
             Leges
             Saturas
          
           ,
           which
           contain'd
           many
           Heads
           ,
           or
           Titles
           ,
           as
           the
           
             Iulian
             ,
             Papian
          
           and
           
             Popean
             Laws
          
           ,
           which
           were
           called
           Miscellas
           ,
           which
           is
           of
           the
           same
           Signification
           with
           Satura
           :
           From
           hence
           arose
           this
           Phrase
           ,
           
             Per
             Saturam
             legem
             ferre
          
           ,
           when
           the
           Senate
           made
           a
           Law
           ,
           without
           gathering
           ,
           and
           counting
           the
           Votes
           in
           haste
           ,
           and
           confusedly
           all
           together
           ,
           which
           was
           properly
           call'd
           ,
           
             Per
             Saturam
             sententias
             exquirere
          
           ,
           as
           Salust
           has
           it
           after
           Lelius
           .
           But
           they
           rested
           not
           here
           ,
           but
           gave
           this
           Name
           to
           certain
           Books
           ,
           as
           
             Pescennius
             Festus
          
           ,
           whose
           Histories
           were
           call'd
           Saturas
           ,
           or
           
             per
             Saturam
          
           .
           From
           all
           these
           Examples
           ,
           't
           is
           not
           hard
           to
           suppose
           ,
           that
           these
           Works
           of
           Horace
           took
           from
           hence
           their
           Name
           ,
           and
           that
           they
           were
           call'd
           ,
           
             Saturae
             quia
             multis
             &
             variis
             rebus
             hoc
             carmen
             refertum
             est
             ,
          
           because
           
             these
             Poems
             are
             full
             of
             a
             great
             many
             different
             Things
             ,
          
           as
           Porphyrius
           says
           ,
           which
           is
           partly
           true
           .
           But
           it
           must
           not
           be
           thought
           it
           is
           immediately
           from
           thence
           ;
           for
           this
           Name
           had
           been
           used
           before
           for
           other
           things
           ,
           which
           bore
           a
           nearer
           resemblance
           to
           the
           Satyrs
           of
           Horace
           ;
           in
           explanation
           of
           which
           a
           Method
           is
           to
           be
           follow'd
           ,
           which
           Casaubon
           
           himself
           never
           thought
           of
           ,
           and
           which
           will
           put
           things
           in
           so
           clear
           a
           Light
           ,
           that
           there
           can
           be
           no
           Place
           left
           for
           Doubt
           .
        
         
           The
           Romans
           having
           been
           almost
           four
           hundred
           Years
           without
           any
           
             Scenical
             Plays
          
           ,
           Chance
           and
           Debauchery
           made
           them
           find
           in
           one
           of
           their
           Feasts
           the
           Saturnian
           ,
           and
           Fescennine
           Verses
           ,
           which
           for
           six
           score
           Years
           they
           had
           instead
           of
           
             Dramatic
             Pieces
          
           .
           But
           these
           Verses
           were
           rude
           ,
           and
           almost
           without
           any
           Numbers
           ,
           as
           being
           made
           extempore
           ,
           and
           by
           a
           People
           ,
           as
           yet
           but
           barbarous
           ,
           who
           had
           little
           other
           Skill
           ,
           than
           what
           flow'd
           from
           their
           Joy
           ,
           and
           the
           Fumes
           of
           Wine
           .
           They
           were
           filled
           with
           the
           grossest
           sort
           of
           Raileries
           ,
           and
           attended
           with
           Gestures
           and
           Dances
           .
           To
           have
           a
           livelier
           Idea
           of
           this
           ,
           you
           need
           but
           reflect
           upon
           the
           honest
           Peasants
           ▪
           whose
           clownish
           Dances
           are
           attended
           with
           extempore
           Verses
           ,
           in
           which
           ,
           in
           a
           wretched
           manner
           they
           jeer
           one
           another
           ,
           with
           all
           they
           know
           .
           To
           this
           Horace
           refers
           in
           the
           first
           Epistle
           of
           his
           second
           Book
           ,
           
             
               Fescennina
               per
               hunc
               inventa
               licentia
               morem
               ,
            
             
               Versibus
               alt
               ernis
               opprobia
               rustica
               fudit
               .
            
          
        
         
           This
           Licentious
           and
           Irregular
           Verse
           ,
           was
           succeeded
           by
           a
           sort
           more
           correct
           ,
           filled
           with
           a
           pleasant
           Railery
           ,
           without
           the
           Mixture
           of
           any
           thing
           scurrilous
           ,
           and
           these
           obtain'd
           the
           Name
           of
           Satyrs
           ,
           by
           reason
           of
           their
           Variety
           ,
           and
           had
           
           regulated
           Forms
           ,
           that
           is
           ,
           regular
           Dances
           ,
           and
           Music
           ,
           but
           undecent
           Postures
           were
           banish'd
           .
           
             Titus
             Livius
          
           has
           it
           in
           his
           seventh
           Book
           .
           
             Vernaculis
             artificibus
             ,
             quia
          
           Hister
           
             Tusco
             verbo
          
           Ludio
           
             vocabatur
             ,
             nomen
             Histrionibus
             inditum
             ,
             qui
             non
             sicut
             ante
             Fescennino
             versu
             similem
             compositum
             temere
             ,
             ac
             rudem
             alternis
             jaciebant
             ;
             sed
             impletas
             modis
             Satiras
             ,
             descripto
             jam
             ad
             Tibicinem
             cantu
             ,
             motusque
             congruenti
             peragebant
             .
          
           These
           Satyrs
           were
           properly
           honest
           Farces
           ,
           in
           which
           the
           Spectators
           and
           Actors
           were
           rallied
           without
           Distinction
           .
        
         
           
             Livius
             Andronicus
          
           found
           things
           in
           this
           posture
           ,
           when
           he
           first
           undertook
           to
           make
           Comedies
           ,
           and
           Tragedies
           in
           Imitation
           of
           the
           Grecians
           .
           This
           Diversion
           appearing
           more
           noble
           ,
           and
           perfect
           ,
           they
           run
           to
           it
           in
           Multitudes
           ,
           neglecting
           the
           Satyrs
           for
           some
           time
           ,
           though
           they
           receiv'd
           them
           a
           little
           after
           ;
           and
           some
           model'd
           them
           into
           a
           purpos'd
           Form
           to
           act
           at
           the
           end
           of
           their
           Comedies
           ,
           as
           the
           French
           act
           their
           Farces
           now
           .
           And
           then
           they
           alter'd
           their
           Name
           of
           Satyrs
           for
           that
           of
           Exodia
           ,
           which
           they
           preserve
           to
           this
           day
           .
           This
           was
           the
           first
           and
           most
           ancient
           kind
           of
           Roman
           Satyr
           .
           There
           are
           two
           other
           sorts
           ,
           which
           tho'
           very
           different
           from
           this
           first
           ,
           yet
           both
           owe
           their
           Birth
           to
           this
           ,
           and
           are
           ,
           as
           it
           were
           ,
           Branches
           of
           it
           .
           This
           I
           shall
           prove
           the
           most
           succinctly
           I
           can
           .
        
         
         
           A
           Year
           after
           
             Livius
             Andronicus
          
           had
           caus'd
           his
           first
           Efforts
           to
           be
           Acted
           ,
           Italy
           gave
           birth
           to
           Ennius
           ,
           who
           being
           grown
           up
           ,
           and
           having
           all
           the
           leisure
           in
           the
           World
           to
           observe
           the
           eager
           Satisfaction
           with
           which
           the
           Romans
           receiv'd
           the
           Satyrs
           ,
           of
           which
           I
           have
           already
           spoke
           ,
           was
           of
           Opinion
           ,
           that
           Poems
           ,
           tho'
           not
           adapted
           to
           the
           Theatre
           ,
           yet
           preserving
           the
           Gaul
           the
           Railings
           and
           Pleasantness
           ,
           which
           made
           these
           Satyrs
           take
           with
           so
           much
           Applause
           ,
           would
           not
           fail
           of
           being
           well
           receiv'd
           ;
           he
           therefore
           ventur'd
           at
           it
           ,
           and
           compos'd
           several
           Discourses
           to
           which
           he
           retain'd
           the
           name
           of
           Satyrs
           .
           These
           Discourses
           were
           entirely
           like
           those
           of
           Horace
           ,
           both
           for
           the
           Matter
           and
           the
           Variety
           .
           The
           only
           essential
           difference
           ,
           that
           is
           observable
           ,
           is
           that
           Ennius
           ,
           in
           Imitation
           of
           some
           Greeks
           ,
           and
           of
           Homer
           himself
           ,
           took
           the
           liberty
           of
           mixing
           several
           kinds
           of
           Verses
           together
           ,
           as
           
             Hexameters
             ,
             Iambics
             ,
             Trimeters
          
           ,
           with
           
             Tetrimeters
             ,
             Trochaics
          
           or
           Square
           Verse
           ;
           as
           it
           appears
           from
           the
           Fragments
           which
           are
           left
           us
           .
           These
           following
           Verses
           are
           of
           the
           Square
           kind
           ,
           which
           
             Aullus
             Gellius
          
           has
           preserv'd
           us
           ,
           and
           which
           very
           well
           merit
           a
           place
           here
           for
           the
           Beauty
           they
           contain
           :
           
             
               Hoc
               erit
               tibi
               Argumentum
               semper
               in
               promptu
               situm
               ,
            
             
               Ne
               quid
               expectes
               Amicos
               ,
               quod
               tute
               agere
               possies
               .
            
          
        
         
         
           I
           attribute
           also
           to
           these
           Satyrs
           of
           Ennius
           these
           other
           kinds
           of
           Verses
           ,
           which
           are
           of
           a
           Beauty
           ,
           and
           Elegance
           ,
           much
           above
           the
           Age
           in
           which
           they
           were
           made
           ;
           nor
           will
           the
           sight
           of
           'em
           here
           be
           unpleasant
           .
        
         
           
             Non
             habeo
             denique
             nauci
             Marsum
             Augurem
             ,
          
           
             Non
             vicanos
             aruspices
             ,
             non
             de
             Cicro
             Astrologos
             ,
          
           
             Non
             
               Isiacos
               Conjectores
            
             ,
             non
             Interpretes
             Hominum
             :
          
           
             Non
             enim
             sunt
             ij
             aut
             Scientia
             ,
             aut
             Arte
             Divini
             ;
          
           
             Sed
             Superstitiosi
             vates
             ,
             Impudentesque
             harioli
             ,
          
           
             Aut
             inertes
             ,
             aut
             insani
             ,
             aut
             quibus
             egestas
             Imperat
             :
          
           
             Qui
             sui
             questus
             caussa
             fictas
             suscitant
             sententias
             ,
          
           
             Qui
             sibi
             semitam
             non
             sapiunt
             ,
             alteri
             monstrant
             viam
             ,
          
           
             Quibus
             devitias
             pollicentur
             ,
             ab
             ijs
             Drachmam
             petunt
             ,
          
           
             De
             devitijs
             deducant
             Drachmam
             ,
             reddant
             caetera
             .
          
        
         
           Horace
           has
           borrow'd
           several
           things
           from
           these
           Satyrs
           .
           After
           Ennius
           came
           Pacuvius
           ,
           who
           also
           writ
           Satyrs
           in
           Imitation
           of
           his
           Uncle
           Ennius
           .
        
         
           Lucilius
           was
           born
           in
           the
           time
           when
           Pacuvius
           was
           in
           most
           Reputation
           .
           He
           also
           wrote
           Satyrs
           .
           But
           he
           gave
           'm
           a
           new
           turn
           ,
           and
           endeavoured
           to
           imitate
           ,
           as
           near
           as
           he
           could
           ,
           
           the
           Character
           of
           the
           old
           Greek
           Comedy
           ,
           of
           which
           we
           had
           but
           a
           very
           imperfect
           Idea
           in
           the
           ancient
           Roman
           Satyr
           ,
           and
           such
           ,
           as
           one
           might
           find
           in
           a
           Poem
           ,
           which
           Nature
           alone
           had
           dictated
           before
           the
           Romans
           had
           thought
           of
           imitating
           the
           Grecians
           ,
           and
           enriching
           themselves
           with
           their
           Spoils
           .
           'T
           is
           thus
           you
           must
           understand
           this
           Passage
           of
           the
           first
           Satyr
           of
           the
           second
           Book
           of
           Horace
           ,
           
             
               —
               Quid
               ,
               cum
               est
               Lucilius
               ausis
               ,
            
             
               Primus
               in
               hunc
               operis
               componere
               carmina
               morem
               ?
            
          
           Horace
           never
           intended
           by
           this
           to
           say
           ,
           That
           there
           were
           no
           Satyrs
           before
           Lucilius
           ,
           because
           Ennius
           and
           Pacuvius
           were
           before
           him
           ,
           whose
           Example
           he
           followed
           :
           He
           only
           would
           have
           it
           understood
           ,
           That
           Lucilius
           having
           given
           a
           new
           Turn
           to
           this
           Poem
           ,
           and
           embellished
           it
           ,
           ought
           by
           way
           of
           Excellence
           to
           be
           esteemed
           the
           first
           Author
           .
           Quintilian
           had
           the
           same
           Thought
           ,
           when
           he
           writ
           ,
           in
           the
           first
           Chapther
           of
           the
           tenth
           Book
           
             Satira
             quidem
             tota
             nostra
             est
             ,
             in
             qua
             primus
             insignem
             laudem
             adeptus
             est
          
           Lucilius
           .
           You
           must
           not
           therefore
           be
           of
           the
           Opinion
           of
           Casaubon
           ,
           who
           building
           on
           the
           Judgment
           of
           Diomedes
           ,
           thought
           that
           the
           Satyr
           of
           Ennius
           ,
           and
           that
           of
           Lucilius
           were
           entirely
           different
           :
           These
           are
           the
           very
           Words
           of
           this
           Grammarian
           ,
           which
           have
           deceived
           this
           Judicious
           Critick
           .
           
             Satira
             est
             Carmen
             apud
          
           Romanos
           ,
           
             non
             quidem
             apud
          
           Graecos
           
             maledicum
             ,
             ad
             carpenda
             hominum
             vitia
             ,
             Archaeae
             Comoediae
             charactere
             compositum
             ,
             quale
             scripserunt
          
           Lucilius
           &
           Horatius
           ,
           &
           Persius
           .
           
             Sed
             
             olim
             Carmen
             quod
             ex
             variis
             Poematibus
             constabat
             ,
             Satira
             dicebatur
             ,
             quale
             scripserunt
          
           Pacuvius
           &
           Ennius
           .
           You
           may
           see
           plainly
           that
           Diomedes
           distinguishes
           the
           Satyr
           of
           Lucilius
           ,
           from
           that
           of
           Ennius
           ,
           and
           Pacuvius
           ;
           the
           reason
           which
           he
           gives
           for
           this
           Distinction
           ,
           is
           ridiculous
           ,
           and
           absolutely
           false
           :
           The
           good
           Man
           had
           not
           examin'd
           the
           Nature
           and
           Origin
           of
           these
           two
           Satyrs
           ,
           which
           were
           entirely
           like
           one
           another
           ,
           both
           in
           Matter
           and
           Form
           ,
           for
           Lucilius
           added
           to
           it
           only
           a
           little
           Politeness
           ,
           and
           more
           Salt
           ,
           almost
           without
           changing
           any
           thing
           :
           And
           if
           he
           did
           not
           put
           together
           several
           Sorts
           of
           Verse
           in
           the
           same
           Piece
           ,
           as
           Ennius
           has
           done
           ,
           yet
           he
           made
           several
           Pieces
           ,
           of
           which
           some
           were
           entirely
           Hexameters
           ,
           others
           entirely
           Iambics
           ,
           and
           others
           
           Trochaic's
           ,
           as
           is
           evident
           from
           his
           Fragments
           .
           In
           short
           ,
           if
           the
           Satyrs
           of
           Lucilius
           differ
           from
           these
           of
           Ennius
           ,
           because
           the
           former
           has
           added
           much
           to
           the
           Endeavours
           of
           the
           latter
           ,
           as
           Casaubon
           has
           pretended
           ,
           it
           will
           follow
           from
           thence
           ,
           that
           those
           of
           Horace
           ,
           and
           those
           of
           Lucilius
           ,
           are
           also
           entirely
           different
           ,
           for
           Horace
           has
           no
           less
           refin'd
           on
           the
           Satyrs
           of
           Lucilius
           ,
           than
           he
           on
           those
           of
           Ennius
           ,
           and
           Pacuvius
           .
           This
           Passage
           of
           Diomedes
           has
           also
           deceiv'd
           Dousa
           the
           Son.
           I
           say
           not
           this
           to
           expose
           some
           Light
           Faults
           of
           these
           great
           Men
           ,
           but
           only
           to
           shew
           ,
           with
           what
           Exactness
           ,
           and
           with
           what
           Caution
           their
           Works
           must
           be
           read
           ,
           when
           they
           treat
           of
           any
           thing
           so
           Obscure
           ,
           and
           so
           ancient
           .
        
         
           I
           have
           made
           appear
           what
           was
           the
           Ancient
           Satyr
           ,
           that
           was
           made
           for
           the
           Theatre
           ;
           I
           have
           shewn
           ,
           That
           that
           gave
           the
           Idea
           of
           the
           Satyr
           of
           Ennius
           :
           And
           ,
           in
           fine
           ,
           I
           have
           sufficiently
           prov'd
           ,
           that
           the
           Satyrs
           of
           Ennius
           ,
           and
           Pacuvius
           ;
           of
           Lucilius
           ,
           and
           Horace
           ,
           are
           but
           one
           kind
           of
           Poem
           ,
           which
           has
           received
           its
           Perfection
           from
           the
           last
           .
           'T
           is
           Time
           now
           to
           speak
           of
           the
           
           second
           kind
           of
           Satyr
           ,
           which
           I
           promised
           to
           explain
           ,
           and
           which
           is
           also
           derived
           from
           the
           Ancient
           Satyr
           ;
           't
           is
           that
           which
           we
           call
           Varronian
           ,
           or
           the
           Satyr
           of
           Menippus
           ,
           the
           Cinic
           Philosopher
           .
        
         
           This
           Satyr
           was
           not
           only
           composed
           of
           several
           forts
           of
           Verse
           ,
           but
           Varro
           added
           Prose
           to
           it
           ,
           and
           made
           a
           Mixture
           of
           Greek
           and
           
             Latin.
             Quintilian
          
           ,
           after
           he
           had
           spoke
           of
           the
           Satyr
           of
           Lucilius
           ,
           adds
           ,
           
             Alterum
             illud
             est
             ,
             &
             prius
             Satirae
             genus
             ,
             quod
             non
             sola
             Carminum
             varietate
             mistum
             condidit
          
           Terentius
           Varro
           ,
           
             vir
             Romanorum
             Eruditissimus
          
           .
           The
           only
           Difficulty
           of
           this
           Passage
           is
           ,
           that
           Quintilian
           assures
           us
           ,
           that
           this
           Satyr
           of
           Varro
           was
           the
           first
           ,
           for
           how
           could
           that
           be
           ,
           since
           Varro
           was
           a
           great
           while
           after
           
             Lucilius
             ?
             Quintilian
          
           meant
           not
           that
           the
           Satyr
           of
           Varro
           was
           the
           first
           in
           Order
           of
           Time
           ,
           for
           he
           knew
           well
           enough
           ,
           that
           in
           that
           respect
           he
           was
           the
           last
           :
           But
           he
           would
           give
           us
           to
           understand
           ,
           that
           this
           kind
           of
           Satyr
           ,
           so
           mixt
           ,
           was
           more
           like
           the
           Satyr
           of
           Ennius
           ,
           and
           Pacuvius
           ,
           who
           gave
           themselves
           a
           greater
           Liberty
           in
           this
           Composition
           ,
           than
           Lucilius
           ,
           who
           was
           more
           severe
           ,
           and
           correct
           .
        
         
           We
           have
           now
           only
           some
           Fragments
           left
           of
           the
           Satyr
           of
           Varro
           ,
           and
           those
           generally
           very
           imperfect
           ;
           the
           Titles
           ,
           which
           are
           most
           commonly
           double
           ,
           shew
           the
           great
           Variety
           of
           Subjects
           ,
           of
           which
           Varro
           treated
           .
        
         
           
           Seneca's
           Book
           on
           the
           Death
           of
           
             Claudius
             ,
             Boetius
          
           ,
           his
           
             Consolation
             of
             Philosophy
          
           ,
           and
           that
           of
           
             Petronius
             Arbiter
          
           ,
           are
           Satyrs
           entirely
           like
           those
           of
           Varro
           .
        
         
           This
           is
           what
           I
           have
           in
           general
           to
           say
           on
           Satyr
           ;
           nor
           is
           it
           necessary
           I
           insist
           any
           more
           on
           this
           Subject
           .
           This
           the
           Reader
           may
           observe
           ,
           that
           the
           Name
           of
           Satyr
           in
           Latin
           ▪
           is
           not
           less
           proper
           for
           Discourses
           ,
           
           that
           recommend
           Vertue
           ,
           than
           to
           those
           which
           are
           design'd
           against
           Vice.
           It
           had
           nothing
           so
           formidable
           in
           it
           ,
           as
           it
           has
           now
           ,
           when
           a
           bare
           Mention
           of
           Satyr
           makes
           them
           tremble
           ,
           who
           would
           fain
           seem
           what
           they
           are
           not
           ,
           for
           Satyr
           ,
           with
           us
           ,
           signifies
           the
           same
           thing
           ,
           as
           exposing
           ,
           or
           lashing
           of
           some
           thing
           ,
           or
           Person
           :
           Yet
           this
           different
           Acceptation
           alters
           not
           the
           Word
           ,
           which
           is
           always
           the
           same
           ;
           but
           the
           Latins
           in
           the
           Titles
           of
           their
           Books
           ,
           have
           often
           had
           regard
           only
           to
           the
           Word
           ,
           in
           the
           extent
           of
           its
           Signification
           ,
           founded
           on
           its
           Etymology
           ,
           whereas
           we
           have
           had
           respect
           only
           to
           the
           first
           ,
           and
           general
           Use
           ,
           which
           has
           been
           made
           of
           it
           in
           the
           beginning
           to
           mock
           ,
           and
           deride
           ;
           yet
           this
           Word
           ought
           always
           to
           be
           writ
           in
           Latin
           with
           an
           (
           u
           )
           or
           
             (
             i
             )
             Satura
          
           ,
           or
           Satira
           ,
           and
           in
           English
           by
           an
           (
           i
           )
           those
           who
           have
           wrote
           it
           with
           a
           (
           y
           )
           thought
           with
           
             Scaliger
             ,
             Heinsius
          
           ,
           and
           a
           great
           many
           others
           ,
           that
           the
           Divinities
           of
           the
           Groves
           ,
           which
           the
           Grecians
           call'd
           Satyrs
           ,
           the
           
             Romans
             Fawns
          
           ,
           gave
           their
           Names
           to
           these
           Pieces
           ;
           and
           that
           of
           the
           Word
           Satyrus
           they
           had
           made
           Satyra
           ,
           and
           that
           these
           Satyrs
           had
           a
           great
           affinity
           with
           the
           Satyric
           Pieces
           of
           the
           Greeks
           ,
           which
           is
           absolutely
           false
           ,
           as
           Casaubon
           has
           very
           well
           prov'd
           it
           ,
           in
           making
           it
           appear
           ,
           That
           of
           the
           Word
           Satyrus
           they
           could
           never
           make
           Satyra
           ,
           but
           Satyrica
           :
           And
           in
           shewing
           the
           Difference
           betwixt
           the
           Satyric
           Poems
           of
           the
           Greeks
           ,
           and
           the
           Roman
           Satyrs
           .
           Mr.
           Spanheim
           ,
           in
           his
           fine
           Preface
           to
           the
           Caesars
           ,
           concerning
           the
           Emperor
           Iulian
           ,
           has
           added
           new
           Reflections
           to
           those
           which
           this
           Judicious
           Critic
           had
           advanced
           ;
           and
           he
           has
           establish'd
           ,
           with
           a
           great
           deal
           of
           Judgment
           ,
           five
           ,
           or
           six
           essential
           Differences
           ,
           between
           those
           two
           Poems
           ,
           which
           you
           may
           find
           in
           his
           Book
           .
           The
           Greeks
           had
           never
           any
           thing
           that
           came
           near
           this
           Roman
           
           Satyr
           ,
           but
           their
           Silli
           [
           
             〈◊〉
             〈◊〉
             〈◊〉
             〈◊〉
             〈◊〉
          
           ]
           which
           were
           also
           biting
           Poems
           ,
           as
           they
           may
           easily
           be
           perceived
           to
           be
           yet
           ,
           by
           some
           Fragments
           of
           the
           Silli
           of
           Timon
           .
           There
           was
           however
           this
           Difference
           ,
           That
           the
           Silli
           of
           the
           Greeks
           were
           Parodious
           ,
           from
           one
           End
           to
           the
           other
           ,
           which
           cannot
           be
           said
           of
           the
           Roman
           Satyrs
           ;
           where
           ,
           if
           sometimes
           you
           find
           some
           Parodia's
           ,
           you
           may
           plainly
           see
           that
           the
           Poet
           did
           not
           design
           to
           affect
           it
           ,
           and
           by
           consequence
           the
           
           Parodia's
           do
           not
           make
           the
           Essence
           of
           a
           Satyr
           ,
           as
           they
           do
           the
           Essence
           of
           the
           Silli
           .
        
         
           Having
           explain'd
           the
           Nature
           ,
           Origin
           and
           Progress
           of
           Satyr
           ,
           I
           'll
           now
           say
           a
           Word
           ,
           or
           two
           of
           Horace
           in
           particular
           .
        
         
           There
           cannot
           be
           a
           more
           just
           Idea
           given
           of
           this
           part
           of
           his
           Works
           ,
           than
           in
           comparing
           them
           to
           the
           Statues
           of
           the
           Sileni
           ,
           to
           which
           Alcibiades
           in
           the
           Banquet
           ,
           compares
           Socrates
           .
           They
           were
           Figures
           ,
           that
           without
           had
           nothing
           agreeable
           ,
           or
           beautiful
           ,
           but
           when
           you
           took
           the
           Pains
           to
           open
           them
           ,
           you
           found
           the
           Figures
           of
           all
           the
           Gods.
           In
           the
           manner
           that
           Horace
           presents
           himself
           to
           us
           in
           his
           Satyrs
           ,
           we
           discover
           nothing
           of
           him
           at
           first
           ,
           that
           deserves
           our
           Attachment
           .
           He
           seems
           to
           be
           fitter
           to
           amuse
           Children
           than
           to
           employ
           the
           Thoughts
           of
           Men
           ;
           but
           when
           we
           remove
           that
           ,
           which
           hides
           him
           from
           our
           Eyes
           ,
           and
           view
           him
           even
           to
           the
           Bottom
           ,
           we
           find
           in
           him
           all
           the
           Gods
           together
           ;
           that
           is
           to
           say
           ,
           all
           those
           Vertues
           ,
           which
           ought
           to
           be
           the
           continual
           Practice
           of
           such
           as
           seriously
           endeavour
           to
           forsake
           their
           Vices
           .
        
         
           Hitherto
           we
           have
           been
           content
           to
           see
           only
           his
           out-side
           ,
           and
           't
           is
           a
           strange
           thing
           ,
           that
           Satyrs
           ,
           which
           have
           been
           read
           so
           long
           ,
           have
           been
           so
           little
           understood
           ,
           or
           explain'd
           :
           They
           have
           made
           a
           Halt
           at
           the
           
           out-side
           ,
           and
           were
           wholly
           busi'd
           in
           giving
           the
           Interpretation
           of
           Words
           .
           They
           have
           commented
           upon
           him
           like
           Grammarians
           ,
           not
           Philosophers
           ;
           as
           if
           Horace
           had
           writ
           meerly
           to
           have
           his
           Language
           understood
           ,
           and
           rather
           to
           divert
           ,
           than
           instruct
           us
           .
           That
           is
           not
           the
           End
           of
           this
           Work
           of
           his
           .
           The
           end
           of
           any
           Discourse
           is
           the
           Action
           for
           which
           that
           Discourse
           is
           compos'd
           ;
           when
           it
           produces
           no
           Action
           ,
           't
           is
           only
           a
           vain
           amusement
           ,
           which
           idly
           tickles
           the
           Ear
           ,
           without
           ever
           reaching
           the
           Heart
           .
        
         
           In
           these
           two
           Books
           of
           his
           Satyrs
           ,
           Horace
           would
           teach
           us
           ,
           
             to
             conquer
             our
             Vices
             ,
             to
             rule
             our
             Passions
             ,
             to
             follow
             Nature
             ,
             to
             limit
             our
             Desires
             ,
             to
             distinguish
             True
             from
             False
             ,
             and
             Ideas
             from
             Things
             ,
             to
             forsake
             Prejudice
             ,
             to
             know
             throughly
             the
             Principles
             ,
             and
             Motives
             of
             all
             our
             Actions
             ,
             and
             to
             shun
             that
             Folly
             which
             is
             in
             all
             Men
             ,
             who
             are
             bigotted
             to
             the
             Opinions
             they
             have
             imbibed
             under
             their
             Teachers
             ,
             which
             they
             keep
             obstinately
             without
             examining
             whether
             they
             are
             well-grounded
             .
          
           In
           a
           Word
           ,
           
             he
             endeavours
             to
             make
             us
             happy
             for
             our selves
             ,
             agreeable
             ,
             and
             faithful
             to
             our
             Friends
             ,
             easie
             ,
             discreet
             ,
             and
             honest
             to
             all
             ,
             with
             whom
             we
             are
             oblig'd
             to
             live
             .
          
           To
           make
           us
           understand
           the
           Terms
           he
           uses
           ,
           to
           explain
           the
           Figures
           he
           employs
           ,
           and
           to
           conduct
           the
           Reader
           safely
           through
           the
           Labyrinth
           of
           a
           difficult
           Expression
           ,
           or
           obscure
           Parenthesis
           ,
           is
           no
           great
           matter
           to
           perform
           :
           And
           as
           Epictetus
           says
           ,
           there
           is
           nothing
           in
           that
           Beautiful
           ,
           or
           truly
           worthy
           a
           wise
           Man.
           The
           principal
           ,
           and
           most
           important
           Business
           ,
           is
           to
           shew
           the
           Rise
           ,
           the
           Reason
           ,
           and
           the
           Proof
           of
           his
           Precepts
           ,
           to
           demonstrate
           that
           those
           ,
           who
           do
           not
           endeavour
           to
           correct
           themselvs
           by
           so
           beautiful
           a
           Model
           ,
           are
           just
           like
           sick
           Men
           ,
           who
           having
           a
           Book
           full
           of
           Receipts
           ,
           proper
           to
           their
           Distempers
           ,
           content
           themselves
           to
           read
           'em
           ,
           
           without
           comprehending
           them
           ,
           or
           so
           much
           as
           knowing
           the
           Advantage
           of
           them
           .
        
         
           I
           urge
           not
           this
           because
           I
           have
           my self
           omitted
           any
           thing
           in
           these
           Annotations
           ,
           which
           was
           the
           incumbent
           Duty
           of
           a
           Grammarian
           to
           observe
           ;
           this
           ,
           I
           hope
           the
           World
           will
           be
           sensible
           of
           ,
           and
           that
           there
           remains
           no
           more
           Difficulty
           in
           the
           Text.
           But
           that
           which
           has
           been
           my
           chief
           Care
           ,
           is
           ,
           to
           give
           an
           insight
           into
           the
           very
           matter
           ,
           that
           Horace
           treats
           of
           ,
           to
           shew
           the
           solidity
           of
           his
           Reasons
           ,
           to
           discover
           the
           Turns
           he
           makes
           use
           of
           to
           prove
           what
           he
           aims
           at
           ,
           and
           to
           refute
           or
           illude
           that
           which
           is
           opposed
           to
           him
           ,
           to
           confirm
           ,
           the
           Truth
           of
           his
           Decisions
           ,
           to
           make
           the
           Delicacy
           of
           his
           Sentiments
           perceiv'd
           ,
           to
           expose
           to
           open
           Day
           the
           Folly
           he
           finds
           in
           what
           he
           condemns
           .
           This
           is
           what
           none
           have
           done
           before
           me
           .
           On
           the
           contrary
           ,
           as
           Horace
           is
           a
           true
           Proteus
           ,
           that
           takes
           a
           thousand
           different
           Forms
           ,
           they
           have
           often
           lost
           him
           ,
           and
           not
           knowing
           where
           to
           find
           him
           ,
           have
           grapled
           him
           as
           well
           as
           they
           could
           ;
           they
           have
           palm'd
           upon
           him
           in
           several
           Places
           ,
           not
           only
           Opinions
           ,
           which
           he
           had
           not
           ,
           but
           even
           those
           which
           he
           directly
           refutes
           :
           I
           don't
           say
           this
           to
           blame
           those
           who
           have
           taken
           Pains
           before
           me
           on
           the
           Works
           of
           this
           great
           Poet
           ,
           I
           commend
           their
           Endeavours
           ,
           they
           have
           open'd
           me
           the
           way
           ;
           and
           if
           it
           be
           granted
           ,
           that
           I
           have
           some
           little
           Advantage
           over
           them
           ,
           I
           ow
           it
           wholly
           to
           the
           great
           Men
           of
           Antiquity
           ,
           whom
           I
           have
           read
           with
           more
           Care
           ,
           and
           without
           doubt
           with
           more
           Leisure
           .
           I
           speak
           of
           Homer
           ,
           of
           Plato
           ,
           and
           Aristotle
           ,
           and
           of
           some
           other
           Greek
           and
           Latin
           Authors
           ,
           which
           I
           study
           continually
           ,
           that
           I
           may
           form
           my
           taste
           on
           theirs
           ,
           and
           draw
           out
           of
           their
           Writings
           ,
           the
           justness
           of
           Wit
           ,
           good
           Sense
           and
           Reason
           .
        
         
         
           I
           know
           very
           well
           ,
           that
           there
           are
           now
           adays
           some
           Authors
           ,
           who
           laugh
           at
           these
           
             great
             Names
          
           ,
           who
           disallow
           the
           Acclamations
           ,
           which
           they
           have
           receiv'd
           from
           all
           Ages
           ,
           and
           who
           would
           deprive
           them
           of
           the
           Crowns
           ,
           which
           they
           have
           so
           well
           deserv'd
           ,
           and
           which
           they
           have
           got
           before
           such
           August
           Tribunals
           .
           But
           for
           fear
           of
           falling
           into
           Admiration
           ,
           which
           they
           look
           upon
           as
           the
           Child
           of
           Ignorance
           ,
           they
           do
           not
           perceive
           that
           they
           go
           from
           that
           Admiration
           ,
           which
           Plato
           calls
           the
           Mother
           of
           Wisdom
           ,
           and
           which
           was
           the
           first
           that
           opened
           Mens
           Eyes
           .
           I
           do
           not
           wonder
           that
           the
           Celestial
           Beauties
           ,
           which
           we
           find
           in
           the
           Writing
           of
           these
           incomparable
           Men
           ,
           lose
           with
           them
           all
           their
           Attractives
           ,
           and
           Charms
           ,
           because
           they
           have
           not
           the
           Strength
           to
           keep
           their
           Eyes
           long
           enough
           upon
           them
           .
           Besides
           ,
           it
           is
           much
           easier
           to
           despise
           than
           understand
           them
           .
           As
           for
           my self
           ,
           I
           declare
           ,
           that
           I
           am
           full
           of
           Admiration
           ,
           and
           Veneration
           for
           their
           Divine
           Geniusses
           :
           I
           have
           them
           always
           before
           my
           Eyes
           ,
           as
           Venerable
           and
           Incorruptible
           Judges
           ;
           before
           whom
           I
           take
           pleasure
           to
           fancy
           ,
           That
           I
           ought
           to
           give
           an
           account
           of
           my
           Writings
           .
           At
           the
           same
           Time
           I
           have
           a
           great
           Respect
           for
           Posterity
           ,
           and
           I
           always
           think
           with
           more
           Fear
           ,
           than
           Confidence
           ,
           on
           the
           Judgment
           that
           will
           pass
           on
           my
           Works
           ,
           if
           they
           are
           happy
           enough
           to
           reach
           it
           .
           All
           this
           does
           not
           hinder
           me
           from
           esteeming
           the
           great
           Men
           that
           live
           now
           .
           I
           acknowledge
           that
           there
           are
           a
           great
           many
           who
           are
           an
           Honour
           to
           our
           Age
           ,
           and
           who
           wou'd
           have
           adorn'd
           the
           Ages
           pass'd
           .
           But
           amongst
           these
           great
           Men
           ,
           I
           speak
           of
           ,
           I
           do
           not
           know
           one
           ,
           and
           there
           cannot
           be
           one
           ,
           who
           does
           not
           esteem
           ,
           and
           honour
           the
           Ancients
           ,
           who
           is
           not
           of
           their
           taste
           ,
           and
           who
           follows
           not
           their
           Rules
           .
           If
           you
           go
           never
           so
           little
           from
           them
           ,
           you
           
           go
           at
           the
           same
           time
           from
           Nature
           and
           Truth
           ;
           and
           I
           shall
           not
           be
           affraid
           to
           affirm
           ,
           that
           it
           wou'd
           not
           be
           more
           difficult
           to
           see
           without
           Eyes
           ,
           or
           Light
           ,
           than
           't
           is
           impossible
           to
           acquire
           a
           solid
           Merit
           ,
           and
           to
           form
           the
           Understanding
           by
           other
           means
           ,
           than
           by
           those
           ,
           that
           the
           Greeks
           ,
           and
           Romans
           have
           trac'd
           for
           us
           .
           Whether
           it
           be
           that
           we
           follow
           them
           by
           the
           only
           force
           of
           Natural
           Happiness
           ,
           or
           Instinct
           ,
           or
           that
           Art
           ,
           and
           Study
           have
           conducted
           us
           thither
           .
           As
           for
           those
           who
           thus
           blame
           Antiquity
           ,
           without
           knowing
           of
           it
           ,
           once
           for
           all
           I
           'll
           undeceive
           them
           ,
           and
           make
           it
           appear
           ,
           that
           in
           giving
           all
           the
           advantage
           to
           our
           Age
           ,
           they
           take
           the
           direct
           Course
           to
           dishonour
           it
           ;
           for
           what
           greater
           Proofs
           can
           be
           of
           the
           Rudeness
           ,
           or
           rather
           Barbarity
           of
           an
           Age
           ,
           than
           in
           it
           ,
           to
           hear
           Homer
           called
           dull
           ,
           and
           heavy
           ,
           Plato
           tiresome
           ,
           and
           tedious
           ,
           Aristotle
           ignorant
           ,
           Demosthenes
           and
           Cicero
           ,
           vulgar
           Orators
           ,
           Virgil
           a
           Poet
           without
           either
           Grace
           ,
           or
           Beauty
           ,
           and
           Horace
           an
           Author
           unpolished
           ,
           languid
           ,
           and
           without
           force
           ?
           The
           Barbarians
           who
           ravag'd
           Greece
           ,
           and
           Italy
           ,
           and
           who
           laboured
           with
           so
           much
           fury
           to
           destroy
           all
           things
           that
           were
           fine
           and
           noble
           ,
           have
           never
           done
           any
           thing
           so
           horrible
           as
           this
           .
           But
           I
           hope
           that
           the
           false
           taste
           of
           some
           particular
           Men
           without
           Authority
           ,
           will
           not
           be
           imputed
           to
           the
           whole
           Age
           ,
           nor
           give
           the
           least
           Blemish
           to
           the
           Ancients
           .
           'T
           was
           to
           no
           purpose
           that
           a
           certain
           Emperor
           declar'd
           himself
           an
           Enemy
           to
           
             Homer
             ,
             Virgil
          
           and
           
             Titus
             Livius
          
           .
           All
           his
           Efforts
           were
           ineffectual
           ,
           and
           the
           Oppsition
           he
           made
           to
           Works
           so
           perfect
           ,
           serv'd
           only
           to
           augment
           in
           his
           History
           the
           number
           of
           his
           Follies
           ,
           and
           render
           him
           more
           odious
           to
           all
           Posterity
           .
        
      
       
         
         
           The
           INDEX
           .
        
         
           
             A
             Letter
             from
             Mr.
             Prior
             ,
             to
             Mr.
             
               Fleetwood
               Sheppard
            
             .
             page
             .
             1.
             
          
           
             Horace
             ,
             Lib.
             2.
             
             Ode
             
               14.
               
               Imitated
               by
               Mr.
            
             Congreve
             .
             12
          
           
             An
             Ode
             in
             imitation
             of
             Horace
             ,
             Ode
             9.
             lib.
             1.
             by
             the
             same
             .
             17
          
           
             Horace
             Ode
             27.
             
             Book
             1.
             imitated
             .
             22
          
           
             On
             a
             Lady
             who
             deny'd
             him
             entrance
             into
             her
             Closet
             .
             24
          
           
             King
             Charles
             the
             First
             Lot
             at
             
               Sortes
               Virgilianae
            
             ,
             Translated
             by
             Mr.
             
               Cowly
               .
               26
            
          
           
             The
             Deists
             Plea
             Answer'd
             by
             the
             Honourable
             
               Robert
               Boyl
            
             
               Esq
            
             27
          
           
             Iulii
             Mazarini
             Cardinalis
             Epitaphium
             ,
             Authore
             
               Joh.
               Milton
               .
               29
            
          
           
             In
             
               Urbanum
               VIII
            
             .
             P.
             M.
             33
          
           
             Epitaph
             on
             Felton
             by
             the
             Duke
             of
             Buckingham
             ,
             Ibid.
             
          
           
             Vpon
             a
             Ladies
             Singing
             ,
             by
             Mr.
             
               Congreve
               .
               35
            
          
           
             Advice
             about
             Marriage
             ,
             in
             imitation
             of
             a
             French
             Satyr
             ,
             by
             Mr.
             
               Tho.
               Brown.
               40
            
          
           
             Part
             of
             a
             Panegyric
             upon
             Colonel
             Walker
             of
             Londonderry
             ,
             by
             the
             same
             .
             43
          
           
             Carolo
             Martyri
             Sacrum
             ,
             Authore
             
               Tho.
               Brown.
               44
            
          
           
             Catch
             by
             Mr.
             
               Taverner
               .
               45
            
          
           
             The
             Beaux
             ,
             by
             Mr.
             Brown.
             Ibid
             ,
          
           
             The
             Repenting
             Husband
             ,
             or
             a
             Satyr
             upon
             Marriage
             ,
             by
             
               S.
               W.
               47
            
          
           
             Vpon
             the
             Duke
             of
             
             Buckingham's
             Retirement
             ,
             by
             Madam
             
               Wharton
               .
               54
            
          
           
             Petronius
             Arbiter
             .
             Qui
             Pelago
             Credit
             .
             60
          
           
             
             Song
             by
             
               Henry
               Cromwel
            
             ,
             
               Esq
            
             61
          
           
             Vpon
             the
             Art
             of
             Love
             ,
             a
             Book
             presented
             to
             a
             Lady
             ,
             by
             the
             same
             .
             62
          
           
             A
             Song
             by
             the
             same
             .
             63
          
           
             The
             Decay
             a
             Song
             ,
             by
             Mr.
             
               W.
               C.
               64
            
          
           
             Song
             by
             Mr.
             
               S.
               65
            
          
           
             By
             the
             same
             a
             Song
             .
             66
          
           
             Song
             by
             
               Tho.
               Ch
            
             —
             
               Esq
            
             68
          
           
             Song
             by
             the
             same
             .
             69
          
           
             The
             Message
             a
             Song
             ,
             by
             
               W.
               C.
               71
            
          
           
             By
             
               Henry
               Cromwel
            
             ,
             
               Esq
            
             Martial
             .
             Epi.
             de
             morte
             Festi
             .
             72
          
           
             A
             Catch
             .
             74
          
           
             A
             Letter
             from
             
               Hen.
               Cr
            
             —
             
               Esq
            
             to
             
               Tho.
               Ch.
            
             —
             
               Esq
            
             for
             Women
             against
             Wine
             .
             75
          
           
             An
             Answer
             to
             the
             foregoing
             Letter
             ,
             by
             
               Tho.
               Ch
            
             —
             
               Esq
            
             for
             Wine
             .
             77
          
           
             Song
             by
             
               Henry
               Cromwel
            
             ,
             
               Esq
            
             82
          
           
             An
             Invitation
             to
             the
             Music
             Meeting
             ,
             by
             the
             same
             .
             83
          
           
             On
             a
             Conventicle
             ,
             by
             Mrs.
             
               Behn
               .
               84
            
          
           
             Verses
             design'd
             by
             Mrs.
             Behn
             to
             be
             sent
             to
             a
             fair
             Lady
             ,
             
               &c.
               85
            
          
           
             Venus
             and
             Cupid
             ,
             by
             the
             same
             .
             86
          
           
             The
             old
             Man's
             Complaint
             ,
             by
             Mr.
             
               Wells
               .
               90
            
          
           
             Vpon
             Marriage
             ,
             by
             Dr.
             
               N.
               92
            
          
           
             A
             Song
             by
             Mr.
             
               J.
               S.
            
             of
             the
             
               Middle
               Temple
               .
               93.
            
             
          
           
             To
             Sylvia
             a
             Song
             ,
             by
             
               C.
               G.
               94
            
          
           
             To
             Sylvia
             the
             Meeting
             ,
             by
             the
             same
             .
             96
          
           
             The
             beginning
             of
             the
             first
             Satyr
             of
             Persius
             Imitated
             ,
             by
             the
             same
             .
             99
          
           
             On
             Affairs
             abroad
             ,
             and
             King
             
             William's
             Expedition
             ,
             by
             Mr.
             
               Durfey
               .
               107
            
          
           
             On
             my
             Lord
             Fairfax
             ,
             by
             the
             late
             Duke
             of
             
               Buckingham
               .
               109
            
          
        
      
    
     
       
         
         
           POEMS
           ,
           &c.
           
        
         
           
             A
             Letter
             from
             Mr.
             Prior
             ,
             to
             Mr.
             
               Fleetwood
               Sheppard
            
             .
          
           
             
               SIR
               ,
            
          
           
             AS
             once
             a
             Twelve
             month
             to
             the
             Priest
             ,
          
           
             Whom
             some
             call
             Pope
             ,
             some
             Antichrist
             ,
          
           
             The
             Spanish
             Monarch
             sends
             a
             Gennet
             ,
          
           
             To
             shew
             his
             Love
             ,
             that
             's
             all
             that
             's
             in
             it
             :
          
           
             For
             if
             his
             Holiness
             would
             thump
          
           
             His
             Rev'rend
             Bum
             'gainst
             Horses
             Rump
             ,
          
           
             He
             might
             be
             '
             quip'd
             from
             his
             own
             Stable
          
           
             With
             one
             more
             White
             ,
             and
             eke
             more
             able
             .
          
           
           
             Or
             as
             with
             Gondola's
             and
             Men
             ,
             his
          
           
             Good
             Excellence
             the
             Duke
             of
             Venice
             ,
          
           
             (
             I
             wish
             for
             Rhime
             '
             thad
             been
             the
             King
             )
          
           
             Sails
             out
             ,
             and
             gives
             the
             Sea
             a
             Ring
             :
          
           
             Which
             Trick
             of
             State
             he
             wisely
             maintains
             ,
          
           
             Keeps
             Kindness
             up
             'twixt
             old
             Acquaintance
             ;
          
           
             For
             else
             ,
             in
             honest
             Truth
             ,
             the
             Sea
          
           
             Has
             much
             less
             need
             of
             Gold
             than
             he
             .
          
           
             Or
             ,
             not
             to
             rove
             and
             pump
             ones
             Fancy
             ,
          
           
             For
             Popish
             Similies
             beyond
             Sea
             ;
          
           
             As
             Folks
             from
             Mud-wall'd
             Tenement
          
           
             Bring
             Land-Lords
             Pepper-Corn
             for
             Rent
             ,
          
           
             Present
             a
             Turkey
             or
             a
             Hen
          
           
             To
             those
             might
             better
             spare
             them
             Ten
             :
          
           
             Ev'n
             so
             ,
             with
             all
             Submission
             ,
             I
          
           
             (
             For
             first
             Men
             instance
             ,
             than
             apply
             )
          
           
             Send
             you
             each
             Year
             a
             homely
             Letter
             ,
          
           
             Who
             may
             return
             me
             much
             a
             better
             .
          
           
           
             Then
             take
             it
             ,
             Sir
             ,
             as
             it
             was
             writ
             ,
          
           
             To
             pay
             Respect
             ,
             and
             not
             show
             Wit
             :
          
           
             Nor
             look
             askew
             at
             what
             it
             saith
             ,
          
           
             There
             's
             no
             Petition
             in
             it
             —
             Faith.
          
           
             Here
             some
             would
             scratch
             their
             Heads
             and
             try
          
           
             What
             they
             should
             write
             ,
             and
             how
             ,
             and
             why
             ;
          
           
             But
             I
             conceive
             such
             Folks
             are
             quite
             in
          
           
             Mistakes
             ,
             in
             Theory
             of
             Writing
             :
          
           
             If
             once
             for
             Principles
             't
             is
             laid
          
           
             That
             Thought
             is
             Trouble
             to
             the
             Head
             ;
          
           
             I
             argue
             thus
             ,
             the
             World
             agrees
             ,
          
           
             That
             he
             writes
             well
             ,
             who
             writes
             with
             Ease
             ;
          
           
             Then
             he
             ,
             by
             Sequel
             Logical
             ,
          
           
             Writes
             best
             ,
             who
             never
             thinks
             at
             all
             .
          
           
             Verse
             comes
             from
             Heav'n
             ,
             like
             Inward
             Light
             ,
          
           
             Meer
             Human
             Pains
             can
             ne're
             come
             by
             it
             .
          
           
             The
             God
             ,
             not
             we
             ,
             the
             Poem
             makes
             ,
          
           
             We
             only
             tell
             Folks
             what
             he
             Speaks
             .
          
           
           
             Hence
             when
             Anatomists
             discourse
          
           
             How
             like
             Brutes
             Organs
             are
             to
             ours
             ;
          
           
             They
             grant
             ,
             if
             higher
             Powers
             think
             fit
             ,
          
           
             A
             Bear
             might
             soon
             be
             made
             a
             Wit
             :
          
           
             And
             that
             ,
             for
             any
             thing
             in
             Nature
             ,
          
           
             Pigs
             might
             squeak
             Love-Odes
             ,
             Dogs
             bark
             Satyr
             .
          
           
             Memnon
             ,
             tho'
             Stone
             ,
             was
             counted
             Vocal
             ,
          
           
             But
             't
             was
             the
             God
             ,
             mean
             while
             ,
             that
             spoke
             all
             .
          
           
             Rome
             oft'
             has
             heard
             a
             Cross
             haranguing
             ,
          
           
             With
             prompting
             Priest
             behind
             the
             Hanging
             ;
          
           
             The
             Wooden
             Head
             resolv'd
             the
             Question
             ,
          
           
             Whilst
             you
             and
             Pettys
             help'd
             the
             Jest
             on
             .
          
           
             Your
             crabbed
             Rogues
             that
             read
             Lucretius
             ,
          
           
             Are
             against
             Gods
             ,
             you
             know
             ,
             and
             teach
             us
             ,
          
           
             The
             God
             makes
             not
             the
             Poet
             ,
             but
          
           
             The
             Thesis
             
               vice
               versa
            
             put
          
           
             Should
             Hebrew-wise
             be
             understood
             ,
          
           
             And
             means
             the
             Poet
             makes
             the
             God.
          
           
           
             
               Egyptian
               Gard'ners
            
             thus
             are
             said
             to
          
           
             Have
             set
             the
             Leeks
             they
             after
             pray'd
             to
             :
          
           
             And
             Romish
             Bakers
             praise
             the
             Deity
          
           
             They
             chip'd
             ,
             whilst
             yet
             in
             it's
             Paniety
             .
          
           
             That
             when
             you
             Poets
             Swear
             and
             Cry
          
           
             The
             God
             Inspires
             ,
             I
             rave
             ,
             I
             die
             ;
          
           
             If
             inward
             Wind
             does
             truly
             swell
             ye
             ,
          
           
             'T
             must
             be
             the
             Colick
             in
             the
             Belly
             .
          
           
             That
             Writing
             is
             but
             just
             like
             Dice
             ,
          
           
             And
             lucky
             Mains
             make
             People
             Wise
             :
          
           
             That
             jumbled
             Words
             ,
             If
             Fortune
             throw
             'em
             ,
          
           
             Can
             well
             as
             Dryden
             form
             a
             Poem
             ;
          
           
             Or
             make
             a
             Speech
             correct
             and
             witty
             ,
          
           
             As
             you
             know
             who
             —
             at
             the
             Committee
             :
          
           
             So
             Atoms
             dancing
             round
             the
             Centre
             ,
          
           
             They
             urge
             ,
             form'd
             all
             things
             at
             a
             venture
             .
          
           
             But
             granting
             Matters
             should
             be
             spoke
          
           
             By
             Method
             rather
             than
             by
             Luck
             ,
          
           
           
             This
             may
             confine
             their
             younger
             Styles
             ,
          
           
             Whom
             
               Dr
               —
               n
            
             pedagogues
             at
             Wills
             :
          
           
             But
             never
             could
             be
             meant
             to
             tye
          
           
             Authentick
             Wits
             ,
             like
             you
             and
             I
             :
          
           
             For
             as
             young
             Children
             who
             are
             try'd
             in
          
           
             Go
             Carts
             to
             keep
             their
             Steps
             from
             Sliding
             ;
          
           
             When
             Members
             knit
             ,
             and
             Legs
             grow
             stronger
             ,
          
           
             Make
             use
             of
             such
             Machine
             no
             longer
             ,
          
           
             But
             leap
             ,
             
               pro
               libitu
            
             ,
             and
             scout
          
           
             On
             Horse
             call'd
             Hobby
             ,
             or
             without
             :
          
           
             So
             when
             at
             School
             we
             first
             declaim
             ,
          
           
             Old
             Busby
             walks
             us
             in
             a
             Theme
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             Props
             support
             our
             Infant
             Vein
             ,
          
           
             And
             help
             the
             Rickets
             in
             the
             Brain
             :
          
           
             But
             when
             our
             Souls
             their
             Force
             dilate
             ,
          
           
             And
             Thoughts
             grow
             up
             to
             Wits
             Estate
             ,
          
           
             In
             Verse
             or
             Prose
             we
             Write
             or
             Chat
             ,
          
           
             Not
             Six
             Pence
             Matter
             upon
             what
             .
          
           
           
             'T
             is
             not
             how
             well
             a
             Writer
             says
             ,
          
           
             But
             't
             is
             how
             much
             that
             gathers
             Praise
             :
          
           
             
               T
               —
               n
            
             ,
             who
             is
             himself
             a
             Wit
             ,
          
           
             Counts
             Authors
             Merits
             by
             the
             Sheet
             ;
          
           
             Thus
             each
             should
             down
             with
             all
             he
             thinks
             ,
          
           
             As
             Boys
             eat
             Bread
             to
             fill
             up
             Chinks
             .
          
           
             Kind
             Sir
             ,
             I
             should
             be
             glad
             to
             see
             you
             ,
          
           
             I
             hope
             you
             're
             well
             ,
             so
             God
             be
             with
             y'
             ,
          
           
             Was
             all
             at
             first
             I
             thought
             to
             write
             ,
          
           
             But
             Things
             since
             that
             are
             alter'd
             quite
             ;
          
           
             Fancies
             flow
             in
             ,
             and
             Muse
             flies
             high
             ,
          
           
             So
             God
             knows
             when
             my
             Clack
             will
             lie
             ;
          
           
             I
             must
             ,
             Sir
             ,
             prattle
             on
             as
             afore
             ,
          
           
             And
             beg
             your
             Pardon
             yet
             this
             half
             Hour
             .
          
           
             So
             ,
             where
             I
             've
             with
             my
             Gran'am
             gone
             ,
          
           
             At
             Sacred
             Barne
             of
             pure
             Noncon
             —
          
           
             When
             Lobb
             has
             sifted
             all
             his
             Text
             ,
          
           
             And
             I
             well
             hop'd
             the
             Pudding
             next
             ,
          
           
           
             The
             Rogue
             has
             cough'd
             up
             to'ther
             Hour
             ,
          
           
             And
             to
             apply
             has
             plagu'd
             me
             more
          
           
             Than
             all
             his
             Villain
             Stuff
             before
             .
          
           
             For
             your
             Religion
             ,
             then
             ,
             I
             hear
          
           
             A
             very
             good
             Account
             of
             her
             ;
          
           
             They
             say
             she
             's
             honest
             as
             your
             Claret
             ,
          
           
             Not
             sowr'd
             with
             Cant
             ,
             nor
             stum'd
             with
             Merit
             ,
          
           
             Your
             Chamber
             is
             the
             sole
             retreat
          
           
             Of
             Chaplains
             ev'ry
             
             Sunday-Night
             ,
          
           
             Of
             Grace
             no
             Doubt
             a
             certain
             Sign
             ,
          
           
             When
             Lay-Man
             herds
             with
             Man
             Divine
             ;
          
           
             For
             if
             their
             Fame
             be
             justly
             high
             ,
             who
          
           
             Would
             never
             treat
             the
             Pope's
             Nuncio
             ,
          
           
             That
             his
             is
             higher
             ,
             we
             must
             grant
             ,
          
           
             Who
             will
             treat
             Nuncio's
             Protestant
             .
          
           
             In
             Politicks
             ,
             I
             hear
             ,
             you
             'r
             stanch
             ,
          
           
             Directly
             bent
             against
             the
             French
             ,
          
           
             Deny
             to
             have
             your
             free-born
             Toe
          
           
             Dragoon'd
             into
             a
             Wooden
             Shoe
             ,
          
           
           
             Are
             in
             no
             Plots
             ,
             but
             fairly
             drive
             at
          
           
             The
             Publick
             Welfare
             in
             your
             Private
             ,
          
           
             And
             will
             for
             
             England's
             Glory
             try
          
           
             
               Turks
               ,
               Iews
            
             and
             Iesuits
             ,
             to
             defie
             ,
          
           
             And
             keep
             your
             Places
             till
             you
             die
             .
          
           
             For
             me
             ,
             whom
             wand'ring
             Fortune
             threw
          
           
             From
             what
             I
             lov'd
             ,
             the
             Town
             and
             you
             ,
          
           
             Let
             me
             just
             tell
             you
             how
             my
             Time
             is
          
           
             Past
             in
             a
             Country-Life
             —
             Imprimis
             .
          
           
             As
             soon
             as
             
             Phaebus's
             Rays
             inspect
             Us
             ,
          
           
             I
             rise
             to
             Read
             ,
             perhaps
             to
             Breakfast
             ,
          
           
             So
             on
             till
             '
             foresaid
             God
             does
             Set
             ,
          
           
             I
             sometimes
             Study
             ,
             sometimes
             Eat
             ;
          
           
             Thus
             of
             your
             Heroes
             and
             Brave
             Boys
             ,
          
           
             With
             whom
             Old
             Homer
             makes
             such
             Noise
             ,
          
           
             The
             greatest
             Actions
             I
             can
             find
             ,
          
           
             Are
             ,
             that
             they
             did
             their
             Work
             and
             Din'd
             .
          
           
             The
             Books
             of
             which
             I
             'm
             chiefly
             fond
             ,
          
           
             Are
             such
             as
             you
             have
             whilom
             con'd
             ,
          
           
           
             That
             Treat
             of
             
             China's
             Civil-Law
             ,
          
           
             And
             Subjects
             Rights
             in
             Golconda
             :
          
           
             Of
             High-way
             Elephants
             at
             Ceylan
             ,
          
           
             That
             Rob
             in
             Clans
             ,
             like
             Men
             o'
             th'
             High
             Land.
          
           
             Of
             Apes
             that
             Storm
             or
             Keep
             a
             Town
          
           
             Better
             ,
             perhaps
             ,
             than
             Count
             Lausune
             :
          
           
             Of
             Unicorns
             and
             Alligators
             ,
          
           
             Elks
             ,
             Mermaids
             ,
             Mummies
             ,
             Witches
             ,
             Satyrs
             ,
          
           
             And
             Twenty
             other
             stranger
             Matters
             :
          
           
             Which
             ,
             tho'
             they
             'r
             things
             I
             've
             no
             concern
             in
             ,
          
           
             Make
             all
             our
             Grooms
             admire
             my
             Learning
             .
          
           
             Criticks
             I
             Read
             on
             other
             Men
             ,
          
           
             And
             Hypers
             upon
             them
             again
             ,
          
           
             From
             whose
             Remarks
             I
             give
             Opinion
          
           
             On
             Twenty
             Books
             ,
             yet
             ne'r
             look
             in
             One
             :
          
           
             Then
             all
             your
             Wits
             that
             fleer
             and
             Sham
             ,
          
           
             Down
             from
             
               Don
               Quixot
            
             to
             
               Tom
               Tram
            
             ;
          
           
             From
             whom
             I
             Jeasts
             and
             Puns
             Purloin
             ,
          
           
           
             And
             slily
             put
             'em
             off
             for
             Mine
             .
          
           
             Fond
             to
             be
             thought
             a
             Country-Wit
             ,
          
           
             The
             rest
             when
             Fate
             and
             You
             think
             fit
             .
          
           
             Sometimes
             I
             climb
             my
             Mare
             ,
             and
             kick
             her
             ,
          
           
             To
             Bottled
             Ale
             ,
             and
             Neighb'ring
             Vicar
             ;
          
           
             Sometimes
             at
             Stamford
             take
             a
             Quart
             ,
          
           
             '
             Squire
             
             Sheppard's
             Health
             with
             all
             my
             Heart
             .
          
           
             Thus
             far
             from
             Pleasure
             ,
             Sir
             ,
             or
             Grief
             ,
          
           
             I
             fool
             away
             an
             Idle
             Life
             ,
          
           
             Till
             Mr.
             Maidwell
             cease
             to
             Teach
             ,
          
           
             Then
             I
             'll
             Jerk
             Youth
             ,
             and
             say
             Inspeech
             ;
          
           
             Or
             Shadwell
             from
             the
             Town
             retires
             ,
          
           
             Choak'd
             up
             with
             Fame
             and
             Sea-Coal-Fires
             ,
          
           
             To
             bless
             the
             Woods
             with
             Peaceful
             Lyric
             ,
          
           
             Then
             hey
             !
             for
             Praise
             and
             Panegyric
             ;
          
           
             Justice
             restord
             ,
             and
             Nations
             free'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             Wreaths
             round
             
             William's
             Glorious
             Head.
             
          
        
         
           
           
             HORACE
             ,
             Lib.
             II.
             Ode
             14.
             
             Imitated
             by
             Mr.
             Congreve
             .
          
           
             
               Eheu
               Fugaces
               ,
               Posthume
               ,
               Posthume
               ,
               Labuntur
               Anni
               ,
               &c.
               
            
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               AH
               !
               No
               ,
               't
               is
               all
               in
               vain
               ,
               believe
               me
               't
               is
            
             
               '
               This
               Pious
               Artifice
               .
            
             
               Not
               all
               these
               Prayers
               and
               Alms
               ,
               can
               Buy
            
             
               One
               Moment
               tow'rd
               Eternity
               .
            
             
               Eternity
               !
               that
               boundless
               Race
               ,
            
             
               Which
               ,
               Time
               himself
               can
               never
               run
               :
            
             
               (
               Swift
               ,
               as
               he
               flies
               ,
               with
               an
               unweari'd
               pace
               ,
               )
            
             
               Which
               ,
               when
               Ten
               Thousand
               ,
               Thousand
               Years
               are
               done
               ,
            
             
               Is
               still
               the
               same
               ,
               and
               still
               to
               be
               begun
               .
            
             
               Fix'd
               are
               those
               Limits
               ,
               which
               prescribe
            
             
               A
               short
               Extent
               to
               the
               most
               lasting
               Breath
               ,
            
             
             
               And
               though
               thou
               couldst
               for
               Sacrifice
               ,
               lay
               down
            
             
               Millions
               of
               other
               Lives
               to
               save
               thine
               own
               ;
            
             
               'T
               were
               fruitless
               all
               ;
               not
               all
               would
               Bribe
            
             
               One
               Supernumerary
               Gasp
               from
               Death
               .
            
          
           
             
               II.
               
            
             
               In
               vain
               's
               thy
               Inexhausted
               Store
            
             
               Of
               Wealth
               ,
               in
               vain
               thy
               Pow'r
               ,
            
             
               Thy
               Honours
               ,
               Titles
               ;
               all
               must
               fail
               ,
            
             
               Where
               Piety
               it self
               does
               nought
               avail
               .
            
             
               The
               Rich
               ,
               the
               Great
               ,
               the
               Innocent
               and
               Just
               ,
            
             
               Must
               all
               be
               huddl'd
               to
               the
               Grave
               ,
            
             
               With
               the
               most
               Vile
               and
               Ignominious
               Slave
               ,
            
             
               And
               undistinguish'd
               lie
               in
               Dust.
            
             
               In
               vain
               ,
               the
               Fearful
               ,
               flies
               Alarms
               ,
            
             
               In
               vain
               ,
               he
               is
               secure
               ,
               from
               wounds
               of
               Arms
               ,
            
             
               In
               vain
               ,
               avoids
               the
               Faithless
               Seas
               ,
            
             
               And
               is
               confin'd
               to
               Home
               and
               Ease
               ,
            
             
               Bounding
               his
               Knowledg
               ,
               to
               extend
               his
               Days
               .
            
             
             
               In
               vain
               ,
               are
               all
               those
               Arts
               we
               try
               ,
            
             
               All
               our
               Evasions
               ,
               and
               Regret
               to
               Die
               :
            
             
               From
               the
               Contagion
               of
               Mortality
               ,
            
             
               No
               Clime
               is
               pure
               ,
               no
               Air
               is
               free
               :
            
             
               And
               no
               Retreat
            
             
               Is
               so
               Obscure
               ,
               as
               to
               be
               hid
               from
               Fate
               .
            
          
           
             
               III.
               
            
             
               Thou
               must
               ,
               alas
               !
               thou
               must
               my
               Friend
               ;
            
             
               (
               The
               very
               Hour
               thou
               now
               dost
               spend
            
             
               In
               studying
               to
               avoid
               ,
               brings
               on
               thine
               end
               ,
               )
            
             
               Thou
               must
               forego
               the
               dearest
               Joys
               of
               Life
               ;
            
             
               Leave
               the
               warm
               Bosome
               of
               thy
               tender
               Wife
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               the
               much
               lov'd
               Offspring
               of
               her
               Womb
               ,
            
             
               To
               molder
               in
               the
               Cold
               Embraces
               of
               a
               Tomb.
            
             
               All
               must
               be
               left
               ,
               and
               all
               be
               lost
               ;
            
             
               Thy
               House
               ,
               whose
               stately
               Structure
               so
               much
               cost
               ,
            
             
             
               Shall
               not
               afford
            
             
               Room
               for
               the
               stinking
               Carkass
               of
               its
               Lord.
            
             
               Of
               all
               thy
               pleasant
               Gardens
               ,
               Grots
               ,
               and
               Bowers
               ,
            
             
               Thy
               Costly
               Fruits
               ,
               thy
               far-fetch'd
               Plants
               and
               Flow'rs
               :
            
             
               Nought
               shalt
               thou
               save
               ;
            
             
               Unless
               a
               Sprig
               of
               Rosemary
               thou
               have
               ,
            
             
               To
               wither
               with
               thee
               in
               the
               Grave
               :
            
             
               The
               rest
               shall
               live
               and
               flourish
               ,
               to
               upbraid
            
             
               Their
               Transitory
               Master
               Dead
               .
            
          
           
             
               IV.
               
            
             
               Then
               shall
               thy
               long-expecting
               Heir
               ,
            
             
               A
               Joyful
               Mourning
               wear
               :
            
             
               And
               Riot
               in
               the
               waste
               of
               that
               Estate
            
             
               Which
               thou
               hast
               taken
               so
               much
               pains
               to
               get
               .
            
             
               All
               thy
               hid
               Stores
               he
               shall
               unsold
               ,
            
             
               And
               set
               at
               large
               thy
               Captiv'd
               Gold.
            
             
             
               That
               precious
               Wine
               ,
               condemn'd
               by
               thee
            
             
               To
               Vaults
               and
               Prisons
               ,
               shall
               again
               be
               free
               :
            
             
               Buried
               alive
               ,
               tho'
               now
               it
               lies
               ,
            
             
               Again't
               shall
               rise
               ,
            
             
               Again
               its
               sparkling
               Surface
               show
               ,
            
             
               And
               free
               as
               Element
               ,
               profusely
               flow
               .
            
             
               With
               such
               choice
               Food
               he
               shall
               set
               forth
               his
               Feasts
               ,
            
             
               That
               Cardinals
               shall
               wish
               to
               be
               his
               Guests
               ;
            
             
               And
               pamper'd
               Prelates
               see
            
             
               Themselves
               out-done
               in
               Luxury
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             An
             ODE
             ,
             In
             imitation
             of
             HORACE
             ,
             Ode
             IX
             .
             Lib.
             1.
             
          
           
             By
             Mr.
             CONGREVE
             .
          
           
             
               Vides
               ut
               alta
               ,
               &c.
               —
            
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               BLess
               me
               ,
               't
               is
               cold
               !
               how
               I
               hill
               the
               Air
               ?
            
             
               How
               naked
               does
               the
               World
               appear
               !
            
             
               But
               see
               (
               big
               with
               the
               Off-spring
               of
               the
               North
               )
            
             
               The
               teeming
               Clouds
               bring
               forth
               .
            
             
               A
               Show'r
               of
               soft
               and
               fleecy
               Rain
               ,
            
             
               Falls
               ,
               to
               new-cloath
               the
               Earth
               again
               .
            
             
               Behold
               the
               Mountain-Tops
               ,
               around
               ,
            
             
               As
               if
               with
               Fur
               of
               Ermins
               crown'd
               :
            
             
               And
               lo
               !
               how
               by
               degrees
            
             
               The
               universal
               Mantle
               hides
               the
               Trees
               ,
            
             
             
               In
               hoary
               Flakes
               ,
               which
               downward
               fly
               ,
            
             
               As
               if
               it
               were
               the
               Autumn
               of
               the
               Sky
               ;
            
             
               Whose
               Fall
               of
               Leaf
               would
               theirs
               supply
               :
            
             
               Trembling
               ,
               the
               Groves
               sustain
               the
               Weight
               ,
               and
               bow
            
             
               Like
               aged
               Limbs
               ,
               which
               feebly
               go
            
             
               Beneath
               a
               venerable
               Head
               of
               Snow
               .
            
          
           
             
               II.
               
            
             
               Diffusive
               Cold
               does
               the
               whole
               Earth
               invade
               ,
            
             
               Like
               a
               Disease
               ,
               through
               all
               its
               Veins
               't
               is
               spread
               ,
            
             
               And
               each
               late
               living
               Stream
               ,
               is
               num'd
               and
               dead
               ;
            
             
               Le
               ts
               melt
               the
               frozen
               Hours
               ,
               make
               warm
               the
               Air.
            
             
               Let
               cheerful
               Fires
               
               Sol's
               feeble
               Beams
               repair
               ;
            
             
               Fill
               the
               large
               Bowl
               with
               sparkling
               Wine
               ;
            
             
               Let
               's
               drink
               ,
               till
               our
               own
               Faces
               shine
               ,
            
             
               Till
               we
               like
               Suns
               appear
               ,
            
             
               To
               light
               and
               warm
               the
               Hemisphere
               .
            
             
               Wine
               can
               dispence
               to
               all
               both
               Light
               and
               Heat
               ,
            
             
             
               They
               are
               with
               Wine
               incorporate
               :
            
             
               That
               pow'rful
               Juice
               ,
               with
               which
               no
               Cold
               dares
               mix
               ,
            
             
               Which
               still
               is
               fluid
               ,
               and
               no
               Frost
               can
               fix
               :
            
             
               Let
               that
               but
               in
               abundance
               flow
               ,
            
             
               And
               let
               it
               storm
               and
               thunder
               ,
               hail
               and
               snow
               ,
            
             
               'T
               is
               Heav'ns
               Concern
               ;
               and
               let
               it
               be
            
             
               The
               Care
               of
               Heaven
               still
               for
               me
               :
            
             
               These
               Winds
               ,
               which
               rend
               the
               Oaks
               and
               plough
               the
               Seas
               ;
            
             
               Great
               Iove
               can
               ,
               if
               he
               please
               ,
            
             
               With
               one
               commanding
               Nod
               appease
               .
            
          
           
             
               III.
               
            
             
               Seek
               not
               to
               know
               to
               Morrows
               Doom
               ;
            
             
               That
               is
               not
               ours
               ,
               which
               is
               to
               come
               .
            
             
               The
               present
               Moment's
               all
               our
               Store
               :
            
             
               The
               next
               ,
               should
               Heav'n
               allow
               ,
            
             
               Then
               this
               will
               be
               no
               more
               :
            
             
               So
               all
               our
               Life
               is
               but
               one
               instant
               Now.
            
             
             
               Look
               on
               each
               Day
               you
               've
               past
            
             
               To
               be
               a
               mighty
               Treasure
               won
               :
            
             
               And
               lay
               each
               Moment
               out
               in
               haste
               ;
            
             
               We
               're
               sure
               to
               live
               too
               fast
               ,
            
             
               And
               cannot
               live
               too
               soon
               .
            
             
               Youth
               does
               a
               thousand
               Pleasures
               bring
               ,
            
             
               Which
               from
               decrepid
               Age
               will
               fly
               ;
            
             
               Sweets
               that
               wanton
               i
               th'
               Bosome
               of
               the
               Spring
               ,
            
             
               In
               
               Winter's
               cold
               Embraces
               dye
               .
            
          
           
             
               IV.
               
            
             
               Now
               Love
               ,
               that
               everlasting
               Boy
               ,
               invites
            
             
               To
               revel
               while
               you
               may
               ,
               in
               soft
               Delights
               :
            
             
               Now
               the
               kind
               Nymph
               yields
               all
               her
               Charms
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               yields
               in
               vain
               to
               youthful
               Arms.
            
             
               Slowly
               she
               promises
               at
               Night
               to
               meet
               ,
            
             
               But
               eagerly
               prevents
               the
               Hour
               with
               swifter
               Feet
               .
            
             
               To
               gloomy
               Groves
               and
               obscure
               Shades
               she
               flies
               ,
            
             
             
               There
               vails
               the
               bright
               Confession
               of
               her
               Eyes
               .
            
             
               Unwillingly
               she
               stays
               ,
            
             
               VVould
               more
               unwillingly
               depart
               ,
            
             
               And
               in
               soft
               Sighs
               conveys
            
             
               The
               Whispers
               of
               her
               Heart
               .
            
             
               Still
               she
               invites
               and
               still
               denies
               ,
            
             
               And
               vows
               she
               'll
               leave
               you
               if
               y'
               are
               rude
               ;
            
             
               Then
               from
               her
               Ravisher
               she
               flies
               ,
            
             
               But
               flies
               to
               be
               pursu'd
               :
            
             
               If
               from
               his
               Sight
               she
               does
               herself
               convey
               ,
            
             
               VVith
               a
               feign'd
               Laugh
               she
               will
               herself
               betray
               ,
            
             
               And
               cunningly
               instruct
               him
               in
               the
               way
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             Horace
             Ode
             27
             ,
             Book
             1.
             imitated
             .
          
           
             
               Natis
               in
               usum
               laetitiae
               Scyphis
               ,
               &c.
               
            
          
           
             
               WHat
               Boys
               ,
               are
               ye
               mad
               ?
               is
               the
               Dutch
               Devil
               in
               ye
               ?
            
             
               Must
               your
               Quarrels
               as
               long
               as
               your
               Glasses
               continue
               ?
            
             
               Give
               it
               o're
               ,
               ye
               dull
               Sots
               !
               let
               the
               dull-pated
               Boors
               ,
            
             
               Snic
               or
               snee
               ,
               at
               their
               Punch-Bowls
               ,
               or
               slash
               for
               their
               Whores
               ,
            
             
               We
               'll
               be
               merry
               and
               wise
               ,
               but
               for
               Bloodshed
               we
               bar
               it
               ,
            
             
               No
               Red
               shall
               be
               seen
               here
               but
               your
               Port
               and
               good
               Claret
               .
            
          
           
             
               What
               a
               P
               —
               should
               we
               fight
               for
               ?
               No
               Bayonets
               here
            
             
               But
               the
               Sconces
               all
               round
               &
               the
               Bottles
               appear
               .
            
             
               Look
               ,
               the
               Wine
               blushes
               for
               us
               !
               while
               it
               gently
               disgraces
            
             
               Our
               unnatural
               Freaks
               and
               our
               mortifi'd
               Faces
               .
            
             
               Come
               let
               's
               do
               what
               we
               came
               for
               !
               let
               the
               Brimmers
               be
               crown'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               a
               Health
               to
               all
               quiet
               Good-fellows
               go
               round
               !
            
          
           
             
             
               Must
               I
               take
               off
               my
               Glass
               too
               ?
               then
               Iack
               prethee
               tell
               us
            
             
               Thy
               new
               Mistresses
               Name
               :
               What
               a
               Mischief
               art
               Jealous
               ?
            
             
               Must
               her
               Name
               be
               a
               Secret
               ?
               Alons
               then
               I
               've
               done
               ,
            
             
               Hang
               the
               greedy
               Curmudgeon
               that
               will
               eat
               all
               alone
               .
            
             
               Come
               discover
               you
               Block-head
               !
               I
               'm
               sure
               I
               mistook
               ye
               ,
            
             
               Or
               else
               in
               these
               Amours
               Iack
               was
               us'd
               to
               be
               lucky
            
          
           
             
               Well
               ,
               but
               whisper
               it
               then
               !
               I
               'll
               keep
               Counsel
               ,
               ne'r
               fear
               it
               ,
            
             
               Is
               it
               she
               ?
               the
               damn'd
               Jilt
               !
               Gad
               let
               no
               Body
               hear
               it
               ;
            
             
               Why
               ,
               Faith
               Iack
               thou'
               rt
               undone
               then
               ,
               't
               was
               some
               Witchcraft
               I
               'm
               sure
            
             
               Could
               betray
               thee
               to
               th'
               Arms
               of
               a
               Pockified
               Whore.
            
             
               Well
               ,
               't
               is
               vain
               to
               repine
               Boy
               ;
               let
               us
               drink
               away
               Sorrow
               ,
            
             
               Use
               thy
               freedom
               to
               Night
               Man
               ,
               let
               the
               Punk
               reign
               to
               Morrow
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             To
             a
             Lady
             ,
             who
             deny'd
             him
             Entrance
             into
             her
             Closet
             .
          
           
             PArdon
             at
             least
             it
             merits
             ,
             if
             not
             Praise
             ,
          
           
             To
             this
             high
             Wish
             ,
             our
             bold
             Desires
             to
             raise
             .
          
           
             For
             what
             Place
             more
             our
             longing
             Eyes
             can
             bless
             ,
          
           
             Than
             that
             where
             you
             alone
             your self
             possess
             ,
          
           
             Where
             in
             a
             calm
             and
             undisturb'd
             Retreat
          
           
             All
             your
             mild
             tender
             Thoughts
             together
             meet
             ,
          
           
             And
             Love
             and
             Innocence
             each
             other
             greet
             ?
          
           
             Here
             some
             unhappy
             Virgin
             's
             Fate
             you
             read
             ,
          
           
             And
             your
             soft
             Soul
             with
             her
             sad
             Story
             feed
             :
          
           
             Admire
             the
             Truth
             which
             she
             ,
             tho'
             injur'd
             ,
             bears
             ,
          
           
             And
             praise
             the
             mournful
             Beauty
             of
             her
             Tears
             ;
          
           
             Such
             charming
             Tears
             as
             those
             alone
             excel
             ,
          
           
             Which
             from
             your
             Eyes
             for
             lov'd
             Pamela
             fell
             :
          
           
             There
             ,
             with
             concern
             of
             Heroes
             past
             you
             read
             ;
          
           
             How
             do
             we
             envy
             then
             the
             happier
             dead
             !
          
           
           
             But
             oh
             !
             what
             Hopes
             can
             living
             Lovers
             find
             ,
          
           
             If
             they
             alone
             take
             up
             your
             gentle
             Mind
             !
          
           
             To
             this
             blest
             Place
             are
             all
             our
             Wishes
             bound
             ,
          
           
             Where
             no
             unhallow'd
             Feet
             e're
             toucht
             the
             ground
             :
          
           
             Hither
             w'approach
             not
             so
             profane
             or
             rude
             ,
          
           
             As
             without
             your
             Permission
             to
             intrude
             :
          
           
             Nor
             can
             we
             of
             this
             mighty
             Grace
             despair
             ,
          
           
             From
             the
             bright
             Nymph
             that
             's
             gentle
             as
             she
             's
             fair
             ,
          
           
             In
             whom
             we
             Nature
             's
             noblest
             Strife
             may
             find
             ,
          
           
             Which
             should
             excel
             ,
             her
             Beauty
             or
             her
             Mind
             ;
          
           
             In
             the
             warm
             Snow
             of
             whose
             soft
             tender
             Breast
             ,
          
           
             Mildness
             and
             gentlest
             Pity
             build
             their
             Nest
             ;
          
           
             And
             Virtue
             ,
             stronglier
             ,
             noblier
             fortify'd
          
           
             By
             easie
             Freedom
             than
             disdainful
             Pride
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             King
             
               Charles
               I.
            
             at
             Oxford
             ,
             being
             at
             a
             Sport
             called
             
               Sortes
               Virgilianae
            
             ,
             drew
             for
             his
             Lott
             some
             part
             of
             the
             
             4th
             Eneid
             ,
             abut
             Verse
             615.
             and
             had
             six
             Verses
             translated
             by
             Mr.
             Cowley
             .
          
           
             BY
             a
             bold
             People's
             stubborn
             Arms
             opprest
             ,
          
           
             Forc'd
             to
             forsake
             the
             Land
             which
             he
             possest
             ,
          
           
             Torn
             from
             his
             dearest
             Son
             ,
             let
             him
             in
             vain
          
           
             Beg
             help
             ,
             and
             see
             his
             Friends
             unjustly
             slain
             :
          
           
             Let
             him
             to
             bold
             unequal
             Terms
             submit
             ,
          
           
             In
             hopes
             to
             save
             his
             Crown
             ;
             yet
             lose
             both
             it
          
           
             And
             Life
             at
             once
             :
             Untimely
             let
             him
             dye
             ,
          
           
             And
             on
             an
             open
             Stage
             unburied
             lye
             .
          
           
             
               The
               Latine
               Verses
               .
            
             
               AT
               bello
               audacis
               populi
               vexatus
               &
               armis
               ,
            
             
               Finibus
               extorris
               ,
               complexu
               avulsus
               Iuli
            
             
               Auxilium
               imploret
               ,
               videatque
               indigna
               suorum
            
             
             
               Funera
               ,
               nec
               cum
               se
               sub
               leges
               pacis
               iniquae
            
             
               Tradiderit
               ,
               regno
               aut
               optata
               lace
               fruatur
               ,
            
             
               Sed
               cadat
               ante
               diem
               ,
               mediaque
               inhumatus
               arena
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             The
             Deist's
             Plea
             ,
             answered
             by
             the
             Honourable
             ,
             
               Robert
               Boyle
            
             ,
             
               Esq.
               
            
          
           
             
               The
               Deist's
               Plea.
               
            
             
               NAtural
               Religion
               ,
               easie
               first
               and
               Plain
               ;
            
             
               Tales
               made
               it
               Mystery
               ,
               Offerings
               made
               it
               gain
               ;
            
             
               Sacrifices
               and
               Feasts
               were
               at
               length
               prepar'd
               ▪
            
             
               The
               Priests
               eat
               roast
               Meat
               ,
               and
               the
               People
               star'd
               .
            
          
           
             
               The
               Christian's
               Plea.
               
            
             
               NAtural
               Religion
               does
               indeed
               display
            
             
               The
               Duty
               of
               serving
               God
               ,
               but
               not
               the
               way
               :
            
             
               Man
               of
               himself
               roving
               ,
               perverse
               and
               blind
               ,
            
             
               A
               Precipice
               sooner
               than
               that
               way
               would
               find
               ,
            
             
             
               What
               Worship
               God
               will
               like
               :
               Himself
               must
               teach
               ,
            
             
               And
               so
               he
               did
               ,
               by
               those
               he
               sent
               to
               preach
               ;
            
             
               Who
               Doctrins
               worthy
               to
               be
               thought
               Divine
               ,
            
             
               Confirm'd
               by
               Miracles
               ,
               where
               his
               Power
               did
               shine
               :
            
             
               Who
               by
               those
               Wonders
               ,
               Instances
               did
               give
            
             
               Of
               things
               ,
               as
               strange
               as
               they
               bid
               us
               believe
               ;
            
             
               Who
               promis'd
               endless
               Joys
               ,
               and
               Lives
               requir'd
            
             
               Worthy
               of
               those
               ,
               that
               to
               such
               Joys
               aspir'd
               ,
            
             
               Who
               what
               they
               taught
               so
               much
               believ'd
               and
               pris'd
            
             
               That
               ,
               for
               its
               sake
               ,
               they
               all
               things
               else
               despis'd
               :
            
             
               And
               both
               by
               its
               strict
               Rules
               their
               Lives
               did
               guide
               ,
            
             
               And
               to
               attest
               its
               Truth
               most
               gladly
               dy'd
               ;
            
             
               And
               without
               Arms
               subdu'd
               the
               World
               ,
               save
               those
            
             
               Whom
               Vice
               ,
               not
               Wit
               ,
               engag'd
               clear
               Truths
               t'
               oppose
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             
               Iulii
               Mazirini
            
             ,
             Cardinalis
             ,
             Epitaphium
             :
             Authore
             
               Ioh.
               Milton
            
             .
          
           
             HIC
             jacet
             Iulius
             Mazirinus
             ,
          
           
             Galliae
             Rex
             ,
             Italus
          
           
             Ecclesiae
             Praesul
             Laicus
             ,
          
           
             Europae
             praedo
             purpuratus
             ,
          
           
             Fortunam
             omnem
             ambiit
             omnem
             corrupit
             ;
          
           
             Aerarium
             administravit
             ,
             &
             exhausit
             ;
          
           
             Civile
             bellum
             compressit
             ,
             sed
             commovit
             ;
          
           
             Regni
             jura
             tuitus
             est
             ,
             &
             invasit
             ;
          
           
             Beneficia
             possedit
             ,
             &
             vendidit
             ;
          
           
             Pacem
             dedit
             aliquando
             ,
             sed
             distulit
             ,
          
           
             Hostes
             cladibus
             ,
             cives
             oneribus
             afflixit
             ,
          
           
             Arrisit
             paucis
             ,
             irrisit
             plurimos
             ,
          
           
             Omnibus
             nocuit
             .
          
           
             Negotiator
             in
             Templo
             ,
             Tyrannus
             in
             Regno
             ,
          
           
           
             Praedo
             in
             Ministerio
             ,
          
           
             Vulpes
             in
             Consilio
             ,
          
           
             Grassator
             in
             Bello
             ,
          
           
             Solus
             nobis
             in
             Pace
             Hostis.
          
           
             Fortunam
             olim
             adversam
             ,
             aut
             elusit
             aut
             vicit
             :
          
           
             E
             nostro
             seculo
             vidimus
          
           
             Adorari
             fugitivum
             ,
          
           
             Imperare
             Civibus
             Exulem
             ,
          
           
             Regnare
             proscriptum
             .
          
           
             Quid
             deinde
             egerit
             ,
             rogas
             ?
             Paucis
             accipe
             .
          
           
             Lusit
             ,
             fefellit
             ,
             rapuit
             ;
          
           
             Ferreum
             nobis
             seculum
             induxit
             ,
             sibi
             ex
             auro
             nostro
          
           
             Aureum
             fecit
             .
          
           
             Quorundam
             capiti
             nullius
             fortunis
             pepercit
             ,
          
           
             Homo
             crudeliter
             clemens
             ;
          
           
             Pluribus
             tandem
             morbis
             elanguit
             ,
          
           
             Plures
             ei
             mortes
             coelo
             irrogante
             ,
          
           
             Cui
             Senatus
             olim
             unam
             decreverat
             :
          
           
           
             Vincenni
             se
             arcibus
             inclusit
             moriturus
             ;
          
           
             Id
             quidem
             apte
          
           
             Quaesivit
             carcerem
             ;
          
           
             Diu
             laedentem
             animam
             retinuit
             ,
             aegre
             reddidit
             ,
          
           
             Sic
             retinere
             omnia
             didicerat
             ,
          
           
             Nil
             sua
             sponte
             reddere
             ,
          
           
             Constanter
             tamen
             visurus
             est
             mori
             ,
             quid
             mirum
             ?
          
           
             Vt
             vixit
             ,
             sic
             obiit
             dissimulans
             ,
          
           
             Ne
             morbum
             quidem
             novere
             qui
             curabant
             .
          
           
             Hac
             una
             fraude
             nobis
             profuit
             ,
          
           
             Fefellit
             Medicos
             ;
          
           
             Mortuus
             est
             tamen
             ,
             ni
             fallimur
             ,
             &
             moriens
          
           
             Regem
             regno
             ,
             Regnum
             Regi
             restituit
             ;
          
           
             Reliquit
             ▪
          
           
             Praesulibus
             pessima
             exempla
             ,
          
           
             Aulicis
             infida
             consilia
             ,
          
           
             Adoptivo
             amplissima
             spolia
             ,
          
           
             Paupertatem
             populis
             ;
          
           
           
             Successoribus
             suis
             omnes
             praedandi
             artes
             ,
          
           
             Sed
             praedam
             nullam
             .
          
           
             Immensas
             tamen
             opes
             licet
             profuderit
             ,
          
           
             Id
             unum
             habuit
             ex
             suo
             quod
             daret
             ,
          
           
             Nomen
             suum
             .
          
           
             Pectus
             ejus
             ,
             post
             mortem
             apertum
             est
             ,
          
           
             Tunc
             primum
             patuit
             vafrum
             cor
          
           
             Mazirini
          
           
             Quod
             nec
             precibus
             ,
             nec
             lacrymis
             ,
             nec
             injuriis
             moveretur
             .
          
           
             Diu
             quaesivimus
             ,
             invenere
             medici
          
           
             Cor
             Lapideum
             .
          
           
             Quod
             mortuus
             adhuc
             omnia
             moveat
             &
             administret
             ne
             mireris
             :
          
           
             Stipendia
             in
             hunc
             annum
             accepit
             ,
          
           
             Nec
             fraudat
             post
             Mortem
             bonae
             fidei
             :
          
           
             Quo
             tandem
             evaserit
             forsitan
             ,
             rogas
             ?
          
           
             Coelum
             (
             si
             rapitur
             )
             tenet
             ,
             si
             datur
             meritis
             longe
             abest
             .
          
           
           
             Sed
             abi
             Viator
             ,
             &
             cave
             ;
          
           
             Nam
             hic
             Tumulus
          
           
             Est
             Specus
             Latronis
             .
          
        
         
           
             In
             Vrbanum
             viii
             .
             P.
             M.
             
          
           
             EST
             ne
             Papa
             Christianus
             ?
          
           
             Immo
             vero
             ,
             Christianissimus
             .
          
           
             Estne
             verus
             Petri
             Successor
             ?
          
           
             Immo
             verissimus
             :
          
           
             Quotiescunque
             enim
             Gallus
             Cantat
             ,
          
           
             Dominum
             abnegat
             .
          
        
         
           
             EPITAPH
             upon
             Felton
             ,
             by
             his
             Grace
             the
             late
             D.
             of
             Buckingham
             .
          
           
             HEre
             uninter'd
             suspends
             (
             tho
             not
             to
             save
          
           
             Surviving
             Friends
             th'Expences
             of
             a
             Grave
             )
          
           
           
             
             Felton's
             dead
             Earth
             ,
             which
             to
             the
             World
             must
             be
             ,
          
           
             His
             own
             sad
             Monument
             ,
             His
             Elegy
             ,
          
           
             As
             large
             as
             Fame
             ,
             but
             whether
             bad
             ,
             or
             good
             ,
          
           
             I
             say
             not
             ,
             by
             himself
             't
             was
             writ
             in
             Blood.
          
           
             Having
             his
             Body
             thus
             entomb'd
             in
             Air
             ,
          
           
             Arch'd
             ore
             with
             Heaven
             ,
             and
             set
             with
             many
             a
             fair
          
           
             And
             glorious
             Diamond-Star
             ;
             a
             Sepulchre
          
           
             Which
             Time
             can't
             ruinate
             ,
             and
             where
          
           
             The
             impartial
             Worm
             ,
             which
             is
             not
             brib'd
             to
             spare
          
           
             Princes
             ,
             when
             wrapt
             in
             Marble
             ,
             cannot
             share
          
           
             His
             Flesh
             ,
             which
             oft
             the
             charitable
             Skies
          
           
             Embalm
             with
             Tears
             ,
             doing
             those
             Obsequies
          
           
             Belong
             to
             Men
             ,
             until
             the
             pitying
             Fowl
             ,
          
           
             Contend
             to
             reach
             his
             Body
             to
             his
             Soul.
             
          
        
         
           
           
             Upon
             a
             Lady's
             Singing
             PINDARICK
             ODE
             ,
          
           
             By
             Mr.
             CONGREVE
             .
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               LEt
               all
               be
               husht
               ,
               each
               softest
               Motion
               cease
               ,
            
             
               Be
               every
               loud
               tumultuous
               Thought
               at
               Peace
               ,
            
             
               And
               ev'ry
               ruder
               Gasp
               of
               Breath
            
             
               Be
               calm
               ,
               as
               in
               the
               Arms
               of
               Death
               .
            
             
               And
               thou
               most
               fickle
               ,
               most
               uneasie
               Part
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               restless
               Wanderer
               ,
               my
               Heart
               ,
            
             
               Be
               still
               ;
               gently
               ,
               ah
               gently
               ,
               leave
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               busie
               ,
               idle
               thing
               ,
               to
               heave
               .
            
             
               Stir
               not
               a
               Pulse
               ;
               and
               let
               my
               Blood
               ,
            
             
               That
               turbulent
               ,
               unruly
               Flood
               ,
            
             
               Be
               softly
               staid
               :
            
             
               Let
               me
               be
               all
               ,
               but
               my
               Attention
               ,
               dead
               .
            
             
             
               Go
               ,
               rest
               ,
               y'unnecessary
               Springs
               of
               Life
               ,
            
             
               Leave
               your
               officious
               Toil
               and
               Strife
               ;
            
             
               For
               I
               would
               hear
               this
               Voice
               ,
               and
               try
            
             
               If
               it
               be
               possible
               to
               dye
               .
            
          
           
             
               II.
               
            
             
               Come
               all
               ye
               Love-sick
               Maids
               and
               wounded
               Swains
               ,
            
             
               And
               listen
               to
               her
               Healing
               Strains
               .
            
             
               A
               wondrous
               Balm
               ,
               between
               her
               Lips
               she
               wears
               ,
            
             
               Of
               Sov'reign
               Force
               to
               soften
               Cares
               ;
            
             
               'T
               is
               piercing
               as
               your
               Thoughts
               ,
               and
               melting
               as
               your
               Tears
               :
            
             
               And
               this
               ,
               through
               ev'ry
               Ear
               she
               does
               impart
               ,
            
             
               (
               By
               tuneful
               Breath
               diffus'd
               )
               to
               ev'ry
               Heart
               .
            
             
               Swiftly
               the
               gentle
               Charmer
               Flies
               ,
            
             
               And
               to
               the
               tender
               Grief
               soft
               Air
               applies
               ,
            
             
               Which
               ,
               warbling
               Mystick
               Sounds
               ,
            
             
               Cements
               the
               bleeding
               Panter's
               Wounds
               .
            
             
               But
               ah
               !
               beware
               of
               clam'rous
               Moan
               :
            
             
               Let
               no
               unpleasing
               Murmur
               or
               harsh
               Groan
               ,
            
             
             
               Your
               slighted
               Loves
               declare
               :
            
             
               Your
               very
               tend'rest
               moving
               Sighs
               forbear
               ,
            
             
               For
               even
               they
               will
               be
               too
               boistrous
               here
               .
            
             
               Hither
               let
               nought
               but
               Sacred
               Silence
               come
               ,
            
             
               And
               let
               all
               sawcy
               Praise
               be
               dumb
               .
            
          
           
             
               III.
               
            
             
               And
               lo
               !
               Silence
               himself
               is
               here
               ;
            
             
               Methinks
               I
               see
               the
               Midnight
               God
               appear
               ,
            
             
               In
               all
               his
               downy
               Pomp
               aray'd
               ,
            
             
               Behold
               the
               rev'rend
               Shade
               :
            
             
               An
               ancient
               Sigh
               he
               sits
               upon
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               Memory
               of
               Sound
               is
               long
               since
               gone
               ,
            
             
               And
               purposely
               annihilated
               for
               his
               Throne
               :
            
             
               Beneath
               two
               soft
               transparent
               Clouds
               do
               meet
               ,
            
             
               In
               which
               he
               seems
               to
               sink
               his
               softer
               Feet
               .
            
             
               A
               melancholy
               Thought
               ,
               condens'd
               to
               Air
               ,
            
             
               Stol'n
               from
               a
               Lover
               in
               Despair
               ,
            
             
             
               Like
               a
               thin
               Mantle
               ,
               serves
               to
               wrap
            
             
               In
               Fluid
               Folds
               ,
               his
               
                 visionary
                 Shape
              
               .
            
             
               A
               wreath
               of
               Darkness
               round
               his
               Head
               he
               wears
               ,
            
             
               Where
               curling
               Mists
               supply
               the
               want
               of
               Hairs
               :
            
             
               While
               the
               still
               Vapors
               ,
               which
               from
               Poppies
               rise
               ,
            
             
               Bedew
               his
               hoary
               Face
               and
               lull
               his
               Eyes
               .
            
          
           
             
               IV.
               
            
             
               But
               hark
               !
               the
               heav'nly
               Sphere
               turns
               round
               ,
            
             
               And
               Silence
               now
               is
               drown'd
            
             
               In
               Ectasy
               of
               Sound
               .
            
             
               How
               on
               a
               suddain
               the
               still
               Air
               is
               charm'd
               ,
            
             
               As
               if
               all
               Harmony
               were
               just
               alarm'd
               !
            
             
               And
               ev'ry
               Soul
               with
               Transport
               fill'd
               ,
            
             
               Alternately
               is
               thaw'd
               and
               Chill'd
               .
            
             
               See
               how
               the
               Heavenly
               Choir
            
             
               Come
               flocking
               ,
               to
               admire
               ,
            
             
               And
               with
               what
               Speed
               and
               Care
               ,
            
             
               Descending
               Angels
               cull
               the
               thinnest
               Air
               !
            
             
             
               Haste
               then
               ,
               come
               all
               th'
               immortal
               Throng
               ,
            
             
               And
               listen
               to
               her
               Song
               ;
            
             
               Leave
               your
               lov'd
               Mansions
               ,
               in
               the
               Sky
               ,
            
             
               And
               hither
               ,
               quickly
               hither
               fly
               ;
            
             
               Your
               Loss
               of
               Heav'n
               ,
               nor
               shall
               you
               need
               to
               fear
               ,
            
             
               While
               she
               sings
               't
               is
               Heav'n
               here
               .
            
          
           
             
               V.
               
            
             
               See
               how
               they
               crowd
               ,
               see
               how
               the
               little
               Cherubs
               skip
               !
            
             
               While
               others
               sit
               around
               her
               Mouth
               ,
               and
               sip
            
             
               Sweet
               Hellelujahs
               from
               her
               Lip.
            
             
               Those
               Lips
               ,
               where
               in
               Surprise
               of
               Bliss
               they
               rove
               ;
            
             
               For
               ne'r
               before
               were
               Angels
               blest
            
             
               With
               such
               a
               luscious
               Feast
            
             
               Of
               Musick
               and
               of
               Love.
            
             
               Prepare
               then
               ,
               ye
               immortal
               Choir
            
             
               Each
               sacred
               Minstrel
               tune
               his
               〈◊〉
            
             
               And
               with
               her
               Voice
               in
               Choru●
            
             
               Her
               Voice
               ,
               which
               next
               to
               yours
               i●●●st
               divine
               .
            
             
             
               Bless
               the
               glad
               Earth
               with
               heavenly
               Lays
               ,
            
             
               And
               to
               that
               Pitch
               th'
               eternal
               Accents
               raise
               ,
            
             
               Which
               only
               Breath
               inspir'd
               can
               reach
               ,
            
             
               To
               Notes
               ,
               which
               only
               she
               can
               learn
               ,
               and
               you
               can
               teach
               :
            
             
               While
               we
               ,
               charm'd
               with
               the
               lov'd
               Excess
               ,
            
             
               Are
               wrapt
               in
               sweet
               Forgetfulness
            
             
               Of
               all
               ,
               of
               all
               ,
               but
               of
               the
               present
               Happiness
               :
            
             
               Wishing
               ,
               for
               ever
               in
               that
               State
               to
               lie
               ,
            
             
               For
               ever
               to
               be
               dying
               so
               ,
               yet
               never
               die
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Advice
             about
             Marriage
             :
             An
             Imitation
             of
             a
             French
             Satyr
             ;
             by
             Mr.
             
               Tho.
               Brown.
            
             
          
           
             THE
             Husband
             's
             the
             Pilot
             ,
             the
             Wife
             is
             the
             Ocean
             ,
          
           
             He
             always
             in
             Danger
             ,
             she
             always
             in
             Motion
             ,
          
           
           
             And
             he
             that
             in
             Wedlock
             twice
             hazards
             his
             Carcass
          
           
             Twice
             ventures
             a
             drowning
             ;
             and
             Faith
             that
             's
             a
             hard
             Case
             .
          
           
             Even
             at
             our
             own
             Weapons
             the
             Females
             defeat
             us
             ,
          
           
             And
             Death
             ,
             only
             Death
             ,
             can
             sign
             our
             Quietus
             .
          
           
             Not
             to
             tell
             you
             sad
             Stories
             of
             Liberty
             lost
             ,
          
           
             How
             our
             Mirth
             is
             all
             pall'd
             ,
             and
             our
             Pleasures
             all
             crost
             :
          
           
             This
             Pagan
             Confinement
             ,
             this
             damnable
             Station
          
           
             Suits
             no
             order
             ,
             nor
             age
             ,
             nor
             degree
             in
             the
             Nation
             .
          
           
             The
             Levite
             it
             keeps
             from
             Parochial
             Duty
             ,
          
           
             For
             who
             can
             at
             once
             mind
             Religion
             and
             Beauty
             ?
          
           
             The
             Rich
             it
             alarms
             with
             Expences
             and
             Trouble
             ,
          
           
             And
             a
             poor
             Beast
             ,
             you
             know
             ,
             can
             scarce
             carry
             double
             .
          
           
             'T
             was
             invented
             ,
             they
             'll
             tell
             you
             ,
             to
             keep
             us
             from
             falling
             ,
          
           
             Oh
             the
             Virtue
             and
             Grace
             of
             a
             shrill
             Catter-wawling
             !
          
           
             But
             it
             pales
             in
             your
             Game
             —
             Ay
             ,
             but
             how
             do
             you
             know
             Sir
             ,
          
           
             How
             often
             your
             Neighbour
             breaks
             up
             your
             Enclosure
             ?
          
           
           
             For
             this
             is
             the
             principal
             Comfort
             of
             Marriage
             ,
          
           
             You
             must
             eat
             ,
             tho'
             an
             hundred
             have
             spit
             in
             your
             Porrige
             ,
          
           
             If
             at
             Night
             you
             're
             unactive
             and
             fail
             of
             performing
             ,
          
           
             Enter
             Thunder
             and
             Lightning
             ,
             and
             Bloodshed
             next
             Morning
             :
          
           
             Cries
             the
             Bone
             of
             your
             Side
             ,
             "
             Thanks
             dear
             Mr.
             Horner
             ,
          
           
             "
             This
             comes
             of
             your
             sinning
             with
             Crape
             in
             a
             Corner
             .
          
           
             Then
             ,
             to
             make
             up
             the
             Breach
             ,
             all
             your
             Strength
             you
             must
             rally
             ,
          
           
             And
             labour
             and
             sweat
             like
             a
             Slave
             at
             the
             Gally
             :
          
           
             But
             still
             you
             must
             charge
             ,
             oh
             blessed
             Condition
             !
          
           
             Tho'
             you
             know
             to
             your
             Cost
             you
             've
             no
             more
             Ammunition
             ;
          
           
             Till
             at
             last
             my
             dear
             mortified
             Tool
             of
             a
             Man
             ,
          
           
             You
             're
             not
             able
             to
             make
             a
             poor
             Flash
             in
             the
             Pan.
          
           
             Fire
             ,
             Female
             and
             Flood
             begin
             with
             a
             Letter
             ,
          
           
             And
             the
             World
             's
             for
             'em
             all
             scarce
             a
             Farthing
             the
             better
             ,
          
           
             Your
             Flood
             soon
             is
             gone
             ,
             and
             your
             Fire
             you
             may
             humble
             ,
          
           
             If
             into
             the
             Flames
             store
             of
             Water
             you
             tumble
             :
          
           
           
             But
             to
             cool
             the
             damn'd
             Heat
             of
             your
             Wive's
             Titillation
             ,
          
           
             You
             may
             use
             half
             the
             Engines
             and
             Pumps
             in
             the
             Nation
             ,
          
           
             But
             may
             piss
             out
             as
             well
             the
             last
             Conflagration
             .
          
           
             Thus
             Sir
             ,
             I
             have
             sent
             you
             my
             Thoughts
             of
             the
             Matter
             ,
          
           
             Judge
             you
             ,
             as
             you
             please
             ,
             but
             I
             scorn
             to
             flatter
             .
          
        
         
           
             Part
             of
             a
             Panegyrick
             upon
             the
             Famous
             Colonel
             Walker
             ,
             Governour
             of
             Londonderry
             ;
             by
             Mr.
             
               Tho.
               Brown.
            
             
          
           
             A
             Town
             he
             kept
             in
             spite
             of
             Fate
             ,
          
           
             The
             Irish
             he
             confounded
             :
          
           
             For
             this
             he
             got
             five
             thousand
             Pound
             ,
          
           
             Oh
             Hero
             most
             renown'd
             !
          
           
             More
             of
             his
             valiant
             Deeds
             and
             Worth
             ,
          
           
             What
             need
             we
             then
             to
             cry-a
             ,
          
           
           
             Since
             
               Walker
               George
            
             has
             made
             amends
          
           
             For
             
               Walker
               Obadiah
            
             .
          
        
         
           
             CAROLO
             Martyri
             Sacrum
             :
             Autore
             
               Thoma
               Brown.
            
             
          
           
             CArole
             Gentis
             Honos
             ,
             sate
             Carole
             sanguine
             Divum
             ,
          
           
             Qui
             major
             magnis
             annumeraris
             Avis
             ,
          
           
             Relligio
             accepit
             ,
             quo
             Principe
             ,
             nostra
             Coronam
             ,
          
           
             Quo
             vivente
             decus
             ,
             quo
             moriente
             fidem
             .
          
           
             Haec
             damus
             ultrici
             damnata
             volumina
             Flammae
          
           
             Manibus
             inferias
             ,
             sancte
             Monarcha
             ,
             tuis
             .
          
           
             Seu
             tulerint
             Batavae
             funesta
             venena
             paludes
             ,
          
           
             Seu
             dederit
             saevam
             Scotia
             dira
             luem
             .
          
           
             Sic
             semper
             pereat
             quaecunque
             lacessere
             Charta
          
           
             Vel
             Reges
             ausa
             est
             ,
             vel
             tetigisse
             Deos.
             
          
        
         
           
           
             A
             Catch
             ,
             by
             Mr.
             Taverner
             .
          
           
             PAle
             Faces
             stand
             off
             ,
             and
             our
             bright
             ones
             adore
             ,
          
           
             We
             look
             like
             our
             Claret
             ,
             they
             worse
             than
             our
             Score
             ;
          
           
             Then
             light
             up
             your
             Pimples
             ,
             all
             Art
             we
             'l
             out-shine
             ,
          
           
             When
             the
             plump
             God
             does
             paint
             ,
             each
             Stroke
             is
             divine
             .
          
           
             Clean
             Glasses
             our
             Pencils
             ,
             our
             Claret
             is
             Oil
             ,
          
           
             He
             that
             sits
             for
             his
             Picture
             must
             sit
             a
             good
             while
          
        
         
           
             The
             Beaux
             ,
             an
             Ephigram
             ,
             by
             Mr.
             
               Tho.
               Brown.
            
             
          
           
             TEll
             me
             ,
             Sage
             Will
             ,
             thou
             ,
             that
             the
             Town
             around
          
           
             For
             Wit
             ,
             and
             Tea
             and
             Coffee
             art
             renown'd
             ;
          
           
             Tell
             me
             ,
             for
             as
             the
             common
             Rumor
             goes
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             House
             is
             cramm'd
             eternally
             with
             Beaux
             ,
          
           
           
             How
             shall
             I
             that
             strange
             Animal
             define
             ,
          
           
             What
             are
             his
             Marks
             ,
             his
             Virtues
             or
             his
             Sign
             ?
          
           
             So
             may'st
             thou
             still
             keep
             in
             the
             Wits
             good
             Graces
             ,
          
           
             And
             never
             lose
             a
             Farthing
             more
             at
             Races
             .
          
           
             Thus
             I
             enquir'd
             ,
             when
             streight
             Sage
             Will
             rereplyed
             ,
          
           
             His
             Nutmeg
             ,
             Spoon
             ,
             and
             Grater
             laid
             aside
             ;
          
           
             "
             He
             that
             like
             M
             —
             Sings
             ,
             like
             S
             —
             writes
             ,
          
           
             "
             Dresses
             like
             R
             —
             ,
             like
             T
             —
             Fights
             ,
          
           
             "
             Like
             H
             —
             in
             a
             no
             ingagement
             swears
             ,
          
           
             "
             Chatters
             like
             D
             —
             ,
             Squints
             like
             W
             —
             at
             Prayers
             ;
          
           
             "
             Dams
             every
             thing
             besides
             his
             own
             dull
             Jest
             ,
          
           
             "
             That
             thing
             's
             a
             Beau
             :
             Why
             then
             that
             Beau's
             a
             Beast
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             The
             
               Repenting
               Husband
            
             :
             Or
             a
             Satyr
             upon
             Marriage
             :
             By
             Mr.
             
               S.
               W.
            
             
          
           
             
               Beaugard
               .
            
             
               IT
               can't
               be
               he
               .
               Courtine
               !
               the
               brisk
               ,
               the
               gay
               !
            
             
               What
               Hag
               has
               stoln
               the
               Friend
               and
               Man
               away
               ?
            
             
               What
               Monster
               is
               he
               metamorphos'd
               to
               ?
            
             
               How
               all
               unlike
               the
               
                 Iolly
                 Thing
              
               we
               knew
               ?
            
             
               Such
               Vnderwoods
               have
               over-run
               the
               Coast
               ,
            
             
               In
               his
               Beard
               's
               Thicket
               all
               his
               Face
               is
               lost
               ;
            
             
               That
               hanging
               Look
               sad
               Ghesses
               does
               invite
               ,
            
             
               And
               on
               his
               wrinkled
               Forehead
               Husband
               write
               .
            
          
           
             
               Courtine
               .
            
             
               For
               thy
               unseasonable
               Mirth
               a
               Curse
               ,
            
             
               As
               heavy
               as
               that
               Fiend
               ,
               that
               haunts
               me
               thus
               :
            
             
               That
               Constellation
               of
               Plagues
               be
               thine
            
             
               Which
               spightful
               Heaven
               has
               doom'd
               with
               Sylvia
               ,
               mine
               :
            
             
             
               Be
               thou
               condemn'd
               to
               lug
               an
               endless
               Life
               ,
            
             
               The
               Gally-slave
               to
               an
               Eternal
               Wife
               .
            
          
           
             
               Beaugard
               .
            
             
               A
               friendly
               Wish
               !
               But
               Partners
               would
               destroy
            
             
               That
               Bliss
               ,
               which
               none
               but
               one
               can
               well
               enjoy
               :
            
             
               Lucky
               Courtine
               ,
               how
               ev'n
               in
               spight
               of
               me
            
             
               Does
               thy
               good
               Fortune
               make
               me
               envy
               thee
               ?
            
             
               How
               like
               the
               neat
               Sir
               Davy
               ,
               Sage
               and
               wise
               ,
            
             
               New
               Aldermen
               sit
               Budding
               in
               her
               Eyes
               !
            
             
               A
               Face
               so
               fair
               as
               
               Sylvia's
               sure
               might
               move
               ,
            
             
               Spight
               of
               his
               Hymns
               ,
               a
               bloodless
               Angel's
               Love
               ;
            
             
               And
               then
               what
               dull
               Platonick
               can
               behold
            
             
               The
               Beauty
               ,
               and
               the
               Virtue
               of
               her
               Gold
               ?
            
             
               The
               Atheist
               thinks
               a
               merry
               Life
               does
               well
               ,
            
             
               Bartering
               short
               Pleasant
               Toys
               for
               a
               long
               future
               Hell.
            
             
               To
               Lovers
               thus
               the
               happy
               Night
               alone
            
             
               For
               a
               whole
               Age
               of
               Torments
               might
               attone
               ,
            
             
             
               After
               a
               Day
               of
               Eating
               ,
               which
               might
               vie
            
             
               With
               the
               Lord
               Mayors
               or
               Shreeval
               Luxury
               :
            
             
               See
               where
               a
               Drove
               of
               envious
               wishing
               Freinds
            
             
               Around
               thy
               Bed
               ,
               the
               Bower
               of
               Bliss
               Attends
               ;
            
             
               Each
               squinting
               Gallant
               prays
               thy
               Place
               were
               his
            
             
               And
               by
               Delays
               excel
               the
               coming
               Blyss
               :
            
             
               Sack-posset
               then
               ,
               while
               each
               green
               Virgin
               throws
            
             
               Prophetic
               Stocken
               ,
               at
               thy
               patient
               Nose
               .
            
             
               Sack-posset
               still
               ,
               and
               when
               they
               that
               remove
               ;
            
             
               Next
               —
               enter
               the
               sweet
               Sillabub
               of
               LOVE
               .
            
             
               Soft
               Music
               then
               thy
               Laziness
               must
               chide
               ,
            
             
               And
               give
               a
               fair
               Excuse
               to
               leave
               the
               Bride
               ;
            
             
               Not
               wooing
               Puss
               can
               louder
               Songs
               compose
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               more
               diversity
               of
               Airs
               than
               those
            
             
               Harmonious
               City-Music
               ;
               such
               a
               Bliss
               ;
            
             
               'T
               were
               worth
               the
               while
               to
               marry
               but
               for
               this
               .
            
             
               Nor
               must
               you
               think
               the
               Joys
               should
               end
               so
               soon
               ,
            
             
               There
               's
               yet
               a
               live-long-heavenly-hony-moon
            
             
             
               In
               Wedlocks
               pleasing
               Team
               ,
               with
               equal
               Law
               ,
            
             
               Thy
               courteous
               Yoke-fellow
               must
               ever
               draw
               ,
            
             
               While
               Pictures
               of
               thy
               kind
               laborious
               Bride
            
             
               Shall
               still
               run
               softly
               bellowing
               by
               thy
               Side
               .
            
          
           
             
               Courtine
               .
            
             
               Since
               my
               fair
               Pack
               so
               wondrously
               does
               please
               ,
            
             
               Thy
               Shoulders
               lend
               ,
               and
               be
               an
               Hercules
               :
            
             
               I
               feel
               a
               Load
               ,
               a
               
                 heavy
                 Hell
              
               above
               ,
            
             
               For
               the
               expected
               
                 gaudy
                 Heaven
              
               of
               Love
               :
            
             
               How
               thin
               would
               you
               those
               Tinsel
               Pleasures
               find
            
             
               With
               which
               sly
               jilting
               Nature
               bribes
               Mankind
               ?
            
             
               SATED
               FRVITION
               does
               the
               Bliss
               destroy
               ,
            
             
               And
               the
               
                 next
                 Moment
              
               knows
               not
               the
               Tumultuous
               Ioy.
            
             
               Who
               can
               reflect
               without
               just
               Rage
               and
               Fright
               ,
            
             
               And
               deep
               regret
               on
               such
               a
               mean
               Delight
               !
            
             
               Ye
               Gods
               ,
               if
               these
               Loves
               highest
               Banquets
               be
               ,
            
             
               Brutes
               can
               love
               more
               ,
               and
               better
               far
               than
               we
               :
            
             
             
               This
               knew
               sly
               Iove
               ,
               who
               when
               he
               left
               the
               Skies
               ,
            
             
               Chose
               rather
               any
               other
               Beast's
               Disguise
               ,
            
             
               The
               Bull
               ,
               nay
               th'improportionable
               Swan
               ,
            
             
               Much
               more
               the
               lusty
               Ass
               ▪
               can
               rival
               Man
               ,
            
             
               Who
               all
               their
               Pleasure
               in
               Possession
               find
               ,
            
             
               Without
               the
               curst
               Allay
               ,
               and
               Sting
               behind
               ;
            
             
               As
               Nature
               prompts
               ,
               promiscuously
               they
               rove
               ,
            
             
               And
               hunt
               
                 free
                 Ioys
              
               ,
               through
               ev'ry
               Field
               and
               grove
               ,
            
             
               But
               in
               a
               Pound
               ,
               what
               Brute
               wou'd
               e'n
               make
               Love
               ?
            
             
               Man
               ,
               Man
               alone
               is
               damn'd
               to
               grinding
               still
               ,
            
             
               And
               in
               the
               Prison
               of
               his
               Cage
               must
               Bill
               ;
            
             
               Like
               a
               blind
               Stallion
               ever
               drudges
               on
               ,
            
             
               And
               gets
               new
               Slaves
               for
               Wives
               to
               ride
               upon
               ;
            
             
               
               Night-mar'd
               ,
               like
               me
               ,
               whom
               gastly
               Sights
               persue
            
             
               And
               scare
               with
               her
               lean
               Ghost
               ,
               whom
               once
               I
               knew
               .
            
             
               That
               
               Sylvia's
               now
               no
               more
               ,
               who
               big
               with
               Charms
               ,
            
             
               Dropt
               a
               whole
               Dow'r
               of
               Charms
               within
               your
               Arms
               ;
            
             
             
               Loose
               hangs
               the
               Flower
               ,
               lately
               so
               fresh
               and
               gay
               ,
            
             
               And
               every
               Tempest
               bears
               new
               Leaves
               away
               :
            
             
               Unlovely
               now
               it
               flags
               ,
               and
               overblown
               ,
            
             
               And
               ev'ry
               Grace
               ,
               and
               ev'ry
               Charm
               is
               gone
               ;
            
             
               Her
               Tenderness
               is
               fond
               and
               awkward
               grows
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               her
               Female
               Art
               affected
               shews
            
             
               True
               Hag
               all
               o're
               :
               Ugly
               she
               grows
               ,
               and
               old
               ,
            
             
               And
               knowing
               this
               ,
               turns
               Jealous
               and
               a
               Scold
               ;
            
             
               
               Fletcher's
               Wife-tamer
               durst
               not
               dare
               to
               love
               her
               ,
            
             
               Xantippe
               was
               a
               
                 Patient
                 Grizel
              
               to
               her
               ;
            
             
               Each
               Look
               ,
               each
               Step
               I
               tread's
               by
               her
               survey'd
               ;
            
             
               She
               haunts
               me
               like
               my
               Conscience
               ,
               or
               my
               shade
               ,
            
             
               Expects
               t'
               a
               Statue
               ,
               I
               should
               constant
               prove
               ,
            
             
               And
               daily
               damns
               my
               
                 unperforming
                 Love
              
               ;
            
             
               When
               e'r
               for
               Quiets-sake
               she
               hooks
               me
               in
               ,
            
             
               What
               Mummy
               looks
               so
               dreadful
               as
               her
               Face
               !
            
             
               Heavens
               ,
               how
               she
               ruffles
               in
               her
               Buckrum
               Skin
               ,
            
             
               And
               frights
               my
               Soul
               away
               from
               the
               Imbrace
               !
            
             
             
               So
               when
               from
               Gibbets
               and
               the
               Common-shore
            
             
               Th'Officious
               Devil
               has
               pimp'd
               ,
               and
               brought
               his
               Friend
               a
               Whore
               ,
            
             
               So
               shrieks
               the
               Wretch
               ,
               when
               he
               next
               Morn
               has
               spy'd
            
             
               A
               ghastly
               Carcass
               rotting
               by
               his
               Side
               .
            
             
               Just
               such
               a
               Lot
               is
               mine
               ;
               I
               drudg
               my
               Life
            
             
               Worse
               than
               ,
               with
               Legion
               far
               ,
               possess'd
               with
               WIFE
               ;
            
             
               Wou'd
               Fate
               and
               Hell
               some
               higher
               ill
               provide
               ,
            
             
               And
               club
               for
               
                 any
                 other
              
               Plague
               beside
               ,
            
             
               I
               soon
               should
               easy
               and
               contented
               grow
               ,
            
             
               In
               spight
               of
               Bolts
               above
               and
               Flames
               below
               :
            
             
               No
               —
               such
               luxurious
               Ease
               I
               ask
               in
               vain
               ,
            
             
               And
               like
               poor
               Adam
               must
               alive
               remain
               ,
            
             
               Whom
               vengeful
               Fate
               did
               to
               curs'd
               Woman
               chain
               ,
            
             
               In
               Judgment
               gave
               him
               an
               unkind
               Reprieve
               ,
            
             
               And
               damn'd
               him
               to
               ten
               thousand
               Hells
               in
               Eve.
               
            
          
        
         
           
           
             Vpon
             the
             D.
             of
             
             Buckingham's
             Retirement
             :
             By
             Madam
             Wharton
             ,
             Jan.
             1683.
             
          
           
             IF
             darkest
             Shades
             could
             cloud
             so
             bright
             a
             Mind
             ,
          
           
             Or
             universal
             Knowledg
             be
             confin'd
             ,
          
           
             Then
             should
             I
             fear
             what
             vainly
             you
             persue
             ,
          
           
             Exiling
             the
             offending
             World
             from
             you
             :
          
           
             Permit
             this
             Phrase
             ,
             for
             their
             's
             the
             loss
             would
             be
             ,
          
           
             To
             you
             ,
             't
             were
             Gain
             of
             Ease
             and
             Liberty
             :
          
           
             For
             them
             alas
             !
             what
             is
             't
             I
             would
             not
             fear
             ?
          
           
             If
             banished
             the
             rich
             World
             of
             Learning
             here
             ,
          
           
             Within
             your
             Breast
             ,
             where
             Knowledg
             is
             retir'd
          
           
             By
             vain
             Pursuits
             and
             false
             Explainers
             tir'd
             ;
          
           
             Others
             bring
             dazling
             Light
             ,
             and
             leave
             us
             more
          
           
             Opprest
             with
             Blindness
             than
             we
             were
             before
             :
          
           
             But
             gently
             by
             degrees
             ,
             like
             dawning
             Day
             ,
          
           
             The
             Mists
             that
             cloud
             the
             Mind
             you
             drive
             away
             .
          
           
           
             If
             you
             retire
             ,
             what
             Damps
             of
             black
             Despair
          
           
             Must
             cloud
             the
             World
             (
             no
             longer
             made
             your
             Care
             ?
             )
          
           
             Who
             could
             alas
             deep
             Mysteries
             unfold
             ?
          
           
             Who
             could
             Instruct
             the
             Young
             or
             Chear
             the
             Old
             ?
          
           
             Who
             could
             like
             you
             in
             lively
             Colours
             paint
          
           
             Death's
             gastly
             Face
             to
             each
             expiring
             Saint
             ?
          
           
             'T
             is
             you
             and
             only
             you
             can
             paint
             him
             fair
             ,
          
           
             To
             those
             who
             Life
             &
             Pleasure
             make
             their
             Care.
          
           
             'T
             is
             you
             make
             Ease
             less
             lovely
             seem
             than
             Pain
          
           
             'T
             is
             you
             bring
             Heaven
             down
             to
             dying
             Men
             ,
          
           
             And
             raise
             the
             drooping
             Minds
             to
             Heaven
             again
             ;
          
           
             You
             chose
             Heaven's
             Saints
             ,
             for
             still
             the
             mounting
             Soul
          
           
             Is
             crown'd
             above
             whom
             you
             on
             Earth
             enrol
             .
          
           
             Quit
             not
             the
             World
             ,
             because
             that
             Monarch's
             Brow
          
           
             So
             smooth
             to
             all
             ,
             seems
             clouded
             o'r
             to
             you
             :
          
           
             His
             Anger
             ,
             like
             the
             Wrath
             of
             Heaven
             ,
             is
             slow
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             his
             Actions
             his
             Compassion
             shew
             :
          
           
           
             Unjustice
             never
             can
             his
             Temper
             sute
             ,
          
           
             Love
             ,
             gentle
             Love
             ,
             is
             his
             blest
             Attribute
             :
          
           
             A
             Soul
             enclin'd
             to
             such
             a
             peaceful
             Charm
             ,
          
           
             No
             fear
             of
             Danger
             could
             his
             Soul
             alarm
             :
          
           
             Plot
             upon
             Plot
             intended
             or
             devis'd
             ,
          
           
             He
             smil'd
             to
             see
             ,
             look'd
             over
             and
             despis'd
             .
          
           
             When
             every
             Subject
             at
             his
             Danger
             shook
             ,
          
           
             His
             Thoughts
             flow'd
             easily
             as
             a
             Summers
             Brook
             :
          
           
             He
             pardon'd
             still
             ,
             and
             when
             unruly
             ,
             they
          
           
             Forc'd
             him
             the
             Sword
             of
             Justice
             to
             display
             ,
          
           
             Unwillingly
             he
             punish'd
             ,
             to
             obey
             :
          
           
             I
             say
             ,
             t'
             obey
             ,
             for
             might
             he
             still
             command
             ,
          
           
             Garlands
             of
             Peace
             would
             grow
             within
             his
             Hand
             ;
          
           
             Then
             Love
             and
             Wit
             ,
             in
             which
             he
             does
             excel
             ,
          
           
             With
             Peace
             and
             Plenty
             ,
             here
             would
             ever
             dwell
             .
          
           
             But
             now
             ,
             alas
             ,
             he
             rules
             a
             giddy
             Crowd
             ,
          
           
             Who
             slight
             their
             Joys
             and
             tell
             their
             Grief
             aloud
             ;
          
           
           
             As
             fond
             of
             Troubles
             as
             he
             is
             of
             Peace
             ,
          
           
             So
             factious
             Slaves
             and
             constant
             Foes
             to
             ease
             ,
          
           
             Still
             forcing
             Fears
             unnatural
             and
             base
             ;
          
           
             At
             home
             distracted
             ,
             and
             abroad
             despis'd
             ,
          
           
             The
             Grief
             of
             Fools
             ,
             and
             laughter
             of
             the
             Wise.
          
           
             But
             hold
             !
             too
             far
             ,
             I
             have
             mistook
             my
             way
             ,
          
           
             I
             would
             return
             ,
             and
             yet
             what
             can
             I
             say
             ?
          
           
             The
             Subject
             is
             so
             vast
             to
             which
             I
             'm
             brought
             ,
          
           
             That
             I
             am
             lost
             in
             the
             Abyss
             of
             Thought
             ;
          
           
             I
             would
             persuade
             ,
             and
             yet
             I
             know
             not
             how
          
           
             To
             make
             that
             Theam
             to
             my
             weak
             Numbers
             bow
             ,
          
           
             Exalt
             my
             humble
             Notions
             to
             your
             height
             ,
          
           
             I
             'll
             plainly
             tell
             my
             Thoughts
             ,
             raise
             you
             their
             Flight
             .
          
           
             Leave
             not
             the
             World
             ,
             but
             near
             that
             Monarch
             rest
             ,
          
           
             Who
             all
             that
             's
             just
             still
             harbours
             in
             his
             Breast
             ,
          
           
             And
             when
             that
             Head
             so
             fill'd
             with
             boundless
             Thought
          
           
             To
             his
             enlarged
             Heart
             is
             nearer
             brought
             ,
          
           
           
             What
             Wonders
             may
             we
             not
             expect
             should
             spring
          
           
             From
             such
             a
             Subject
             ,
             and
             from
             such
             a
             King
             !
          
        
         
           
             To
             Damon
             ,
             the
             most
             Inconstant
             and
             Faithless
             of
             his
             Sex
             :
             Being
             the
             first
             Copy
             of
             Verses
             made
             by
             a
             fair
             Lady
             ,
             who
             is
             since
             dead
             .
          
           
             HAppy
             was
             I
             ,
             
               O
               Love
            
             ,
             when
             Innocent
             ,
          
           
             And
             knew
             not
             what
             thy
             lawless
             Power
             meant
             !
          
           
             But
             since
             from
             
             Damon's
             Eyes
             thou
             'st
             shot
             thy
             Dart
             ,
          
           
             Wing'd
             with
             his
             faithless
             Vows
             ,
             into
             my
             Heart
             ;
          
           
             Alas
             !
             away
             my
             happy
             Hours
             are
             flown
             ,
          
           
             And
             I
             too
             plainly
             find
             I
             am
             undone
             !
          
           
             For
             by
             his
             Prayers
             and
             numerous
             Oaths
             betray'd
          
           
             Too
             easie
             ,
             I
             thought
             all
             was
             true
             he
             said
             ;
          
           
             So
             piteously
             he
             look'd
             ,
             and
             sigh'd
             much
             more
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             such
             wondrous
             feeling
             ardor
             swore
             !
          
           
           
             But
             like
             the
             rest
             of
             his
             false
             ,
             
               perjur'd
               Kind
            
             ,
          
           
             He
             soon
             discover'd
             his
             base
             fickle
             Mind
             .
          
           
             Wilst
             Young
             Enjoyment
             ,
             was
             all
             brisk
             and
             gay
             ,
          
           
             How
             often
             didst
             thou
             ,
             perjur'd
             Damon
             ,
             say
             ,
          
           
             That
             ,
             had
             Alcmena
             ,
             had
             such
             melting
             Charms
             ,
          
           
             The
             happy
             Thunderer
             ne'r
             had
             left
             her
             Arms
             ,
          
           
             But
             had
             prolong'd
             the
             pleasing
             ,
             blisful
             Night
             ,
          
           
             Till
             darken'd
             Mankind
             had
             forgot
             the
             Light.
          
           
             But
             thou
             art
             false
             ,
             and
             therefore
             shouldst
             be
             scorn'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             not
             with
             fruitless
             Tears
             and
             Sorrows
             mourn'd
             :
          
           
             But
             now
             my
             Scorn
             ,
             alas
             !
             would
             please
             thee
             more
          
           
             Than
             all
             the
             Favours
             I
             bestow'd
             before
             :
          
           
             Then
             let
             some
             other
             Pride
             thy
             Soul
             Torment
             ,
          
           
             And
             make
             thee
             feel
             what
             I
             too
             late
             repent
             ,
          
           
             The
             hopeless
             Pangs
             of
             a
             despairing
             Love
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             the
             Racks
             the
             restless
             guilty
             prove
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             Pet.
             Arbiter
             .
             Qui
             Pelago
             credit
             ,
             magno
             se
             foenere
             tollit
             ,
             &c.
             
          
           
             THe
             ventring
             Merchant
             in
             his
             mighty
             Gains
          
           
             Meets
             a
             Reward
             for
             his
             past
             Toil
             &
             Pains
             ;
          
           
             The
             hardy
             Soldier
             who
             delights
             in
             Wars
             ,
          
           
             Ventures
             for
             Plunder
             whilst
             he
             ventures
             Scars
             ;
          
           
             The
             servile
             cringing
             Flatterer
             ,
             we
             see
          
           
             Triumphant
             in
             his
             purple
             Luxury
             ;
          
           
             The
             Cuckold-maker
             spends
             his
             Blood
             and
             Health
          
           
             In
             toilsome
             Pleasure
             to
             procure
             him
             Wealth
             ;
          
           
             Discarded
             Eloquence
             alone
             does
             wait
             ,
          
           
             Shivering
             with
             Cold
             ,
             and
             ragged
             ,
             out
             of
             Date
             ;
          
           
             And
             whilst
             admired
             Baseness
             upwards
             flies
             ,
          
           
             Worth
             unregarded
             and
             neglected
             Lyes
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             A
             SONG
             :
             By
             
               Henry
               Cromwel
            
             ,
             Esq
             ;
             .
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               A
               Beauteous
               Face
               ,
               fine
               Shape
               ,
               engaging
               Air
               ,
            
             
               With
               all
               the
               Graces
               that
               adorn
               the
               Fair
               ,
            
             
               If
               these
               cou'd
               fail
               their
               so
               accustom'd
               Parts
               ,
            
             
               And
               not
               secure
               the
               Conquest
               of
               our
               Hearts
               :
            
             
               Sylvia
               has
               yet
               a
               vast
               reserve
               in
               store
               ;
            
             
               At
               Sight
               we
               love
               ,
               but
               hearing
               must
               adore
               .
            
          
           
             
               II.
               
            
             
               There
               falls
               continual
               Musick
               from
               her
               Tongue
               ,
            
             
               The
               Wit
               of
               Sappho
               ,
               with
               her
               artful
               Song
               ;
            
             
               From
               Syrens
               thus
               we
               lose
               the
               Power
               to
               fly
               ,
            
             
               We
               listen
               to
               the
               Charm
               ,
               and
               stay
               to
               dy
               :
            
             
               Ah!
               lovely
               Nymph
               ,
               I
               yield
               ,
               I
               am
               undone
               ,
            
             
               Your
               Voice
               has
               finisht
               what
               your
               Eyes
               begun
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             Vpon
             the
             
               Art
               of
               Love
            
             ,
             a
             Book
             ,
             sent
             to
             a
             Lady
             :
             By
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               IS
               Sylvia
               then
               to
               learn
               the
               Art
               of
               Love
               ,
            
             
               Who
               with
               that
               Passion
               every
               Breast
               inspires
               ?
            
             
               What
               pity
               't
               is
               she
               only
               should
               not
               prove
            
             
               What
               mighty
               Charms
               there
               are
               in
               soft
               Desires
               ?
            
             
               Let
               her
               pursue
               the
               Dictates
               of
               her
               Heart
               ,
            
             
               Nature
               's
               a
               Mistress
               better
               far
               than
               Art
               :
            
          
           
             
               II.
               
            
             
               But
               if
               by
               some
               unknown
               Indifference
            
             
               Her
               Eyes
               neglect
               the
               Conquests
               they
               have
               won
               ,
            
             
               And
               whilst
               all
               yield
               to
               Love
               ,
               without
               Defence
               ,
            
             
               Sylvia
               can
               be
               insensible
               alone
               :
            
             
               Try
               then
               ,
               my
               little
               Book
               ,
               thy
               utmost
               Art
               ,
            
             
               To
               make
               the
               Passage
               easy
               to
               her
               Heart
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             A
             SONG
             :
             By
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               HOw
               !
               mortal
               Hate
               !
               for
               what
               Offence
               ?
            
             
               For
               too
               much
               Love
               or
               Negligence
               ?
            
             
               The
               first
               ,
               who
               is
               it
               that
               denies
               ?
            
             
               The
               Fault
               of
               your
               Victorious
               Eyes
               ,
            
             
               As
               't
               is
               of
               your
               severer
               Arms
               ,
            
             
               I
               pay
               no
               more
               my
               Tribute
               to
               your
               Charms
               .
            
          
           
             
               II.
               
            
             
               Yet
               I
               in
               Silence
               still
               admire
               ,
            
             
               Have
               gaz'd
               till
               I
               have
               stole
               a
               Fire
               ;
            
             
               A
               mighty
               Crime
               in
               one
               you
               hate
               ;
            
             
               Yet
               who
               can
               see
               and
               shun
               the
               Fate
               ?
            
             
               Ah!
               let
               it
               then
               not
               mortal
               prove
               ,
            
             
               Not
               but
               I
               'd
               die
               to
               shew
               how
               much
               I
               love
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             The
             DECAY
             ,
             A
             SONG
             :
             By
             
               W.
               C.
            
             
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               SAy
               not
               Olinda
               ,
               I
               despise
            
             
               the
               faded
               Glories
               of
               your
               Face
               ,
            
             
               The
               languish'd
               Vigour
               ,
               of
               your
               Eyes
               ,
            
             
               and
               that
               once
               ,
               only
               lov'd
               Embrace
               .
            
          
           
             
               II.
               
            
             
               In
               vain
               ,
               in
               vain
               ,
               my
               constant
               Heart
               ,
            
             
               on
               aged
               Wings
               ,
               attempts
               to
               meet
            
             
               With
               wonted
               speed
               ,
               those
               Flames
               you
               dart
               ,
            
             
               it
               faints
               and
               flutters
               at
               your
               feet
               .
            
          
           
             
               III.
               
            
             
               I
               blame
               not
               your
               decay
               of
               Pow'r
               ,
            
             
               you
               may
               have
               pointed
               Beauties
               still
               ,
            
             
             
               Though
               me
               alas
               ,
               they
               wound
               no
               more
               ,
            
             
               You
               cannot
               hurt
               what
               cannot
               feel
               .
            
          
           
             
               IV.
               
            
             
               On
               youthful
               Climes
               your
               Beams
               display
               ,
            
             
               There
               ,
               you
               may
               cherish
               with
               your
               Heat
               ,
            
             
               And
               rise
               the
               Sun
               to
               guild
               their
               Day
               ,
            
             
               To
               me
               benighted
               ,
               when
               you
               set
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             A
             SONG
             :
          
           
             By
             Mr.
             S
             —
             .
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               NO
               more
               proud
               Woman
               boast
            
             
               Your
               Empire
               over
               Men
               ,
            
             
               For
               all
               your
               Pow'r
               now
               you
               have
               lost
               ,
            
             
               And
               they
               're
               restor'd
               unto
               themselves
               again
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               II.
               
            
             
               They
               plainly
               now
               discern
            
             
               Those
               Tricks
               and
               all
               those
               Arts
            
             
               With
               which
               your
               Face
               and
               Eyes
               you
               arm
               ,
            
             
               To
               Catch
               unguarded
               Hearts
               .
            
          
           
             
               III.
               
            
             
               And
               rather
               than
               submit
            
             
               To
               such
               Deceits
               ,
               as
               these
               ,
            
             
               They
               'l
               for
               a
               Mistress
               chuse
               a
               Man
               o'Wit
               ,
            
             
               Who
               better
               knows
               to
               please
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             By
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               THis
               proves
               ,
               Clymene
               ,
               what
               I
               said
               ,
            
             
               Our
               Hearts
               o'
               th'
               
                 hardest
                 Rocks
              
               were
               made
               ,
            
             
             
               Since
               mine
               ,
               unweary'd
               still
               has
               born
            
             
               Your
               killing
               Rigour
               and
               your
               Scorn
               ;
            
             
               Yet
               yours
               nothing
               could
               melt
               ,
               or
               move
               ,
            
             
               Not
               all
               my
               Tears
               ,
               nor
               all
               the
               force
               o'Love
               .
            
          
           
             
               II.
               
            
             
               Long
               with
               my
               hourly
               Pains
               I
               strove
               ,
            
             
               Pains
               which
               I
               fear
               will
               endless
               prove
               ,
            
             
               Never
               more
               vainly
               to
               urge
               to
               you
            
             
               This
               Truth
               ,
               for
               my
               repose
               too
               true
               ;
            
             
               I
               am
               a
               Rock
               in
               Constancy
               ,
            
             
               As
               you
               are
               one
               in
               Cruelty
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             SONG
             :
          
           
             By
             
               Tho.
               Ch
            
             —
             .
             
               Esq
               
            
             .
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               LOve
               's
               a
               Dream
               of
               mighty
               Treasure
               ,
            
             
               Which
               in
               Fancy
               we
               possess
               ;
            
             
               In
               the
               Folly
               lies
               the
               Pleasure
               ,
            
             
               Wisdom
               ever
               makes
               it
               less
               :
            
             
               When
               we
               think
               ,
               by
               Passion
               heated
               ,
            
             
               We
               a
               Goddess
               have
               in
               Chase
               ,
            
             
               Like
               Ixion
               we
               are
               cheated
               ,
            
             
               And
               a
               gawdy
               Cloud
               embrace
               .
            
          
           
             
               II.
               
            
             
               Only
               happy
               is
               the
               Lover
               ,
            
             
               Whom
               his
               Mistress
               well
               deceives
               ,
            
             
             
               Seeking
               nothing
               to
               discover
               ,
            
             
               He
               contented
               lives
               at
               ease
               :
            
             
               But
               the
               Wretch
               that
               would
               be
               knowing
            
             
               What
               the
               fair
               one
               would
               disguise
               ,
            
             
               Labors
               for
               his
               own
               undoing
               ,
            
             
               Changing
               Happy
               to
               be
               wise
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             SONG
             :
             By
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               LEt
               other
               Beauties
               boast
               in
               vain
               ,
            
             
               How
               they
               a
               Heart
               ensnare
               ,
            
             
               Which
               they
               by
               artful
               means
               obtain
               ,
            
             
               And
               but
               preserve
               with
               Care
               :
            
             
               Whilst
               Cloe
               ,
               with
               restless
               Pow'r
               ,
            
             
             
               Does
               all
               Mankind
               subdue
               ,
            
             
               As
               are
               her
               Conquests
               ev'ry
               Hour
               ,
            
             
               So
               are
               her
               Charms
               still
               new
               .
            
          
           
             
               II.
               
            
             
               Yet
               she
               for
               whom
               so
               many
               dye
               ,
            
             
               Neglecting
               does
               surprize
               ,
            
             
               As
               loath
               the
               utmost
               Force
               to
               try
            
             
               Of
               her
               victorious
               Eyes
               .
            
             
               Her
               Influence
               she
               does
               moderate
               ,
            
             
               And
               some
               in
               Pity
               spare
               ,
            
             
               That
               Beauties
               of
               a
               
                 Lower
                 Rate
              
            
             
               May
               have
               a
               little
               Share
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             
               The
               Message
            
             ,
             a
             SONG
             :
          
           
             By
             
               W.
               C.
            
             
          
           
             GO
             ,
             thou
             unhappy
             Victim
             ,
             go
          
           
             Thou
             poor
             distracted
             Heart
             ,
          
           
             Oppress'd
             with
             all
             thy
             mighty
             woe
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             endless
             Love
             ,
             and
             Smart
             ;
          
           
             Go
             to
             Aminta
             ,
             tell
             thy
             Grief
             ;
          
           
             Go
             to
             Aminta
             ,
             beg
             Relief
             ;
          
           
             Pray
             to
             that
             Cruel
             Fair
             ,
          
           
             And
             let
             ,
             oh
             let
             her
             hear
          
           
             The
             various
             Cries
             of
             thy
             Despair
             .
          
           
             In
             bleeding
             Wounds
             ,
             and
             trembling
             Fears
             ,
          
           
             In
             moving
             Sighs
             and
             melting
             Tears
             ,
          
           
             Pant
             to
             her
             Eyes
             ,
             and
             pierce
             her
             Ears
             .
          
           
           
             Ah!
             sure
             she
             cannot
             see
             ,
          
           
             A
             Heart
             ,
             so
             clad
             in
             Misery
             ,
          
           
             And
             yet
             no
             Pity
             have
             ;
          
           
             Oh
             no
             —
             she
             cannot
             —
             sure
             she
             will
          
           
             In
             tender
             Mercy
             save
             ,
          
           
             Or
             else
             in
             rigid
             Mercy
             kill
             .
          
        
         
           
             By
             
               Henry
               Cromwel
            
             ,
             
               Esq
            
             Martial
             .
             Epigram
             .
             De
             morte
             Festi
             ,
             lib.
             1.
             epig.
             67.
             
          
           
             
               Indignas
               premeret
               pestis
               cum
               tabida
               fauces
               ,
               &c.
               
            
          
           
             NO
             sooner
             had
             the
             dire
             Disease
             began
             ,
          
           
             But
             o'r
             his
             Face
             the
             spreading
             Mischief
             ran
             ;
          
           
             Around
             him
             his
             lamenting
             Friends
             did
             ly
             ,
          
           
             All
             Eyes
             were
             bath'd
             in
             Tears
             —
             but
             his
             were
             dry
             ;
          
           
             Firm
             in
             his
             Soul
             he
             was
             ,
             and
             well
             resolv'd
             to
             die
             :
          
           
           
             Yet
             does
             he
             mean
             inglorious
             ways
             disdain
             ,
          
           
             By
             Famin
             scorns
             to
             linger
             out
             in
             Pain
             ,
          
           
             Or
             with
             vile
             poisonous
             Dregs
             his
             manly
             Visage
             stain
             :
          
           
             But
             ,
             as
             he
             ever
             Honour's
             Course
             did
             run
             ,
          
           
             In
             Death
             to
             finish
             what
             his
             Life
             begun
             ,
          
           
             With
             Roman
             Courage
             did
             his
             Fate
             obey
             ,
          
           
             Which
             ever
             led
             to
             Death
             the
             noblest
             way
             :
          
           
             By
             falling
             thus
             he
             has
             acquir'd
             a
             Name
             ,
          
           
             Out-vying
             
             Cato's
             in
             the
             List
             of
             Fame
             ,
          
           
             For
             fear
             of
             Caesar
             forc'd
             to
             such
             an
             end
             ;
          
           
             But
             thus
             he
             dy'd
             ,
             and
             yet
             was
             
             Caesar's
             Friend
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             A
             CATCH
             .
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               LET
               the
               Woman
               be
               damn'd
               (
               a
               moderate
               Fate
               )
            
             
               Or
               dye
               an
               old
               Maid
               ,
               as
               grey
               as
               a
               Cat
               ,
            
             
               That
               her
               Lover
               refuses
               for
               want
               of
               Estate
               .
            
          
           
             
               II.
               
            
             
               Let
               her
               ,
               that
               sets
               Man
               ,
               like
               a
               Beast
               to
               be
               sold
               ,
            
             
               And
               above
               mettle'd
               Flesh
               loves
               a
               Lump
               of
               dead
               Gold
               ,
            
             
               Look
               green
               when
               she
               's
               young
               ,
               and
               be
               poxt
               when
               she
               's
               old
               .
            
          
           
             
               III.
               
            
             
               But
               let
               those
               ,
               that
               are
               wise
               contemn
               the
               dull
               Store
               ,
            
             
               Wives
               chose
               by
               their
               Weight
               ,
               will
               be
               weighty
               no
               more
               ,
            
             
               If
               for
               Gold
               they
               will
               wed
               ,
               for
               the
               same
               they
               will
               whore
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             A
             Letter
             from
             
               Hen.
               Cr.
            
             
               Esq.
            
             to
             
               Tho.
               Ch.
            
             
               Esq.
            
             For
             Women
             and
             against
             Wine
             .
          
           
             MY
             lovely
             Ch
             —
             ,
             that
             takes
             Delight
             ,
          
           
             To
             spend
             the
             silent
             Hours
             of
             Night
          
           
             With
             sparkling
             Wine
             ,
             and
             sprightly
             Jest
             ,
          
           
             And
             hates
             the
             lazy
             Thoughts
             of
             Rest
             ,
          
           
             Unbending
             then
             with
             ease
             thy
             Cares
             ,
          
           
             When
             drudging
             Cit
             to
             Shop
             repairs
             ,
          
           
             Of
             thy
             weak
             Friend
             some
             Pity
             take
             ,
          
           
             Who
             has
             not
             learnt
             the
             Art
             to
             wake
             ,
          
           
             Unskill'd
             in
             offring
             at
             the
             Shrine
          
           
             Of
             thy
             dear
             Jovial
             God
             of
             Wine
             :
          
           
             Let
             him
             enjoy
             his
             
               little
               Punk
            
             ,
          
           
             Be
             Clapt
             for
             Sin
             ,
             but
             not
             be
             drunk
             :
          
           
             The
             Wretch
             that
             runs
             at
             ev'ry
             Whore
          
           
             Is
             often
             poxt
             ,
             but
             can't
             give
             o're
             ,
          
           
           
             May
             well
             be
             thought
             a
             Slave
             to
             Passion
             ,
          
           
             But
             yet
             he
             acts
             by
             Inclination
             ,
          
           
             And
             Pleasures
             in
             one
             Moment
             gains
          
           
             To
             countervail
             an
             Age
             of
             Pains
             .
          
           
             Why
             should
             I
             by
             your
             Method
             live
             ?
          
           
             Against
             my
             Genius
             vainly
             strive
             ?
          
           
             This
             ev'n
             common
             Sense
             destroys
             ;
          
           
             This
             the
             wise
             Eunuch
             well
             disproves
             ,
          
           
             Is
             't
             fit
             that
             I
             ,
             who
             know
             no
             Joys
             ,
          
           
             Should
             die
             ,
             ye
             Gods
             ,
             because
             she
             loves
             ?
          
           
             Let
             Venus
             be
             at
             distance
             drawn
             ,
          
           
             To
             make
             the
             nauseous
             Draught
             go
             down
             ,
          
           
             As
             when
             I
             drank
             for
             red-hair'd
             Wench
          
           
             Substantial
             Bowles
             of
             lusty
             Punch
             .
          
           
             Or
             was
             there
             Interest
             in
             the
             Case
             ,
          
           
             It
             might
             go
             down
             without
             Grimace
             ,
          
           
             As
             lusty
             Stallion
             ,
             who
             for
             Hire
             ,
          
           
             Oblig'd
             to
             quench
             some
             Awker'd
             Fire
             ,
          
           
           
             Forces
             himself
             against
             Desire
             ,
          
           
             And
             robs
             from
             Nature
             to
             supply
             her
             .
          
           
             No
             more
             will
             I
             pursue
             your
             Fashion
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             ever
             drink
             by
             Obligation
             ,
          
           
             But
             seek
             a
             softer
             Recreation
             .
          
           
             Thus
             though
             a
             different
             way
             we
             move
             ,
          
           
             Your
             Passion
             Wine
             ,
             mine
             for
             Love
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             may
             we
             ,
             as
             we
             change
             our
             Sphere
             ,
          
           
             Like
             the
             Twin-Gods
             ,
             meet
             once
             a
             Year
             .
          
        
         
           
             An
             Answer
             to
             the
             foregoing
             Letter
             ,
             by
             
               Tho.
               Ch.
            
             
               Esq.
            
             for
             Wine
             .
          
           
             WHen
             lately
             with
             some
             special
             Friends
             ,
          
           
             For
             Fops
             ,
             and
             Fools
             to
             make
             amends
             ,
          
           
             In
             Bow-street
             ,
             at
             a
             certain
             House
             ,
          
           
             We
             drank
             a
             notable
             Carouse
             ;
          
           
           
             And
             whilst
             Mirth
             ,
             and
             good
             Humor
             lasted
             ,
          
           
             The
             Nights
             in
             Joys
             sublime
             we
             wasted
             ;
          
           
             Against
             good
             Wine
             cou'd
             I
             imagine
             ,
          
           
             That
             you
             a
             Satyr
             wou'd
             engage
             in
             ?
          
           
             Good
             Wine
             ,
             that
             raises
             us
             above
          
           
             The
             most
             transporting
             Thoughts
             of
             Love
             ,
          
           
             Inspires
             us
             with
             great
             Wit
             and
             Sense
             ;
          
           
             When
             Love
             does
             ever
             drain
             from
             thence
             .
          
           
             When
             by
             indulging
             over
             Night
          
           
             Much
             Wine
             has
             cloid
             the
             Appetite
             ,
          
           
             Next
             Day
             a
             Bumper
             will
             restore
             ,
          
           
             Correct
             the
             Faults
             o'
             th
             Day
             before
             ,
          
           
             But
             ,
             
               by
               Experience
            
             taught
             ,
             I
             find
             ,
          
           
             It
             ne'r
             was
             so
             with
             Womankind
             :
          
           
             Yet
             ,
             Sir
             ,
             I
             am
             not
             in
             defyance
          
           
             With
             the
             soft
             Sex
             ,
             but
             in
             compliance
             ,
          
           
             Wou'd
             kindly
             take
             Commiseration
          
           
             On
             her
             that
             had
             for
             me
             a
             Passion
             ;
          
           
           
             But
             like
             a
             Beau
             to
             fawn
             ,
             and
             wait
             ,
          
           
             Is
             that
             of
             all
             Things
             ,
             that
             I
             hate
             .
          
           
             I
             use
             a
             Woman
             at
             my
             Leisure
             ,
          
           
             Not
             make
             a
             Business
             of
             a
             Pleasure
             :
          
           
             But
             you
             ,
             whom
             Female
             Chains
             can
             fetter
             ,
          
           
             I
             never
             heard
             was
             treated
             better
             .
          
           
             Or
             may
             be
             of
             an
             Amorous
             League
             ,
          
           
             You
             cannot
             bear
             the
             grand
             fatigue
             ;
          
           
             Something
             of
             that
             I
             am
             afraid
             ,
          
           
             I
             'll
             tell
             you
             what
             the
             World
             has
             said
             ;
          
           
             My
             Dear
             ,
             it
             's
             credibly
             reported
             ,
          
           
             You
             want
             strong
             Vigor
             when
             you
             sport
             it
             :
          
           
             In
             vain
             you
             say
             soft
             things
             and
             tender
             ,
          
           
             When
             't
             is
             a
             stiff
             thing
             ,
             that
             must
             bend
             her
             :
          
           
             But
             yours
             is
             such
             a
             modest
             Devil
             ,
          
           
             It
             is
             afraid
             to
             be
             uncivil
             ;
          
           
             And
             when
             she
             wishes
             for
             the
             Blessing
             ,
          
           
             You
             idly
             stand
             and
             praise
             her
             Dressing
             ,
          
           
           
             The
             pretty
             Cornets
             on
             her
             Head
             ,
          
           
             When
             you
             should
             throw
             her
             on
             the
             Bed
             ,
          
           
             The
             fancied
             Colours
             of
             a
             Knot
             ,
          
           
             When
             you
             should
             be
             upon
             the
             Spot
             :
          
           
             Then
             with
             her
             Fan
             ,
             perhaps
             ,
             you
             play
             ,
          
           
             When
             you
             should
             cool
             her
             t'other
             way
             .
          
           
             These
             are
             the
             Reasons
             ,
             as
             I
             ghess
             ,
          
           
             That
             makes
             you
             have
             such
             ill
             Success
             ;
          
           
             But
             if
             by
             chance
             you
             have
             the
             Fortune
          
           
             To
             win
             the
             Lady
             you
             importune
             ,
          
           
             'T
             is
             one
             you
             pick
             up
             at
             
             Hypolito's
             ,
          
           
             Whom
             for
             a
             Month
             or
             two
             you
             follow
             close
             ,
          
           
             And
             though
             enjoy'd
             by
             half
             the
             Town
             ,
          
           
             Keeps
             you
             at
             Distance
             with
             a
             Frown
             ,
          
           
             Till
             by
             
               persuasive
               Presents
            
             gain'd
             ,
          
           
             The
             mighty
             Victory
             's
             obtain'd
             ;
          
           
             And
             when
             you
             think
             your self
             most
             happy
             ,
          
           
             'T
             is
             ten
             to
             one
             ,
             the
             Jade
             will
             Clap
             you
             .
          
           
           
             Successively
             my
             Pleasures
             move
             ,
          
           
             From
             Love
             to
             Wine
             ,
             from
             Wine
             to
             Love
             :
          
           
             Kindly
             each
             other
             they
             relieve
             ,
          
           
             And
             Change
             does
             double
             Pleasure
             give
             :
          
           
             Then
             against
             Wine
             be
             not
             inveterate
             ,
          
           
             Because
             the
             other
             you
             are
             better
             at
             ;
          
           
             But
             use
             them
             both
             ,
             and
             the
             Delight
          
           
             Will
             prove
             your
             Friend
             is
             in
             the
             Right
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             A
             SONG
             ,
             By
             
               Henry
               Cromwel
            
             ,
             
               Esq.
               
            
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               NO
               ,
               no
               ,
               I
               ne'r
               shall
               love
               thee
               less
               ,
            
             
               For
               all
               thy
               fierce
               Disdain
               ,
            
             
               So
               fast
               thy
               blooming
               Charms
               increase
               ,
            
             
               Thy
               sparkling
               Eyes
               my
               Heart
               oppress
               ,
            
             
               Each
               Glance
               renews
               my
               Pain
               .
            
          
           
             
               II.
               
            
             
               Yet
               must
               I
               ,
               (
               Fate
               !
               )
               like
               busie
               Flies
               ,
            
             
               Still
               to
               thy
               Brightness
               turn
               ;
            
             
               Pursue
               thee
               with
               my
               restless
               Eyes
               ,
            
             
               Till
               ,
               as
               each
               flaming
               Blush
               does
               rise
               ,
            
             
               Insensibly
               I
               burn
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             An
             Invitation
             to
             the
             
               Musick
               Meeting
            
             :
             By
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               REturn
               ,
               ah
               charming
               Nymphs
               !
               return
            
             
               To
               your
               once-lov'd
               forsaken
               Plains
               ;
            
             
               Let
               us
               no
               more
               your
               Absence
               mourn
               ,
            
             
               But
               soon
               resume
               our
               pleasing
               Strains
               ;
            
             
               O'r
               all
               our
               useless
               Instruments
               unstrung
               ,
            
             
               No
               more
               your
               shining
               Beauties
               shall
               be
               sung
               :
            
          
           
             
               II.
               
            
             
               Come
               all
               ye
               Shepheards
               to
               our
               Groves
               ;
            
             
               'T
               is
               here
               a
               Glance
               with
               ease
               imparts
               ,
            
             
               To
               the
               fair
               Object
               of
               your
               Loves
               ,
            
             
               The
               moving
               Stories
               of
               your
               Hearts
               ;
            
             
               Our
               Songs
               and
               Strings
               shall
               favour
               the
               Design
               ,
            
             
               And
               every
               Breast
               to
               Tenderness
               incline
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             VERSES
             by
             Madam
             Behn
             ,
             never
             before
             printed
             .
          
           
             On
             a
             CONVENTICLE
             .
          
           
             
               BEhold
               that
               Race
               ,
               whence
               
               England's
               Woes
               proceed
               ,
            
             
               The
               Viper's
               Nest
               ,
               where
               all
               our
               Mischiefs
               breed
               ,
            
             
               There
               ,
               guided
               ,
               by
               Inspiration
               ,
               Treason
               speaks
               ,
            
             
               And
               through
               the
               Holy
               Bag-pipe
               Legion
               squeaks
               .
            
          
           
             
               The
               Nation
               's
               Curse
               ,
               Religion's
               ridicule
               ,
            
             
               The
               Rabble's
               God
               ,
               the
               Politicians
               Tool
               ,
            
             
               Scorn
               of
               the
               Wise
               ,
               and
               Scandal
               of
               the
               Just
               ,
            
             
               The
               Villain
               's
               Refuge
               ,
               and
               the
               Womens
               Lust.
               
            
          
        
         
           
           
             VERSES
             design'd
             by
             Mrs.
             
               A.
               Behn
            
             ,
             to
             be
             sent
             to
             a
             fair
             Lady
             ,
             that
             desir'd
             she
             would
             absent
             herself
             ,
             to
             cure
             her
             Love.
             Left
             unfinish'd
             .
          
           
             IN
             vain
             to
             Woods
             and
             Deserts
             I
             retire
             ,
          
           
             To
             shun
             the
             lovely
             Charmer
             I
             admire
             ,
          
           
             Where
             the
             soft
             Breezes
             do
             but
             fann
             my
             Fire
             !
          
           
             In
             vain
             in
             Grotto's
             dark
             unseen
             I
             lie
             ,
          
           
             Love
             pierces
             where
             the
             Sun
             could
             never
             spy
             .
          
           
             No
             place
             ,
             no
             Art
             his
             Godhead
             can
             exclude
             ,
          
           
             The
             Dear
             Distemper
             reigns
             in
             Solitude
             :
          
           
             Distance
             ,
             alas
             ,
             contributes
             to
             my
             Grief
             ;
          
           
             No
             more
             ,
             of
             what
             fond
             Lovers
             call
             ,
             Relief
          
           
             Than
             to
             the
             wounded
             Hind
             does
             sudden
             Flight
          
           
             From
             the
             chast
             Goddesses
             pursuing
             Sight
             :
          
           
           
             When
             in
             the
             Heart
             the
             fatal
             Shaft
             remains
             ,
          
           
             And
             darts
             the
             Venom
             through
             our
             bleeding
             Veins
             .
          
           
             If
             I
             resolve
             no
             longer
             to
             submit
          
           
             My self
             a
             wretched
             Conquest
             to
             your
             Wit
             ,
          
           
             More
             swift
             than
             fleeting
             Shades
             ,
             ten
             thousand
             Charms
          
           
             From
             your
             bright
             Eyes
             that
             Rebel
             Thought
             disarms
             :
          
           
             The
             more
             I
             strugl'd
             ,
             to
             my
             Grief
             I
             found
          
           
             My self
             in
             
             Cupid's
             Chains
             more
             surely
             bound
             :
          
           
             Like
             Birds
             in
             Nets
             ,
             the
             more
             I
             strive
             ,
             I
             find
          
           
             My self
             the
             faster
             in
             the
             Snare
             confin'd
             .
          
        
         
           
             VENUS
             and
             CUPID
             .
          
           
             
               VENVS
               .
            
             
               CVpid
               ,
               my
               darling
               Cupid
               and
               my
               Joy
               ,
            
             
               Thy
               Mother
               Venus
               calls
               come
               away
               ,
               come
               away
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               CVPID
               .
            
             
               Alas
               !
               I
               cannot
               ,
               I
               am
               at
               Play.
               
            
          
           
             
               VENVS
               .
            
             
               Fond
               Boy
               ,
               I
               do
               command
               thee
               ,
               haste
               ;
            
             
               Thy
               precious
               Hours
               no
               longer
               waste
               :
            
             
               In
               Groves
               and
               Cottages
               you
               make
               abode
               ,
            
             
               Too
               mean
               a
               Condescention
               for
               a
               God!
            
             
               On
               barren
               Mountains
               idly
               play
               ,
            
             
               For
               shame
               thou
               Wanton
               come
               away
               ,
               come
               away
               !
            
             
               All
               useless
               lies
               thy
               Bow
               and
               Darts
               ,
            
             
               That
               should
               be
               wounding
               heedless
               Hearts
               :
            
             
               The
               Swain
               that
               guards
               his
               Drove
               ,
            
             
               Alas
               !
               no
               Leisure
               has
               for
               Love
               :
            
             
               His
               Flocks
               and
               Heards
               are
               all
               his
               Joy
               ,
            
             
               Then
               leave
               the
               Shades
               and
               come
               away
               ,
               come
               away
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               CVPID
               .
            
             
               Alas
               ,
               what
               would
               you
               have
               me
               do
               ?
            
             
               Command
               and
               I
               'll
               Obedience
               shew
               .
            
          
           
             
               VENVS
               .
            
             
               Hye
               then
               to
               Cities
               and
               to
               Court
               ,
            
             
               Where
               all
               the
               Young
               and
               Fair
               resort
               ;
            
             
               There
               try
               thy
               Power
               ,
               let
               fly
               thy
               Darts
               ,
            
             
               And
               bring
               me
               in
               some
               noble
               Hearts
               ,
            
             
               Worthy
               to
               be
               by
               thee
               undone
               ,
            
             
               For
               here
               's
               no
               Glory
               to
               be
               won
               .
            
          
           
             
               CVPID
               .
            
             
               Mistaken
               Queen
               ,
               look
               down
               and
               see
               ,
            
             
               What
               Trophies
               are
               prepar'd
               for
               thee
               ,
            
             
               What
               glorious
               Slaves
               are
               destin'd
               me
               .
            
          
           
             
               VENVS
               .
            
             
               Now
               ,
               by
               my self
               ,
               a
               Noble
               Throng
               ;
            
             
               How
               Fair
               the
               Nymphs
               ,
               the
               Swains
               how
               Young
               !
            
             
             
               No
               wonder
               if
               my
               little
               Loves
            
             
               Delight
               and
               play
               in
               Shades
               and
               Groves
               .
            
          
           
             
               CVPID
               .
            
             
               Then
               ,
               Mother
               ,
               here
               I
               'll
               bend
               my
               Bow
               ,
            
             
               And
               bring
               you
               wounded
               Hearts
               enough
               .
            
          
           
             
               VENVS
               .
            
             
               
                 My
                 pretty
                 Charming
                 Wanton
                 do
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Chorus
                 .
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 thus
                 we
                 over
                 Mortals
                 reign
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 thus
                 we
                 adoration
                 gain
              
               
                 From
                 the
                 proud
                 Monarch
                 to
                 the
                 humble
                 Swain
                 .
              
            
          
        
         
           
           
             The
             Old
             Man's
             Complaint
             :
             By
             Mr.
             Wells
             .
          
           
             
               AH
               ,
               pity
               Love
               where
               e'r
               it
               grows
               !
            
             
               See
               how
               in
               me
               it
               overflows
               ,
            
             
               In
               dripping
               Eyes
               and
               dropping
               Nose
               .
            
          
           
             
               So
               strange
               a
               thing
               is
               seldom
               seen
               ;
            
             
               My
               Age
               is
               dull
               ,
               my
               Love
               is
               keen
               ;
            
             
               Above
               I
               'm
               grey
               ,
               but
               elswhere
               green
               .
            
          
           
             
               Aloof
               ,
               perhaps
               I
               court
               and
               prate
               ;
            
             
               But
               something
               near
               I
               would
               be
               at
               ,
            
             
               Tho'
               I
               'm
               so
               old
               I
               scarce
               know
               what
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             The
             Maid's
             Answer
             .
          
           
             
               For
               Shame
               your
               Green-wood
               Fires
               then
               smother
               ,
            
             
               You
               drop
               at
               one
               End
               ,
               burn
               at
               t'other
               ,
            
             
               You
               'd
               have
               a
               Wife
               to
               spoil
               a
               Mother
               .
            
          
           
             
               I
               pity
               much
               your
               Eyes
               o'rflowing
               ;
            
             
               But
               sure
               the
               World
               must
               needs
               be
               going
               ,
            
             
               When
               Rheums
               and
               Rottenness
               run
               a
               woeing
               .
            
          
           
             
               Then
               let
               Age
               make
               you
               cease
               your
               chat
               ;
            
             
               And
               since
               you
               have
               forgot
               what
               's
               what
               ;
            
             
               Old
               Rats
               love
               Cheese
               ,
               go
               construe
               that
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             Vpon
             MARRIAGE
             :
             An
             Epigram
             :
             By
             Dr.
             N.
             
          
           
             UNhappy
             State
             !
             to
             thee
             ,
             poor
             Man
             does
             owe
          
           
             The
             loss
             of
             Innocence
             and
             Being
             too
             .
          
           
             Marriage
             alone
             brought
             in
             the
             Tempter
             Eve
             ,
          
           
             It
             was
             the
             Serpent
             Woman
             did
             deceive
             :
          
           
             The
             Mischief
             still
             continues
             she
             began
             ,
          
           
             For
             every
             Woman
             is
             an
             Eve
             to
             Man.
             
          
        
         
           
           
             A
             SONG
             :
             By
             Mr.
             
               J.
               S.
            
             of
             the
             
               Middle
               Temple
            
             .
          
           
             
               ALL
               Thoughts
               of
               Freedom
               are
               too
               late
               ,
            
             
               Not
               any
               new
               fair
               Lady's
               Art
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               both
               the
               India's
               Wealth
               nor
               Fate
            
             
               Itself
               can
               disengage
               my
               Heart
               .
            
          
           
             
               Not
               ,
               which
               kind
               Heaven
               forbid
               ,
               your
               Hate
            
             
               And
               that
               which
               follows
               ,
               proud
               Disdain
            
             
               My
               Passion
               could
               at
               all
               abate
               ,
            
             
               But
               only
               make
               it
               last
               with
               Pain
               .
            
          
           
             
               Thus
               all
               my
               Quiet
               does
               depend
            
             
               On
               Hopes
               t'
               obtain
               a
               Smile
               from
               you
               ;
            
             
               That
               so
               my
               Love
               ,
               that
               knows
               no
               end
               ,
            
             
               May
               last
               with
               equal
               Pleasure
               too
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             To
             SYLVIA
             ,
             a
             SONG
             :
          
           
             By
             
               C.
               G.
            
             
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               SYlvia
               ,
               could
               your
               Eyes
               but
               see
            
             
               The
               Wounds
               your
               killing
               Beauties
               give
               ;
            
             
               A
               Lover
               you
               might
               read
               in
               me
               ,
            
             
               Who
               ,
               if
               you
               frown
               ,
               disdains
               to
               live
               .
            
          
           
             
               II.
               
            
             
               But
               oh
               !
               the
               Artless
               
                 fair
                 ones
              
               know
            
             
               No
               more
               ,
               than
               Tongues
               or
               Eyes
               persuade
               :
            
             
               Tongues
               that
               deceive
               ,
               and
               Eyes
               that
               shew
            
             
               Too
               often
               Love
               an
               Art
               is
               made
               ,
            
          
           
             
               III.
               
            
             
               For
               a
               sincere
               and
               tender
               Passion
               :
            
             
               Ah!
               how
               severe
               and
               hard
               a
               Fate
               !
            
             
             
               That
               Faith
               's
               not
               known
               from
               Oaths
               for
               fashion
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               naked
               Truth
               from
               gay
               Deceit
               .
            
          
           
             
               IV.
               
            
             
               Soft
               as
               your
               balmy
               Breath's
               my
               Flame
               ,
            
             
               When
               strugling
               Love
               breaks
               out
               in
               Sighs
               ;
            
             
               Immortal
               ,
               as
               I
               'll
               make
               your
               Name
               ,
            
             
               And
               as
               bewitching
               as
               your
               Eyes
               .
            
          
           
             
               V.
               
            
             
               But
               hold
               ,
               fond
               Swain
               !
               Ah!
               tell
               no
               more
               !
            
             
               For
               Heav'n
               and
               the
               heav'nly
               fair
            
             
               Their
               Favours
               on
               the
               Happy
               show'r
               ,
            
             
               Leaving
               the
               Wretch
               still
               to
               Despair
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             To
             SYLVIA
             ,
             the
             Meeting
             :
             By
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               GOds
               !
               when
               we
               meet
               how
               dull
               was
               I
               ▪
            
             
               My
               Tongue
               ,
               that
               us'd
               to
               move
            
             
               So
               glibly
               on
               the
               Theme
               of
               Love
               ,
            
             
               Now
               ,
               when
               't
               was
               real
               ,
               lay
               motionless
               and
               still
               ;
            
             
               Nor
               wou'd
               it
               to
               fair
               Sylvia
               tell
               ,
            
             
               The
               eager
               Pangs
               and
               Torments
               of
               my
               Mind
               :
            
             
               But
               like
               a
               false
               deceitful
               Friend
               ,
            
             
               Officious
               in
               my
               Sun
               shine
               Day
               ,
            
             
               Profering
               his
               Service
               and
               his
               Coin
               ,
            
             
               (
               When
               he
               was
               here
               I
               wanted
               none
               )
            
             
               But
               when
               I
               needed
               most
               ,
               he
               prov'd
               most
               shy
               ,
            
             
               Leaving
               me
               Speechless
               ,
               when
               I
               'd
               most
               to
               say
               .
            
             
             
               My
               very
               Fancy
               ,
               and
               my
               Thoughts
               were
               flown
               ,
            
             
               So
               wholly
               was
               I
               lost
               in
               unexpected
               Joy.
               
            
          
           
             
               II.
               
            
             
               All
               extream
               Joy
               in
               Silence
               reigns
               ;
            
             
               As
               Grief
               ,
               when
               in
               excess
            
             
               A
               fluent
               Tale
               proves
               either
               less
               ,
            
             
               The
               lighter
               Wounds
               of
               Fortune
               are
               made
               known
            
             
               In
               formal
               Words
               ,
               and
               mournful
               Tone
               :
            
             
               But
               when
               she
               deeper
               strikes
               her
               Dart
               ,
            
             
               'T
               is
               mute
               ,
               and
               festers
               in
               the
               Heart
               .
            
             
               So
               lesser
               Joy
               is
               noisy
               ,
               brisk
               ,
               and
               gay
               ,
            
             
               Flows
               in
               full
               Tides
               of
               Laugh
               ,
               and
               Talk
               ,
            
             
               Admits
               no
               silent
               Check
               or
               Balk
               :
            
             
               But
               when
               so
               great
               as
               mine
               ,
               the
               Sense
               it
               chains
               .
            
             
               Imperfect
               Words
               !
               a
               Sigh
               !
               a
               soft
               Caress
               !
            
             
               A
               trembling
               Body
               ,
               and
               a
               ravish'd
               Kiss
               ,
            
             
               Was
               all
               the
               wondrous
               Language
               of
               m'unruly
               Joy.
               
            
          
           
             
             
               III.
               
            
             
               Ah!
               if
               your
               only
               Presence
               give
            
             
               Such
               elevated
               Bliss
               ,
            
             
               What
               Raptures
               and
               what
               Extasies
            
             
               Have
               you
               ,
               bright
               Sylvia
               ,
               yet
               in
               store
               ,
            
             
               For
               the
               blest
               Man
               you
               love
               !
            
             
               Too
               mighty
               sure
               for
               Man's
               frail
               Sense
               to
               bear
               ,
            
             
               Or
               to
               enjoy
               and
               live
               !
            
             
               If
               but
               a
               gentle
               Touch
               such
               Transports
               move
               ,
            
             
               What
               must
               Divine
               Fruition
               prove
               !
            
             
               Encircl'd
               in
               those
               tender
               Arms
               ,
            
             
               Dissolving
               with
               those
               melting
               Charms
               ;
            
             
               And
               oh
               !
               —
               on
               that
               soft
               panting
               Bosome
               lye
               !
            
             
               Sylvia
               that
               Death
               ,
               grant
               Heaven
               and
               you
               ,
               I
               dye
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             The
             beginning
             of
             the
             First
             Satyr
             of
             Persius
             imitated
             .
          
           
             
               The
               Prologue
               ,
               to
               Dr.
               
                 M
                 —
                 dly
              
               .
            
             
               'T
               Is
               true
               ,
               nor
               is
               it
               worth
               denial
               ,
            
             
               My
               Verse
               has
               never
               yet
               stood
               Tryal
            
             
               Of
               Poetick-Smiths
               ,
               that
               meet
               still
               ,
            
             
               At
               
                 Vrwin
                 Toms
              
               ,
               or
               Vrwin
               Will
               's
               ;
            
             
               (
               For
               thus
               ,
               Sir
               ,
               Modern
               Revolution
            
             
               Has
               split
               the
               Wits
               ,
               t'
               avoid
               Confusion
               ,
            
             
               And
               set
               up
               Brother
               against
               Brother
               ,
            
             
               That
               they
               mayn't
               clapper-claw
               each
               other
               .
               )
            
             
               That
               I
               should
               think
               my self
               a
               Poet
               ,
            
             
               And
               vainly
               dare
               in
               Print
               to
               shew
               it
               :
            
             
               I
               ,
               who
               have
               never
               pass'd
               as
               yet
            
             
               The
               Test
               of
               the
               mis-judging
               Pit
               ,
            
             
             
               Nor
               i
               th'
               Galleries
               tickl'd
               Crowd
               ,
            
             
               'Till
               they
               have
               clap'd
               and
               laugh'd
               aloud
               :
            
             
               Nor
               from
               the
               tender
               Boxes
               e'r
            
             
               Yet
               have
               drawn
               one
               pitying
               Tear
               :
            
             
               Nor
               with
               
                 Sir
                 Courtly
                 ,
                 Roundelays
              
            
             
               Have
               made
               to
               garnish
               out
               new
               Plays
               :
            
             
               Nor
               
               Virgil's
               great
               majestick
               Lines
            
             
               Melted
               into
               enervate
               Rhimes
               :
            
             
               Nor
               witty
               Horace
               ,
               e'r
               did
               venture
            
             
               To
               burlesque
               into
               modern
               Banter
               :
            
             
               Nor
               gentle
               Ovid
               e'r
               did
               force
            
             
               To
               
                 zounds
                 a
                 River
                 for
                 a
                 Horse
                 :
              
            
             
               Nor
               sharp
               
               Iuvenal's
               stronger
               Verse
               ,
            
             
               Perverted
               into
               Dogrel
               Farce
               :
            
             
               Nor
               ever
               durst
               as
               yet
               presume
            
             
               To
               venture
               on
               a
               meer
               Lampoon
               :
            
             
               Nor
               ,
               in
               short
               ,
               few
               Words
               being
               best
               ,
            
             
               Ne'r
               yet
               could
               make
               a
               bawdy
               Jest.
            
             
             
               I
               'll
               tell
               you
               then
               ,
               since
               you
               'l
               needs
               know
               it
               ,
            
             
               Why
               I
               set
               up
               now
               for
               a
               Poet
               :
            
             
               'T
               is
               not
               for
               what
               most
               of
               Vs
               write
               ,
            
             
               To
               fill
               my
               Purse
               ,
               or
               shew
               my
               Wit
               ;
            
             
               But
               purely
               out
               of
               Affection
               ,
            
             
               To
               fill
               up
               my
               Friend's
               Collection
               .
            
             
               Therefore
               ,
               sweet
               Sir
               ,
               in
               haste
               ,
               adieu
               t'
               ye
               ,
            
             
               For
               I
               'll
               adjourn
               now
               to
               my
               Duty
               .
            
          
           
             
               The
               beginning
               of
               the
               First
               Satyr
               of
               Persius
               imitated
               .
            
             
               
                 Poet.
                 
              
               
                 OH
                 the
                 prepostrous
                 Cares
                 of
                 Human
                 kind
                 !
              
               
                 Which
                 in
                 each
                 Action
                 and
                 each
                 Wish
                 we
                 find
                 !
              
            
             
               
                 Friend
                 .
              
               
                 Prithee
                 that
                 Cant
                 give
                 o'r
                 ,
                 or
                 who
                 will
                 read
                 ?
              
               
                 You
                 preach
                 as
                 solemnly
                 ,
                 as
                 't
                 were
                 your
                 Trade
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 P.
                 
              
               
                 Speak
                 you
                 to
                 me
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 F.
                 
              
               
                 To
                 thee
                 sayst
                 ?
                 yes
                 egad
                 —
              
               
                 Why
                 surely
                 ,
                 Iack
                 ,
                 thou
                 'rt
                 absolutely
                 mad
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 none
                 will
                 on
                 such
                 formal
                 Verses
                 look
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 damn
                 the
                 Author
                 ,
                 and
                 despise
                 the
                 Book
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 P.
                 
              
               
                 None
                 ,
                 say
                 you
                 Sir
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 F.
                 
              
               
                 Or
                 one
                 or
                 two
                 at
                 most
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 is
                 't
                 not
                 hard
                 t
                 o've
                 All
                 your
                 Labour
                 lost
                 ?
              
               
                 To
                 have
                 your
                 Works
                 on
                 Bulks
                 all
                 dusty
                 lye
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 your
                 Thoughts
                 for
                 want
                 of
                 Readers
                 dye
                 ?
              
               
                 Your
                 precious
                 Lines
                 serv'd
                 up
                 to
                 Nocks
                 ,
                 or
                 Pye
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 P.
                 
              
               
                 Mistake
                 not
                 ,
                 Friend
                 ,
                 I
                 chase
                 not
                 empty
                 Fame
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 write
                 to
                 please
                 the
                 Town
                 ,
                 or
                 get
                 a
                 Name
                 .
              
               
                 Let
                 the
                 
                   Vain
                   Herd
                
                 of
                 noisy
                 Wits
                 ,
                 and
                 Beaux
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 whom
                 they
                 please
                 their
                 worthless
                 Praise
                 dispose
                 ,
              
               
                 It
                 ne'r
                 one
                 Moment
                 shall
                 break
                 my
                 Repose
                 .
              
               
                 Or
                 what
                 care
                 I
                 ,
                 if
                 th'undiscerning
                 Town
              
               
                 Prefer
                 dull
                 A
                 —
                 to
                 me
                 ,
                 or
                 
                   Perter
                   Br
                   —
                   n
                
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Let
                 his
                 tagg'd
                 Nonsense
                 ,
                 
                   t'others
                   Wilds
                
                 of
                 Wit
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 Cits
                 ,
                 and
                 Boys
                 still
                 fond
                 Applauses
                 get
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 you
                 ,
                 my
                 Friend
                 ,
                 steer
                 a
                 securer
                 Course
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 by
                 the
                 common
                 Judgment
                 ne'r
                 form
                 yours
                 .
              
               
                 Most
                 Men
                 ,
                 by
                 publick
                 Vogue
                 condemn
                 or
                 praise
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 never
                 weigh
                 the
                 Merits
                 of
                 the
                 Cause
                 :
              
               
                 Let
                 not
                 that
                 balance
                 you
                 to
                 either
                 Side
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 Wisdom's
                 
                   Nobler
                   Rule
                
                 your
                 Sentence
                 guide
                 .
              
               
                 Oh!
                 that
                 I
                 could
                 ,
                 spight
                 of
                 my
                 beardless
                 Youth
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 a
                 
                   prevailing
                   Force
                
                 ,
                 now
                 urge
                 the
                 Truth
                 !
              
            
             
               
                 Fr.
                 
              
               
                 Stay
                 but
                 a
                 while
                 ,
                 till
                 Reverend
                 Age
                 comes
                 on
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 Thy
                 fleeting
                 Years
                 of
                 Youth
                 will
                 soon
                 be
                 gone
                 )
              
               
                 Then
                 will
                 grey
                 Hairs
                 on
                 all
                 thou
                 say'st
                 print
                 Aw
                 ,
              
               
                 Authority
                 with
                 all
                 thy
                 Precepts
                 go
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 dictatorial
                 Youth
                 does
                 Envy
                 draw
                 ,
              
               
                 Tho'
                 from
                 his
                 Pen
                 the
                 noblest
                 Truths
                 do
                 flow
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 P.
                 
              
               
                 Oh!
                 that
                 's
                 too
                 long
                 ,
                 I
                 must
                 before
                 that
                 Time
              
               
                 Lash
                 the
                 vile
                 Town
                 with
                 my
                 Satyric
                 Rhime
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 F.
                 
              
               
                 That
                 must
                 not
                 be
                 —
                 pray
                 take
                 a
                 Friend's
                 Advice
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 P.
                 
              
               
                 Prithee
                 no
                 more
                 ,
                 indeed
                 thou'
                 rt
                 over-nice
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 can
                 no
                 longer
                 hold
                 ,
                 nor
                 silent
                 ,
                 see
              
               
                 Such
                 numerous
                 Pamphlets
                 on
                 each
                 quarter
                 fly
                 ,
              
               
                 Some
                 in
                 Prose
                 ,
                 and
                 some
                 in
                 mightier
                 Verse
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 each
                 will
                 daily
                 to
                 his
                 Friends
                 rehearse
                 .
              
               
                 Here
                 a
                 
                   Pert
                   Sot
                
                 ,
                 with
                 six
                 Months
                 Pains
                 brings
                 forth
              
               
                 A
                 strange
                 ,
                 mishapen
                 ,
                 and
                 ridiculous
                 Birth
                 :
              
               
                 A
                 glimps
                 of
                 Human
                 Stamp
                 it
                 has
                 ,
                 the
                 rest
              
               
                 Is
                 Serpent
                 ,
                 Fish
                 ,
                 and
                 Bird
                 ,
                 but
                 larger
                 Beast
                 :
              
               
                 In
                 that
                 odd
                 Monster
                 Horace
                 once
                 design'd
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 may
                 some
                 Method
                 and
                 some
                 meaning
                 find
                 ,
              
               
                 Tho'
                 diffring
                 Parts
                 ,
                 yet
                 distinct
                 Parts
                 it
                 had
                 ,
              
               
                 Tail
                 of
                 Fish
                 ,
                 Horses
                 Neck
                 ,
                 a
                 Human
                 Head.
              
               
               
                 Nor
                 Head
                 ,
                 nor
                 Tail
                 ,
                 nor
                 
                   any
                   Part
                
                 is
                 here
                 ,
              
               
                 Through
                 the
                 whole
                 Lump
                 no
                 certain
                 Forms
                 appear
                 :
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 Chaos
                 all
                 —
                 Mark
                 how
                 the
                 jarring
                 Seed
              
               
                 Of
                 ill
                 agreeing
                 things
                 ,
                 perpetual
                 Discord
                 breed
                 !
              
               
                 Together
                 huddled
                 ,
                 now
                 this
                 ,
                 now
                 that
                 prevails
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   HOT
                   Simile
                
                 now
                 ,
                 now
                 COLD
                 Winters
                 Tales
                 !
              
               
                 More
                 
                   pondrous
                   GHESS
                
                 ,
                 with
                 
                   lighter
                   BANTER
                
                 meets
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 clashing
                 Fury
                 each
                 the
                 other
                 greets
                 ;
              
               
                 MOIST
                 spreading
                 Scandal
                 ,
                 with
                 
                   DRY
                   Dulness
                
                 fights
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 oh
                 !
                 't
                 requires
                 ,
                 this
                 Mortal
                 Strife
                 to
                 end
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 stronger
                 Judgment
                 ,
                 a
                 diviner
                 Mind
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 his
                 ;
                 for
                 whatsoe'r
                 the
                 World
                 may
                 think
                 ,
              
               
                 Pudding's
                 his
                 Food
                 ,
                 and
                 drowsy
                 Mum
                 his
                 drink
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 read
                 his
                 Trifles
                 ,
                 and
                 scarce
                 in
                 one
                 Line
              
               
                 You
                 'll
                 find
                 him
                 guilty
                 of
                 the
                 least
                 Design
                 .
              
               
               
                 By
                 the
                 thick
                 Fogs
                 ,
                 which
                 from
                 his
                 Diet
                 rise
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 Sense
                 is
                 smother'd
                 ,
                 and
                 his
                 Judgment
                 dyes
                 .
              
               
                 Well
                 has
                 he
                 then
                 the
                 seven
                 Sleepers
                 grac'd
              
               
                 By
                 yearly
                 Sacrifice
                 ,
                 and
                 annual
                 Feast
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 sure
                 his
                 Studies
                 are
                 but
                 Sleep
                 at
                 best
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 the
                 Town
                 must
                 needs
                 be
                 in
                 a
                 Dream
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 such
                 wild
                 Ramblings
                 got
                 him
                 some
                 poor
                 Fame
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 quitting
                 now
                 this
                 poor
                 Prose
                 Pamphleteer
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 mightier
                 Verse
                 ,
                 I
                 must
                 my
                 Vessel
                 steer
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 here
                 the
                 Chiming
                 Fops
                 so
                 numerous
                 grow
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 such
                 various
                 Follies
                 dress'd
                 they
                 go
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 would
                 be
                 an
                 endless
                 Task
                 to
                 lash'em
                 all
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 now
                 I
                 find
                 my
                 Muse
                 grows
                 something
                 dull
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 F.
                 
              
               
                 Enough
                 for
                 one
                 time
                 ,
                 sure
                 is
                 one
                 such
                 Fool.
                 
              
            
          
        
         
           
           
             On
             Affairs
             abroad
             ,
             and
             K.
             
             William's
             Expedition
             :
             By
             Mr.
             Durfey
             .
          
           
             CHurch-Scruples
             ,
             and
             Jars
             ,
          
           
             Plunge
             all
             Europe
             in
             Wars
             ,
          
           
             English
             Caesar
             espouses
             our
             Quarrel
             ,
          
           
             Predestin'd
             to
             stand
             ,
          
           
             Against
             
               Lewis
               le
               Grand
            
             ,
          
           
             And
             wear
             his
             now
             flourishing
             Laurel
             .
          
           
             The
             Cause
             that
             is
             best
          
           
             Now
             comes
             to
             the
             Test
             ,
          
           
             For
             Heav'n
             will
             no
             longer
             stand
             neuter
             ,
          
           
             But
             pronounce
             the
             grand
             Doom
             ,
          
           
             For
             old
             Luther
             ,
             or
             Rome
             ,
          
           
             And
             prevent
             all
             our
             Doubts
             for
             the
             future
             .
          
           
             'T
             would
             turn
             a
             wise
             Brain
          
           
             To
             consider
             what
             Pain
          
           
             Fools
             take
             to
             become
             Politicians
             ;
          
           
           
             Fops
             ,
             Bullies
             and
             Cits
             ,
          
           
             All
             set
             up
             for
             Wits
             ,
          
           
             And
             ingeniously
             hatch
             new
             Divisions
             :
          
           
             Some
             shew
             their
             hot
             Zeal
          
           
             For
             a
             new
             Common
             Weal
             ,
          
           
             And
             some
             for
             a
             new
             Restauration
             ;
          
           
             Thus
             we
             cavil
             and
             brawl
             ,
          
           
             Till
             the
             Monsieur
             gets
             all
             ,
          
           
             And
             best
             proves
             the
             Wit
             of
             the
             Nation
             :
          
           
             Though
             we
             Medcines
             apply
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             the
             Fever
             swells
             high
             ,
          
           
             First
             caused
             by
             a
             Catholick
             Riot
             ,
          
           
             Which
             no
             Cure
             can
             gain
             ,
          
           
             Till
             the
             breathing
             a
             Vein
          
           
             Corrects
             the
             mad
             Pulse
             into
             quiet
             .
          
           
             Yet
             what
             e'r
             disease
             on
             our
             Country
             may
             chance
          
           
             Let
             's
             drink
             to
             its
             healing
             condition
             ,
          
           
             And
             rather
             wish
             Will.
             were
             Victor
             in
             France
             ,
          
           
             Than
             Lewis
             were
             
             England's
             Physician
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             On
             my
             Lord
             Fairfax
             :
             By
             the
             late
             Duke
             of
             Buckingham
             .
          
           
             
               EPITAPH
               .
            
             
               Vnder
               this
               Stone
               doth
               lye
               ,
            
             
               One
               born
               for
               Victory
               .
            
          
           
             
               ELEGY
               .
            
             
               
                 FAirfax
                 the
                 valiant
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 only
                 he
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 e'r
                 for
                 that
                 alone
                 a
                 Conqueror
                 would
                 be
                 ;
              
               
                 Both
                 Sexes
                 Vertues
                 were
                 in
                 him
                 combin'd
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 had
                 the
                 fierceness
                 of
                 the
                 manliest
                 Mind
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 the
                 meekness
                 too
                 of
                 Womankind
                 :
              
               
                 He
                 never
                 knew
                 what
                 Envy
                 was
                 ,
                 or
                 Hate
                 ;
              
               
                 His
                 Soul
                 was
                 fill'd
                 with
                 Worth
                 ,
                 and
                 Honesty
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 another
                 thing
                 besides
                 ,
                 quite
                 out
                 of
                 date
              
               
                 Call'd
                 Modesty
                 .
              
               
                 He
                 ne'r
                 seem'd
                 impudent
                 but
                 in
                 the
                 Field
                 ,
                 a
                 place
              
               
                 Where
                 Impudence
                 it self
                 dares
                 seldom
                 shew
                 its
                 Face
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Had
                 any
                 Stranger
                 Spied
                 him
                 in
                 a
                 Room
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 some
                 of
                 those
                 whom
                 he
                 had
                 overcome
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 had
                 not
                 heard
                 their
                 Talk
                 ,
                 but
                 only
                 seen
              
               
                 Their
                 Gesture
                 and
                 their
                 Meen
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 would
                 have
                 swore
                 he
                 had
                 the
                 vanquish'd
                 been
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 as
                 they
                 brag'd
                 ,
                 and
                 dreadful
                 would
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 Whilst
                 they
                 their
                 own
                 ill
                 luck
                 in
                 war
                 repeated
                 ;
              
               
                 His
                 Modesty
                 still
                 made
                 him
                 blush
                 to
                 hear
                 ,
              
               
                 How
                 often
                 he
                 had
                 them
                 defeated
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 II.
                 
              
               
                 Through
                 his
                 whole
                 Life
                 the
                 part
                 he
                 bore
              
               
                 Was
                 wonderful
                 and
                 great
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 yet
                 it
                 so
                 appear'd
                 in
                 nothing
                 more
              
               
                 Than
                 in
                 his
                 private
                 last
                 Retreat
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 't
                 is
                 a
                 stranger
                 thing
                 to
                 find
                 ,
              
               
                 One
                 Man
                 of
                 such
                 a
                 glorious
                 Mind
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 can
                 despise
                 the
                 Power
                 he
                 hath
                 got
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Than
                 Millions
                 of
                 those
                 Polls
                 and
                 Braves
                 ,
              
               
                 Those
                 despicable
                 Fools
                 and
                 Knaves
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 such
                 a
                 poother
                 make
                 ,
              
               
                 Through
                 Dulness
                 and
                 Mistake
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 seeking
                 after
                 Power
                 ,
                 and
                 get
                 it
                 not
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 III.
                 
              
               
                 When
                 all
                 the
                 Nation
                 he
                 had
                 won
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 Expence
                 of
                 Blood
                 had
                 bought
              
               
                 Store
                 great
                 enough
                 he
                 thought
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 Fame
                 and
                 of
                 Renown
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 then
                 his
                 Arms
                 laid
                 down
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 full
                 as
                 little
                 Pride
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 he
                 had
                 been
                 on
                 the
                 Enemies
                 Side
                 .
              
               
                 He
                 neither
                 Wealth
                 nor
                 Places
                 sought
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 others
                 (
                 not
                 himself
                 )
                 he
                 fought
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 was
                 content
                 to
                 know
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 he
                 had
                 found
                 it
                 so
                 ,
              
               
               
                 That
                 when
                 he
                 pleas'd
                 ,
                 to
                 conquer
                 he
                 was
                 able
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 left
                 the
                 Spoil
                 and
                 Plunder
                 to
                 the
                 Rabble
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 IV.
                 
              
               
                 He
                 might
                 have
                 been
                 a
                 King
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 that
                 he
                 understood
                 ,
              
               
                 How
                 much
                 it
                 is
                 a
                 meaner
                 thing
              
               
                 To
                 be
                 unjustly
                 Great
                 than
                 honourably
                 Good.
              
               
                 This
                 from
                 the
                 World
                 did
                 Admiration
                 draw
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 from
                 his
                 Friends
                 both
                 Love
                 and
                 Awe
                 ,
              
               
                 Remembring
                 what
                 he
                 did
                 in
                 Fight
                 before
                 .
              
               
                 Nay
                 ,
                 his
                 Foes
                 lov'd
                 him
                 too
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 they
                 were
                 bound
                 to
                 do
                 ,
              
               
                 Because
                 he
                 was
                 resolv'd
                 to
                 fight
                 no
                 more
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 blest
                 of
                 all
                 he
                 dy'd
                 ,
                 but
                 far
                 more
                 blest
                 were
                 we
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 we
                 were
                 sure
                 to
                 live
                 till
                 we
                 could
                 see
              
               
                 A
                 Man
                 so
                 great
                 in
                 War
                 ,
                 in
                 Peace
                 so
                 just
                 as
                 he
                 .
              
            
          
        
         
           FINIS
           .