Lyric Poems, Made in Imitation of the ITALIANS. Of which, many are TRANSLATIONS From other Languages.  Mart. Epigram. Dic mihi quid meliuùs desidiosus agam? 
By PHILIP AYRES Esq  
Licenced, R. L. S.  
LONDON, Printed by I. M. for jos. Knight and F. Saunders at the Blue Anchor in the Lower Walk of the New-Exchange, 1687.   

TO THE HONOURABLE Sir JOHN FENWICK, Baronet, Brigadier General of His Majesty's Forces, and Lieutenant-Colonel of the Second Troop of His Majesty's Guards of Horse.  
SIR,  
NEITHER the considerable Posts, to which your Merits have formerly advanced you in Armies abroad in other Countries, nor those which by your Experience in Military Affairs, you have justly gained at home in your Own, could ever be able to hinder you from delighting yourself with Books. Those are your Companions, as well in your Tent, as your House; wherein your Genius hath faithfully guided you in the true Paths of Honour; Pallas being the Goddess both of Arms and Learning. The Greek Hero could not sleep without Homer's Iliads under his Pillow. Besides whom, you have two others for your Pattern, the most accomplished Gentlemen, and Men admirable in your Profession, the World could ever boast of, I mean the famous Scipio, and julius Caesar, both equally addicted to Arts and Arms.  
I confess I know your Inclinations lead you to things of more solid Learning, yet guessing that a Variety may not be unpleasant, I have ventured to Dedicate this to you, hoping it may serve your Diversion when tired with Business, or your more serious Studies. In this Piece there is a Mixture of Subjects as well as of Authors, some of which, I presume, may give you the Satisfaction, I wish, in their Perusal; For I can justly boast that the Translations, are from many of the most admired Poets both Ancient and Modern, in their several Languages extant, which of themselves would need no Apology for their appearing in public, were it not for the Blemishes they may have received in passing through my hands; And none of these having been Englished by the Ingenious Translators of our late published Miscellanies, as I ever heard, may possibly appear new to you.  
Sir, I hope you will pardon the Liberty I have taken, in showing, by so slight a Present, the Respect, and Honour I justly bear you, I being glad to lay hold on any occasion to declare to the World that I am,  
SIR, Your most Obliged, Humble Servant, Ph. Ayres.   

THE PREFACE.  
EVery Product of a Man's Wit nowadays, had need be like that of Jove's Brain, at least in its coming out armed, that it might immediately be in a Condition of defence against the furious Assaults of Critics, some of which are ready to run down a Book when they have scarce read the Title-page: Of these I expect not a few that will be carping, and first perchance at my Title, Why Lyric Poems? I having in most of them exceeded the proper measure, which in strictness should not reach to the Heroic. To these I say, that I have herein followed the modern Italian, Spanish, and French Poets, who always call Lyrics, all such Sonnets, and other small Poems, which are proper to be set to Music, without restraining themselves to any particular Length of Verse. And our grand Master of Lyrics, even Horace himself, has sometimes inserted the Heroic amongst his: This also his great Imitator Casimire the Polander, has often done: And the ingenious Mr. Gibbs or Gibbesius our Countryman at Rome takes the same liberty; which yet, I confess, the Greeks would never allow of. If any quarrel at the Oeconomy, or Structure of these Poems, many of them being Sonnets, Canzons, Madrigals, etc. objecting that none of our great Men, either Mr. Waller, Mr. Cowley, or Mr. Dryden, whom it was most proper to have followed, have ever stooped to any thing of this sort; I shall very readily acknowledge, that being sensible of my own Weakness and Inability of ever attaining to the performance of one thing equal to the worst piece of theirs, it easily dissuaded me from that attempt, and put me on this; which is not without Precedent; For many eminent Persons have published several things of this nature, and in this method, both Translations and Poems o● their own; As the famous Mr. Spencer, Si● Philip Sidney, Sir Richard Fanshaw, Mr▪ Milton, and some few others; The success of a● which, in these things, I must needs say, cannot muc● be boasted of; and though I have little reason after it to expect Credit from these my slight Miscellanies, yet has it not discouraged me from adventuring on what my Genius prompted me to. As for those Pieces which I have translated from the modern Poets, I may presume to say, I have taken them from the most celebrated in each Language: The Italians were, Fra. Petrarca, Cav. Marino, Girolamo Preti, Cav. Guarini, Allessandro Tassoni, and others; The Spaniards, Garci Lasso de la Vega, Don Francisco de Quevedo, Don Luis de Gongora, etc. The Portugueses, Luis de Camoens, etc. But for the French I could scarce find any thing amongst them of this sort, worth my pains of translating. The Latin Authors are so well known, I need say nothing of them. Some of the small Greek Poets I have endeavoured to render as close to the sense of the Original as I could: with others I have taken the liberty of paraphrasing on them: or being but Fragments, have only taken Hints from them; the like I have done with many of the Italian and Spanish Poets. Nor can I deny, but that I have purposely omitted the names of some of the Authors, not acknowledging them to be Translations: Either because I was not willing my own things should be distinguished from the rest; Or indeed because most of those nameless Pieces may more properly be said to be mine, than the Authors, from whom I only took the Hints of them. Now if any accuse me of Injustice for it, I have this to say, that there were but few of the Old Latin Poets, to whom it might not be objected, that they have often assisted themselves, by such Hints, and almost entire Translations from the Greeks, or Imitations of one another. So did Terence from Menander, Seneca from Euripides, and Virgil is not content to walk in the Footsteps of Homer, but also to have followed, and considerably borrowed from Hesiod, Theocritus, Euripides, and amongst the Latins, from Ennius, Pacuvius, Lucretius, and others, of which I could give many instances. There is a learned Italian, one Fulvio Ursini, who composed a Book of the Thefts of Virgil, which though I call Thefts, deserve not the Name, for in that manner which he has used them, they are rather an Honour than a Discredit to him; and 'tis reported ●e himself, when it was alleged to him by some of his Detractors, that he had stolen his Poem from Homer, answered, Magnarum esse virium, Herculi Clavam extorquere de manu. Meaning, That as it was a great matter to wrest Herculeses Club out of his hand, and keep it; so was it to take Homer's Verses, and make them his own. This is an Art, which to perform it very well, but few attain to the Skill, and is not only allowed of, but commended by Horace in his Art of Poetry.  
If I should be blamed for thus exposing myself, when so many of our Ingenious Poets have of late published their Works with such general Applause, I hope I may be allowed, without being thought arrogant, to say, as some of those might, with Theognis, 
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉   
And if for the Credit of my several Authors, whom I have here promiscuously shuffled in with mine own Things: Together with the Genius of the Age which seems to be delighted with such Variety, shall make this Piece acceptable to the judicious Reader; I shall not care for the Bolts of those Censurers, who make it their Business to cry down every thing which comes to their hands, and which they many times understand not, to such I shall apply this of the afore-recited Author.  
— 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.   

To Philip Ayres, Esq On his POEMS.  
AS when with utmost Skill some Architect  
Designs a Noble Structure to erect,  
Searches what e'er each Country does produce  
For outward Ornament, or inward Use:  
So, Friend, from divers Books thy labouring Thought  
Has all the huddled amorous Notions sought,  
And into form & shape the unlicked Cubs has brought.  
Here Proteus Love thou show'st in various Dress,  
From Gaudy France to more Mejestick Greece;  
Something thou gatherest too from Roman Ore,  
And Spain contributes to thy well-got Store,  
Whence (each by thee refined in English Mold)  
Verse smooth as Oil does slow, and pure as Gold.  
Thus the laborious Bee with painful Toil  
From various Flowers of a various Soil,  
Duly concocting the abstracted juice,  
In plenty does th'ambrosial Food produce.  
C. Dartiquenave.   
Lyric Poems.  

The PROEM. To LOVE. A Sonnet.  

LET others sing of Mars, and of his Train,  
Of great Exploits, and Honourable Scars,  
The many dire Effects of Civil Wars,  
Death's Triumphs, and Encomiums of the Slain.   

●sing the Conflicts I myself sustain,  
With her (Great Love) the Cause of all my Cares,  
Who wounds with Looks, and fetters with her Hairs.  
This mournful Tale requires a Tragic Strain.   

●yes were the Arms, did first my Peace control,  
Wounded by them, a Source of Tears there sprung,  
●unning like Blood from my afflicted Soul;  
Thou Love, to whom this Conquest does belong,  
●eave me at least the Comfort to condole,  
And as thou wound'st my Heart, inspire my Song.    

The REQUEST. To LOVE. A Sonnet.  

O Love, who in my breast's most noble part,  
Didst that fair Image lodge, that Form Divine▪  
In whom the Sum of Heavenly Graces shine,  
And there ingrav'dst it with thy golden Dart.   

Now mighty Work man! Help me by thy Art,  
(Since my dull Pen trembles to strike a Line)  
That I on paper copy the Design,  
By thee expressed so lively in my Heart.   

Lend me, when I this great Attempt do try,  
A Feather from thy wings, that whilst to write,  
My hand's employed, my thoughts may soar on high▪  
Thy Torch, which fires our hearts and burns so bright,  
My darker Fancy let its Flame supply,  
And through my numbers dart celestial Light.    

The COMPLAINT. A Sonnet.  

NOW angry juno sends from Heaven in spite  
Rivers and Seas, instead of moderate showers:  
Horror invests the World, and the bright Hours  
●f Delos God, are changed to dismal Night.   

● crowds of anxious Thoughts on every side,  
Invade my Soul, and through my restless Eyes,  
I shed such streams of Tears, my Heart even tries  
deaths pangs, whilst I by force in Life abide.   

●●t the brisk Gales, which rising by and by,  
●here Sol at night in Thetis Lapp shall lie,  
Will make Heaven clear, and drive away the Rain.  
〈◊〉 Cynthia! That the blasts of Sighs I vent,  
●●uld ease my Breast of cloudy Discontent,  
Which still with fresh Assaults renews my Pain.    

From Girolamo Preti, out of Italian, on a Race-Horse.  

SON of the Air, Rival of Winds when high,  
Swift Courser, thou that without Wings dost fly,  
Quicker than Arrows from a Parthian Bow;  
Compared to thee, Jove's Thunderbolts are slow.   

Men come from Lands remote, thy Race to see,  
But when thou'rt passed, no Eye can follow thee;  
Thine far exceeds the Motion of the Spheres,  
Thought cannot equal thee in thy Carrears.   

Thy Feet shake th'Earth, whilst Sparks do thee surround▪  
Yet tread not on the Flints, nor touch the Ground:  
Thee for his Charrot, Sol would have away,  
But that he knows thy Speed would shorten Day.    

Invites Poets and Historians to write in Cynthia's Praise. A Sonnet.  

COME all ye Wits, that with Immortal Rhymes,  
Glory to others, and yourselves create:  
And you that gratify the future Times,  
Whilst Tales of Love, and Battles ye relate;   

●ome, turn your Studies, and your Eyes this way,  
This Theme will crown your heads with lasting Bays,  
'tis Cynthia's Beauty, Heavenly Cynthia;  
Come swell your Volumes all with Cynthia's Praise.   

posterity will then your Works admire,  
And for her sake shall them as Jewels prise,  
〈◊〉 things to Cynthia's Glory must conspire,  
She shall be worshipped with the Deities.   

To her make foreign Lands pay Honours due,  
Thus shall you live by her, and she by you.    

Cynthia on Horseback. A Sonnet.  

FAIR Cynthia mounted on her sprightly Pad,  
Which in white Robe with silver Fringe was clad,  
And swift as wind his graceful steps did move,  
As with his Beauteous Guide he'd been in love.   

Though fierce, yet humble still to her command,  
Obeying every touch of her fair hand;  
Her golden Bit his foaming mouth did check,  
It spread his Crest, and raised his bending Neck.   

She was the Rose upon this Hill of snow,  
Her sparkling Beauty made the glorious Show;  
Whence secret Flames men in their bosoms took:  
The Graces and the Cupid's her surround,  
Attending her, while cruel she does wound,  
With Switches her Horse, and Hearts with every Lo●    

On the Death of Cynthia's Horse. A Sonnet.  

whate'er the World could boast of fair or good,  
Thy back with pride has born, thou happy Horse,  
By which thou'rt fallen in middle of thy course,  
Too feeble to sustain so great a Load.   

Oh happy Fall! Oh dying full of Bliss!  
Whilst she that guided Love did guide thy Head,  
Big with this thought, thou willingly art dead,  
Scorning another burden after this.   

A Heaven of Beauty overpressed thy Back,  
This might have made Alcides' shoulders crack,  
And Atlas truckled under such a weight:  
Heaven thee amongst its Horses longed to see,  
As here the World was late in love with thee,  
When carrying her who to the Sun gave light.    

On a Fountain, and its Architect.  

A Watery Heap by a fresh Torrent fed,  
Hoary with Froth, lifts up its reverend Head,  
Whence various Currents falling, their Recoil  
Makes them, when cold as Ice, appear to boil.   

Out from his Temples in an artful Crown  
Clear Drops, like strings of Pearls, come trickling down,  
Which quickly caught, and thence dispersed again,  
Seem like a Cloud burst into Showers of Rain.   

As once Enceladus, our Architect,  
Great Heaps on Heaps of Marble does erect;  
And, like a second Moses, when that's done,  
Commands fresh Springs of Water ●rom the Stone.   

When heavens are clear, this Man a second jove,  
From Earth exhales the Waters up above,  
And thence in Cataracts can make them pour,  
When i● the Sky there's neither Cloud nor Shower.    

Describes the place where Cynthia is sporting herself.  

BEhold you ' Hill, how it is swelled with pride,  
And that aspiring Oak upon its side,  
With how much scorn they overlook the Plain,  
Proud of the lovely Guest they entertain.   

See with what hast those Crystal Springs do flow,  
T'incorporate with the Silver Brook below;  
There does my wanton Cynthia sporting stand,  
Printing her Footsteps on the yielding sand.   

Look Thyrsis how she fills with Joy the place,  
She Baths her Feet, and views her Angel's Face;  
Sure I've a Rival of that amorous Hill,  
And those are streams of tears which thence distil.    

His RETIREMENT.  

A Purling Brook glides by this place away,  
It's Tribute to the Royal Thames to pay,  
Nature makes Arbours here, and every Tree  
Disposes all its Boughs to favour me;   

The Birds sweet Notes here Echoes do repeat,  
Here gentle Winds do moderate Summer's heat:  
Clear is the Air, and verdant is the Grass,  
My Couch of Flowers, the Streams my Looking-glass.   

Ah Cynthia! All the Birds that hear and see,  
Seem in their Language to condole with me,  
And as I mourn, they pretty Songs do sing,  
T' express thy Rigour, and my Suffering.   

Whilst to the listening Air I make my moan,  
And sigh and murmur sitting here alone:  
The very Air sighs at my misery,  
The Waters murmur too in Sympathy.    

A Character of his Friend, W. B. Esq  

TO raise up Virtue when 'tis sinking down,  
Toy● less for Wealth than to acquire Renown,  
T'enrich the Mind, and crown the Head with Bays,  
Subdue the Passions, and the Soul to raise.   

T' increase in Glory, as in years he grows,  
To bear ripe Fruit, even ere his Blossom blows,  
Faster than Honours, Merits to repeat,  
Keep the Sense cold, but ●ill the Soul with heat.   

Not Arts neglect, nor slight Apollo's Lute,  
Whilst of Astrea he's in hot pursuit,  
In ancient Tongues new Eloquence rehearse,  
To master both the Greek and Latin Verse.   

Against Sloth, perpetual Hatred to maintain,  
But with the Muse's Friendship still retain;  
Here upon Earth all others to transcend,  
〈◊〉 still the labour of my Noble Friend.    

A Sonnet. Of LOVE.  

IF Love it be not, what is this I feel?  
If it be Love, what Love is, feign I'd know?  
If good, why the effects severe and ill?  
If bad, why do its torments please me so?   

If willingly I burn, should I complain?  
If against my will, what helps it to lament?  
Oh living Death! oh most delightful Pain!  
How comes all this, if I do not consent?   

If I consent, 'tis madness then to grieve;  
Amidst these storms, in a weak Boat I'm tossed  
Upon a dangerous Sea, without relief,  
No help from Reason, but in Error lost.   

Which way in this distraction shall I turn?  
That freeze in Summer, and in Winter burn.    

On the Picture of Lucretia stabbing herself.  

LVcrece inflamed with Anger, Grief and Shame,  
Despising Life, yet careful of her Fame,  
Wounds her fair Breast, though armed with Innocence  
Could suffer Death, but could not the Offence.   

Her Steel was sharp, her End with Glory Crowned,  
She sought Revenge, and valued not the Wound;  
This so appeased her rage, that being Dead,  
She looked like one revenged, not injured.   

'Twas Beauty sinned, said she, then let it die,  
That forced me to this last extremity;  
Were't not for Beauty I had guiltless been,  
For it was that made lustful Tarquin sin.   

So I to Violence a Prey was made,  
No Tears availed when Virtue was betrayed.  
Haughty he was, my Beauty proud as he,  
They made me Slave, but thus myself I free.    

Complains, being hindered the sight of his Nymph.  

TO view these Walls each night I come alone,  
And pay my Adoration to the Stone,  
Whence Joy and Peace are influenced on me,  
For 'tis the Temple of my Deity.   

As Nights and Days an anxious Wretch by stealth  
Creeps out to view the place which hoards his Wealth,  
So to this House that keeps from me my Heart,  
I come, look, traverse, weep, and then depart.   

She's fenced so strongly in on every side,  
Thought enters, but my Footsteps are denied.  
Then sighs in vain I breathe, and Tears let fall:  
Kiss a cold Stone sometimes, or hug the Wall▪   

For like a Merchant that rough Seas has crossed,  
Near home is shipwrecked, and his Treasure lost;  
So, tossed in storms of sorrow, on firm ground,  
I in a Sea of mine own Tears am drowned.    

The Pleased Captive. A SONG.  
A Glorious Angel coming on the Wing,  
From Heaven descended near a River side,  
Where me alone my Destiny did bring;  
To view the pleasant Fields without a Guide;  
A Net she'd laid drawn by a silken String,  
So hid in Grass, it could not be espied,  
There was I captive taken in her Snare,  
But Cynthia's chains who would not choose to wear!   

The Incurable. A SONG.  
ONE, amongst Flowers, green Leaves, and the cool Grass  
Takes his delight, and pleasant hours does pass,  
This in a Cave can rest, or quiet Grove,  
And that in Wars forgets the Thoughts of Love:  
Some vent their Sighs to th' Air, and ease do find,  
A Spring may quench the fever of the Mind.  
But to my Grief no Remedy can bring,  
Flowers, Leaves, Grass, Cave, Grove, Wars, the Air, nor Spring.   

On a Fair Beggar.  

BArefoot and ragged, with neglected Hair,  
She whom the Heavens at once made poor and fair,  
With humble voice and moving words did stay,  
To beg an Alms of all who passed that way.   

But thousands viewing her became her Prize,  
Willingly yielding to her conquering Eyes,  
And caught by her bright Hairs, whilst careless she  
Makes them pay Homage to her Poverty.   

So mean a Boon, said I, what can extort  
From that fair Mouth, where wanton Love to sport  
Amidst the Pearls and Rubies we behold?  
Nature on thee has all her Treasures spread,  
Do but incline thy rich and precious Head,  
And those fair Locks shall pour down showers o● Gold.    

A Sonnet. Out of Italian, from Claudio Achillini. Written by a Nymph in her own Blood.  

SINCE, Cruel Thyrsis, you my Torments slight,  
And take no notice of my Amorous Flame,  
●n these Vermilion Letters thus I write  
My bloody Reasons to confirm the same.   

These of my Passion are the lively Marks,  
Which from my Veins you here in Blood see writ,  
Touch them, your Breast will kindle with the Sparks,  
The ardent Characters are re●king yet.   

Nor can my Pen alone my Heart explain,  
My very Soul o'ercharged with grief, I fain  
Would send enclosed herein, the truth to prove.  
And if I've been too sparing of my Blood,  
This is the Reason why I stopped the Flood,  
I would not spoil the Face I'd have you love.    

A Sonnet. The Rose and Lily.  

COurted by Cupid's, and the Amorous Air,  
Upon a shady Throne, at her Repose,  
She sat, than whom, none e'er so sweet or fair;  
It was the Queen of Flowers, the Blushing Rose.   

With no less pride, upon his Bed of State,  
A Lily, pale with Envy, looked that way;  
With humble Flowers, encompassed round he sat,  
And scorned the Sceptre at her Feet to lay.   

To Arms, with Thorns and Prickles, they prepare,  
And each designs to try it out by War;  
Till on good Counsel, they in Rule combine:  
So in your Face, the lovely White and Red,  
Cynthia, I see, all Quarrels banished,  
And Rose and Lily do in Empire join.    

A Defiance, returning to the Place of his past Amours.  

A Heart of Ice, did here my Heart inflame,  
Bound with loose Hairs, a Prisoner I became,  
●ere first sweet Love, though bitter in the end,  
●latter'd with Spite, with Kindness did offend.   

●ut from Assaults, a new Defence I'm taught,  
●nd my past Ills an Antidote have brought;  
●o the poor Bird that once escape has made,  
returns with caution where the Net is laid.   

●ith my late Damp, all Sparks of Love expire,  
My Feet approach, yet does my Soul retire,  
tho' near her Presence, I can justly say,  
My Eyes, and Mind tend quite another way.   

With her my Lute could no Attention find,  
●ow will I please myself, not sing to th' Wind;  
With Laurel here, where Cypress late I wore,  
●ll triumph more than e'er I grieved before.    

DISTANCE.  

FAR from the Fire I burn, and run in vain,  
Slowly from winged Love, to escape the Pain;  
So the swift Arrows, flying quick as Wind,  
Wound them that run, when th'Archer stays behind.   

Love, tho' I strive with Art to shun the Blow,  
Fiercely assaults my Heart where ere I go;  
As he can best a mortal Stroak command,  
Who has most compass for his striking Hand.   

Hoping to escape, I as the Bird do fare,  
That has his Foot entangled in a Snare;  
Fears Death, or in a Prison to be cast,  
Flutters its Wings, and strives, but still is fast.   

So I, with all my Toil, no Ease have got,  
My Struggling does but faster tye the Knot,  
For Cynthia imitating Heavens swift Ray,  
Near, or at distance, can her Flames convey.    

A Sonnet. On Signior Pietro Reggio his setting to Music several of Mr. Cowley's Poems.  

●F Theban Pindar raised his Country's Fame,  
Whilst its great Deeds he does in Odes rehearse,  
And they made greater by his Noble Verse,  
Gratitude are Trophies to his Name:   

●hen English Pindar shall for ever live,  
Since his Divine, and Lofty Poetry,  
Secured, Great Reggio, by thy Harmony,  
●all to itself Immortal Glory give.   

●he World's amazed to hear the sweet Consent,  
●●wixt thy charming Voice and Instrument,  
They'd stop the Bays which from Apollo fled;  
●●y skilful Notes would make in full Career  
●●●ebus the God of Music stay to hear,  
And with his Daphne crown thy Rival Head.    

From a Drinking Ode of Alcaeus, Beginning, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  
DRink on, though Night be spent and Sun do shine,  
Did not the Gods give anxious Mortals Wine?  
To wash all Care and Sorrow from the Heart,  
Why then so soon should Jovial F●llows part?  
Come, let this Bumper ●or the next make way,  
Who's sure to live, and drink another Day?   

An EPITAPH. On a Dutch CAPTAIN.  
HERE lies a Soldier not obliged to Fame,  
Being forced his own Achievements to rehearse  
He died not rich, yet I would tell his Name,  
Could I but comprehend it in my Verse.   

On Cynthia, singing a Recitative Piece of Music.  

O Thou Angelic Spirit, Face, and Voice,  
Sweet Siren, whose soft Notes our Souls rejoice,  
●et when thou dost recite some Tragic Verse,  
Thy Tone and Action make it sweetly fierce.   

●● thou soft, loud, sad or brisk Note dost hit,  
●● carries still our Hearts along with it;  
Thou canst heat, cool, grieve us, or make us smile,  
●ay stab or kill, yet hurt us not the while.   

Thy Gesture, Shape, and Mien, so pleasing are,  
With thee, no Humane Being can compare;  
Thy Passions, all our Passions do excite,  
And thy feigned Grief does real Tears invite.   

moistening to thee, our Bodies seems as dead,  
●or our rapt Souls then up to Heaven are fled;  
●o great a Monarch art thou, that thy Breath  
●as power to give us either Life, or Death.    

A Sonnet. On the Picture of Cavalier Guarini, Author of Il Pastor Fido, painted by the Famous Borgianni, and set up in his Funeral Pile at Rome.  

YOU, who to Famed Guarini, now he's dead,  
Your Verses consecrate, and Statues rear,  
For that sweet Padan Swan your Tears have shed,  
Sweetest that ever did, or will sing here.   

Behold this Picture on his Funeral Pile,  
Your mournful Spirits 'twill with Joy revive,  
Tho' th'Artist cheats your Senses all the while,  
For 'tis but Paint which you would swear does live.   

This serves to keep our Friend in Memory,  
Since Death hath robbed us of his better Part,  
And that he so might live as ne'er to die,  
He drew himself too, but with different Art.   

Judge, which with greatest Life and Spirit looks,  
Borgianni's Painting, or Guarini's Books.    

On old Rome.  

HERE was old Rome that stretched her Empire far,  
In Peace was feared, triumphant was in War:  
Here 'twas, for now its place is only found,  
All that was Rome lies buried under Ground.   

These Ruins hid in Weeds, on which Man treads,  
Were Structures which to Heaven raised their proud Heads:  
Rome that subdued the World, to Time now yields,  
With Rubbish swells the Plains, and strews the Fields.   

Think not to see what so Renowned has been,  
Nothing of Rome, in Rome is to be seen;  
Vulcan and Mars, those wasting Gods have come,  
And ta'en Rome's Greatness utterly from Rome:   

They spoiled with Malice, ere they would depart,  
What e'er was rare of Nature or of Art:  
It's greatest Trophies, they destroyed and burned;  
She that o'er turned the World, to Dust is turned.   

Well might she fall, against whom such Foes conspire,  
Old Time, Revengeful Man, and Sword and Fire:  
Now all we see of the Great Empress Rome,  
Are but the Sacred Relics of her Tomb.    

A SONG. Revenge against Cynthia.  

SEE, Cupid, we have found our lovely Foe,  
Who slights thy Power, and does my Flame despise,  
Now thou art armed with all thy Shafts and Bow,  
And she at Mercy 'twixt two Enemies.   

Asleep she's laid upon this Bed of Flowers,  
Her Charms the sole Defence to save her Breast;  
Thoughtless of injured me, or of thy Powers;  
Oh, that a Guilty Soul can take such rest!   

Now may'st thou easily with a single Dart  
Revenge thyself, and me upon her Heart.    

A Sonnet Love's Contrariety.  

I Make no War, and yet no Peace have found,  
With heat I melt, when starved to death with cold.  
I soa● to Heaven, whil● grovelling on the Ground,  
Embrace the World, yet nothing do I hold.   

I'm not confined, yet cannot I depart,  
Nor lose the Chain, though not a Captive led;  
Love kills me not, yet wounds me to the Heart,  
Will neither have my alive, nor have me dead.   

Being blind, I see; not having voice, I cry:  
I wish for Death, while I of Life make choice;  
I hate myself, yet love you tenderly;  
Do feed of Tears, and in my Grief rejoice.   

Thus, Cynthia, all my Health is but Disease;  
Both Life and Death do equally displease.    

Invites his Nymph to his Cottage.  

ON you ' Hill's Top which this sweet Plain commands,  
Fair Cynthia, all alone my Cottage stands,  
Against Storms, and scorching Heats well fortified,  
With Pines, and spreading Oaks on every side.   

My Lovely Garden too adjoining lies,  
Of sweetest Flowers, and of the richest Dyes:  
The Tulip, Jas'min, Emony, and Rose,  
Of which we'll Garlands for thy Head compose.   

Nature to make my Fountain, did its Part,  
Which ever flows without the help of Art,  
A faithful Mirroir shall its Waters be,  
Where thou may'st sit beneath a shady Tree,   

Admiring what above the World I prise,  
Thyself, the Object of thine own fair Eyes;  
And which is greatest let the Spring proclaim,  
Thy Powers of Love, or this my Amorous Flame.    

'Tis hard to follow Virtue.  

I Raised sometimes my Thoughts and fixed them right,  
Where Virtue, and where Glory did invite,  
And in the Steps of Few, and Best, have trod,  
Scorning to take the Vulgar, Beaten Road.   

But him who aims at Glory they deride,  
He's one against most, and worst must stem the Tide▪  
Since now on sordid Wealth, this Age so blind,  
As on its Chiefest Good has fixed its Mind:   

For the Great Things, the World has in its Hand,  
Are Gold and Silver, Jewels, and Command;  
These are the Gifts, which Fortune does dispense,  
And may be got by Theft, and Violence.   

Yet from this Lethargy though I arise,  
And shake the Clouds of Error from my Eyes;  
Reject the wrong, and Right to choose begin,  
Than change my Course, I sooner can my Skin.    

ENDYMION and DIANA. An Heroic Poem.  Written in Italian by Allessandro Tassoni. 

I.  
ON Bed of Flowers Endymion sleeping lay,  
Tired with the Toil of a long Summersday,  
Whilst softest Winds, and Season of the Year,  
Agree to make his Graces all appear:  
The wanton Cupids in a Troop descend,  
Play with his Horn, and do his Bow unbend,  
And Love, this small Assembly came to grace,  
Wondering to see the Shepherd's charming Face.   

II.  
The Air to view him could not choose but stay,  
And with his Locks upon his Forehead play.  
The Cupids round about him were employed,  
While some did into Curls his Hair divide;  
Others of Flowers, of which they'd pic'kd and brought  
Their Hands-full, many various Fancies wrought;  
Fetters, as if they would his Feet restrain,  
Wreaths for his Head, and for his Wrists a Chain.   

III.  
This, with his Lips compared, a Peony,  
Another, a Vermilion Emony;  
Then at his Cheeks a Rose and Lily tried,  
The Rose it faded, and the Lily died.  
Still was the Wind, the Meadow, Field and Grove,  
The very Waters were not heard to move.  
All things were hushed, and did a silence keep,  
As some had whispered, Peace, here's Love asleep.   

IV.  
When the bright Goddess of the lowest Orb,  
●eck'd with the Rays of Sol her absent Lord,  
Of Heaven the dusky Mantle did unfold,  
And silently Earth's wondrous Scene behold;  
Then having first dispersed in little Showers,  
The Pearly Dew upon the Grass and Flowers;  
Spying this place which such delights could yield,  
Came down to take the Pleasure of the Field.   

V.  
Quickly the little Cupid's disappear,  
●o soon as e'er the Goddess drew but near;  
Who seeing the sleeping Youth alone, she stays,  
With Passion on his lovely face to gaze:  
Till Virgin Modesty quenched her bold Flame;  
Of Folly then convinced, she blushed for shame;  
And just was turning to have quit the place,  
But was recalled by that alluring Face.   

VI  
●n through her Eyes a Spark slid to her Heart,  
Which fired her Soul; Nor could she thence depart,  
But nearer by degrees, her steps does guide,  
Till she sat down close by the Shepherd's side;  
And of the Flowers with which the Cupids played,  
When Gyves, and Fetters they in Sport had made:  
Such Snares she wove, herself was in them ta'en,  
And as the Shepherd's Captive, wore his Chain.   

VII.  
Strait on his hand an eager Kiss she pressed,  
Then thousand on his Lips, Cheeks, Eyes and Breast;  
Nor in this Transport could herself contain,  
Till she with Kisses waked the sleeping Swain,  
Who being amazed at that Celestial Light,  
With Reverence trembled at the Glorious Sight:  
He would have gone when freed from his Surprise,  
But tho' he strove, she would not let him rise.   

VIII.  
Fair Sleeper, wouldst thou go, said she, so soon,  
Be not afraid, Behold it is the Moon,  
That comes to sport with thee in this sweet Grove,  
Guided by Fate, Necessity and Love:  
Be not disturbed at this unusual Sight,  
We silently in Joys will spend the Night:  
But if thou tell what I to thee have said,  
Expect heavens utmost Vengeance on thy Head.   

IX.  
Goddess of Night, that take'st from Sol thy Flame,  
I, said the Youth, a silly Shepherd am;  
But if thou promise me in Heaven a Place,  
To be translated hence from Humane Race,  
Then of my Faith thou may'st assured live,  
Of which this Mantle as a Pledge I'll give;  
The same my Father Etho gave the Night,  
That he his Faith to Calais did plight.   

X.  
This said, his Mantle quickly he unbound,  
That was with Flowers of Pearl embroidered round,  
Which then he wore o'er his left shoulder flung,  
And with two Ends beneath his right Arm hung;  
Save it the Goddess, who had now thrown by  
All Sense of Honour and of Modesty:  
And like a Frost-niped Flower, she by his Charms  
Being thus overcome, dropped down into his Arms.   

XI.  
●ever more closely does the tender Vine,  
●bout the shady Elm her Lover twine,  
●or the green lvie more Affection bring,  
●hen she about her Pine does kindly cling,  
●han these two vigorous Lovers there expressed,  
●●ve having shot his Fire through either's Breast:  
With all their Art and Industry they strove,  
How they might then enjoy their fill of Love.   

XII.  
●●us Whilst in Wantonness they spend the Night,  
●●d use all Skill that might promote delight;  
●●w ●●r'd with what before they ne'er had tried,  
●●ese happy Lovers rested satisfied:  
●hen Fair Diana lifting up her Eyes,  
●●cused her cruel Stars and Destinies,  
That her so long through so much Error drew,  
And let her rather Beasts than Love pursue.   

XIII.  
Ah, Fool! said she, How I too late repent,  
That to the Woods I e'er a Hunting went;  
How many Years have I consumed since then,  
Which I must never think to see again?  
How many precious Minutes every Day,  
Did I in that mad Pastime fool away!  
And how much better is one sweet Embrace  
Than all the toilsome Pleasures of the Chase?    

From an Ode of Horace Beginning Vides ut alta stet nive candidum.  

SEE how the Hills are candied o'er with Snow,  
The Trees can scarce their Burdens undergo;  
Frost does the River's wont course retain,  
That they refuse their Tribute to the Main:   

Winds, Frost, and Snow against our Lives conspire;  
Lay on more Wood (my Friends) and blow the Fire  
Against their Assaults let us our Forces join,  
Dissolve the Wether by the strength of Wine.    

A COMPLAINT.  

WHEN first I here to Cynthia spoke my Mind,  
Near these sweet Streams, which to our thoughts were kind:  
●h then in perfect Harmony we met,  
●nd to our Concert joined the Rivulet.   

●he Flowers, Plants, Echoes, Craggy Rocks and Dales,  
●he pleasant Meads, proud Hills, and humble Vales,  
●em'd then o'erjoyed at my Felicity,  
Which now condole with me in Misery.   

●t still the winged Inhab'tants of the Wood  
●g, as my Change they had not understood:  
●ô sure the Melancholy Tunes they vent,  
●e rather Notes of Grief, than Merriment.   

● Nymphs, that in these Crystal Streams do dwell!  
●d after Sport rest quiet in your Cell:  
●ce, clear as yours, a Happy Life I led,  
●ô now overwhelmed, with Grief, and live as dead.   

Thus we through various Turns of Fortune run,  
And sinned no certain Rest till Life be done.    

Love's Garden. Translated from Girolamo Preti.  

I To Love's Garden came, with my Attire,  
Was wove with Herbs of Hope, and of Desire,  
Branches of Trouble too by me were worn,  
Whose Flowers and Fruit, were Prejudice, and Scort▪   

'Twas walled with Pain, and Anguish round about,  
And from a thousand places issued out,  
Water of Grief, and Air of Sighs, beside,  
Deceit and Cruelty did there reside.   

Pride was the Keeper; and to cultivate  
Was Jealousy, who still with mortal Hate,  
Tear up my Happiness ere it could grow;  
Whilst, like a Madman, thus I strive to sow,   

Under the Shadow of a Thought that's kind,  
I plough in Stone, dig Water, stop the Wind.    

Seeing his own Picture, discourses of his Studies, and Fortune.  

●HIS, which the Shadow of my Face does give,  
Whose Counterfeit seems true, and Art alive,  
●ows but the part of Man's Infirmity,  
●hich to Age subject, must decay, and die:   

●t the Internal Nature's Excellence,  
●hich does this Earthly Shadow influence:  
〈◊〉 haps some Image may on Paper draw,  
〈◊〉 ose Essence, ne'er of Time shall stand in awe;   

〈◊〉 by my Muses Help I hope to build  
〈◊〉 Monuments, as ne'er to Time shall yield;  
〈◊〉 ere than from these Colours can be had,  
〈◊〉 to my Years, shall greater Numbers add.   

● when some Noble Work I enterprise,  
●t might advance my Honour to the Skies;  
●envious Fortune strikes a thousand ways,  
〈◊〉 royes my Labours, and so blasts my Bays.    

A Sonnet, of Petrarc, On the Death of Laura.  

I Fill with Sighs the Air when ere I stand,  
On yon high Hill, and thence survey the Plain,  
Where Laura, she who could my Heart command,  
Did in her Earthly Paradise remain.   

For now she's dead, and left me here alone,  
Grieved for her loss, that I could gladly die;  
Drowning my Eyes in making of my Moan,  
My Tears have left no space about me dry.   

There is no Stone upon that craggy Hill,  
Nor these sweet Fields, an Herb or Plant do bring▪  
Nor Flower amongst all that do the Valleys ●ill,  
Nor any drop of Water from the Spring;   

Nor Beasts so wild, that in the Woods do dwell▪  
But of my Grief for Laura's Death can tell.    

Another, of Petrarc, On Laura's Death.  

OH Death! How has thy utmost Malice sped?  
Thou hast Love's Kingdom quite impov'rished;  
dropped Beauty's Flower, put out our chiefest Light,  
●nd one small Stone deprives us of her sight.   

●ur Joys extinct, we're left in Discontent,  
●ript of our Honour, and our Ornament:  
●ut to her Fame thou ne'er canst put an end,  
●hy Power but o'er her Body did extend.   

●●r her pure Soul above is glorified  
●s brightest Star, she's there the Heaven's Pride:  
●nd here her Virtuous Deeds shall never die,  
●t be admired by all Posterity.   

〈◊〉 w Glorious Angel, thou that dwellest above,  
〈◊〉 d with more powerful Charms attractest Love;  
〈◊〉 y'st thou be vanquished by my Piety,  
〈◊〉 here thy Beauty triumphed over me.    

Complains of the Court.  

IN a Great Court, near a Famed River's side,  
With Hopes of Greatness said, I still reside;  
But where to fix I ne'er shall understand,  
following what flies, and shunning what's at hand.   

Others from me the Gifts of Heaven retain,  
The lucky Fool does still the Purchase gain;  
At Air I grasp, and after Shadows strive,  
Live for my Foes, if this be said to live.   

I slight myself, love him that injures me,  
And in soft Words find greatest Treachery;  
I, Mortal Hatred under Smiles, behold,  
And starve for want, amidst great heaps of Gold.   

Now Envy's Strokes, than Fortune's I sustain,  
And want a Friend to whom I might complain;  
I see th'ensuing Storm, and no Help nigh,  
Grieve for one Loss, and strait another spy.    

Being retired, complains against the Court.  

REmote from Court, where after Toil we get  
More Hopes than Fruit, I now have changed my Seat,  
And here retired with calmer Thoughts abide:  
As Lea more smooth, than troubled Thames does glide.   

I need not Great Men here with Flattery please,  
No Pride nor Envy shall disturb my Ease;  
If Love ensnares my Heart, I from its Net,  
Or servile Chain at least, my Freedom get.   

Since my new Flame broke out, my old is death,  
With Falsehood kindled, and with Scorn 'twas fed;  
And here the greatest Rigour pleases more  
Than all dissembled Favours could before.   

There Love's all Counterfeit, and Friendship too,  
And nothing else but Hate and Malice true:  
If here my Nymph be cross, or prove unkind,  
Vanquished, I triumph; fighting, Peace I find.    

To Cynthia.  

HARK how the little Birds do vie their Skill,  
Saluting, with their Tunes, the welcome Day;  
Spring does the Air with fragrant Odours fill,  
And the pleased Fields put on their best Array.   

With great Serenity the Heavens move;  
The Amorous Planet rules in fullest power;  
All things their Cruelty away remove,  
And seem to know of Joy the Time, and Hour.   

Only my Cynthia still this Glorious Morn  
Retains the frozen Temper of her Heart,  
Of Birds, and Flowers, does imitation scorn,  
Nor from her wont Rigour will depart.   

Ah change, my Fair, that harsh and cruel Mind!  
Why should your Looks and Humour disagree?  
Let not my Love such Opposition find,  
You're would by Heaven, and Earth to favour me.    

The Withered Rose.  

GO, Fading Rose, a Present to my Fair,  
To whose ungrateful Breast I gave my Heart,  
And though my Grief could ne'er affect her Care,  
To her do thou my dying Mind impart.   

I late have seen thee Lovely, Sweet, and Gay,  
Perchance the influence of her Looks on thee,  
Now pale as Death, thy Beauty's gone away;  
Thou art the Emblem of my Misery.   

Say, if to cast an Eye on thee she deign,  
Since no Relief from her my Life receives;  
My Body soon as Bloodless will remain,  
As thy once fresh, but now decaying Leaves.   

And thou perchance the Benefit may'st find,  
For thy pale Looks and Message understood,  
To cure thy dying Spoils she may be kind,  
With Water of my Tears, or with my Blood.    

A Sonnet. On the Death of Sylvia.  

OH Death! without regard to wrong or right,  
All things at will thy boundless Rage devours;  
This tender Plant thou hast cut down in spite,  
And scattered on the Ground its Fruit, and Flowers.   

Our Love's extinct that with such Ardour burned,  
And all my Hope of future Pleasure dies;  
Nature's chief Masterpiece to Earth's returns,  
Deaf to my Passion, and my grievous Cries.   

Sylvia, the Tears which on thy Sepulchre,  
Hereafter shall be shed, or those now are,  
Tho' fruitless, yet I offer them to thee,   

Until the coming of th' Eternal Night  
Shall close these Eyes, once happy with thy Sight,  
And give me Eyes with which I thee may see.    

To the WINDS. A SONG.  

I.  
YE Winds, that in your hasty Flight,  
Just kiss the Leaves, and then away,  
The Leaves that tremble with Delight,  
And murmur at so short a stay;  
Stop here, and e'er you further go,  
Give audience to a Lover's Woe.   

II.  
Condoling Air, to you I speak,  
Since she is deaf to all my Grief,  
You see my Heart will quickly break,  
If careless She gives no Relief:  
I'm sure you're troubled at my Pain,  
For when I sigh, you sigh again.   

III.  
Go, gentle Air, fly to my Dear,  
That thus with Love inflames my Breast,  
And whisper softly in her Ear,  
'Tis she that robs my Soul of Rest:  
Express, if possible, such Moans,  
May imitate my dying Groans.   

IV.  
Or with thy rougher Breath make bold  
To toss the Treasure of her Hair,  
Till thou dost all those Curls unfold  
Which cunningly men's Hearts ensnare;  
Try all thy Skill to break the Net,  
That I, like thee, may Freedom get.   

V.  
Then let some thicker Blasts arise,  
And with her Face so sport, and play,  
Till the bright Rays of her fair Eyes  
Be qualified, or ta'en away;  
Make all those Charms which Men assail,  
Of lesser force, and less prevail.    

The Silent Talkers.  

PEACE, Peace, my Dear, Corinna said  
To her enamoured Corydon,  
Lest we by Listeners be betrayed,  
And this our Happiness undone.   

Our wishes answer every way,  
And all my Thoughts centre in thine;  
If thou hast any thing to say,  
Speak with thy Eyes, I'll speak with mine.    

'Tis dangerous jesting with LOVE. A SONG.  

I.  
VEnture not with Love to jest,  
Though he's blind, and but a Boy,  
Whosoever would live at rest,  
Must not dare with him to toy;  
If you play, he'll seem to smile,  
But conspire your Death the while.   

II.  
● myself was such a Sot,  
Once to act a Lover's Part,  
●●em'd to love, but loved her not,  
Sighed, but sighed not from my Heart;  
Long I did not this maintain,  
ere my Play was turned to Pain.   

III.  
●s I gazed upon my Fair,  
And of Love showed every Sign,  
●●e played too the Flatterer,  
With her Glances answering mine;  
Till his Arrows Cupid took,  
Pierced me with each Flattering Look.   

IV.  
Love the Jester will assail,  
And when scorned, the Mastery get;  
Art I see can ne'er avail  
Him that plays the Counterfeit;  
For I find, now time is past▪  
Jest to Earnest turned at last.   

V.  
Cupid drew with more desire,  
Seeing me his Net despise;  
Was more active with his Fire,  
While he ●ound my heart was Ice:  
Now my Sighs no pity ●ind,  
But are scattered in the Wind.    

On WINE. From a Fragment of Hesiod, Beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉—  

WINE cheers our Hearts, and makes us glad;  
When Grief, and Cares have left us sad:  
But more than Nature does suffice,  
Will cast a Cloud before our Eyes;   

'Twill bind the Tongue, the Feet, and Hands;  
ere we perceive, with strongest Bands;  
And us its Drunken Slaves will keep,  
Till we our Freedom get by Sleep.    

A DREAM.  

ONE Night, with Sleep my Senses being oppressed,  
Fixed on that Thought, which still over ruled my Breast;  
● Mourning Dress, with Silence did appear,  
●●e of her Sex was to my Soul most Dear:   

●ynthia, methought, I said, and gazed awhile,  
Where's thy accustomed Look, and cheerful Smile?  
What sad Occasion thus disturbs thee now,  
●nd hangs that gloomy Sadness on thy Brow?   

●e only sighed, and offering to depart,  
snatched her Hand, and laid it to my Heart,  
●nd whilst I in this trembling Rapture stand,  
●e took, and held me by my other Hand.   

thought my Heart 'twixt Joy, and Grief would break,  
adding with Tears, My Dear, I prithee speak;  
●nd grasped her fast, she struggling to be gone,  
●ll waked: but then I found myself alone.   

Oft have I grieved to think what this might prove,  
And gathered hence ill Omens to my Love;  
But since I may too soon the Mischief find,  
I'll strive to chase the Fancy from my Mind.    

The Restless Lover.  
THE Birds to wanton in the Air desire;  
The Salamander sport's himself in Fire;  
The Fish in Water plays; And of the Earth,  
Man ever takes possession at his Birth:  
Only unhappy I, who born to grieve,  
In all these Elements at once do live:  
Grief does with Air of Sighs my Mouth supply,  
My wretched Body on cold Earth does lie,  
The Streams which from mine Eyes flow Night and Day  
Cannot the Fire which burns my Heart allay.   

The RESOLUTION. A Sonnet of Petrarc, out of Italian.  

OH Time! Oh rolling Heavens, that fly so fast,  
And cheat us Mortals ignorant and blind!  
Oh fugitive Day, swifter than Bird or Wind!  
Your Frauds I see, by all my Sufferings past.   

But pardon me, 'tis I myself must blame,  
Nature that spreads your Wings, and makes you fly,  
To me gave Eyes, that I my Ills might spy:  
Yet I retained them to my Grief, and Shame.   

Time was I might, and Time is still I may  
Direct my Steps in a securer way,  
And end this sad Infinity of Ill;  
Yet 'tis not from thy Yoke, O Love, I part,  
But the Effects; I will reclaim my Heart:  
virtue's no Chance, but is acquired by Skill.    

Invokes DEATH.  

COME, Terror of the Wise, and Valiant, Come,  
And with a Sighs let my grieved Soul have room,  
Amongst the Shades; then shall my Cares be gone;  
All there drink Waters of Oblivion.   

So went the Heroes of the World, and so  
Or soon, or late, all that are born must go;  
Thou Death to me art welcome as a Friend,  
For thou with Life puttest to my Griefs an End.   

Of this Poor Earth, and Blast of Breath allied,  
How easily by thee, the Knot's untied:  
This Spring of Tears which trickles from mine Eyes  
Is Natural, and when I die, it dries.   

Matter for Sighs, I drew with my first Breath,  
And now a Sigh ushers my Soul to Death;  
So Cares, and Griefs determine by Consent,  
This Favour owe I to my Monument.    

A Hint from the Beginning of the Third satire of Juvenal, 
Laudo tamen vacuis quod sedem figere Cumis  
Destinet, atque unum Civem donare Sibyllae, etc.   

A Neighbour, now, shall Aged Sibyl have,  
For I'll withdraw to Cuma's Sacred Cave,  
Where I, Vesuvius like, when Years attire  
My Head with Snow, shall still maintain my Fire.   

In Hatred of the World my Days I'll spend,  
Till with Despite my wretched Life shall end;  
My haughty Plumes I've clipped, I'll soar no more,  
So the Fates cut what they had spun before.   

I was when Bad, of Virtuous Men despised,  
And by the Scourge Vice brings with it, chastised:  
That Course I left, and turning good again,  
Was hated, and oppressed by Wicked Men.   

Thus seems the Partial World on all sides bend,  
It's utmost Spite on wretched me to vent.  
My Sins were fruitless: Must, when Life is done,  
Virtue lie buried in Oblivion?    

A Contemplation on Man's Life. Out of Spanish.  

VILE Composition, Earth inspired with Breath,  
Man, that at first wert made of Dust and Tears  
And then by Law Divine condemned to Death;  
When wilt thou check thy Lusts in their Careers?   

Change all thy Mirth to Sorrow, and repent,  
That thou so often didst just Heaven offend,  
Deplore thy precious Hours so vainly spent,  
If thou wilt escape such Pains as have no end.   

The gaping Grave expects thee as its right,  
'Tis a strait place, but can contain with ease,  
Honour, Command, Wealth, Beauty, and Delight,  
And all that does our Carnal Senses please.   

Only th'immortal Soul can never die,  
Therefore on that thy utmost Care employ.    

The Nightingale that was drowned.  

UPON a Bough, hung trembling o'er a Spring,  
Sat Philomela, to respite Grief, and sing.  
Tuning such various Notes, there seemed to nest,  
A Choir of little Songsters in her Breast.  
Whilst Echo at the close of every Strain,  
Returned her Music, Note for Note again.   

The Jealous Bird, who ne'er had Rival known,  
Not thinking these sweet Points were all her own;  
So filled with Emulation was, that she  
Expressed her utmost Art and Harmony;  
Till as she eagerly for Conquest tried,  
Her Shadow in the Stream below she spied:   

●hen heard the Waters bubbling, but mistook,  
And thought the Nymphs were laughing in the Brook;  
●he then enraged, into the Spring did fall,  
●nd in sad Accents thus upbraids them all:  
●ot Tereus' self offered so great a Wrong,  
nymph's, take my Life, since you despise my Song.    

On a Child sleeping in Cynthia's Lap.  

SLEEP, Happy Boy, there sleep, and take thy Re●●  
Free from the Passions which disturb my Breast;  
Yet know 'tis Innocence that thee has freed,  
And lets thee sleep so quiet on this Bed.   

Thy wearied Limbs have sweetly rested here,  
If with less Sun, in a more happy Sphere;  
Whilst in Despair my Soul afflicted lies,  
And of mere Envy to behold thee, dies.   

Dream, thou enjoyest more true Felicity,  
Than lavish Fortune can bestow on thee;  
That thou, amidst such Precious Gems, art hurled,  
Are able to enrich th'insatiate World:   

That thou, the Phoenix shalt transcend in Fame,  
Who sleepest, and risest, in a Purer Flame;  
That thou'rt an Angel, heavens that Lap I view:  
●et all this while, it is no Dream, but true.    

Cure for AFFLICTIONS. A Hint from an imperfect Ode of ARCHILOCHUS; Beginning, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  

SOUL, rule thy Passions, dry thy weeping Eyes,  
Thou Breath of Heaven, shouldst Earthly Cares despise:  
When fiercest troubles thus disturb thy Rest,  
To their Assaults oppose a constant Breast.   

O'er Fortune's Power then shalt thou have command:  
So Rocks unmoved against Beating Surges stand.  
Nor boast, if in this Conflict thou overcome,  
Or when subdued, poorly lament at home.   

Think, having cause to grieve, or to rejoice,  
No Course of Humane Things is in thy Choice.    

Cynthia sporting.  

ALONG the River's side did Cynthia stray,  
More like a Goddess, than a Nymph, at play;  
The Flood stopped to behold her; pleased to see't,  
She to its Kisses yields her naked Feet.   

Brisk Air saluted her, ne'er stayed to woo;  
The very Boughs reached to be toying too;  
The little Birds came thronging to admire,  
And for her Entertainment made a Choir:   

The Meadows smile, and Joy surrounds the place,  
As if all things were infl'enced by her Face;  
The Grass, and Leaves take Freshness from her Eyes,  
And as of lesser Force, Sol's Beams despise.   

No Herb pressed by her Foot but blossoms straight,  
Flowers, for her Touch to ripen them, do wait;  
They, from her Hand, new Fragrancy do yield,  
Her Presence sills with Perfumes, all the Field.    

The FLY. Out of Spanish from Don Francisco de Quevedo.  

Out of the Wine-Pot cried the Fly,  
Whilst the Grave Frog sat croaking by,  
Than live a Watery Life like thine,  
I'd rather choose to die in Wine.   

I.  
Never Water could endure,  
Though ne'er so Crystalline and Pure,  
Water's a Murmurer, and they  
Design more Mischief than they say;  
Where Rivers smoothest are and clear,  
Oh there's the Danger, there's the Fear;  
But I'll not grieve to die in Wine,  
That Name is sweet, that Sound's Divine.  
Thus from the Wine-Pot, etc.   

II.  
Dull Fish in Water live we know,  
And such insipid Souls as thou;  
While to the Wine do nimbly fly,  
Many such pretty Birds as I:  
With Wine refreshed, as Flowers with Rain,  
My Blood is cleared, inspired my Brain;  
That when the Tory Boys do sing,  
I buzz i'th' Chorus for the King.  
Thus from the Wine-Pot, etc.   

III.  
I'm more beloved than thou canst be,  
Most Creatures eat thy Company;  
I go unbid to every Feast,  
Nor stay for Grace, but fall o'th' Best:  
There while I quaff in Choicest Wine,  
Thou dost with Puddle-water dine,  
Which makes thee such a Croaking thing.  
Learn to drink Wine, thou Fool, and sing;  
Thus from the Wine-Pot, etc.   

IV.  
In Gardens I delight to stray,  
And round the Plants do sing and play:  
Thy Tune no Mortal does avail,  
Thou art the Dutch-man's Nightingale:  
Wouldst thou with Wine but wet thy Throat,  
Sure thou wouldst leave that Dismal Note;  
Lewd Water spoils thy Organs quite,  
And Wine alone can set them right.  
Thus from the Wine-Pot, etc.   

V.  
Thy Comerades still are Newts and Frogs,  
Thy Dwelling Saw-pits, Holes, and Bogs:  
In Cities I, and Courts am free,  
An Insect too of Quality.  
What Pleasures, Ah! didst thou but know,  
This Heavenly Liquor can bestow:  
To drink, and drown thou'dst ne'er repine;  
The Great Anacreon died by Wine.  
Thus from the Wine-Pot, etc.    

On GOLD.  

THIS glittering Metal, Dazler of the Eyes,  
In so small Bulk, where so much Mischief lies,  
Disclaims the Earth, when it has passed the Fire,  
And then no longer owns the Rock for Sire.   

When coined, it boasts of Power Omnipotent;  
Which Monstrous Birth the long scorned Mountains sent:  
●Tis Bane of Peace, 'tis Nourisher of War;  
And o'er the World does spread its Venom far.   

With Confidence this bold Usurper can  
Hold Competition with its Former, Man:  
Man whose sublimer Soul should upward soar,  
Yet for a God can his own Works adore.   

Laws are remiss when Thou the Power dost get,  
All Vices thou unpunished dost permit;  
Torrent of Mischiefs, Source of Ills the worst!  
The more we drink of thee, the more we thirst.    

To his Grace, George Duke of Northumberland.  

TH'Unruly Steed by Laws to tame and ride;  
With graceful Course the well-poised Lance to guide  
In Martial Sports ever to win the Prize;  
And Troops with Skill and Judgement exercise:   

In a calm Breast a Warlike Heart to show;  
To Glory Friend, to Wantonness a Foe:  
To keep on Passion, Reason's powerful Hand;  
Over his Soul, and self to have command:   

To sport with Books, whilst Arms aside he lays:  
To interweave the Olive with the Bays:  
When tired with Arts, to tune Apolo's Lyre:  
To merit Honours ere he them desire.   

These Fruits which others bring with Art and Time  
Your Blooming Age does yield before your Prime.    

Love's New Philosophy.  

I.  
WHO'e're a Lover is of Art,  
May come and learn of me  
A New Philosophy;  
Such as no Schools could e'er impart.  
●ove all my other Notions does control,  
●nd reads these stranger Lectures to my Soul.   

II.  
This God who takes delight to lie,  
Does Sacred Truth's defame,  
And Aristotle blame,  
Concluding all by Subtlety:  
●is Syllogisms with such Art are made,  
●ot Solomon himself could them evade.   

III.  
So wondrous is his Art and Skill,  
His Reasons pierce like Darts,  
men's Intellects and Hearts;  
Old Maxims he destroys at will,  
●nd blinded Plato so, he made him think,  
●was Water, when he gave him Fire to drink.   

IV.  
That Water can extinguish Fire,  
All Ages did allow;  
But Love denies it now,  
And says it makes his Flame rage higher;  
Which Truth myself have proved for many Years:  
Wherein I've wept whole Deluges of Tears.   

V.  
At the Sun's Rays, you Cynthia know,  
The Ice no more can melt,  
Nor can the Fire be felt,  
Or have its wont Influence on Snow:  
By your relentless Heart is this expressed,  
Your Eyes are Suns, the Fire is in my Breast.   

VI  
When Soul and Body separate,  
That then the Life must die;  
This too I must deny,  
My Soul's with her, who rules my Fate.  
Yet still my Organs move a Proof to give,  
That Soul and Body can divided live.   

VII.  
Remove the Cause, th'Effects will cease.  
This is an Error too,  
And found by me untrue;  
My Fair when near disturbs my Peace,  
But when she's furthest off, no Tongue can tell  
The raging Pangs of Love my Heart does feel.   

VIII.  
All Creatures Love not their own Kind,  
I this new Axiom try:  
And that all fear to die  
By Nature; a Mistake I find:  
●or I, a Man, do a Fierce Creature love,  
●nd such, I know, that will my Murd'ress prove.   

IX.  
Here two Extremes are easily joined,  
Joy and Grief in my Breast,  
Which give my Soul no Rest;  
Both to torment me are combined:  
●or when I view the Source of all my Wrong,  
● sigh my Music, mix with Tears my Song.   

X.  
That, all things like Effects produce:  
I readily can prove  
A Paradox in Love,  
And my Conclusion hence deduce;  
Cold Cynthia to my Zeal yields no Return,  
Though Ice her Heart, she makes my Heart to burn.   

XI.  
Whilst in this Torment I remain,  
It is no Mystery  
To be, and not to be;  
I die to Joy, and live to Pain.  
So that, my Fair, I may be justly said,  
To be, and not to be, Alive and Dead.   

XII.  
Now, go, my Song, yet eat the Eyes  
Of those ne'er felt Love's Flame,  
And if my Cynthia blame  
Thy Arguments as Sophistries,  
Tell her, this is Love's New Philosophy,  
Which none can understand, but such as try.    

The Vanity of Unwarrantable Notions. Done out of Portugueze, from Lewis de Camoëns.  

TRUTH, Reason, Love, and Merit may endure  
Some Shocks, to make us think ourselves secure:  
But Fortune, Time, and Destiny, do still  
Dispose all Humane Matters at their Will.   

What various strange Effects perplex the Mind,  
For which we can no certain Causes find?  
We know we live, but what succeeds our End,  
Man's Understanding cannot comprehend.   

Yet Doctors will their Notions justify,  
And vouch for Truths what no Man e'er could try;  
Doubt Real Things, as if no such had been,  
And Things believe which never yet were seen.   

These Men are proud to have their Madness known;  
Believe in Christ, and let the rest alone.    

To the NIGHTINGALE.  

Why, Little Charmer of the Air,  
Dost thou in Music spend the Morn?  
Whilst I thus languish in Despair,  
Oppressed by Cynthia 's Hate and Scorn:  
Why dost thou sing, and hear me cry;  
Tell, wanton Songster, tell me why?   

I.  
WILT thou not cease at my Desire?  
Will those small Organs never ti●e?  
Nature did these close Shades prepare,  
Not for thy Music, but my Care:  
Then why wilt thou persist to sing,  
Thou Beautiful Malicious Thing?  
When Kind Aurora first appears,  
She weeps, in pity to my Tears;  
If thus thou think'st to give Relief,  
Thou never knewest a Lover's Grief.   

Then, Little Charmer, etc.  
That dost in Music, etc.   

II.  
Thou Feathered Atom, where in thee,  
Can be comprised such Harmony?  
In whose small Fabric must remain,  
What Composition does contain.  
All Griefs but mine are at a stand,  
When thy surprising Tunes command?  
How can so small a Tongue and Throat  
Express so loud, and sweet a Note?  
Thou hast more various Points at Will,  
Than Orpheus had with all his Skill.   

Then, Little Charmer, etc.  
That dost in Music, etc.   

III.  
Great to the Ear, though Small to Sight,  
The Happy Lovers dear Delight,  
Fly to the Bower where such are lad,  
And there bestow thy Serenade.  
Haste from my Sorrow, haste away;  
Alas, there's Danger in thy Stay,  
L●st hearing me so oft complain,  
Should make thee change thy cheerful Strain,  
Thy Songs cannot my Grief remove,  
Thou harmless Siren of the Grove.   

Then cease, thou Charmer of the Air,  
No more in Music spend the Morn,  
With me that languish in Despair,  
Oppressed by Cynthia 's Hate and Scorn;  
And do not this Poor Boon deny,  
I ask but Silence whilst I die.    

APOLLO and DAPHNE.  

PAnting for Breath, towards her Parent Brook,  
Like the tired Deer before an eager Chase,  
Fair Daphne ran, nor durst behind her look:  
With winged Feet, and with a blub'red Face.   

The Beardless God, who taken with her Charms,  
Had long pursued, by his hot Passion led,  
Strait saw her stop, and upward stretch her Arms  
On Pencus Banks, where she for Aid had fled.   

He saw her Nimble Feet take Root and grow,  
And a rough Bark her Tender Limbs enclose;  
Her Hairs, which once like Curls of Gold did show,  
Changed Green, and in a Shade of Boughs arose.   

To the resistless Tree, He Courtship makes,  
And w●th vain Kisses his Fond Love deceives;  
Then of her Bays by force a Chaplet takes:  
So stead of Fruit, He only gathers Leaves.    

A Sestina, In Imitation of Sig. Fra. Petrarca.  

I.  
SO many Creatures live not in the Sea,  
Nor e'er above the Circle of the Moon,  
Did Man behold so many Stars at Night,  
Nor little Birds do shelter in the Woods,  
Nor Herbs, nor Flowers e'er beautified the Fields;  
As anxious Thoughts my Heart feels every Day.   

II.  
●, wishing Death, pray each may be the Day,  
And seek in vain for Quiet in the Fields,  
My Griefs succeed like Waves upon the Sea;  
●uch Torments sure, no Man beneath the Moon  
●'er felt as I; 'Tis known amongst the Woods,  
Where to complain I oft retire at Night.   

III.  
● never could enjoy a quiet Night,  
And do in Pain and Sorrow spend the Day,  
●ince Angry Cynthia drove me to the Woods;  
●et e'er I quit my Love I'll weep a Sea:  
The Sun his Light shall borrow of the Moon,  
And May with Flowers refuse to deck the Fields.   

IV.  
Restless I wander up and down the Fields,  
And scarce can close my Eyes to sleep at Night:  
So that my Life's unstable as the Moon,  
The Air I fill with Sighs both Night and Day;  
My Showers of Tears seem to augment the Sea,  
Make the Herbs green, and to refresh the Woods.   

V.  
I hating Cities, ramble in the Woods,  
And thence I shift to solitary Fields,  
I rove and imitate the troubled Sea,  
And hope most Quiet in the silent Night.  
So that I wish at the Approach of Day,  
The Sun would set, and give his place to th' Moon.   

VI  
Oh, that like him who long had loved the Moon,  
I could in Dreams be happy in the Woods;  
I'd wish an End to this most Glorious Day,  
Then should I meet my Cynthia in the Fields.  
Court her, and entertain her all the Night;  
The Day should stop, and Sol dwell in the Sea.   

But Day nor Night, Sea, Moon, nor Wood, nor Field▪  
Now Cynthia frowns, can Ease or Pleasure yield.    

A Sonnet of Sig. Francisco Petrarca, Giving an Account of the Time, when he fell in Love with Madonna Laura.  

WILL spurs me on, Love wounds me with his Dart.  
Pleasure does draw me, Custom pulls me too,  
Hope flatters, that I should my Ends pursue,  
And lends her Right Hand to my Fainting Heart.   

My wretched Heart accepts, nor yet espies  
The Weakness of my blind disloyal Guide,  
My Passions rule, long ●ince my Reason died,  
And from one fond Desire, still others rise.   

Virtue and Wealth, Beauty and Graceful Mien,  
Sweet Words, and Person fair as e'er was seen,  
Were the Allurements drew me to her Net:   

'Twas Thirteen hundred twenty seven, the Year,  
April the sixth, this Nymph did first appear,  
And tied me so, I ne'er shall Freedom get.    

A Sonnet, of Petrarc, Showing how long he had loved Madonna Laura.  

PLeasure in Thought, in Weeping Ease I find;  
I catch at Shadows, grasp Air with my Hand;  
On Seas I float are bounded with no Land;  
Blow Water, sow on Rocks, and reap the Wind.   

The Sun I gazed so long at, I became  
Struck with its Dazzling Rays, and lost my Eyes;  
I chase a Nimble do that always flies,  
And hunt with a Dull Creature, Weak and Lame.   

Heartless I live to all things but my Ill,  
Which I'm solicitous to follow still;  
And only call on Laura, Lov●, and Death.   

Thus Twenty Years I've spent in Misery,  
Whilst only Sighs, and Tears, and Sobs I buy,  
Under such hard Stars first I drew my Breath.    

A Sonnet, of Petrarc, Going to visit M. Laura, remembers she is lately dead.  

OH Eyes! Our Sun's extinct, and at an End,  
Or rather glorified in Heaven does shine;  
●here shall we see her, there does she attend,  
●nd at our long Delay perchance repine.   

Alas, my Ears, the Voice you loved to hear,  
Is now raised up to the Celestial Choir;  
And you, my Feet, she's gone that used to steer  
Your Course, where you till Death can ne'er aspire.   

Cannot my Soul nor Body yet be free?  
'Twas not my Fault, you this Occasion lost;  
That Seeing, Hearing, Finding her y'are crossed:  
Blame Death, or rather blest be ever He,   

Who binds and loses, makes and can destroy,  
And when Life's done crowns with Eternal Joy.    

A Sonnet. Petrarc laments for the Death of M. Laura.  

THIS Nightingale that does so much complain,  
Robbed of her tender Young, or dearest Ma●●●  
And to the Fields and heavens her Tale relate,  
In such sad Notes, but yet Harmonious Strain:   

Perhaps this Station kindly does retain,  
To join her Griefs with my unhappy State;  
'Twas may Assurance did my Woe create:  
I thought Death could not have a Goddess slain.   

How soon deceived are those, who lest mistrust!  
I ne'er could think that Face should turn to Dust,  
Which, than all Humane Beauties seemed more pure   

But now I find that my malicious Fate,  
Will, to my Sorrow, have me learn too late:  
Nothing that pleases here, can long endure.    

A Sonnet. Petrarc on Laura's Death.  

HOLD, Treacherous Thoughts, that dare my Rule despise,  
Is't not enough against me in War are joined  
Love, Fortune, and Grim Death, but I must find  
Within me such Domestic Enemies?   

And thou my Heart, that dost my Peace oppose,  
Disloyal thou wilt give my Soul no Rest,  
But harbouring still these Thoughts within my Breast,  
Keep'st Correspondence with my Deadly Foes;   

To thee Love all his Messages conveys,  
Fortune my now departed Pomp displays,  
Death in my Mind does all my Grie●s express;   

That my Remains fall by Necessity,  
My Thoughts with Errors arm themselves in thee:  
Thou art the Cause of my Unhappiness.    

CONSTANCY.  

PLace me where Sol dries up the Flowery Fields,  
Or where he to the Frosty Winter yields:  
Place me where he does moderate Heat dispense,  
And where his Beams have a kind Influence:   

Place me in humble State, or place me high,  
In a dark Clime, or a serener Sky;  
Place me where Days or Nights are short or long,  
In Age mature, or be it Old or Young:   

Place me in Heaven, on Earth, or in the Main,  
On a high Hill, low Vale, or l●vel Plain:  
Let me have vigorous Parts, or Dulness have;  
Place me in Liberty, or as a Slave:   

Give me a Black, or an Illustrious Fame:  
As I have lived, I'll ever live the same;  
Where I at first did fix my Constant Love,  
Nothing from Cynthia can it e'er remove.    

To his VIOL.  

I Tuned my Viol, and have often strove,  
In Mars' Praise to raise his humble Verse,  
And in Heroick Strain his Deeds rehearse,  
●ut all my Accents still resound of Love.   

●n Foreign Countries, or on English Ground,  
Love for my Theme does dictate Cynthia's Charms,  
Nor will he let me sing of other Arms,  
Than those with which he Lovers Hearts does wound.   

This Viol then unfit for rougher Notes,  
My Muse shall tune to its accustomed Way;  
So shall it may Harmonious Points obey,  
●or it to Cynthia all its Tunes devotes.   

Then to my Soft and Sweetest Strokes I keep,  
Whilst angry Mars his Fury may lay by,  
He listening to my Song will quietly,  
And in his Cytherea's Bosom sleep.    

HOPE. Out of Italian from Fra. Abbati.  
I.  

GRieve no more, Mortals, dry your Eyes,  
And learn this Truth of me,  
Fate rowls, and round about us flies,  
But for its Ills carries a Remedy.  
The Leaveless Boughs on all those Stocks,  
With Green shall beautify their Locks;  
And strait  
Such Store ●f various Fruits shall yield,  
That then ●ough Backs shall truckle with the weight▪  
For in a little space  
Winter shall give to Spring its Place,  
And with Fresh Robes, Hope's Emblem, cloth the Field▪   

CHORUS.  
He has no Faith who sighs and whines,  
And at his present Ill repines:  
For we should strive  
Against all Afflictions to apply  
This Universal Remedy,  
To hope and live.   

II.  
Hope does our Future Joys anticipate,  
It eases all our Pains;  
For in the present Ill that reigns,  
Endurance only triumphs over Fate.  
Young Colts fierce and untaught,  
In time submit,  
For they to yield are brought,  
Their Backs to Burdens, and their Mouths to th' Bit:  
With Patience also will the Country Swain  
His Conquest gain;  
And make the stubborn Heifer bow  
●ts Neck to th' Yoke, and labour at the Blow.   

CHORUS.  
Then he wants Faith who sighs and whines,  
And at his present Ill repines:  
For Man should strive  
Against all Afflictions to apply  
This Universal Remedy,  
To hope and live.   

III.  
Thus sang a Smiling Courtier t' other Day,  
Under the Covert of a Spreading Tree,  
And to his Song upon his Lute did play,  
By whom an Ass you might attentive see.  
The Ass in Scorn drew nearer him and brayed,  
And arguing thus, methought, in Answer said:  
If this Green Grass on which I fed but now,  
To be of Hope the Symbol you allow,  
And if the Ass' proper Meat be Grass,  
Sure He that lives on Hope, feeds like an Ass.    

Finding Cynthia in Pain, and crying. A Sonnet.  

WHY, Idol of my Heart, these mournful Cries,  
And so much Grief on those fair Cheeks appears  
From whence proceed those envious Showers of Tear●  
Dark'ning the Lustre of thy Beauteous Eyes?   

How dares bold Sorrow labour to remove,  
So many Graces from their proper Place?  
Ah, Cynthia! Pain endeavours, in thy Face,  
To poison all the sweetest Charms of Love.   

Sense of thy Grief, my Soul with Anguish fills,  
Which out of Pity into Tears distils,  
And for thy Ease would said endure thy Woe;   

But this Affliction, sure thy Heart sustains,  
That, Cruel Thou, being sensible of Pains,  
May'st, to thy Constant Martyr, Pity show.    

Cynthia sleeping in a Garden. A Sonnet.  

NEAR a cool Fountain, on a Rose-bed lay  
My Cynthia, sleeping in the open Air;  
Whom Sol espied, and seeing her so Fair,  
Gazed, till his wanton Coursers lost their Way.   

The proudest Flowers were not ashamed to find,  
Their Scent, and Colour rivalled in her Face;  
Her bright curled Hairs were tossed from Place to Place,  
On Neck and Bosom by the Amorous Wind.   

Her Smiles were animated by her Breath,  
Which still as soon as born received their Death,  
Being Mortal made in Pity to men's Hearts:   

Poor Lovers than did lie and take their Rest,  
For the Blind Boy who does our Peace molest,  
Had in her sleeping Eyes hid all his Darts.    

Lesbia's Complaint against Thyrsis his INCONSTANCY. A Sonnet.  

I Loved thee, Faithless Man, and love thee still,  
Thou Fatal Object of my Fond Desires,  
And that which nourishes these Amorous Fires,  
Is Hope, by which I love against my Will.   

Great was the Passion thou didst late express,  
Yet scornest me now, whom long thou didst adore,  
Sporting with others, her thou mindest no more,  
Whom thou hast called thy Heaven and Happiness.   

Think not by this, thy Lesbian thee invites,  
To spend thy Years in Dalliance, and Delights,  
'Tis but to keep her Faith in Memory;   

But if to grieve my Soul thou only strive,  
To thy Reproach, and to my Boast I'll live,  
A Monument of thy INCONSTANCY.    

On Lydia distracted. A Sonnet.  

WIth Hairs, which for the Wind to play with, hung,  
With her torn Garments, and with naked Feet,  
Fair Lydia dancing went from Street to Street,  
Singing with pleasant Voice her foolish Song.   

On her she drew all Eyes in every Place,  
And them to Pity by her Pranks did move,  
Which turned with gazing longer into Love,  
By the rare Beauty of her charming Face.   

In all her Frenzyes, and her Mimickries,  
While she did Nature's richest Gifts despise,  
There active Love did subtly play his part.   

Her antic Postures made her look more gay,  
Her Ragged clothes her Treasures did display,  
And with each Motion she ensnared a Heart.    

The Four Seasons.  

SPRING.  
WHEN Winter's passed, than every Field and Hill,  
The SPRING with Flowers does fill,  
Soft Winds do cleanse the Air,  
Repel the Fogs, and make the weather fair;  
Cold Frosts are gone away,  
The Rivers are at Liberty,  
And their just Tribute pay,  
Of liquid Pearls, and Crystal to the Sea;  
To whom each Brook, and Fountain runs,  
The stable Mother of those straggling Sons.   

CHORUS.  
But then,  
In a short space,  
WINTER returns again,  
ere Sol has run his annual Race;  
But, Ah! When Death's keen Arrow flies,  
And hits Poor MAN,  
Do what he can,  
He dies;  
Returns to Dust, a Shadow, and a Nothing lies.   

SUMMER.  
WHEN Flow'ry May is past, The Spring is o'er,  
Then our cool Breezes end;  
For Aeolus does send,  
His sultry Blasts from off the Southern Shore;  
The Sun bows down his Head,  
And darts on us his fiery Rays,  
Plants droop, and seem as dead,  
Most Creatures seek for Shade their different ways;  
All things as if for Moisture cry,  
Even Rivers with the common Thirst grow dry.    


CHORUS.  
But then,  
In a short space,  
The SPRING returns again,  
ere Sol has run his Annual Race:  
But, Ah! When Deaths keen Arrow flies,  
And hits Poor MAN,  
Do what he can,  
He dies;  
Returns to Dust, a Shadow, and a Nothing lies.   

AUTUMN.  
WHen Summer's done, green Trees begin to yield;  
Their Leaves with Age decay,  
They're stripped of their Array;  
Scarce can the Rains revive the Russet Field:  
The Flowers run up to Seed,  
Orchards with Choice of Fruit abound,  
Which Sight and Taste do feed:  
The grateful Boughs even kiss their Parent Ground:  
The Elm's kind Wife, the tender Vine,  
Is pregnant with her Heavenly Burden, Wine.   

CHORUS.  
But then,  
In a short Space,  
SUMMER returns again,  
ere Sol has run his Annual Race:  
But, Ah! When Death's keen Arrow flies,  
And hits Poor MAN,  
Do what he can,  
He dies;  
Returns to Dust, a Shadow, and a Nothing lies.   

WINTER.  
WHen Autumn's past, sharp Eastern Winds do blow,  
Thick Clouds obscure the Day,  
Frost makes the Currents stay,  
The Aged Mountains Hoary are with Snow.  
Althô the Winter rage;  
The wronged Trees Revenge conspire,  
Its Fury they assuage;  
Alive they serve for Fence, when dead for Fire;  
All Creatures from its Outrage fly,  
Those which want Shelter or Relief must die.   

CHORUS.  
But then,  
In a short Space,  
AUTUMN returns again,  
ere Sol has run his Annual Race:  
But, Ah! When Death's keen Arrow flies,  
And hits Poor MAN,  
Do what he can,  
He dies;  
Returns to Dust, a Shadow, and a Nothing lies.    

A Sonnet. Translated out of Italian. Written by Sig. Fra. Gorgia, who was born as they were carrying his Mother to her Grave.  

UNhappy I came from my Mother's Womb,  
As She, Oh Blessed She! who gave me Breath,  
Having received the Fatal Stroke of Death,  
By weeping Friends was carried to her Tomb.   

The Sorrow I expressed, and grievous Cries,  
Love's Tribute were, for her to Heaven was gone,  
My Coffin, and my Cradle, both were one,  
And at her Sunset, mine began to rise.   

Wretch, how I quake to think on that sad Day!  
Which both for Life and Death at once made way;  
Being gave the Son, and Mother turned to Earth.   

Alas, I die! Not that Life hasts so fast,  
But that to me each Minute seems the last,  
For I, in Death's cold Arms, received my Birth.    

The Scholar of his own Pupil. The Third Idyllium of Bion Englished, Beginning. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉—  

I Dreamt, by me I saw Fair Venus stand,  
Holding Young Cupid in her Lovely Hand,  
And said, Kind Shepherd, I a Scholar bring,  
My Little Son, to learn of you to sing.   

Then went away; and I to gain her Praise,  
Would fain have taught him all my Rural Lays,  
How Pan found out the Pipe, Pallas the Flute,  
Phoebus the Harp, and Mercury the Lute.   

These were my Subjects, which he still would slight,  
And ●ill my Ears with Lovesongs, Day and Night;  
Of Mortals, and of Gods, what Tricks they used,  
And how his Mother Venus' them abused.   

So I forgot my Pupil to improve,  
And learned of him, by Songs, the Art of Love.    

An EPITAPH, On a Foolish Boaster.  

HERE to its pristine Dust again is hurled,  
Of an Inconstant Soul, the little World;  
He lived, as if to some great things designed,  
With substance small, boasting a Princely Mind.   

Of Body crooked, and distorted Face,  
But Man●ers that did much his form disgrace.  
In Broils, his ●age pushed him beyond his Art,  
Was kicked, would face again, but wanted heart.   

In his whole course of Life, so swelled with Pride,  
That failed in all's Intrigues, for grief he died.  
Thus with ambitious Wings we strive to soar,  
Flutter a while, fall, and are seen no more.    

The Danger of the Sea. From the Thirteenth Book of the Macaronics of Merlinus Cocalius. Beginning, Infidum arridet saepe imprudentibus Aequor.  

THE treacherous Seas unwary Men betray,  
Dissembling Calms, but Storms in ambush lay;  
Such who in bounds of safety cannot keep,  
Flock here to see the Wonders of the Deep:   

They hope they may some of the Sea God's spy,  
With all their Train of Nymphs, and Tritons by:  
But when their Eyes lose the retiring Shore,  
Join Heaven with Seas, and see the Land no more:   

Then wretched they, with Brains are swimming round,  
Their undigested Meats, and Choler drown:  
Nor yet their boiling Stomaches can restrain,  
Till they the Waters all pollute, and slain.   

When Aeolus enraged that Humane Race,  
Should his old Friend the Ocean, thus disgrace,  
To punish it, he from their hollow Caves,  
With rushing noise, le's lose the Winds his Slaves.   

Who up towards Heaven such mighty Billows throw,  
You'd think you saw from thence He●●s Vaults below.  
Fools! To whom Wrecks have of no Caution been,  
By other Storms you might have this foreseen;   

E'er your bold Sailors launched into the Main,  
Then ye had ne'er striven to reach the Shore in vain▪    

An Expostulation with Love.  

THY Laws are most severe, Oh Winged Boy!  
For us to love, and not enjoy:  
What Reason is't we should this Pain abide?  
If love we must, you might provide,  
Either that our Affections we restrain,  
From her we're sure to love in vain:   

Or after our Desires so Guide our Feet,  
That where we love, we may an equal Passion meet.    

On the Art of Writing.  

SURE 'twas some God, in kindness first to Men,  
Taught us the Curious Art to use the Pen.  
●Tis strange the speaking Quill should, without Noise,  
Express the various Tones of Humane Voice;   

Of loudest Accents we no Sound retain,  
Voice to its Native Air resolves again;  
Yet though as Wind Words seem to pass away;  
By Pen we can their very Echoes stay.   

When we from other Converse are confined,  
This can reveal the Secrets of the Mind:  
All Authors must to it their Praises own,  
For 'twas the Pen that made their Labours known.   

Good Acts with bad Tradition would confound,  
But what we writ is kept entire and sound:  
Of this Ingenious Art Fame loudly sings,  
Which gives us lasting Words, and lasting Things.    

The MORN.  

WHEN Light begins the Eastern Heaven to grace,  
And the Night's Torches to the Sun give place,  
Diana leaves her Shepherd to his Sleep,  
Grieved that her Horns cannot their Lustre keep.   

The Boughs on which the wanton Birds do throng,  
Dance to the Music of their Chirping Song,  
Whilst they rejoice the Dusky Clouds are ●led,  
And Bright Aurora rises from her Bed.   

Then Fools and Flatterers to Courts resort,  
Lovers of Game, up and pursue their Sport,  
With last Nights Sleep refreshed, the Labouring Swain  
Cheerfully settles to his Work again.   

Pleased Hobb unfolds his Flocks, and whilst they feed,  
Sits, and makes Music on his Oaten Reed;  
Then I wake too, and viewing Lesbia's Charms,  
Do glut myself with Pleasure in her Arms.    

To his Ingenious Friend Mr. N. Tate.  

THROUGH various paths, for Pleasures have I sought,  
Which short Content, and lasting Trouble brought;  
These are the Clouds obscure my Reason's Light,  
And charge with Grief, when I expect Delight.   

Spite of all Letts, thou Honour's Hill dost climb,  
Scorning to spend in Empty Joys thy Time;  
Thou in the foremost List of Fame dost strive,  
Whose present Virtues, Future Glory's give.   

With Myrtle I, with Bays, thou crownest thy Head,  
Thine still is verdant, but my Wreath is dead:  
The Trees I plant, and nurse with so much Care,  
Are barren; thine the Glory of the Year.   

● only ●une my Pipe to Cynthia's Fame,  
With Verse confined, but constant as my Flame;  
●n thousand Streams thy plenteous Numbers fall,  
Thy Muse attempts all Strains, excels in all.    

Less Security at Sea than on Shore. An Idyllium of Moschus Englished. Beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉—  

WHEN Seas are calm, tossed by no angry Wind,  
What roving Thoughts perplex my easy Mind?  
My Muse no more delights me, I would fain  
Enjoy the tempting Pleasures of the Main:   

But when I see the blust'ring Storms arise,  
Heaving up Waves, like Mountains, to the Skies;  
The Seas I dread, and all my Fancy bend  
To the firm Land, my Old and Certain Friend.   

In pleasant Groves I there can Shelter take;  
Amongst the Tall Pines the Winds but Music make:  
The Fisher's Boat's his House, on Seas he strives  
To cheat poor Fish, but still in danger lives.   

Sweetly does gentle Sleep my Eyes invade,  
While free from Fear, under the Plane-trees Shade  
I lie, and there the Neighbouring Fountains hear,  
Whose Purling Noise with Pleasure Charms the Ear.    

A Sonnet. PLATONIC LOVE.  

CHASTE Cynthia bids me love, but hope no more,  
Ne'er wish Enjoyment, which I still have striven  
T' obey, and every loser Thought reprove;  
Without desiring her, I her adore.   

What Humane Passion does with Tears implore,  
The Intellect Enjoys, when 'tis in Love  
With the Eternal Soul, which here does move  
●n Mortal Closet, where 'tis kept in Store.   

Our Souls are in one mutual Knot combined,  
Not Common Passion, Dull and Unrefined;  
Our Flame ascends, That smothers here below:   

The Body made of Earth, turns to the same,  
●s Soul t' Eternity, from whence it came;  
My Love's Immortal then, and Mistress too.    

Translated from jovianus Pontanus. Praises the Fountain Casis.  

CASIS where Nymphs, and where the God's resort,  
Thou art a Friend to all their amorous Sport;  
Often does Pan from his Lycaeus run,  
In thy cool Shades to escape the Mid-days Sun;   

With Music he thy neighbouring Hills does fill,  
On his sweet Syrinx, when he shows his Skill;  
To which the Naïdes Hand in Hand advance,  
And in just Measures tread their Graceful Dance:   

By thee the Goat's delight, and browsing stray,  
Whilst on the Rocks the Kids do skip and play;  
Hither Diana, chase Deer, does hie,  
For on thy Banks her Game will choose to die,   

Here tired and hot, she sits and takes the Air,  
Here baths her Limbs, and combs and dries her Ha●●  
The Muses in their Songs thy Praise express;  
Dryas by thee begins to trick and dress:   

Oft to thy Streams Calliope retires,  
And all the Beauties of thy Spring admires;  
In whose close Walks, while she from Heat does keep,  
Charmed with thy murmuring Noise, she falls asleep.    

To Cynthia gone into the Country.  

THO' the late Parting was our Joint Desire,  
It did with different Passions us inspire;  
Thou wert overjoyed, oppressed with Sorrow I;  
Thy Thoughts did faster than thy Footsteps fly;   

But though I strove and laboured to depart,  
Spite of my ●eet, I followed with my Heart;  
Since thus I grieved my Loss, it was unkind  
Not once to sigh for what thou left'st behind.    

Soneto Espanol de Don Felipe Ayres. En alabanza de su Ingenioso Amigo, Don Pedro Reggio, uno de los mayores Musicos de su tiempo.  

SI el Thebano Sabio, en dulce Canto  
De su Tierra los Hechos escrivia,  
Y en elegantes Versos los dezia,  
Que viven y con embidia, con espanto;   

Tu Reggio, ya con soberano encanto,  
Del Pindaro Ingles, con Armonia,  
Assi exprimes la dulce Melodia,  
Que la admiration suspend el llanto.   

No es mucho pues, que vençes lo mas fuerte,  
(Si ya tu voz mer●ce eterna Palma)  
Y tu Instrumento al mismo Apolo assombre,   

Pues Logras does Victorias en tu surety,  
una de la Armonia para L'alma:  
Otra del Instrumento para el Nombre.    

A Sonnet. On CYNTHIA sick.  

HELP! Help! Ye Nymphs, whilst on the neighbouring Plain  
Your Flocks do feed, Come and Assistance bring,  
Alas! Fair Cynthia's sick and languishing,  
For whom my Heart endures a greater Pain.   

Ye Sirens of the Thames, let all your Train  
Tune their shrill Instruments, and to them sing,  
And let its Flowery Banks with Echo's ring,  
This may her wont cheerful Looks regain.   

Ye Herbs, that richest Medicines can produce,  
Come quickly and afford such sovereign Juice,  
As from her Heart may all the Pains remove▪   

But in her Face if Death would Paleness give▪  
And Fate ordain that she in Torment live,  
Then let her suffer in the Flames of Love.    

The TURTLE DOVES. From jovianus Pontanus.  

YE Happy Pair of Turtle Doves,  
Renewing still your former Loves,  
Who on one Bough, both sing one Song,  
Have but one Care, one Heart, one Tongue;   

Whilst our Loves varying as our Fate,  
Can scarce sometimes be known from Hate;  
You to your first Amours are true,  
Would we could Pattern take by you.   

What Force of Love amongst us, tell,  
Such Opposition can compel?  
If from some powerful Fire it Spring,  
Whence all this Cold and Shivering?   

From Cold if Love's strange Force arise,  
How are our Hearts his Sacrifice?  
This Mystery I can ne'er unfold,  
Why Love is ruled by Heat and Cold.   

You might the Scruple best remove  
That are the Emblem of TRUE-LOVE.    

An Essay towards a Character of His Sacred Majesty King JAMES the II.  
I Paint the Prince the World would surely crave,  
Could they the Sum of all their Wishes have;  
Pattern of Goodness Him on Earth we see,  
Who knows He bea●s the Stamp of Deity;  
He's made, by Nature, fit for Sword or Gown,  
And with undoubted Right enjoys his Crown;  
As Gold by Fire, He's tried by Suffering,  
Preserved by Miracles to be a King;  
Troubles were Foils to make his Glories shine,  
Through all conducted by a Hand Divine:  
Malice long strove his Fortunes to defeat,  
Now Earth and Heaven conspire to make him Great:  
He of all temporal Blessings is possessed,  
But in a Royal Consort doubly blest:  
His Mind, as Head, with Princely Virtue crowned,  
To him, no Equal can on Earth be found.  
His every Action has peculiar Grace,  
And MAJESTY appears in Mien and Face.  
In Subject's Hearts, as on his Throne he reigns;  
Himself the Weight of all his Realms sustains;  
Of a blessed Statesmen ever seeks Advice,  
And of best Councils knows to make his Choice;  
Is taught by long Obedience, to command;  
His own best Gen'ral He for Sea, and Land.  
Love's Peace, whilst thus for War and Action sit,  
And Arms and Hate lays down when Foes submit:  
Not of too open, nor too frugal Mind,  
In all things to the Golden Mean inclined;  
Seems for himself not born, but People rather,  
And shows by's Care, that He's their Common Father;  
Lewdness expels both from his Camp, and Court;  
No Flatterers please, nor Fools can make him Sport;  
Grave in Discoursing, in his Habit plain,  
And all Excess endeavours to restrain:  
As Fates decree, so stands his Royal Word,  
O'er all his Passions governs as their Lord;  
Nicely does he inspect each Fair Pretence,  
Justice alike to Friend and Foe dispense;  
He's the Retreat to which Oppressed do fly,  
Extending Help to those in Misery.  
Gracious to Good, to Wicked Men severe,  
supports the Humble, makes the Haughty fear;  
To true Deserts in Mercy unconfined,  
His Laws do more Himself than others bind,  
At Sea his Naval Power He stretches far,  
●n Europe holds the Scales of Peace and War,  
His Actions lasting Monuments shall frame,  
None leave to Future Age so sweet a Name.  
Add ten times more, the Royal Image must  
Fall short of JAMES the Great, the Good, the Just.   

Sleeping Eyes.  
FAIR Eyes, ye Mortal Stars below,  
Whose Aspects do portend my Ill!  
That sleeping cannot choose but show  
How wretched me you long to kill;  
If thus you can such Pleasure take,  
What would you, if you were awake?   

An Ode of Anacreon Englished. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉. To the SWALLOW. Beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  

I  
DEAR Bird, thy Tunes and Sport here,  
Delight us all the Day;  
Who dwellest amongst us half the Year,  
And then art forced away.   

II.  
Thou canst not Winter's Fury bear,  
But cross the Southern Main,  
To warmer afric dost repair,  
Till Spring return again.   

III.  
But, Ah! No Force of Storm, or Art,  
Drives Cupid from my Breast,  
He took Possession of my Heart,  
And in it built his Nest.   

This Bird there hatches all his Young,  
Where each by Instinct led,  
Learns of its Sire his Tricks and Song,  
With Shell upon its Head.   

V.  
And e'er these Loves have plumed their Wings,  
They multiply apace,  
For as one plays, or cries, or sings,  
It propagates its Race.   

VI  
Now their Confusion's grown so loud,  
It cannot be expressed:  
I've such Disturbance with the Crowd,  
They give my Soul no Rest.    

Love so as to be beloved again. An Idyllium of Moschus. Beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉—  

PAN loved his Neighbour Echo, Echo strove  
To gain a nimble satire to her Love;  
This satire had on Lyda fixed his Flame,  
Who on another Swain had done the same.   

As Echo Pan, did satire Echo hate;  
And Lyda scorned the satire for her Mate:  
Thus Love by Contrarieties did burn,  
And each for Love and Hatred took the turn.   

For as these did the other's Flame despise,  
As little those their Lovers Passions prize:  
Then learn all you who never felt the Pain,  
To love, as you may be beloved again.    

All things should contribute to the Lover's Assistance. An Idyllium of Moschus Englished. Beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉—  

OF Loving Venus, O Celestial Light!  
Hesperus, Usher of the sable Night,  
Tho' paler than the Moon, thou dost as far  
Transcend in Brightness every other Star.   

To my Dear Shepherdess my Steps befriend,  
●● Luna's stead do thou thy Conduct lend;  
With waning Light, not long before the Sun,  
●he rose, and now by this her Course has run.   

No base Intriegue this Night I undertake,  
No Journey I for Common Business make:  
Love, and bear within me Cupid's Fire,  
And all things should to Lovers Aid conspire▪    

CUPID turned Ploughman. An Idyllium of MOSCHUS. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉—  
ONCE for his Pleasure LOVE would go  
Without his Quiver, To●ch, or Bow;  
He took with him a Ploughman's Whip,  
And Corn as much as filled his Scrip;  
Upon his shoulders hung the Load;  
And thus equipped he went abroad;  
With Bulls that often Yokes had worn,  
He ploughed the Ground, and sowed his Corn,  
Then looking up to Heaven with pride,  
Thus mighty jove he vilifyed.  
Now scorch my Field, and spoil my Seed,  
Do, and you shall repent the deed;  
Europa's Bull I'll make you bow  
Your haughty Neck, and draw my Blow.   

Love's Subtlety. An Idyllium of Moschus. Beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉—  

BY Pisa's Walls does Old Alpheus flow  
To Sea, and thence to's Arethusa go,  
With Waters bearing Presents as they move,  
●eaves, Flowers, and Olive-Branches, to his Love:   

And of the Sacred Dust the Heroes raise,  
When at Olympic Games they strive for Bays;  
●e sinks and dives with Art beneath the Sea,  
●nd to Sicilia does his Streams convey.   

●●t still will he his Purity retain,  
●or is his Course obstructed by the Main.  
●Twas Love, whose subtle Tricks will ne'er be done,  
That taught the Amorous River thus to run.    

Love makes the best Poets. An Idyllium of BION. Beginning, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉—  

DArts, Torch, or Bow, the Muses do not fear,  
They love and follow Cupid every where,  
And him whose Breast His Arrows cannot reach,  
They all avoid, refusing him to teach.   

But if Love's Fire begin to warm a Heart,  
They strait inspire it with their Sacred Art;  
Let none with subtle Logic this deny,  
For I too well the Truth can testify.   

If Men, or Gods I strive to celebrate,  
My music's Discord, and my Verse is flat:  
For Love, or Lyci●, when my Vein I show,  
My Viol's tuned, and sweetest Numbers flow.    

The Death of ADONIS. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 Of Theocritus Englished.  
WHEN VENUS her ADONIS found,  
Just slain, and weltering on the Ground,  
With Hair disordered, ghastly Look,  
And Cheeks their Roses had forsaken;  
She bade the Cupids Fetch with speed,  
The Boar that did this horrid Deed:  
They, to revenge Adonis' Blood,  
As quick as B0irds searched all the Wood,  
And strait the murderous Creature found,  
Whom they, with Chains, securely bound:  
And whilst his Net one o'er him flung,  
●o drag the Captive Boar along;  
Another followed with his Bow,  
●ushing to make him faster go▪  
Who most unwillingly obeyed,  
●or he of VENUS was afraid.  
No sooner she the Boar espied,  
●ut, Oh! Thou cruel Beast, she cried,  
That hadst the Heart to wound this Thigh,  
How couldst thou kill so sweet a Boy?  
Great Goddess (said the Boar, and stood  
Trembling) I swear by all that's Good,  
By thy Fair Self, by Him I've slain,  
These pretty Hunters, and this Chain;  
I did no Harm this Youth intend,  
Much less had Thought to kill your Friend:  
I gazed, and with my Passion strove,  
For with his Charms I fell in Love:  
At last that naked Thigh of his,  
With Lovers Heat I ran to kiss;  
Oh Fatal Cause of all my Woe!  
'Twas then I gave the heedless Blow.  
These Tusks with utmost Rigour draw,  
Cut, break, or tear them from my Jaw,  
'Tis just I should these Teeth remove,  
Teeth that can have a Sense of Love;  
Or this Revenge, if yet too small,  
Out off the Kissing Lips and all.  
When Venus heard this humble Tale,  
Pity did o'er her Rage prevail,  
She bade them strait his Chains untie,  
And set the Boar at Liberty;  
Who ne'er to Wood returned again,  
But followed Venus in her Train,  
And when by Chance to Fire he came,  
His Amorous Tusks singed in the Flame.   

Love a Spirit.  

I Told jacinta t'other Day,  
As in a pleasant Bower we sat,  
Sporting and Chatting Time away,  
Of Love, and of I know not what;   

That Love's a Spirit, some maintain,  
From whom (say they) we're seldom free;  
He gives us both Delight and Pain,  
Yet him we neither touch, nor see.   

But when I view (said I) your Eyes,  
I can perceive he thither skips,  
He now about them hovering flies,  
And I can feel him on your Lips.    

Commends the SPRING. A Paraphrase on an Idyllium of BION. Beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉. CLEODEMUS and MYRSON.  CLEO. 
WHICH Season, Myrson, does most Pleasure bring  
The Summer, Autumn, Winter, or the Spring  
Does not the SUMMER? When the Joyful Swain  
Pays Ceres Rights, and fills his Barns with Grain.  
Or is the AUTUMN best in your Esteem?  
That drives no Shepherd to the distant Stream  
To quench his Thirst: Or wanting common Food,  
To range for Nuts and Acorns in the Wood  
For then our Vines their Nectar Juice afford:  
And Orchards with Ambrosian Fruits are stored.  
Or can you the Cold WINTER more admire?  
When Frost and Snow confine you to the Fire,  
With Wine and Feasting, Music and Delights,  
And pleasant Tales, to shorten tedious Nights.  
Or give you for the Flowery SPRING your Voice?  
Pray tell me, for I long to hear your Choice.  MYR. 
SINCE God at first (as we from Poets hear.)  
Distinguished these Four Seasons of the Year,  
sacred to Deities, to whom we bow,  
Our Judgement of them they will scarce allow.  
Yet, Cleodemus, answering your Request,  
●'ll tell my Thoughts, which I esteem the best.  
●UMMER offends, when Sol with fiercest Ray,  
●n my tired Limbs, does Fainting Heats convey:  
●nd me as little can moist AUTUMN please,  
●ngendring Fogs, That Seasons all Disease;  
●uch less could I delight in WINTER's Snow,  
〈◊〉 Nipping Frosts, or Tempests when they blow.  
●●t, Oh, the SPRING! Whose Name delights the Ear.  
Would a Continual Spring were all the Year.  
〈◊〉 th'others brought no Damage, yet the Spring  
With purer Air, makes Birds in Concert sing.  
●cloaths our Fields, our Gardens, and our Bowers,  
Fresh Array, adorned with various Flowers.  
makes the Fruitful Earth, when pregnant long,  
●ing forth, and kindly nurse her Tender Young.  
●●ds leave their Fodder, and in Pastures keep;  
●●d Day is equal to the Time of Sleep.  
When God from Nothing made the heavens and Earth,  
And first gave all his Creatures Life and Birth:  
Sure it was Spring, and gentle Winds did blow,  
And all Earth's Products full Perfection show.   

To sweet Meat, sour Sauce. An Imitation of Theocritus or Anacreon.  
AS Cupid from the Bees their Hony-stole,  
Being stung, he in the Anguish of his Soul,  
Fled with his Dear-bought Purchase, which he laid  
On Cynthia's Lips, and thus in Anger said;  
Here I'm resolved shall a Memorial be,  
Of this my sweet, but punished Robbery;  
Let him endure as great a Pain as this,  
Who next presumes these Nectar Lips to kiss;  
Their Sweetness shall convey revenging Smart,  
Honey to's Mouth, but Torment to his Heart.   

The Young Fowler that mistook his Game. An Idyllium of BION. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉—  
A Brisk Young Archer that had scarce his Trade,  
In search of Game, alone his Progress made  
To a Near Wood, and as he there did rove,  
Spied in a Box-Tree perched, the God of Love:  
For Joy, did he his lucky Stars adore,  
Ne'er having seen so large a Bird before;  
Then in due Order all his Lime-twigs set,  
Prepared his Arrows, and displayed his Net;  
Yet would the Crafty Bird no Aim allow,  
But flew from Tree to Tree, and Bough to Bough;  
At which his strange Success, for Grief he cried,  
In Anger throwing Bow, and Toils aside:  
And to the Man that taught him, ran in Hast,  
To whom he gave Account of all that past,  
Making him leave his Blow, to come, and see,  
And showed him Cupid sitting in the Tree.  
The good Man, when he saw it, shook his Head;  
Leave off, Fond Boy, leave off, he smiling said;  
Hast from this Dangerous Fowl, that from you flies,  
And follow other Game, let me advise.  
For when to riper Age, you shall attain,  
This Bird that shuns you now, you'll find again;  
Then use your Skill, 'twill all your Art abide;  
Sat on your Shoulders, and in Triumph ride.   

CUPID 's Nest.  
AH! Tell me, Love, thy Nesting Place,  
Is't in my Heart, or Cynthia's Face?  
For when I see her Grace's shine,  
There art thou perched with Power Divine:  
Yet straight I feel thy pointed Dart,  
And find thee fluttering in my Heart;  
Then since amongst us thou wilt show,  
The many Tricks thou Love canst do,  
Prithee for sport remove thy Nest,  
First to my Face, and then to Cynthia's Breast.   

An Ode of ANACREON. To HIMSELF. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉. Beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉—  

WHEN Fumes of Wine ascend into my Brain,  
Care sleeps, and I the Bustling World disdain,  
Nor all the Wealth of Croesus I esteem,  
●●ng of Mirth, for Jollity's my Theme.   

With Garlands, I my Ruby Temples crown,  
Keeping Rebellious Thoughts of Business down;  
●n Broils, and Wars, while others take Delight,  
〈◊〉 with choice Friends indulge my Appetite.   

Then fetch more Bottles, Boy, and charge us round,  
We'll fall to Bacchus, Victims on the Ground;  
Nor value what dull Moralists have said,  
I'm sure 'tis better to be drunk, than dead.    

An Ode of ANACREON. To his Mistress. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉. Beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉—  

NEAR Troy, Latona's Rival makes her Moon,  
Changed by the Gods, into a Weeping Stone;  
And ravished Philomela, (they say 'tis true)  
Became a Bird, stretched out her Wings, and flew.   

But I could wish to be your Looking-Glass,  
Thence to admire the Beauties of your Face:  
Or Robe de Chambrè, that each Night and Morn,  
On those sweet Limbs undressed, I might be worn.   

Or else a Crystal Spring for your Delight,  
And you to bathe in those cool Streams invite:  
Or be some precious Sweets to please the Smell,  
That in your Hand, I near your Lips might dwell.   

Or String of Pearls, upon your Neck to rest,  
Or Pendent Gem, kissing your Snowy Breast;  
Even to your Feet, would I my Wish pursue,  
A Shoe I'd be, might I be worn by you.    

To LOVE. An Ode of ANACREON. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉. Beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉—  
'TIS sad if Love should miss a Heart,  
Yet sadder much to feel the Smart,  
But who can Cupid's Wounds endure,  
And have no Prospect of a Cure?  
We Lovers are not looked upon,  
For what our Ancestors have done?  
Wit and good Parts have slight Regard,  
No Virtue can obtain Reward.  
They ask what Coin our Purses hold,  
No Object's like a Heap of Gold.  
But doubly be the Wretch accursed  
Who taught us to esteem it first.  
This Thirst of Gold incites one Brother  
To ruin or destroy another:  
Our Fathers we for Gold despise.  
Hence Envy, Strife, and Wars arise:  
And Gold's the Bane, as I could prove,  
Of all that truly are in Love.   

A Sonnet. Out of Spanish, from Don Luis de Gongora. On a Death's-Head, covered with Cobwebs, kept in a Library, and said to be the Scull of a King.  

THIS Mortal Spoil which so neglected lies,  
Death's sad Memento, now where Spiders wove  
Their Subtle Webs, which Innocence deceive,  
Whose Strength to break their Toils cannot suffice:   

Saw itself Crowned, itself Triumphant saw,  
With Mighty Deeds proclaiming its Renown;  
Its Smiles were Favours, Terror was its Frown,  
The World of its Displeasure stood in Awe.   

Where Pride ordaining Laws did once preside,  
Which Land should Peace enjoy, which Wars abide.  
There boldly now these little Infects nest;   

Then raise not, Kings, your Haughty Plumes so high,  
For in Death's cold Embraces when you lie,  
Your Bones with those of common Subjects rest.    

From an Imperfect Ode of Hybrias the Cretan. Beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉—  

MY Riches are a Trusty Sword, and Spear,  
And a tough Shield, which I in Battle wear;  
This, as a Rampart, its Defence does lend,  
Whilst with the others I my Foes offend.   

With these I plough, with these my Crops I reap,  
With these, for Wine, I press the Juicy Grape,  
These are (unless I fall by Fickle Chance)  
Machine's which me to Dignities advance.   

Oh thrice Beloved Target, Spear, and Sword,  
That all these Heavenly Blessings can afford!  
Those who the Havoc of my Weapons fear,  
And tremble when of Blood, and Wounds they hear.   

They are the Men which me my Treasures bring,  
Erect my Trophies, style me Lord and King:  
And such, while I my Conquests spread abroad,  
Fall and adore me, as they do their God.    

Complains of the Shortness of Life. An Idyllium of BION. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉—  
THO' I had writ such Poems, that my Name  
Deserved enrolment in the Book of Fame;  
Or though my Muse could ne'er acquire the Bays,  
Why thus in drudging do I spend my Days?  
For should indulgent Heaven prolong our Date,  
Doubling the Term of Life prescribed by Fate,  
That we might half in Care, and Toil employ,  
And spend the other in Delights and Joy:  
We then this sweet Assurance might retain,  
To reap in Time the Fruits of all our Pain:  
But since none can the Bounds of Life extend,  
And all our Troubles have a speedy End,  
Why do we wrack our Brains, and waste our Health,  
To study Curious Arts, or heap up Wealth?  
Sure we forget we came of Mortal Seed,  
And the short Time Fate has for us decreed.   

Out of Latin from jovianus Pont●●●s▪ Being sick of a Fever, complains of the Fountain CASIS.  

CASIS to craving Fields, thou liberal Flood,  
Why so remote when thou shouldst cool my Blood?  
From Mossy Rocks thy Silver Streams do glide,  
By which the sultry Air is qualified;  
Tall Trees do kindly yield thy Head their Shade,  
Where Choirs of Birds their sweet Retreats have made;  
But me a Fever here in Bed detains,  
And Heat dries up the Moisture of my Veins.  
For this, did I with Flowers, thy Banks adorn?  
And has, for this, thy Head my Garlands worn?  
●ngrateful Spring, 'Tis I, thy Tale have told,  
And sang in Verses, thy Renown of Old.  
How on a Time, jove made in Heaven a Feast,  
To which each God, and Goddess came a Guest;  
Young Ganymede was there to fill the Bowl,  
The Boy, by's Eagle jove from Ida stole:  
Who proud the Gods admired his Mien, and Face,  
And active in the Duty of his Place:  
Turning in haste, he made a careless Tread,  
And from the Goblet all the Nectar shed,  
Which pouring down from Heaven upon the Ground▪  
In a small Pit, itself had forced, was found.  
At which jove smiled, and said, my Lovely Boy,  
I'll make this keep thy Chance in Memory;  
A Brook ●hall flow where first thy Liquor fell,  
And Casis called, which of thy Fame shall tell;  
Then with a Kiss he did his Minion grace,  
Making a Crimson Blush overspread his Face.   

This flattering Tale I often used to sing,  
To the soft Music of thy bubbling Spring;  
But thou to distant Vmbrians dost retire,  
Forgetful grown of thy Aonian Lyre;  
No Kindness now thou yield'st me as at first,  
No cooling Water to allay my Thirst;  
I have thy Image in my troubled Brain,  
But to my palate no Relief obtain.  
Whole Vessels in my Dreams I seem to drink,  
And that I cool my raging Fever think;  
My Sleep to me at least this Comfort yields,  
Whilst the fierce Dog-star chaps the parched Fields.  
Some Help, ye Muses, to your Poet bring,  
Let him not thirst that drinks your sacred Spring;  
Persephon's Favour with your Songs implore,  
Orpheus appeased her with his Harp before.    

His Heart, into a Bird.  

THE Tears overflowed fair Cynthia's Eyes,  
Her pretty Bird away was flown;  
For this great Loss she made her Moan,  
And quarrelled with her Destinies.   

My Heart a secret Joy expressed,  
As hoping Good from that Escape,  
Took Wings, and in the Fug'tive's Shape,  
Got Shelter in her Snowy Breast.   

Which proved a Fatal Restingplace,  
For she, th'Impostor when she found,  
Gave it with Spite a Mortal Wound,  
Then pleased, she laughed, and dried her Face.    

In Praise of a Country Life.  

THE Bliss which Souls enjoy above,  
He seems on Earth to share,  
Who does Divine Retirement love,  
And frees himself from Care,  
Nor Thought admits which may his Peace control,  
But in a quiet State contents his bounded Soul.   

Faction, and noisy Routs he hates,  
Fills not his Head with News,  
Waits at no State-man's crowded Gates,  
Nor servile Phrase does use;  
From all false Meaning are his Words refined,  
His sober Outside is the Index of his Mind.   

In pleasant Shades enjoys his Ease,  
No Project spoils his Sleep,  
With Rural Pipe himself can please,  
And charm his wand'ring Sheep,  
Till to his Cottage in some quiet Grove,  
By dusky Night's Approach he's summoned to remove.   

On tempting Gold, and Baits of Gain,  
With scorn he casts his Eyes,  
As Mischief's Root, and Virtue's Bane,  
Can their Assaults despise;  
●iches he sees our Liberty abuse,  
●nd to their slavish Yoke he does his Neck refuse.   

Fruit-Trees their loaded Boughs extend,  
For him to take his Choice;  
His wholesome Drink the Fountains lend,  
With pleasant purling Noise;  
Notes untaught, Birds that like him are free,  
●●ive which shall most delight him with their Harmony.   

Th'industrious Bee example shows,  
And teaches him to live,  
While she from Woodbine, Pink, and Rose,  
Flies loaded to her Hive:  
〈◊〉 narrow bounds contain his Winter's Store,  
〈◊〉 Nature be supplied, and he desires no more.   

No Misery this Man attends,  
Vice cannot him allure,  
Each Chance contributes to his Ends,  
Which makes his Peace secure;  
Others may boast of their Luxurious Strife,  
But happy He possesses more of solid Life.    

Mortal jealousy.  

Begun, O thou distracting Care,  
Partner of Sorrow, and Despair!  
Thy Poison spreads to every Part  
Of this my poor tormented Heart.   

If it be false, with which of late,  
Thou hast disturbed my quiet State,  
Why, to affright me, wouldst thou bring  
So well composed a Monstrous Thing?   

But if with Truth thou wouldst delight,  
To clear my long deluded Sight,  
Under that Veil does Falshood lie,  
'Tis Death thou bring'st, not Jealousy.    

The Innocent Magician; or, A Charm against LOVE.  

A Great, but Harmless Conjurer am I,  
That can Love's Captives set at Liberty;  
Hearts led astray by his deluding Flame,  
● to their peaceful Dwellings can reclaim;  
Love's Wings I clip, and take from him his Arms,  
By the sole Virtue of my Sacred Charms;   

His Empire shakes when I appear in Sight,  
My Words the Wing'd and Quivered Boys affright;  
Their close Retreats my boundless Power invades,  
Nor can they hide them in their Myrtle Shades.  
Their Sun's bright Rays, they now eclipsed shall find,  
Whose fancied Light strikes giddy Lovers blind,   

Rays of fair Eyes, which they proclaim Divine,  
And boast they can Sol's dazzling Beams outshine.  
The Storms of Sighs, and Rivers of their Eyes,  
My Skill allays, and their large Current dries.  
Hearts that are dead, I from their Graves retrieve,  
And by my Magick-Spell can make them live.   

For know, they're only Tricks, and subtle Arts,  
With which the Tyrant Love ensnares our Hearts;  
This Traitor plants his Toils to gain his Prize,  
In Curls of Flaxen Hair, and Sparkling Eyes:  
In each soft Look, and Smile, he sets a Gin,  
White Hands, or Snowy Breasts can tempt us in.   

Wholly on Mischief is his Mind employed,  
His fairest Shows do greatest Dangers hide;  
With Charming Sounds his Vot'ryes he beguiles,  
Till he destroys them by his Syren's Wiles;  
His Cunning Circe's every where deceive,  
And Men of Souls and Humane Shape bereave.   

A thousand other Arts this Treacherous Boy,  
To heedless Lovers Ruin does employ.  
Be watchful then, and his Allurements shun,  
So ends my Charm. Run to your Freedom, Run.    

The happy NIGHTINGALE.  

MELodious Creature, happy in thy Choice!  
That sitting on a Bough,  
Dost sing, Dear Mate, my Dear, Come to me now;  
And she obeys thy Voice.  
Ah, could my Songs such Bliss procure!  
For mine could Cynthia ne'er allure:   

Nor have I Wings like thee to fly,  
But must neglected lie;  
I cannot her to Pity move,  
She scorns my Songs, and me:  
While thou rejoycest all the Grove,  
(As well thou may'st) with Melody,  
For thou art happy in thy Love.   

No Creature e'er could boast a perfect State,  
Unless to thee it may belong,  
Since Nature liberally supplies,  
All thy Infirmities,  
To thy weak Organs gave a powerful Song;  
Tho' small in Size, thou art in Fortune great,  
Compared to mine, thy Happiness is most complete.    

On FAME.  
THE Fame we covet, is a wand'ring Air,  
Which against Silence wages constant War;  
For to be Mute does her so much displease,  
That true, or false, she seldom holds her peace;  
She but a while can in a place remain,  
'Tis running up and down, does her sustain;  
Tho' Dead, she seem, she quickly can revive,  
And with a Thousand Tongues, a Hydra live.   

LEANDER drowned.  

THO' Winds, and Seas oppose their utmost Spite,  
Joined with the Horror of a dismal Night,  
To keep his word the brave Leander strove,  
Honour his Convoy, and his Pilot Love;  
He long resists the envious Billows Rage,  
Whose Malice would his generous Flame assuage;   

At last, his weary Limbs o'ercome with Pain,  
No longer could the mighty Force sustain;  
Then Thoughts of losing Hero made him grieve,  
Only for Hero could he wish to live.  
With feeble Voice, a while to respite Fate,  
He with his Foes would fain capitulate:   

Whilst they against him still their Fury bend,  
Nor these his dying Accents would attend.  
Since to your greater Powers I must submit,  
Ye Winds and Seas, at least, this Prayer admit;  
That with my Faith I may to her comply,  
And at return let me your Victim die.    

To SLEEP. When sick of a Fever.  

HAppy are we who when our Senses tyre,  
Can slack the Chain of Thought, & check Desire.  
Nature her Works does in Perfection frame,  
Rarely producing any weak, or lame;   

She looks on Man with kindest Influence,  
Does for one Ill a thousand Goods dispense;  
Sleep, blessed Sleep she gave our labouring Eyes.  
Oh how I now those happy Minute's prize!   

This Rest, our Life's Cessation we may call,  
The Ease of Toil, of Care the Interval.  
For such Refreshment we from Sleep obtain,  
That we with Pleasure fall to work again.   

To Minds afflicted, Sleep a Cure imparts,  
Pouring its sovereign Balsam on our Hearts.  
When Wounds, or sharp Distempers rage, and sting,  
Kind Slumbers than some welcome Respites bring:   

But waking kept by an Excess of Grief,  
We from Eternal Sleep expect Relief.  
So wretched I, tormented to Despair,  
With Pain my Body, and my Soul with Care,   

Implore thy Comfort, Gentle Deity,  
Whom none could e'er but with closed Eyelids see.    

An EPIGRAM On WOMAN.  

SINCE Man's a Little World, to make it great  
Add Woman, and the Metaphors complete;  
Nature this Piece with utmost Skill designed,  
And made her of a Substance more refined,  
But wretched Man composed of Dust, and Clay,  
Must like all Earthly Things, with Time decay;   

While she may justly boast of what's Eternal,  
A Heavenly Countenance, and a Heart Infernal.    

A PARAPHRASE. On CALLIMACHUS. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 Of LEARNING. Beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉—  

THE Rosy Chaplets which my Head adorn,  
And richest Garments on my Body worn,  
●n Beauty and in Substance must decay,  
And by Degrees shall all consume away:   

The Meats and Drinks which do my Life sustain,  
Nature in certain hours expels again.  
We of no outward Blessings are secure,  
They cannot time's, nor Fortune's Shocks endure.   

For all my Worldly Goods are subject still  
To a Thief's Mercy, or Oppressour's Will:  
But Sacred Learning treasured in the Mind,  
When all things else forsake me, stays behind.    

Cynthia returned from the Country.  

IS Cynthia happily returned,  
Whose Absence I so long have mourned?  
Or do I dream, or is it she?  
My Life's Restorer 'tis, I see.   

Ah, Fugitive, that hadst the Heart,  
Body and Soul so long to part!  
Thy Presence is a sweet Surprise,  
A welcome Dream to waking Eyes;   

Who can such Joy in Bounds contain,  
My Cynthia is come back again!  
No notice of your Coming? This  
Is just to surfeit me with Bliss.   

You are (as when you went) unkind,  
With such Extremes to charge my Mind;  
This sudden Pleasure might destroy,  
E'er Sorrow could make way for Joy.   

The Eye is struck before the Ear,  
We Lightning see, e'er we the Thunder hear.    

A Paean, or Song of Triumph, translated into a Pindaric; supposed to be of Alcaeus, of Sapph, or of Praxilla the Sycionian. Beginning, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.—  

THIS Sword I'll carry in a Myrtle Bough,  
It is my Trophy now;  
Aristogiton, and Harmodius,  
They bore it thus,  
When they the Tyrant had destroyed,  
Restoring Athens to those Liberties,  
Which she so much does prize,  
And which she anciently enjoyed.   

O Dear Harmodius! Thou art not dead,  
But in the Island of the Blessed,  
Dost live in Peace, and Rest:  
For so 'tis said,  
Thou happy art in Company  
Of swift Achilles, and fierce Diomedes,  
And dost Tydides' see;   

Therefore this Sword in a Green Myrtle Bough,  
I carry as in Triumph now,  
The brave Harmodius,  
And famed Aristogiton bore it thus:  
For when they had performed the Sacrifice,  
To our great Patroness, Minerva, due,  
They, as he in his Grandeur sat,  
The Tyrant, Proud Hipparchus slew,  
Who o'er th' Athenian State,  
Without Pretence of Right, did tyrannize.  
Eternal Honours you on Earth shall gain,  
Aristogiton, and Harmodius!  
You have the bloody Tyrant slain,  
By which you do restore,  
Your City to the Laws which governed it before.    

Beauty makes us happy.  
HAppy's the Man who does thy Beauty see;  
Yet Happier he who sees and sighs for thee:  
But he does greatest Happiness obtain,  
Who sighs for thee, and makes thee sigh again;  
Some powerful Star did govern at his Birth,  
Who for the lov'liest Creature upon Earth,  
Shall in Content his Eye and Wishes join,  
And safely say of thee, That Heart is mine.   

To John Dryden Esq Poet Laureate and Historiographer Royal, his Honoured Friend.  

MY Muse, when heated with Poetic Flame,  
Longs to be singing thy exalted Name;  
The noble Task she sets before my Eyes,  
And prompts me to begin the Enterprise;   

My eager Hand no sooner takes the Pen,  
But seized with Trembling, lets it fall again:  
My timorous Heart bids stop, and whispering says,  
What canst thou sing that may advance his Praise;   

His Quill's Immortal, and his Flights are higher  
Than Eye of Humane Fancy can aspire:  
A lasting Fountain, from whose Streams do ●low  
●ternal Honours where his Works shall go.   

●rom Him the Wits their Vital Humour bring:  
●s Brooks have their first Currents from the Spring;  
●ould my unskilful Pen augment his Fame,  
● should my own eternize with his Name.   

●●t hold my Muse, thy Theme too great decline,  
remember that the Subject is Divine:  
●●s Works do more than Pen, or Tongues can say,  
●●ch Line does Beauty, Grace and Wit display.    

To a Singing BIRD.  
DEAR prisoned Bird, how do the Stars combine,  
To make my amorous State resemble thine?  
Thou, happy thou! dost sing, and so do I,  
Yet both of us have lost our Liberty;  
For him thou singest who Captive thee detains,  
And I for her who makes me wear her Chains:  
But I, alas, this disproportion find,  
Thou for Delight, I sing to ease my Mind:  
Thy Heart's exalted, mine depressed does lie;  
Thou liv'st by Singing, I, by Singing die.   

The Happy LOVER.  
HARK Lovers, hark, and I shall tell  
A Wonder that will please you well;  
She, whom I loved as my own Heart,  
For whom I sighed and suffered Smart;  
Whom I above the World admired:  
When I approached, who still retired:  
Was so reserved, but yet so fair,  
An Angel to what others are:  
Herself from Love escapes not free,  
The Man beloved? 'Tis happy I am Herald   

The Paean of Bacchylides, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉. On PEACE. Beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉—  

GReat Goddess PEACE does Wealth on us bestow,  
From her our Sciences and Learning slow,  
●ur Arts improve, and we the Artists prize,  
●ur Altars fume with richest Sacrifice:   

●ouths mind their active Sports they often meet,  
●evel and dance with Maidens in the Street;  
●he useless Shield serves to adorn the Hall,  
●hence Spiders wove their Nets against the Wall;   

gauntlets and Spears lie covered over with Dust,  
●nd slighted Swords half eaten up with Rust;  
〈◊〉 Trumpets sound, no rattling Drums we hear,  
〈◊〉 frightful Clamours pierce the timorous Ear;   

●●r weary Eyes enjoying natural Rest,  
●●fresh the Heart when 'tis with Cares oppressed:  
●●ys steal away in Feasting and Delight,  
●●d Lovers spend in Serenades the Night.    

An Ode of ANACREON. Beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉—  

MY Hairs are hoary, wrinkled is my Face,  
I lose my Strength, and all my Manly Grace;  
My Eyes grow dim, my Teeth are broke or gone,  
And the best part of all my Life is done;   

I'm drowned in Cares, and often sigh and weep;  
My Spirits fail me, broken is my Sleep;  
Thoughts of the gaping Grave distract my Head;  
For in its Paths ' wake or asleep we tread;   

None can from it, by Art their Feet restrain;  
Nor back, though wide its Gates, can come again.  
Then since these Ills attend the Life of Man,  
Let's make their Burden easy as we can.   

Cares are no Cares, but whilst on them we think,  
To clear our Minds of such dull Thoughts, let's drin●    

The Musical Conqueress.  

LED by kind Stars, one Evening to the Grove,  
I spied my Cynthia in the Walk of Love;  
Her Heavenly Voice did soon salute my Ears,  
I heard, methought, the Music of the Spheres.   

Those Notes on all the Birds had laid a Spell,  
And listening amongst the rest was Philomela;  
Who thinking she, in Credit, suffered wrong,  
Strove, though in vain, to equal Cynthia's Song;   

But when herself, in Voice, outdone she knew,  
Being grieved, she ceased, and from her Rival slew.  
● stayed, and saw my Fair walk round the Tree,  
And sing her Triumph for the Victory.   

Thus whilst my Ears were feasted with Delight,  
My Eyes no less were charmed at her Angelic Sight.    

A Nymph to a Young Shepherd, insensible o● LOVE.  

WHY dost thou fly me thus? Oh cruel Boy!  
I am no Wolf that would thy Life destroy:  
But a fond Nymph Admirer of thy Face,  
As Echo once of fair Narcissus was.   

Thou even in Dangers dost thy Fancy please,  
Striving with Toil the hunted Game to seize:  
While wretched me, who languish for thy sake,  
When in thy Net thou dost refuse to take.   

But I, alas, in vain attempt to sinned  
Effects of Pity in a hardened Mind:  
As soon the Hare its Hunters may pursue,  
As I with Prayers thy cruel Heart subdue.   

My Power, I see, cannot thy Steps retain  
Thus led by Sports, and winged by thy Disdain.    

Compares the Troubles which he has undergone for Cynthia's Love, to the Labours of Hercules.  

NOT Hercules himself did undertake  
Such toilsome Labours for his Mistress sake:  
As I for many Years with endless Pain,  
The Slave of Love, Love's grand Fatigues sustain.   

Tho' he slew Hydra; From th'Infernal King,  
Did the three-headed yelping Porter bring;  
Tyrants destroyed; Nemaean Lion tore,  
And Atlas Burden on his Shoulders bare.   

●o stand the Scorns of an Imperious Brow;  
〈◊〉 such Hate as would no Truce allow;  
● stubborn Heart by patient Suffering, tame;  
●nd with weak Rhythms, exalt her Glorious Name;   

●re Acts shall more the World with Wonder fill,  
●han his who did so many Monsters kill;  
conquer a crafty Bull; Disturb Hell's Court;  
●h' Hesperian Garden rob, and Heaven support.    

The TROPHY.  
NOW, now, my Heart's my own again,  
The Vict'ry's won, no more I'll grieve;  
My Mind's at Peace, 'tis eased of Pain  
And now I shall with Pleasure live.  
Lovers from your IDOL fly,  
He's the common ENEMY;  
Let him flatter, let him smile,  
All his Drifts are to beguile;  
His Poison he distils,  
By cunning ARTS,  
Into our HEARTS,  
And then with torment kills;  
Trust not his deluding FACE,  
Dangerous is his kind Embrace;  
Believe not what you hear or see,  
For He's made up of TREACHERY;  
Nor be by TRICKS into his Ambush charmed,  
The more He naked seems, the more He's armed▪   

CLAUDIAN, In Sphaeram Archimedis, Englished.  

JOVE saw the Sphere Old Archimedes made,  
And to the other Gods, he laughing said,  
Such wondrous Skill can crafty Mortals get,  
Of my great Work to make the Counterfeit?   

heavens and Earth's Constitutions, fixed by Fate,  
This Syracusans Art does imitate;  
His various Planets their just Order have,  
Keeping by Springs the Motions which he gave;   

Through the twelve Signs his Sun completes its Years,  
And each new Month, his Mock-New-Moon appears;  
Pleased with his World, this Artist unconfined,  
Boldly rules Heaven in his aspiring Mind.   

No more Salmoneus Thunder I admire,  
Here's one has aped all Nature's Works entire.    

The Frailty of Man's Life.  

THE Life we strive to lengthen out,  
Is like a Feather raised from Ground,  
A while in Air 'tis tossed about,  
And almost lost as soon as found;   

If it continue long in sight,  
'Tis sometimes high and sometimes low,  
Yet proudly aims a towering Flight,  
To make the more conspicuous Show.   

The Air with ease its Weight sustains,  
Since 'tis by Nature light, and frail;  
Seldom in quiet State remains,  
For Troops of Dangers it assail.   

And after various Conflicts with its Foes,  
It drops to Earth, the Earth from whence it rose.    

Posidippus the Comic Poet, Of the Miseries attending Mankind, Beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉;—  

OH Mis'ry of Mankind! For at the Bar  
Are Strifes and Quarrels; At our Houses, Care;  
In Fields, hard Labour; Dangers, on the Sea;  
Who travels rich, can ne'er from Fears be free;   

Grievous is Want; Marriage, Eternal Strife;  
A Single, is a Solitary Life;  
Children, bring Care, and Trouble; To have none,  
The Happiness of Wedlock is not known;   

Our Youth, is Folly; E'er we can grow wise,  
We're Old, and loaded with Infirmities.  
So we may wish, who have th'Experience tried,  
That we had ne'er been born: Or, soon as born had died.    

Metrodorus the Athenian Philosopher, Of the Blessings attending Mankind. Contradicting the former. Beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉—  

HAppy Mankind! For where we six to live,  
The Gods a Blessing to that Station give;  
If at the Bar it be our Lot to plead,  
There Wisdom reigns, and there is Justice weighed;   

Or if at home we would ourselves maintain,  
We there by Industry may Riches gain,  
Of Nature's Bounty, Fields the Prospect show;  
From Sea the Merchant knows his Treasures flow;   

Who travels rich, with Honour does appear;  
Who has least Wealth, hath still the less to fear;  
If married, thou may'st rule as Lord at home;  
If single, hast the Liberty to roam;   

Children, the Comfort of our Lives procure;  
If none, we are from thousand Cares secure;  
To Exercise, and Sports, is Youth inclined;  
Old Age does ever Veneration ●ind▪   

So we may those Imprudent Fools deride,  
That wish they'd ne'er been born: or soon as born had died▪    

From Menander the Athenian, To make a Married Life happy. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉,—  

A Brisk young Wife, who did a Fortune bring,  
Proves to her Husband a vexatious Thing;  
Yet these Advantages to him she gives,  
By her, in his Posterity, He lives;   

She takes of him, when sick, a prudent Care,  
In his Misfortunes bears an equal share;  
To her, for Ease, he does his Griefs impart,  
Her pleasant Converse often cheers his Heart;   

And when (if she survive) he ends his Life,  
She does the Office of a pious Wife▪  
Set these against her Ills, and you will find  
Reasons to quiet your uneasy Mind:   

But if you'll strive her Temper to reclaim,  
'Slight these good Things, the bad expose to Shame,  
And no Compliance to her Humour lend,  
To your Vexations ne'er shall be an End.    

Simonides 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉. On Man's LIFE. Beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  

NO Humane thing in Constancy will stay;  
The Learned Chian used of old to say,  
Our Life was frailer than the Fading Leaves;  
Which Man forgets, and scarce its Flight perceives:   

He harbours Idle Fancies in his Brain,  
Many which he from Childhood did retain:  
And whilst his Vigour lasts, he's still inclined  
To fill with Trifles his unsettled Mind;   

On Age or Death ne'er thinks, nor takes he care  
Health to preserve, or Active Limbs to spare.  
We to more serious Things our Minds should give;  
Youth hasts, and we have little time to live.   

To weigh this well, is a Material Part,  
This Thought's of Worth, record it in thy Heart.    

From two Elegies of Mimnermus. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉. The Contempt of Old Age. The first being imperfect begins, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉,—  

'TIS a short time our precious Youth will stay:  
Like some delightful Dream it steals away;  
And then comes on us, creeping in its stead,  
Benumbing Old Age, with its hoary Head;   

Which Beauty spoils, our Nerves with Cramping binds,  
It clouds our Eyesight, and disturbs our Minds.  
When jove to Tithon endless Old Age gave,  
'Twas sure of greater Terror than the Grave.   

Some have in Youth been for their Beauty prized,  
Which when deformed by Age, become despised;  
Then peevish grown, and vexed at children's Slight,  
Take not abroad, nor at their Homes delight.   

Bedrid, and scorned, with Pains, and Rheums, they lie:  
The Gods on Age throw all this Misery.    

From Anaxandrides the Rhodan Poet. In Praise of Old Age. Beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉—  

OLD-Age which we both hope, and fear to see,  
Is no such Burden as it seems to be:  
But it uneas'ly if we undergo,  
'Tis then ourselves take pains to make it so.   

A yielding Patience will create our Ease,  
So do the Wise compound in Youth for Peace.  
Who thus complies, both to himself is kind,  
Whilst he secures the Quiet of his Mind:   

And to his Friends a just Respect does show,  
Which gains him Love, and Veneration too.    

From Crates the Philosopher, on the same. Beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉—  
SOME giddy Fools do Reverend Age deride,  
But who enjoyed it not, untimely died;  
We pray we may to good Old Age attain,  
And then of its Infirmities complain;  
But their insatiate Minds I must admire,  
Who Old, Infirm, and Poor, can longer Life desire.   

The timely MEMENTO.  

THE shipwrecked Bark cannot more sure convey  
Our Humane Life into the Raging Sea:  
Nor Darts to Mark can more directly fly:  
Nor Floods to th'Ocean, than we post to die.   

Then happy thou, who dost so well begin,  
And so thy Race hold on, the Palm to win!  
Blessed Runner! that when tired, and lying down,  
Dost rise possessed of an Eternal Crown.   

Only by closing here thy Mortal Eyes,  
Opens the Passage to Celestial Joys.  
Then let him take the Earth who loves to reign,  
Yet a small Tract, e'er long, shall him contain;   

Where he as Monarch cannot be obeyed,  
For saucy Worms his Limits shall invade.  
●f all must die, why should we fear and grieve,  
●ince Dying is the only way to live?    

On Good Friday, The Day of our Saviour's Passion.  

WEep this great Day! Let Tears o'erflow your Eyes,  
When Father gave his Son in Sacrifice;  
This Day for us his precious Blood was spilt,  
Whose Dying made Atonement for our Gild.   

He on a Cross, with Shame, gave up his B●eath,  
Even He who could not die, did suffer Death:  
Closing his Eyes, to Heaven He opened a way,  
And gave those Life who than expiring lay.   

Death did against our Souls those Arms prepare,  
But He the Fury of the Conflict bare;  
To guard our Lives his Body was the Shield,  
And by our general's Fall, we gain the Field.   

When Graves shall open, Temples Veil be torn,  
The El'ments weep, & heavens themselves shall mourn▪  
O Hearts more hard than Stones, not to relent!  
May we shed pious Tears, and of our Sins repent.    

Rhianus the Cretan. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉. Of IMPRUDENCE. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉,—  

WHat is't that thus frail Men with Error blinds?  
Who bear heavens Gifts in such imprudent Minds;  
The Poor with Eyes, and Hearts dejected go,  
Charging the Gods as Authors of their Woe;  
They suit their Habit to their humble State,  
And scarce their Minds with Virtues cultivate;  
How they should speak, or move, they stand in fear,  
When amongst the Rich, and Powerful they appear;  
They every Gesture do to Sadness frame,  
And blushing Faces show their inward Shame.   

But he whom Heaven has blest with liberal Hand,  
And given him o'er his Fellow Men Command,  
Forgets he on the Earth his Feet does place,  
Or that his Parents were of Mortal Race;  
He, swelled with Pride, in Thunder speaks like jove,  
Does in a Sphere above his Betters move.  
But though so Rich, so Stately, and so Grave,  
Has not more stock of Brains than others have.  
Yet would he climb to Heaven to find a Seat  
Amongst the Gods, and at their Banquets eat.  
Till swift-winged Ate, Mischief's Deity,  
Light on his Head, e'er he her Coming spy;  
Who can herself in various Shapes disguise,  
When Old or Young, she would in Snares surprise;  
She on Poor Fools, as well as those in Height,  
Does to great jove, and to Astraea Right.    

Timocles the Athenian His Remedies against the Miseries of Man's LIFE. More at large exemplified. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  

COnsider well this Truth, for 'tis of Use,  
Nature did ne'er a Thing like Man produce,  
So charged with Ills, from which so seldom free.  
Sometimes his Life's a Scene of Misery.  
Nor Humane Industry can Respite gain,  
For his Soul's Anguish, or his Body's Pain,  
But by reflecting what some Men endure,  
Which to himself may present Ease procure,  
And Tales of what in former times was done,  
Laid in the Scale, and weighed against his own.   

Art thou reduced to beg from door to door?  
When Telephus was young he suffered more;  
In Woods exposed, without Relief he lay,  
For some devouring Beasts a Royal Pray;  
If thou, with his, thy Miseries compare,  
Thou wilt confess he had the greatest share.   

Have Troubles turned thy Brain to make thee rage?  
Thoughts of Al●maeon may thy Griefs assuage;  
By Fury's scourged, he Mad, in Torments died,  
Yet justly suffered for his Parricide.   

Wert thou by chance, or made by others blind?  
Call OEdipus the Theban King to mind;  
Who quit his Throne, himself of sight deprived,  
Became more wretched still, the more he lived,  
Till Sorrow broke his Heart, which scarcely could  
Atone ●or Incest, and his Father's Blood.   

Thy Son if dead, or was in Battle slain?  
A greater Loss did Niob● sustain;  
She saw her fourteen Children slaughtered lie,  
A Punishment for her IMPIETY,  
Who great Latona's Offspring had defied,  
By whom, thus Childless, drowned in Tears, she died.   

On Ph●●octetes think, shouldst thou be lame;  
He a most powerful Prince endured the same;  
To conquer Troy he showed the Greeks a Way,  
To whom he did the Fatal Shafts betray;  
His Foot disclosed the Secret of his Heart,  
For which, that treacherous Foot endured the Smart.   

Hast thou thy Life in Ease and Pleasure led,  
Till Age contract thy Nerves, and bow thy Head?  
Then, of thy greatest Joy on Earth, bereft,  
Overwhelmed in Sorrow, and Despair, art left?  
So old King OEneus lost his valiant Son,  
For Slights himself had to Diana shown,  
Slain by his Mother when he had destroyed  
The Boar, which long his Father's Realm annoyed:  
Which Actress in this Mischief felt her share,  
Herself becoming her own Murderer.  
The Father losing thus his Son, and Wise,  
Ended in Cries and Tears his wretched Life.   

Are Kings thus forced to yield to rigorous Fate?  
It may Thy lesser Ills alleviate.    
FINIS.  

THE TABLE.  

Page.  THE Proem. To Love 
1  The Request. To Love 
2  The Complaint. To Cynthia 
3  On a Race Horse. From Girolamo Preti 
4  Invites Poets and Historians to write in Cynthia's Praise 
5  Cynthia on Horseback 
6  On the Death of Cynthia's Horse 
7  On a Fountain and its Architect 
8  Describes the Place where Cynthia is sporting herself 
9  His Retirement 
10  To his Honoured Friend, William Bridgman, Esq 
11  A Sonnet of Love 
12  On the Picture of Lucretia stabbing herself 
13  Complains, being hindered the sight of his Mistress 
14  The Pleased Captive 
15  The Incurable 
ib.  On a Fair Beggar 
16  A Sonnet writ by a Nymph in her own Blood, from Claudio Achillini 
17  The Rose and Lily 
18  A Defiance, returning to the place of his past Amours 
19  Distance no Cure for Love 
20  On Sig. Pietro Reggio his setting to Music several of Mr. Cowley's Poems 
21  From a Drinking Ode of Alcaeus. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 
22  An Epitaph on a Dutch Captain 
ib.  On Cynthia, singing a Recitative Song 
23  On the Picture of Cavalier Guarini 
24  On Old Rome 
25  Revenge against Cynthia 
26  Loves Contrariety 
27  Invites Cynthia to his Cottage 
28  'Tis hard to follow Virtue 
29  Endymion and Diana. An Heroic Poem taken out of the 8th Canto of Alessandro Tassoni his La Secchia Rapita 
30  From an Ode of Horace. Vides ut alta stet nive candidum, etc. 
34  A Complaint against Cynthia's Cruelty 
35  Loves Garden. From Girolamo Preti 
36  Seeing his own Picture, discourses of his Studies and Fortune 
37  Petrarc. On the Death of Laura 
38  Another of Petrarc on Laura's Death 
39  Complains of the Court 
40  Being retired, complains against the Court 
41  To Cynthia 
42  The Withered Rose 
43  On the Death of Sylvia 
44  To the Winds 
45  The Silent Talkers 
46  'Tis dangerous jesting with Love 
47  On Wine. From a Fragment of Hesiod. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 
48  A Dream 
49  The Restless Lover 
50  The Resolution. Out of Italian 
51  Invokes Death 
52  A Hint from the Beginning of the third satire of Juvenal. Laudo tamen, etc. 
53  A Contemplation on Man's Life. Out of Spanish 
54  The Nightingale that was Drowned 
55  On a Child sleeping in Cynthia's Lap 
56  Cure for Afflictions. From an Imperfect Ode of Archilochus. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 
57  Cynthia sporting 
58  The Fly and Frog. Out of Spanish, from Don Francisco de Quevedo 
59  On Gold 
61  To his Grace the Duke of Northumberland 
62  Loves New Philosophy 
63  The vanity of unwarrantable Notions. Out of Portugueze, from Luis de Camoens 
67  To the Nightingale 
68  Apollo and Daphne 
70  A Sestina, in Imitation of Petrarc 
71  A Sonnet of Petrarc, giving an account of the time when he fell in Love with Madonna Laura 
73  A Sonnet of Petrarc, showing how long he had loved Madonna Laura 
74  Petrarc going to visit M. Laura, remembers she was lately dead 
75  Petrarc laments the Death of M. Laura 
76  Petrarc on Laura's Death 
77  Constancy of Love to Cynthia 
78  To his Viol 
79  Hope. Out of Italian from Fr. Abbati 
80  Finding Cynthia in Pain and Crying 
82  Cynthia sleeping in a Garden 
83  Lesbia's Complaint of Thyrsis his Inconstancy 
84  Lydia Distracted 
85  The Four Seasons. SPRING 
86  SUMMER 
87  AUTUMN 
88  WINTER 
89  A Sonnet written in Italian by Sig. Fra. Gorgia who was Born as they were carrying his Mother to her Grave 
90  The Scholar of his own Pupil. The third Idyllium of Bion Englished. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 
91  An Epitaph on a Ridiculous Boaster 
92  The Danger of the Sea. A Latin Song taken out of the 13th Book of the Macaronics of Merlin Cocalius. Infidum arridet saepe imprudentibus Aequor 
93  An Expostulation with Love. A Madrigal 
94  On the Art of Writing 
95  The Morn. Out of French from Theophile 
96  To his Ingenious Friend Mr. N. Tate 
97  Lesle Security at Sea, than on Shore. An Idyllium of Moschus. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 
98  Platonic Love 
99  Out of Latin. Jovianus Pontanus. In Praise of the Fountain Casis 
100  To Cynthia going into the Country 
101  Soneto Espanol de Don Felipe Ayres. En alabanza de su Ingenioso Amigo, Don Pedro Reggio, uno de los Mayores Musicos de su tiempo. 
102  On Cynthia Sick 
103  The Turtle Doves. From Jovianus Pontanus 
104  An Essay towards a Character of his Sacred Majesty King James II. 
105  Sleeping Eyes. A Madrigal 
107  An Ode of Anacreon. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉. To the Swallow. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 
108  Love so as to be beloved again. An Idyllium of Moschus. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 
110  All things should contribute to the Lover's Assistance. An Idyllium of Moschus. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 
111  Cupid at Blow. An Idyllium of Moschus. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 
112  Loves Subtlety. An Idyllium of Moschus. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 
113  Love makes the best Poets. An Idyllium of Bion, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 
114  The Death of Adonis. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 
115  Love is a Spirit 
117  Commends the Spring. A Paraphrase on an Idyllium of Bion, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 
118  To sweet Meat, sour Sauce. In Imitation of Theocritus, or Anacreon 
120  The Young Archer that mistook his Game. An Idyllium of Bion, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 
121  Cupid's Nest 
122  An Ode of Anacreon. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉. To himself. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 
123  An Ode of Anacreon. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, To his Mistress. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 
124  An Ode of Anacreon. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, To Love. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 
125  On a Death's-Head, covered with Cobwebs, kept in a Library, and said to be the Scull of a Kingdone out of Spanish from Don Luis de Gongora 
126  From an imperfect Ode of Hybrias the Cretan. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 
127  A Complaint of the shortness of Life. An Idyllium of Bion, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 
128  Being sick of a Fever, complains of the Fountain Casis. Out of Latin from Jovianus Pontanus 
129  His Heart into a Bird 
131  In Praise of a Countrey-Li●e. An Imitation of Horace's Ode, Beatus ille 
132  Mortal jealousy 
134  The Innocent Magician; Or, a Charm against Love 
135  The Happy Nightingale 
136  On Fame 
137  Leander drowned 
138  To Sleep, when sick of a Fever 
139  An Epigram on Woman 
140  A Paraphrase on Callimachus. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉. Of Learning, beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 
141  Cynthia returned from the Country 
142  A Paean, or Song of Triumph, translated into a Pindaric; supposed to be of Alcaeus, of Sapph, or of Praxilla the Sycionian. Beginning, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 
143  Beauty makes us happy 
144  To John Dryden Esq Poet Laureate and Historiographer Royal 
145  To a Singing Bird 
146  The Happy Lover 
ibid.  The Paean of Bacchylides. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, Of Peace. Beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 
147  An Ode of Anacreon, beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 
148  The Musical Conqueress 
149  A Nymph to a Young Shepherd, insensible of Love 
150  Compares the Troubles which he has undergone for Cynthia's Love, to the Labours of Hercules 
151  The Trophy 
152  An Epigram of Claudian Englished, In Sphaeram Archimedis 
153  The Frailty of Man's Life 
154  Posidippus the Comic Poet, On the Miseries of Mankind, beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 
155  Metrodorus the Athenian Philosopher, Of the Blessings attending Mankind. Contradicting the former, beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 
156  From Menander the Athenian, To make a married Life Happy. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 
157  Simonides, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉. On Man's Life, Beginning, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 
158  From two Elegies of Mimnermus. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉. The Contempt of Old Age. The first being imperfect begins, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 
159  From Anaxandrides the Rhodian Poet, in Praise of Old Age, beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 
160  From Crates the Philosopher, On the same, beginning, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 
ibid.  The Timely Memento 
161  On Good Friday, the Day of our Saviour's Passion 
162  Rhianus the Cretan 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, Of Imprudence. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 
163  Timocles the Athenian, His Remedies against the Miseries of Man's Life, beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 
163   
The End of the Table.   

Books Printed for H. Herringman, and sold by J. Knight and F. Saunders at the Blue Anchor in the Lower Walk of the New-Exchange.  

MR Cowley's Works.  
Mr Dryden's Plays, in 2. Vol.  
Mr Beaumont and Fletcher's Plays.  
Mr Shakespear's Plays.  
Sir William D' Avenant's Works.  
Mrs Phillips' Poems.  
Mr Waller's Poems.  
Sir Iohn Denham's Poems.  
Sir Iohn Suckling's Poems.  
Sir Richard Fanshaw's Ill Pastor Fido.  
Dr Donn's Poems.