THE Second, Fourth, and Seventh SATYRS OF Monsieur BOILEAU IMITATED, With some other POEMS AND TRANSLATIONS Written upon several occasions.  
— ubi quid datur otî  
Illudo chartis.  Hor. Sat. 4. Lib. Serm. 1. 
LONDON: Printed for R. Sare at Grays-Inn-Gate, in Holbourn; and H. Hindmarsh at the Golden-Ball in Cornhill. 1696.   

To MADAM MARIABELLA SEDGWYCK.  
MADAM,  
WERE the having received one Favour, Encouragement enough for the Person thus obliged to beg another, and were the Singular Freeness, with which it was conferred, Sufficient to let him hope that he should not ask in vain; then have I no ordinary assurance, that a New Request will meet with success, who have received from your hands more Favours and Greater than I had ever any reason to Expect: of which I Shall only mention the Greatest your CONVERSATION. I am very well satisfied that by one of that Obliging Temper for which Yourself are remarkable, to ask New Favours may be looked upon as the best way of showing our Esteem for past ones, and returns are not expected from one, whose Power is so little, that he cannot make 'em Suitable; and his Acknowledgements so great that he would not make them otherwise. Such Considerations as these, have been the Occasion of this Bold Attempt, and made me presumptuously entertain some thoughts, that what I had here wrote might not be altogether unacceptable to You. This had I Dedicated to any other Person, I might then have reasonably feared lest it should Suffer under that Patronage; whereas at present, I believe, it will justly argue a point of Prudence in a Man, who mistrusts the Sufficiency of his endeavours like me, to have recourse to one who is able to maintain 'em like YOU. I must confess I have a great deal of Reason to fear you will be too severe in your Sentiments of these Compositions; when You shall give yourself the Trouble to read 'em over: both because your judgement's so Great, and my Performances so Mean. The same apprehensions will those Pieces more particularly that are Imitated from the French, raise in me; your acquaintance with that Language being so intimate, and mine but just Sprung. So that had I not Experienced your Candour, I had had no colour for the Pretence of this Epistle, which, if it meet with a kind Reception will be the greatest Satisfaction in the world to,  
Madam, Your most Obliged Humble Servant etc.   

THE PREFACE.  
THere are a thousand People perhaps (tho' I know no reason why half the Number should concern themselves about me) will be so inquisitive as to ask who is the Author, I presume, not out of any particular Curiosity they have to be acquainted with the Person, but purely out of custom. However let 'em assure themselves, that if I had had a mind they should know, I would have inserted my name in the Title Page, to be seen the first thing that's looked upon, without any more to do. Which when they find I have omitted they may conclude I had no such design. If indeed I had the happiness of being known abroad, I mean remarkably so, and upon a good account, I might then probably imagine that my Name prefixed would be a considerable Addition to the Book, and a stamp sufficient to make it current. But now if the Success it meets withal in the World be not altogether answerable to my Expectations, I am with mankind but just where I was before; and hug myself for my Prudence in not making myself public, and following the General cry, seem the busiest Man in Railing against it, as thinking that the safest way to prevent Discovery; like a cunning Rogue that cries stop Thief the loudest, because he himself would not fall under suspicion.  
But the greatest Kindness I propose to myself in this Concealment of my Name, Is, not because I look upon what I have done to be any ways unaccountable, but because I think it below a man that does not make it altogether his business, to make it any Part of his Business, or at least to profess it as such: For if I propose Poetry as a diversion only without any farther aim, I must not so much as seem to desire to grow remarkable upon that account: which I must unavoidably do, if I acknowledge what I have here writ to be mine. And tho' I would do something of this Nature when I have nothing in the World else to do, yet I am so far from desiring that it should be thought a part of my Study, that I would not be known to have done any thing like this even for my recreation. Tho' what K. Charles was pleased to say to Sir John Denham upon the like occasion will excuse me too; which was that when men were Young and had little else to do, it was very Allowable for them to vent the Overflowings of their Fancy this way, but if they persisted in this course it would look as if they minded not the way to any better Employment. And for that reason I take my leave of all things of this Nature. And from hence too I hope it will evidently appear, that I have no such mean thing as Honour in my Eye, unless you can suppose that a man would retreat into a solitude on purpose to make himself known to all the World; for tho' the Person's reputation whosoever he be, may be as great whilst he remains unknown as when he is not so, yet he that runs at Fame, will receive little Satisfaction from that praise which he can't own due to himself. For tho' I know that all these Commendations are conferred upon a certain Person, that wrote such a certain Book, at such a certain time; yet so long as I am not known to have done this, so long as I can't digito monstrari et dicier hic est: Jack a Nokes receives as much Honour from these performances as I, and for that reason, shall Jack a Nokes receive as much disgrace if they don't succeed. 'Tis the same thing if we view a fine Picture, we are apt to judge it to be done by a Masterly stroke, but if we are ignorant that Kneller's pencil drew the Piece, a sign post dauber may have the Reputation of it as well as Herald However if I won't tell you my name, yet I hope I may be allowed to give you some character of myself. I am then ugly and illnatured enough for a Wit, poor enough for a wit, whimsical enough for a wit, and have elder Brothers enough for a wit; so here are the Signs at least, how short soever I may fall of the thing; and tho' I say it, I can call myself Poet with as much Authority, as a Scotch Pedlar calls himself Merchant, or a fellow that stroles up and down with a Village Bagpipe, writ himself (if he can) Musician.  
The second thing that perhaps these men may impertinently inquire into is why I writ? to whom I would answer were it worth my while, without pleading Humour, interest or the like; that tho' I did not think there was any deficiency in Poetry, I mean in the number of Poems not their composition; or that there was any need of adding to the former, and for making amends for the latter I was wholly uncapable; yet I did this, that I might have some sort of revenge at least upon those Fellows that had writ ill before me, by intruding upon them as good as they brought: as Mr. D— is may see in my Imitation of the Fourth satire of Monsieur Boileau. The other two by all that I can learn were never touched upon by any hand before.  
Thus it is, and I can't help it, my design to oblige the world is as little, as my endeavours to do it are weak; and the hopes I entertain of receiving any obligation from it less, than either. And a man may e'en as well Expect to huff a Critic into good Nature, as look for Favour at his hands by crying Mercy. Especially since there are one sort of Critics that have bid me not Despair, a sort of low spirited Villains who if they see me reeling will be sure to trip up my heels, always pursuing a man the closer if they apprehend him timorous, and like Cowards promise themselves a great deal of advantage by their adversary's running away.  
There are another sort whom I shall Endeavour to please as little as I desire it, who think their Judgement is much better exerted in Damning than approving; and consequently every thing that comes within their reach, receives its sentence before hand; But these are men of distempered Palates that relish nothing well; men of so weak a stomach, that if for interest or compliance, any thing goes down with them, it shall be sure to come up again one time or other without digestion.  
There are a third sort who fix upon just what comes within the small Compass of their Capacity; (resolved to be Critics let the World go how 'twill,) that is whether this should be a Semicolon or a comma; and tell a man he does not rightly understand the full extent of a Period, or that he can't Spell because the Press has taken the Liberty to put a letter out of its place; but these are men whom I scorn to take Notice of, as much as they scorn not to take Notice of every body else. But I don't pretend in so narrow a Compass as this to set down all the different Species of Critics, who swarm in as Numerous Bodies as flies produced by the heat of the Sun in a Summer season, and if I been't mistaken they are a little like 'em to, for they taint every thing they settle upon: I here hearty beg the Reader's pardon for trespassing upon his Patience by an Harangue which he'll tell me is nothing to the purpose, and therefore I shall fore'stall him, and tell him so.  
Now as to what more particularly concerns Monsieur Boileau, I know there is scarce any one can be Ignorant what a Character that Gentleman has boar in the World: and scarce any one, that has read him in his own Language, will take the pains to Read him in mine, so that I apprehend myself under very disadvantageous Circumstances, whilst I am to answer their Expectations who have heard what he is, and theirs who know what he is: Upon this account therefore my Imitating these three Satyrs, seems a harder task than I should have pretended to meddle with, but my design at first was, that if after all, they were not well Received, the mistakes I had made might at least provoke a more Judicious pen, to set 'em out in a more agreeable dress: For the Failures of our Precedents are generally great encouragements for those that come after 'em, to try whether they can't come off with greater applause; as it is in the undertaking of all new inventions and Stratagems, the first that set about 'em usually break, others see their Errors and bring 'em to Perfection.  
Monsieur Boileau's second satire is against Rhyme, and I would have You observe, that as he ascribes it to Monsieur Moliere as one who writ well in rhyme, and well without it; so I have made bold to use Mr. Dryden's name to Countenance my Imitation of him; as one that writes the justest Number, and strictest Rhyme of any man in England; and I Suppose no man without forfeiting his Judgement, will dispute that he writes admirably well, when he is pleased to lay those particular Ornaments aside; I need not wish that this Character came from more commendable testimony, for the Greatest men in the Kingdom must allow it him; I only beg his Pardon that I should presume to touch upon the Merits of so great a Person, without having any of my own to give me some Tolerable grounds for this Authority.  
I have not observed Rhyme very strictly myself in these Satyrs, and in some other Pieces, both because I do not think it altogether so Necessary in lose familiar Compositions, as in stately Heroic Verse, and because the first thing in the Book seems to Condemn it.  
As for the other Poems they were writ upon several Occasions but never distributed about to those on whom they were Wrote, nor Communicatid to any one else, Excepting to the two Persons who have taken the pains to write Commendatory Verses upon so ill a Subject, which I think I may with Modesty admit of, not having discovered my Name, but, (as I instanced) to those two, yet think it still a secret.   

To my Ingenious Friend— On the following POEMS.  
Called to the Hill Apollo's blessed abode,  
With joy we heard the Summons of the God;  
With Equal strength pressed forward to the top:  
Still your success urged on my eager hope.  
But when I see Boileau and Thee combined,  
His poignant wit to English vigour joined,  
To lash the idle Fopperies of mankind:  
Or when I read how sweetly you reveal  
The pains, which some coy Beauty makes You feel:  
Or find some Hero, whose Illustrious name  
Your lines adorn, and give immortal fame.  
Or view the 
* vid. p. 48.  Goddess, who shall ever live  
In those fair colours, which your Verses give:  
Whose Matchless Face, and all perfections shine,  
Less bright from Kneller's Skilful hand, than thine.  
I only can admire, and now lay down  
My claim tothth' Muses, who are all thine own:  
Nor can I blush to see myself outdone.  
So the Spectators at some noble race,  
With ease at starting keep an equal pace:  
But when the Flag provokes to greater Speed,  
And th' eager Jockey Spurs the generous Steed,  
No more in vain th' unequal race they Try;  
But at a distance follow with the Eye.  
Yours—   

To His Ingenious Friend the Author of the following POEMS.  

TOO well (I find) Prophetic Bards of old  
The Destiny of Poets told.  
No pains (they say) no Study can acquire  
That Heavenly Spark of immaterial fire.  
Which, Thyrsis, must like theirs, or Thine,  
Be all infused, and all divine:  
The Muse must have a birth as well as we,  
And be co-twin with us, as 'twas with Thee.   

Were it not thus ordained, why might not I  
To the same pitch with others fly,  
Till I had learned to reach that noble height  
To which thy soaring Muse extends her flight?  
And sing with the same Art her praise  
With which she other men's can raise?  
But on the Earth my groveling Genius lies,  
Friendship and merit cannot make it rise.   

Whether thy hallowed verse shall I profane,  
And take thy mighty name in vain?  
Or in respectful silence live, and see  
All thy Friends wait upon thy dawn but me?  
Sure sense of gratitude may teach  
A way the muse's Hill to reach:  
I find it now, and fain would silence break,  
But weakness does the growing boldness check.   

Yet Spite of weakness I will on, and tell  
What charms do in thy numbers dwell:  
How pleasingly thy softer touches do  
The Fancy strike with something always new:  
How Strength with beauty blended shines  
Through all thy weighty Sterling lines.  
How fitly all thy words thy thoughts express,  
And Foreigners become Thy English dress.   

Artful Boileau with such a Genius writes,  
As tickles us at once and bites:  
In the Venusian's footsteps walking; fools,  
Whom the morose Would lash, he ridicules.  
Yet tho' he oft does imitate,  
Too mean he thinks it to translate,  
So you his thoughts have always in your view,  
And as his Master He, You him pursue.   

These truths with pleasure all that know you see,  
And joy to find that hopeful tree,  
Whose early Youth such pleasing blossoms bore;  
Now bears those ripened fruits which please 'em more.  
All then from Phaebus' bounty we  
Desire; shall Thyrsis, be for Thee.  
That he with Kindly rays would make Thee bear,  
And bless us with thy fruit another Year.   

Censure and envious malice bravely scorn  
Thy Muse is like Alcides born;  
And so much Strength from her sire's vigour takes,  
That in her cradle she can crush the Snakes.  
Like that great Hero may she grow  
His happiness, not dangers know,  
And when e'er death deprives the world of Thee  
May Thine and her reward be immortality.   
Yours—   

The TABLE.  

THE Second satire of Boileau imitated Page 1  
The Fourth satire of Boileau p. 9  
The Seventh satire of Boileau p. 21  
Predestination. p. 29  
Mohomet's Paradise an Ode p. 32  
On the Pope's Toe p. 35  
To Dorinda from Voiture p. 36  
The 50th Epig. of Martial imitated p. 39  
Song p. 41  
To the Earl of Northampton p. 43  
To a Lady that drinks nothing but Water p. 46  
To a Lady whose name was formerly Scroup now Pitts, seeing her Picture in the Gallery at Hampton-Court p. 48  
To the Seven Lords Justices p. 49  
To a Lady that imposed silence upon him p. 51  
An Inscription upon a Letter Case p. 53  
A Letter to a Gentleman who advised him to make the Campaigne in Flanders p. 55  
To Sylviana from Bedlam p. 60  
To a Lady in an undress p. 63  
To Belinda sick of a Fever p. 65  
To Dorinda from Voiture p. 68  
To Dorinda Watering a Garden p. 71  
A Song p. 72  
To Cloris on her Dream p. 74  
The Hue and Cry after a Heart p. 77  
To a Friend in the Country that desired him to send him the News p. 83  
To His Highness the Duke of Gloucester on his Instalment p. 86  
To Sylvia carrying Scaron's Novels to Church instead of a Common prayer Book p. 87  
To D. Blackmore on his Prince Arthur. p. 89  
The Association p. 92  
To a Lady that made Images in wax p. 94  
To Belinda on her Recovery from her Fever p. 96  
To a Gentleman looking for his Spectacles whilst they were on his nose p. 98  
To a Lady whose smock sleeves were dirty from Voiture p. 99  
Phyllis and Acon translated p. 100  
To Dorinda on Valentine's day p. 101  
The Snowball p. 102  
The Eleventh Ode of Horace imitated p. 104  
To a Lady whom I hit as I was playing at Bowls p. 105  
To a Lady who was almost burnt to death whilst at prayers p. 107  
Upon Belinda's having the Tooth-ack p. 108  
Epig 22. lib 4. of Martial p. 111  
To a Lady that wept for her little Dog 112  
The Flatterrer p. 114  
The young Lady's Waller p. 116  
A Letter to a Friend concerning an University Life p. 118    

THE SECOND satire OF Monsieur BOILEAU, IMITATED.  
Written to Mr. DRYDEN.  

TELL me (Great Dryden) You, whose fertile brain,  
Big with vast thought, produces without pain;  
To whom alone Apollo does impart  
His mighty treasures both of wit, and Art.  
Such is Your Judgement too, that it can pierce  
Through every different Species of Verse:  
And soon determine with a transient view,  
What is the Stamp it bears, and whether true.  
Tell me I say how you with such great ease  
Produce a rhyme to any thing you please.  
Alas! That never puts you to a Stand  
Observing still the motions of your hand:  
And waiting the approaches of your Quill  
To th' Second verse, it's proper place 'twill fill.   

But I with frantic fit for some great Crime  
Am seized, and barbarously condemned to Rhyme.  
In vain I strive to conquer my hard Fate,  
That makes me sink beneath its heavy weight.  
In vain I'm thoughtful quite from Morn till Night,  
When Black's the word I want, the Rhyme is White.  
When some brisk Gallant I'd describe in Love,  
My Muse still found for Rhyme grave Doctor D—ve.  
When I'd a Poet without fault set down,  
Reason, says Dryden: Rhyme, will have it Cr— n.  
In fine whatever I've a mind to say,  
Still the quite contrary will come i'th' way.  
At length by disappointments weary grown,  
And sadly discomposed, I sit me down,  
Resolved to think no more upon't; and curse  
The Evil Genius that inspired me first.  
But having Damned Apollo and my Muse  
And sworn their aid hereafter to refuse:  
Look! unexpected Rhyme comes pressing for my use.  
And strait I rally up in spite of fate,  
My almost smothered particles of heat,  
Forgetting my rash vows, I to't again,  
Looking that every other verse 'twill deign  
To come, and make me not thus fret and fume in vain.   

Howe'er if my nice Muse in raving fit  
Would down at least with a flat Epithet,  
Or so, as many another's often does.  
I could with ease produce a Rhyme i'th' close.  
If I would Phillis praise, that's gay and fair,  
I'd rhyme immediately, She's passed compare.  
Or if some object, that's extremely fine,  
I'd cry, the Sun itself done't brighter shine.  
And so when e'er I spoke of lofty things,  
Whether of mighty Beauty, mighty Kings,  
Or what e'er with it admiration brings:  
With such fine words as these at random writ,  
(Perhaps with full as little Art as Wit,)  
And often with the Noun and Verb transposed,  
Each verse with De— is' fragments might be closed.   

But while I waver in my choice of words,  
I use not one but what some light affords  
To what I would be understood to mean;  
That bears some Stress; that is authentic, clean,  
And would be wanted were it out again.  
I hate a nauseous, dull, insipid phrase,  
That's only writ to fill a vacant place,  
And manifestly shows that Sense is scarce.  
So that tho' I the twenti'th time review  
The Piece I've made, I still should make it new.   

Cursed be the Fool who first presumed to try  
To limit thought, that should be always free:  
And in such narrow bounds his words confine,  
Making his Sense as Servile as his Rhyme.  
Had this not been than I had held my tongue,  
And all my Days slid quietly along,  
Unenvied, unknown, I should Drink, Laugh, & Sing,  
And cry God Bless our Nation our Church & our King.  
And like a Prebend Fat with Holy Ease,  
My cares at once should with my Business cease;  
And I'd do nothing but just what I pleased.  
Exempt from Frantic Whimsies all the day,  
In sleep I'd pass the tedious Nights away;  
No heats of Passion should my quiet Soul  
Disturb, nor idle Fears my will control.  
As for Ambition I would keep it low,  
And set it bounds how far it were to go:  
Shunning th' import'nate presence of the great  
I'd not at Court, to cringe to Fortune, wait.  
Thus I'd been happy if my envious Stars,  
Had not ordained, I should be damned to Verse.   

But since a Frenzy first began to seize  
My Soul with this incurable Disease:  
Since my Ill Genius o'er my Temples sat,  
And fearing I should grow too fortunate,  
Made me aim High, and Fond Entertain  
Big thoughts of writing in a Noble strain.  
Since that unhappy moment, I confess  
I've Constant been tothth' Drudgery of Verse.  
Where going to revise a single clause  
This Flat I find, this Dark; and Forty flaws  
Make me blot out the piece I thought correct.  
Which brought me through this Labour to reflect  
On the uneasiness I here sustain,  
And made me envy Even Ri— r's vein.   

Ah! happy D—fy whose too fertile Muse,  
Can every now and then with ease produce  
Some mighty Works. And this in your defence  
I needs must own, you writ in Spite of Sense,  
To Art I know you will not make pretence.  
Be what they will, yet so far they succeed  
That the great Author never stands in need  
Of Bookseller to buy, or Fools to read.  
And if his Verses do but End in Rhyme  
To botch the middle up he thinks no Crime  
For how that passes 'tis all one to him.  
He's doubly cursed then, whose Poetic Vein  
Must be to Rules so servily constrained.  
A fool enjoys the pleasure of his Muse,  
Who the next thing that comes will ne'er refuse,  
As unacquainted with the pains to choose.  
Ravished he admires the product of his quill,  
And hugs himself for having writ so well.   

But the great Soul attempts to find in Vain  
That vast Perfection which he makes his aim:  
Always unsatisfied with what he has done,  
Thinks this might best have ended, this begun.  
And such and such Additions made it neat;  
When all the World affirms it is complete.  
And tho' all places loudly Speak his fame,  
And for his Genius reverence his Name;  
He wishes all the while it were his Lot,  
That all his pieces might one single blot  
Sustain, or else reputes that e'er he wrote.   

YOU then that with this excellence abound,  
And see how my poor Muse is run aground,  
Tell me where th' Art of Rhimings to be found.  
Or if Your great Endeavours chance to fail,  
Instruct me, Dryden, not to Rhyme at all.    

THE FOURTH satire OF Monsieur BOILEAU IMITATED.  

HOw comes it (Will) that he of all Mankind,  
Who most to perfect Frenzy is inclined,  
Should yet conceit he has the soundest mind?  
All those whose conversation he has known,  
And with theirs partially compared his own,  
He bids take care of lower room and grate  
In Bedlam, as their sure impending Fate.   

Why here's a Pedant that for Twelve Years space  
Has still Joged on in the same Trudging pace;  
Has ransacked mothy volumes of the Dead,  
And with dry Grecian wisdom stuffed his head:  
Having from Adages extracted juice,  
(A Chimicks labour for a Pedant's use)  
Something upon occasion he'll produce.  
He firmly thinks there's nothing to be done,  
Without the study through which he has run.  
And swears the Stagarite can alone dispense  
A System of sound reason and good sense:  
Thus the Proud fool with others learning fraught  
Would take it very kindly to be thought  
A man of parts: I tell thee he's a Sot.   

A Fop of Fashion is the next I meet,  
Whose business 'tis all day to walk the street,  
Of no misfortune Sensible but this  
A ruffled Perruque, and a ruin'd Phiz.  
Pulvill and Amber and a Spice of Fool  
Make up his Essence, constitute the whole.  
He Damns grave sots, and carp at all that's writ,  
Thinks Ignorance in him is sign of wit,  
And boasts the mighty Privilege he has  
(As he's a Gentleman) to be an Ass.  
Cries let the plodding Soul sit quiet down  
In some Foundation rich with twenty pound.   

Next here's a Biggot plump with lying still,  
Presumes there are no bounds to curb his will.  
With Saintlike look, demure, and seeming true  
Hopes by's affected zeal to cheat Heaven too,  
As unsuspected as he sham's the Crew.  
And thinks his Power with his Interest joined  
Is certainly enough to damn Mankind.   

The next's a Libertine to whom is given  
As little Faith as will to Merit Heaven;  
He no constraint can bare, no Laws endure,  
But what his Sovereign pleasures shall procure.  
He holds that Hell and Furies, Fiends and flames  
Are all but idle, Fond, invented names,  
To frighten foolish antiquated Dames,  
And quiet Children: Whilst with other cares  
His noddle's filled, these are the least he fears:  
And thinks the Pious man he sees in tears  
Is mad belike: a Hundred more there are  
Of whom we full as justly may despair.   

But he that Searches into every mind  
To know the various tempers of Mankind;  
How they're disposed; and how they disagree  
From one another as we daily see;  
And what's th' occasion of't; would find I fear  
His task on trial Something too severe.  
In my opinion he might even as well  
Pretend, by scanty Arithmetic to tell,   

How many Doctor Br— n and Cortex kill  
Each Spring: or know how often pretty Miss  
(Before she tastes what Matrimony is,)  
To Fops and Fools and Coxcombs of the Town  
Has sold her Maidenhead for half a Crown.  
In short I'll tell you my opinion this,  
(Under their favour who were once called wise.)  
Through this wide Orb where  you cast your Eye,  
You not such thing as Prudence will descry.  
All men are Mad? 'Tis true all men I own  
Are not to the same pitch of Frenzy grown;  
For this they can allege in their defence  
That one has more, the other Lesser Sense.  
No one e'er regular Methods here obeys,  
But wanders on in Wild uncertain ways,  
Wherever Ignorance is pleased to lead;  
Observing still some beaten road to tread.  
So He that travels through a Spacious wood,  
Which above forty different paths divide,  
May chance to lose his way without a guide.  
Tho' you to this, and I to that, incline,  
'Tis the same Error that deludes Mankind.  
And he that thinks he holds the surest way,  
May chance to be deceived as much as they  
Who wanting Council always went astray.  
On wisdon each man strives (tho' ne'er so dull)  
To build; and with discretion plays the fool:  
Whilst by appearance led to judge amiss,  
He takes for Virtue what indeed is Vice.   

To Him I speak that fain himself would know  
He's the most wise, who thinks he is not so.  
Who others fault with favour passing by,  
Looks on himself with a more piercing Eye;  
Condemns that action cause too rash; and this  
Through want of force seems to be done amiss.  
Examines all with an impartial view.  
But tell me who is to himself so true?  
Who is there to find faults at home will strive?  
Or if he does wont easily connive.   

See'st thou the Miser how he hugs his Oar,  
And starves himself i'th' midst of all his store?  
But what does he this real Madness call?  
'Tis Prudence Sir, it is discretion all;  
He thinks through this he honour may obtain,  
And that all Happiness is placed in gain.  
Now is't not wondrous strange a man should choose  
To toil and sweat for that he ne'er can use,  
To treasure what he daily fears to lose?  
Is not this frenzy? cries A hot brained Sot,  
That's finding means to lavish what was got  
By stingy Father, once not worth a groat.  
HE expends vast Sums, he knows not where nor how,  
No nor with whom, nor does he care to know,  
But as they lightly came, they lightly go.  
And thus the generous, giddy Soul runs on  
Till his estate is seized, and Fortunes gone.  
Which of the two d'ye think's the greatest fool?   

This has too large, that a too narrow Soul.  
Two such extremes I never could approve,  
And faith in me they equal pity move,  
Cries prudent C— s with his Box of Dice,  
Now Sir ten thousand strong, and in a trice,  
Shake th' Honourable Fob the deal a since.  
And Seven or Eleven will suffice  
To let him know whether he Lives or Dies.  
Should now blind Fortune her dear favourite scorn;  
And losing casts Succeed upon the turn;  
With fury struck his Eyes to Heaven he'd rear,  
And fret, and fume, and stamp, and sweat, and swear;  
Not quite forgetting too, in all his rage  
(Which luck that raised it, only could assuage,)  
To curse himself that he did first Engage.  
He storms like one possessed: at whose complaints  
Priest mumbles o'er his catalogue of Saints,  
To cast the Devil out that entered there.  
They bind him fast; for by his furious air  
He seems as tho' from th' race of Titans Sprung,  
Resolved to end the war they had begun,  
And quite expel the Thunderer from his Throne.   

Let him howe'er pursue his frantic whim,  
Folly alone is Punishment for him,  
And great enough. Nay there are Errors too  
Through which we're led by a deceitful clue;  
Which whilst they Secret charms to us impart  
Our Judgement, and our reason quite subvert.  
Here's S—le now that coxcomb who in spite  
Of niggard Nature and his Stars will write;  
And tho' perhaps he Rhymes, Sir, all the while  
In hard Expression, and a Bombast Stile,  
Frames words unused; altho' there run a vein  
Of fluid Nonsense through his lofty strain;  
Nay tho' there's ne'er a Youngster in Knipe's School  
But finds him out, and laughs at the dull Fool.  
Yet He is pleased, and modestly believes  
That if he with such noble fancy strives,  
He shall come nearer to Parnassus' Hill,  
Than ever Dryden did or ever will.  
But after all should some judicious Bard  
Who'd taken resolution to be heard,  
Make it appear how little beauty shines  
How little strength through all his thundering Lines:  
How flat his sense, how forced his Rhyme, and show  
With what uneveness his numbers flow.  
Would he not curse the day when he began  
To know he erred? would he not curse the man  
That told him truth, while yet with raptures seized  
His Soul was with delightful Error pleased?   

A Biggot, otherwise a man of sense  
And parts, (as I'm informed) not far from hence,  
Was by a pleasing madness seized of late,  
Which hovering o're's Enthusiastic pate,  
He thought he frequently had used to hear  
A Charming sound, just like the gentle air  
Of Music, always chiming in his Ear.  
Comes a Physician Sir in wondrous haste  
To give my Gentleman a single cast  
Of's Office. With long industry and Art  
Having successfully performed his part,  
Come Sir ten Guineas are the least you'll give;  
Under my hands a man ne'er better thrive.  
The Biggot in a passion from his seat  
Arose, and cried, cursed be thy damned receipt  
Copied in some Infernal Scraul for thee,  
To make the sad Experiment on me.  
Still I'd been happy were it not for this,  
A State of Error is a State of bliss.  
Begun I say, and no entreaties move.   

Nor can I the rough answer disapprove,  
For since I must my sentiments declare,  
Of all the great misfortunes that we bore,  
Of all the Tyrant Ills we suffer here,  
That very thing which grave men Reason call,  
A noble guide, is much the worst of all.  
Reason 'tis thou that dost disturb our joy,  
That never, never, but for Thee would cloy.  
For if we're sated, and do change the Scene,  
'Tis because thou didst rudely intervene.  
When I would give a lose, you ready stand  
Behind with an importunate demand,  
And when I'm Eager bid me hold my hand:  
Thou that harsh Governante whisper'st in my Ear,  
Cease to do this. And that creates my fear.  
But for all that the dreaming Sots in vain  
O'er all our senses place Thee Sovereign.  
In vain they make Thee a divinity,  
And by thy favour think to mount the Sky.  
'Tis She say they that to us precepts gives,  
By which we learn the conduct of our lives.  
Certain I am, let them say what they please,  
The greatest Fool enjoys the greatest ease.    

THE SEVENTH satire OF Monsieur BOILEAU, IMITATED.  

Prithee (dear Muse) let's change the usual strain.  
For why in so Satirical a vein  
(Tho' Coxcombs do abound) should we complain?  
Since we are free methinks we should not choose  
So Ill an Office, as it is t' abuse.  
He that writes thus and fain would witty seem,  
Buys but contempt, not purchases esteem.  
And the sharp jest at which the Reader grins,  
Has made the Scoffing Poet rub his shins,  
And oft cry Damn it, let Him laugh that wins.   

A tedious Panegyric dully writ,  
Fears not the Censures of the men of Wit,  
Disposed of in some corner of the Shop,  
Or else translated to the Garret top,  
Securely there amongst the Rubbish lies;  
And now all harms but dust and worms defies.  
But a keen Satirist that's full of spite,  
And by malicious talon taught to By't;  
Whilst he presumes his too facetious way  
Of railing ever was allowed, and may;  
All those that read him over, tho' they must  
Acknowledge what is writ, is true, and just:  
They'll damn the Writer, wish him doubly cursed.  
What is too home, will grate the Ear I own,  
And a too naked truth alarms the Town.  
For there is ne'er a one that views this glass,  
But without Flattery must see his Face.  
Therefore in vain these Methods we pursue,  
Have we no famous Hero in our view,  
Whose warlike Acts we may with praise extol,  
And in eternal Verse his name enrol?  
But I can this to others better teach  
Than put in practice; 'tis above my reach;  
My Flagging Muse durst never soar so high,  
Unable all his Virtues to descry,  
Unworthy to relate: in vain it seems  
I by't my nails, and Scratch my pate for Rhimes,  
With all the Raptures, Ecstasies and whims,  
As Poets use when pregnant noddle teems.  
In harsher strains I should be forced to sing,  
Than Ya— in praises a Victorious King.  
But when I'd rail I've all things at command,  
And kind Apollo still assists my hand.  
Rhyme, Verse, and matter I with ease produce,  
While numerous words stand crowding for my use;  
Suppose a perjured Villain I'd describe,  
Here's Oats of's own accord, without a bribe,  
The greatest of the whole forswearing tribe.  
If of an Eminent Fool my Muse would treat,  
Here's B—ry; if of as Eminent a cheat  
Here ' C— by I'm sure will do the feat.  
Or if you'd have a dabbler in Rhyme,  
A trifler with the Muses and his time;  
There's D—fy, R—en— ft, and G—ld, and Cr— n,  
S—le, D—nn, R—er, P— is, and for one  
I want, a Thousand I can write you down.  
Having hit right I tacitly rejoice,  
And hug myself for such a prudent choice.  
In vain I try to stem the Furious tide  
Of my hot Passion, and my rashness chide;  
In vain this Fellows faults I would conceal  
Because he is my Friend; nor His reveal  
Because a worthy Seat he's used to fill;  
My too impartial Muse would take it ill.  
For whensoe'er my raptures first begin  
To seize my Soul, and I grow warm within.  
I strictly all examine, sure to know  
Whether all's Fish that comes to th' net or no.  
Howe'er of merit I am tender still,  
And never that offend but 'gainst my will.  
But every arrant Fop pulls down my Hate,  
And may seem justly to deserve the Fate  
That I intent him; whilst with vigorous course  
wherever he takes his Flight I trace him close.  
The deep mouthed Hound more warmly done't pursue  
Nor with more speed, the full blown Dear at view.  
Without time lost I can with greatest ease  
Patch up a Rhyme to any words I please;  
Sometimes I writ with careless Air, and lose,  
And  my Verse in an ill natured prose:  
Observing measure, number I transgress,  
And if in aught I do excel, 'tis this.  
And for that reason resolution take,  
Were Death here ready, and my life at stake,  
Although propitious Heaven would kindly grant  
A long and easy course, and free from want,  
Prepair i'th' Country or in Town a Seat,  
Where I might either private live or great;  
That I hence forward quietly sat down,  
In spite of Fops and Fools should hold my tongue.  
Tho' all the World expected I should choose  
The great reprieve with thanks; I would refuse;  
Rich, poor, severe, or gay, what e'er Disguise  
My Temper bore, still I would Satirize.   

Poor Soul cries one dost thou not pity find,  
That thou'rt to furious transports thus inclined?  
As thy sure fate this boiling ranchor Dread,  
By some sour fumes of Melancholy bred.  
Eat it I say, for fear that one of those  
Whom you in satire have decreed it Expose,  
Should some way take to cool thy raging blood,  
And make thee write again if thou thinkest good.   

Pray tell me how? how did Lucilius write  
And Horace too, both armed with equal spite?  
When to unmask the lurking vice each page  
Revenging virtues cause, did swell with rage,  
endeavouring to discountenance the sinning age.   

And what did Juvenal? was he hot or rash,  
Because he kept all Rome within his lash?  
He neither spared the men, nor feared their curse  
But Spoke aloud, and yet fared ne'er the worse.  
Now what have I to fear pray all this while?  
Who is't that knows my name? or who my stile?  
I writ but little, nor intent to vie,  
With F— no; nor with emulation try,  
Who writes the largest Volume He or I.  
Sometimes (with much ado) whate'er I've writ  
To a Friends view or so I can commit;  
To one perhaps that's minded to be gay,  
And seems to love a strain that runs this way.  
Perhaps he Flatters, and with smiling air  
Looks pleased, & laughs, when his too conscious Ear  
Tells him that this himself may justly fear.  
Howe'er from this I will not move an ace,  
'Tis here I mighty Satisfaction place;  
I can't speak well, nor can I hold my peace.  
For if I ought ridiculous can find,  
The bringing of it forth will ease my mind.  
Th' impetuous torrent of my Soul must go,  
And if beyond the banks its Waters flow,  
On they will run whether I will or no.    

PREDESTINATION.  

WHy, Dick, should you whimper and whine at this Rate,  
Or keep such a coil about you know not what?  
Wipe your Eyes man, your tears will ne'er mollify fate.   

You abuse Madam Fortune and call her damned whore,  
Inconstant Bitch, Jade, and a thousand names more,  
Than ever the Sophy or Grand Signior bore.   

But it seems You are out: For she cannot be kinder  
Tho' she would; since Fate's will does so shackle and bind her,  
And with Praedestination ties her hands quite behind her.   

Look where a poor Wit sits o'errun with vermin,  
While Clod pates, & Marr-alls, sleep at Church in their Ermine,  
And Blockheadly Fools have their lacqueys and chair-men.   

There's a Sturdy old Britain who has been in the wars,  
And thirty years stickled in National jars,  
Yet has nothing to show for his pains, but his Scars.   

Take a turn o'er the water, you'll see some Min-heers,  
That have drunk, slept, and cheated but one dozen years,  
As greasy as chandlers, and as wealthy as Peers.   

And now if you can show me what Obligation  
Fortune has to be kind to these men or that Nation,  
Unless you'll confess 'tis all Praedestination.   

But perhaps you are going among these Holl-anders,  
And design to be one of those worthy Commanders,  
That fight for their pay and Religion in Flanders.   

Yet before you march off, ye had as good take advice  
Of your Stars; for from them you may learn in a trice,  
Whether Fate has ordained you shall perish or rise.   

In her Power are all things and the better to show it,  
She made Hewson a Coll'nel, and D—fy a Poet,  
Bid N— on fight duels and Sir Novelty beaux it.   

Some say time is swift but those men that mind him  
(Howe'er he pretends that he ne'er looks behind him,)  
Will show you how Fate to one round has confined him.   

They'll tell you long stories of causes, whose End,  
If once they agree on the matter in hand,  
(Whether Jove's pleased or no) must their motions attend.   

Why then do we thus, (since 'twon't stand us in stead)  
The approaching ill view, with more horror and dread,  
Than a Welshman would see the blood drop from his head.   

Bid adieu, my Friend, here to fond sighs and vain tears,  
Keep your mirth to yourself, send the Dutchmen your cares;  
Since  got all our coin, let 'em keep all our fears.    

Mahomet's PARADISE. AN ODE.  

'TWas nobly taught, and like the man that knew  
What to Sov'raign sense was due;  
Like one that long had sought a Scheme to find,  
Whose common ties might reach all Human kind.  
In men it showed him deeply read  
To find they all in this agreed;  
That, whate'er those of rigid Morals preach,  
Sensual delight is Nature's utmost reach.   

He saw his tares would all their seed out grow,  
And the Event has proved it so.  
He tried the Soil, nor doubted it would bare,  
The pleasant crop of vice he planted there.  
With strength it risen, and spread apace  
Through a numerous Warlike race,  
To him with joy, the giddy Vulgar flew;  
Who gave 'em leave to sin, and to be ignorant too.   

Hope (the mind's anchor and afflictions cure,  
By which we bravely ills endure,  
Hope, which inflames the bold with generous heat,  
And makes the Victor resolutely great,)  
With such rewards he does incite,  
Such charming prospects of delight,  
As none, who (like his happy followers) know  
The various sweets of Beauty; can forgo.   

Methinks I view the Mighty scene of Joy,  
Feasting there my longing Eye;  
Here a fair crowd of dazzling Nymphs I see,  
From envious time and age's malice free.  
No clouds there sky, or thoughts o'er cast,  
But day and love for ever last.  
Whilst Sparkling Eyes thence banish care and night,  
At once dispencing Flames, and everlasting light.   

There a gay troop of lustily Lovers move,  
Whose business and reward is Love.  
In whom remembrance sweetens all that's past,  
And fierce desire provokes the future taste:  
Both Sexes shine with equal grace,  
And now they meet, and now embrace,  
Till wishes are complete, and they enjoy  
Pleasures that never change; yet never cloy.   

Enjoyment here its wretched self undoes;  
And what we get by it, we lose:  
No sooner is the Short-lived pleasure done,  
But straight the transitory nothings gone.  
But there how blest are th' charming She's  
With mines whose wealth can ne'er decrease  
Like Fortunatus' are their Lovers gains;  
They use the Virgin Treasure, yet it still remains,   

Here only the Imposter was to blame,  
That he to one confined their flame.  
Great were the blessings he on Earth bestowed,  
Greater had been to come; had He allowed  
What his Successor has below;  
Each man his own Seraglio.  
The fiction than had boar a higher price,  
And change of pleasures, made it Paradise.    

On the Pope's Toe.  
OUr Saviour's feet when Mary kissed; with tears  
She washed 'em clean, then wiped 'em with her hairs.  
And curious travelers when to Rome they go  
To kiss for fashion th' Holy Father's Toe;  
Wish that some Damsel would that task renew,  
And the same office for his Vicar do.   

TO DORINDA FROM Monsieur De VOITURE.  

CHarming Dorinda when you sing,  
My ravished Soul is on the wing,  
Yet here's You out, and won't be gone.  
It quits all senses but the Ear.  
That, that more perfectly may hear,  
It joins the force of all the five in one.   

Sing treacherous sirens and detain  
The Traveller with pleasing pain,  
And make him court the fate he'd shun:  
However be what will His choice,  
Dorinda boasts a sweeter voice;  
And they that listen to it no danger run.   

If Fortune should be long unkind,  
And sour the temper of the mind,  
Her Song deludes th' ungrateful thought.  
For then, who ever can't enjoy  
A perfect ease without alloy;  
He ne'er will find it, and it can't be bought.   

whate'er the Nightingale in Spring  
Or Swan before its death can sing;  
And all the feathered choir too:  
Nay Orpheus Harp, Amphion's Lute,  
And all things else without dispute,  
Must humbly yield the Victory to You.   

The grateful Music of the Spheres,  
And what great Jove at Banquets hears,  
When kind Apollo Strikes the Strings:  
The consorts of the beauteous Nine  
Are none so sweet, nor so divine,  
As when Dorinda, dear Dorinda Sings.    

THE Fiftieth EPIGRAM OF MARTIAL IMITATED.  Daphnonas, Platonas' &c. 
Written to one who had a Fine SEAT.  
HEre rows of Laurel in just order set,  
Defend the walks from the Sun's parching heat:  
There lofty planes their growing branches spread,  
At once the places ornament and shade:  
Yonder thick cypress forms a silent grove,  
A fit retreat for sorrow and for Love.  
Rich in perfumes your many baths afford  
A sweet refreshment to their wearied Lord;  
High raised a stately Portico there stands,  
The noble work of some great Artist's hands.  
Where marble Pillars do the roof support,  
And shining jaspars pave the inner Court.  
Hard by a Spacious Hippodrome we see,  
Where the swift racers strive for Victory.  
From thence we hear how with a pleasing sound,  
The murmuring streams glide gently through the ground.  
How nature taught to vary notes by Art  
In different accents Music does impart.  
Yet where we find this Beauty, and this state,  
(Such are the miseries which on riches wait)  
Places are wanting where to Sleep, and Eat.  
If this be greatness be it far from me;  
Let me but sleep and eat in Poverty,  
I'll sigh no more; no more will envy those,  
Who real blessings for a shadow lose.  

SONG.  

DID but Dorinda sigh for me  
Whilst at Her feet I die;  
The Sun in's course should never see  
A happier Swain then I.   

But ah! without concern she views  
The anguish of my heart,  
And void of pity does refuse  
To ease the cruel Smart.   

Too partial fate! that did ordain  
The cruel Fair should have,  
A Tyrant's power to kill with pain,  
Without a will to save.   

'Tis just they quench who raise desire  
Or else why have they charms:  
A Lover no where should Expire  
But in His beauty's arms.     

TO The Right HONOURABLE, THE EARL OF NORTHAMPTON.  

AS we, when wistly we the infant view,  
The tracts of ancient Features do pursue,  
Which from the Parent's face kind Nature drew:  
Or when we some times tho' but rarely trace  
The lines, that did the Father's Father grace:  
Whilst we're His image viewing in the Child,  
Just thus (we cry) he looked, and thus he smiled.  
Just so (my Lord) when ever I would see  
What 'tis that all men call Nobility,  
In what it does consist, and how it shone  
When those that did deserve it put it on:  
I have recourfe to you: In You alas  
I can alone perceive what once it was,  
For you alone like your brave Fathers are,  
And do not only Arms and Titles share,  
(For if from Scutcheon you a greatness Sought,  
'Twould be because it was without a blot.)  
But all their noble qualities retain,  
Heir to their virtues, left without a stain,  
And kept; You're free, not lavish; great not vain;  
Nor yet familiar, condescending too;  
Skilled where Respects to be received, where due;  
In others I but view the poor remains  
Of all that stock of Honour, which the pains  
Of their illustrious Ancestors procured:  
You have not only what was left secured,  
But by your Real worth increased the store,  
Which justly might be thought complete before.  
In Them, their too degenerate Souls at best,  
Seem in a meaner mould to have been cast,  
Whom with their Fathers when compared, we find  
A faint resemblance stamped upon their mind,  
And may expect they'll leave a fainter still behind.  
In you th'Impression's easy to be seen,  
And such is your Majestic air, and Mein,  
Your Presence such; that tho' we did not know  
You nobly born; yet we should think you so.   

Tho' others then in this great duty fail,  
While the vile custom can't on you prevail,  
To teint the vein that ' as hither purely run;  
By your Great Self to be continued on;  
We'll See the Father's glories in the Son.    

To a LADY that Drinks nothing but Water.  

When our First Parents new created  
In Eden dwelled, 'tis true, my Dear,  
They nothing drank but Water.  
But that poor liquor has been hated  
Since France made Wine, and England beer,  
By all that e'er came after.   

But you it seems a sober Woman  
Fully resolve pure stream to drink,  
And be another Eve:  
Yet I dare swear you'll meet with no man,  
Who this a point of Faith will think  
Your doctrine to believe.   

Brimmers will all your reason's banter,  
For they their wont rounds will move,  
How'ever you may bar it,  
Since (as I think) there is a 
* Terence sine Cerere et Baccho friget Venus.  Ranter,  
Does positively say, that Love  
Grows cold without good Claret.   

I needs must tell you then (to Lovers  
If drinking water you prescribe)  
This for your comfort Madam;  
After the Mode of Jewish rovers,  
You must even wed in your own tribe  
Or you'll scarce find an Adam.    

To a Lady whose Name was formerly Scroup now Pitts, having seen her Picture in the Gallery at Hampton-Court.  
MAdam,  

Tho' in our Hemesphere  
The stars all glorious appear,  
Yet some there are that do the rest out shine:  
So here all seem to be of form Divine;  
Yet there are graces which I view  
More peculiarly in You.   

Oh! that like Paris I were bid  
The controversy to decide,  
Freely my sentiments I would declare.  
Tho' DORSET Pallas; MONMOUTH Juno were;  
THOU Venus, still shouldst be to me  
The Fairest Goddess of the Three.    

TO THE SEVEN Lords Justices.  
May it please Your LORDSHIPS.  
WHen Ancient Greece the famous SEVEN obeyed  
To her the admiring world their homage Paid;  
Wondering to See  professions joined,  
And Arts with Arms successfully combined:  
Her friends with pleasure saw her grandeur raised,  
Praising the state, and envying while they praised;  
Her Foes beheld her rise, and thence with fear  
Presaged their tottering Empire's fall was near.  
With like amazement Foreign Nations view  
This happy Isle Governed (My Lords) by You.  
The glad Confederates hence foretell afar,  
The prosperous exit of a doubtful War;  
And rich in mighty Hopes of future Spoils,  
Already reap the fruit of all their toils.  
While our Great Hero amidst dangers brave,  
Resolves to lose his Life, or Europe save;  
You manage all things with that prudent care,  
That  courage now submits to fear;  
And haughty Lewis droops, enraged to find  
The Prince abroad, such virtue left behind.  
In vain He there attempts the Monarch's doom:  
In vain base Villains do the same at home.  
Since should His aim (forbidden it Heaven) succeed,  
Or Caesar by conspiring Traitors bleed:  
Your Counsels would oppose th' invading tide,  
And widowed Albion to safe harbour guide:  
This your past lives assure: Each Noble Soul  
That knows how to obey, knows how to Rule.   

To a LADY that imposed Silence upon me.  
MAdam,  
I own when first that Face I viewed  
With silent wonder struck, amazed I stood;  
Unable to declare with what surprise  
I saw, and seeing, felt Your conquering Eyes.  
Till by degrees recovering sense, I found  
My bleeding Heart pierced with a fatal wound:  
I searched it well, and by my danger knew  
The kill shaft could come from none but You:  
Yet fear of being scorned a while supprissed  
The anxious secret in my tortured breast.  
At last the cruel pains I underwent,  
Forced me to give the labouring Passion vent.  
But Silence, You relentless Fair, impose.  
And unconcerned my heart would have me lose;  
Unheard condemn me, and with cold disdain  
Reject my suit, and cry you plead in vain.  
No Tyrant sure was ever known before  
T' inflict so much, no Heart to suffer more.  
Others, when stubborn Traitors dare conceal  
Truths, it concerns the state they should reveal;  
Send 'em the tortures of the Rack to feel:  
Till sense of hurt does from the sufferer's breast,  
By hopes of gain unmoved, the secret wrist.  
Severer You see me to racks confined,  
Yet still forbidden me to disclose my mind.  
But if you are resolved I shall obey,  
And due allegiance to your orders pay;  
My faithful service with possession Crown,  
And give me leave to think your Heart my own.  
Then wondering I shall stand, amazed to find  
Beyond my hopes the Charming Celia kind.  
Then to your arms a Silent guest I'll come,  
Excess of Happiness, will strike me dumb.   

AN INSCRIPTIONVpon a Letter Case.  

NO Memorandum, or Receipt,  
No Challenge where and when to meet,  
Was e'er (dear case) contained in YOU.  
In You no bill of Fifty pound,  
But what is more there may be found,  
My dear Lucinda's Billet-doux.   

'Tis only you, and I, and She,  
Know what passes between us three:  
If as she writes She seems to sigh,  
And her tender passion own;  
All this (dear confident) is known  
To only you, and She, and I.   

Yet if a cold disdain o'erspread  
Her lines, I unconcerned will Read;  
Nor care a Fart if that She know.  
But only You, and I, (ne'er fear)  
Can tell, when I go you know where,  
That I will use 'em you know how.    

A LETTER to a Gentleman that advised him to make the Campaigne in Flanders.  
SIR,  

CUstom ('tis true) the younger Brothers foe,  
Has made my fortunes for my mind to low;  
To noble acts my soaring thoughts aspire.  
Tho' sense of want would check the Generous fire.  
Like the brave Macedon, I grieve to know  
That those great Ancestors to whom I own  
This heat, have nothing left for me to do.  
'Tis this (dear Friend) that makes me wish my fate  
Had doomed me to a plentiful estate,  
For whilst of such supports I stand in need;  
All tho' my inclinations strongly lead,  
Tho' you advise whose counsels guide my Soul,  
Whose sovereign will does my resolves control,  
Forgive me that I scruple to obey  
Commands, which on me your Entreaties lay.  
Since having weighed the matter I foresee,  
The Camp is no fit station Sir for me.  
Not that to Coward fears my Spirits yield,  
Or that I dread the horrors of the field.  
No, tho' in thousand shapes grim Death I view,  
Still to my own and Country's honour true,  
I'd face the Tyrant: in the glorious strife,  
Resolved to win the prize, or lose my life.  
By our great Monarch's irresistless might  
Taught, I could bear the heat of all the fight,  
And like him too approaching dangers slight.  
Assured with Scaeva, Conquering Caesar's praise  
A live or dead my daring Acts should raise.   

But this deters me, that unknown at Court  
I want that Interest, which does those support  
Who buy Commissions cheaper than with Scars;  
And get Estates by Flattering, and the Wars.  
No cringing Courtier I can bribe, to tell  
How oft I've charged the Frenchman, and how well:  
How I the shock at Landen did endure:  
Or bravely stood my ground before Namur:  
Till moved by him the generous Colonel deigns  
With the next Colours to reward my pains.  
Unable, and unwilling this to give,  
A simple Cadet I may always live,  
Condemned to rags, and scarcely worth a groat;  
Till to my breast chance guides the lucky shot,  
Which rids me of a heavy load of care,  
Timely preventing frenzy or despair.  
Besides that Splendid Equipage I want,  
In which young Officers are used to Flaunt;  
Nor shall I  be master of those Arts  
Which please the giddy crowd, and win their hearts;  
In gaudy Plumes let those who like 'em shine,  
I hate to be what vulgar Souls call Fine;  
Daubed with gold lace, and fringe while others go  
Tricked up like puppets for a public show:  
Still plain, and awkard as myself, my   
Put on without a Valet would expose  
Me to the Scoffs of fleering Fops and Beaux.  
And who could bare to hear a Coward cry  
He's a mere Country Bubble, let me die.  
Lard how he looks like a spruce Cit in red,  
In martial posture at his Train-bands head:  
Yet this and more with patience I must take,  
Or in one day as many quarrels make,  
As Jealous At— ns in a twelvemonths time  
Maintains to vindicate his Lady's crime:  
Which would my peaceful temper thwart as much  
As small bear drinking, goes against the Dutch:  
Therefore because for every Idle word  
I think it nonsense to unsheathe my Sword,  
Amongst the brisk young Duelists of the time,  
I must be held forsooth a man of Phlegm,  
Most Stoically grave, and at the best  
A common Subject for their common jest.   

These are my hindrances, and these you see  
Will never let the Camp and me agree.  
Urge me not then: for I would rather choose  
To serve that worst of Jilts a Hackney Muse;  
A Farce more vile than Cr— ns or D— fy's write;  
Or satire which like harmless G—lds should by't;  
Nay doomed to Doggrel, and old Sterholds stile,  
Three story high in Grub-street let me toil:  
Forced a whole week on my own nails to feed,  
And earn with wretched Rhimes my Sundays bread.  
Or what is worse like Og— by translate,  
Till Chandler's Shops, and Kitchens be my fate;  
Rather then in the Camp pursuing Fame,  
Sat down at last with Poverty and Shame.   
Yours etc.   

TO SYLVIANA FROM BEDLAM. June the 13th. 1696.  

GO Nymph, who the Sun  
Dost Excel, and the Moon,  
And the Stars; and put all in a hurry.  
Let each conquering charm  
Ten thousand alarm,  
Turn the globe into Madness and Fury.   

See at every turn  
How I rage and I burn,  
How I flash with an ardent desire:  
Do but see how I stare,  
How my Eyes roll and glare,  
As if all was within set on fire.   

Oh! where are the waves  
That will cool him that raves  
And not make him hotter than ever?  
Send me Your Ice and Snow  
That so cold makes You grow,  
And instead of it, take you my Fever.   

Or else Goddess dart  
All thy rays at my heart,  
At my Grate let your  enter:  
Your thunder too roll  
To my languishing Soul,  
And rend it away from its centre.   

Come fears and dispares  
The amorous cares;  
Raise no more, but extinguish desire:  
Come numorous ills  
Far weightier still,  
That will suddenly make me expire.   

If all these will not kill  
Here, tell me what will,  
The fair ones themselves procure me.  
Or the ugly and old  
For as I've been told  
They'll certainly certainly cure me.   

But if I'd be at rest  
With a calm serene breast,  
To fresh straw I must have my recourse:  
And not trouble my brains  
That I'm kept in these chains,  
Whilst they're easier, and lighter than Yours.    

To a LADY in an Vndress.  
WHy Galatea should You fly  
Because undressed, a Lover's Eye?  
Is it that you think my heart  
Wants those little helps of Art  
Which others use, to keep it Yours?  
What tho' dress some men allures  
Yet is Your Thirsis none of those  
Who love a woman for her :  
Those charms to which The Slave you own,  
Have power to make him always so.  
Essence, powder, painting, patches,  
Velvets, Laces, Gawzes, washeses;  
And all the numerous catalogue  
Of Female trinkets now in vogue,  
Can never make your features show  
Half so ravishing as now.  
The envious cloud of dress away,  
We see a brighter, clearer Day,  
(Than e'er was known before to shine)  
In those beauteous Orbs of Thine.  
I burn I burn for who can bare  
(Nothing between) the Sun so near.  
Inform me Dearest, do I see  
Some Goddess in thy shape, or THEE.  
With such a charming Mein and grace,  
Such lovely limbs, and such a Face,  
On Id'as' plains the Queen of Love  
For Discords golden apple strove:  
And naked to the Shepherds' view  
Did all her hidden beauties show,  
In that alone surpassing You.   

TO BELINDA, THAT Wrote him Word She was Sick of a Fever.  
WAs it for this we with impatience prayed,  
To see an answer from the Lovely Maid,  
Cursing those lazy hours which all our joys delayed?  
But oh! ye hours that you had been more slow;  
And let us this a little later know.  
For who that does these doleful accents hear  
(Belinda's sick) The fatal ill can bear?  
So Merchants who to India's distant shore  
Send all that wealth their toils have gained before,  
In hopes to turn it into shining Oar,  
Wait at the Port; hoping to learn from some,  
When the expected Cargo Sails for home.  
But if by chance some Messenger arrive,  
Who saw, and did the common wreck survive.  
Themselves and Chance they blame, and fain would than  
They had more happy, or less curious been.  
Yet who would think the Virtuous and the Fair  
(Virtue and Love are heavens peculiar care,)  
One common fate should with the vulgar share?  
Is't not enough they keep love's vestal fire,  
And burn in mutual flames of chaste desire,  
Unless hot Fevers raging in their blood  
Add fire to fire, and dry the vital flood?  
Cruel disease, elsewhere thy power employ,  
The old and ugly let thy flames destroy.  
Belinda spare: nor with malicious skill  
At once the Virgin, and the Lover kill.  
But oh! I fear, like us thou dost admire,  
And triumphest in her veins with rival fire:  
Assaulting still her Heart with fresh supplies,  
Resolved from all to bear the Glorious prize.  
So Jove to Semele's Embraces came  
Burning with more than a kind Lover's flame,  
And by enjoying, killed the matchless dame.   

Intimating the Ladies desire not to be known,  
FROM Monsieur De VOITURE. WRITTEN TO DORINDA.  

I Burn, I burn, but dare not name  
The charming She that raised the flame;  
Your virtues to I must conceal:  
For if I speak of You at all,  
I surely shall discover all,  
And might as well Your name reveal.   

Should I but say Your Nature's pride;  
And that in all the World beside  
There is not one that reigns Like You,  
Like You subdues: don't all men know  
What to your sovereign charms they own,  
And where their adoration's due.   

Or if I say when winter comes  
And kills the plants, and nips the blooms,  
And makes a change in every thing;  
That still in you the blushing rose,  
The lily too themselves disclose.  
They'd cry, that there's eternal Spring.   

Or if I say that in your Eyes  
An Archer close in ambush lies,  
That Stoops to conquer such as Jove.  
As if our humble hearts below  
Were all too mean: would they not know  
That thou were't this great Soul of Love?   

Should I Your wit and Judgement praise,  
And those perfections strive to raise,  
I could not give 'em half their due.  
Yet still the crowd amazed would bless  
Themselves to hear't; and straight confess,  
They only could unite in You.   

I'll say how great's Your Soul, how wise,  
That fortune neither courts, nor flies.  
How bravely too it Ills endures.  
Would not the spacious Circle tell,  
That no such Soul would deign to dwell  
In any Form, but one like Yours?   

But now Suppose I Should omit  
Your charms of Beauty and of wit,  
And tell your cringing Servile train  
How great a Tyrant You are grown;  
And that their Service You disown,  
That all their tears are shed in vain,   

Or if I say that You can save  
A Poor, despairing, captive Slave,  
Whose heart another did subdue;  
Tho' he from You must nought expect;  
But the cold favour of neglect;  
Would not the world cry out 'twas You?    

TO DORINDA Watering a Garden.  
THe Scorching Sun with too much heat decays  
Those Flowers and plants, his kinder beams did raise.  
So flames of love if gentle, make us gay;  
But when too furious, on our vitals pray;  
From the sun's malice you can them defend,  
And to their roots Supplies of moisture lend.  
While by love's heat unhappy Damon dies,  
Consumed in flames that kindled at Your Eyes:  
In vain Fair Nymph by the same means you strive  
To Save the drooping Youth and make him live.  
Your tears will ne'er protect him from their rage.  
Only Your burning too can his assuage.   

SONG.  

I Adore You 'tis true,  
And no woman but You,  
Yet Dorinda You must not repine.   

That some hours I lend  
To my Bottle and Friend,  
And sacrifice Love to good wine.   

I shall ne'er side with those  
Who with sighs, tears, and oaths,  
Talk of languishing, burning, and dying:   

Who sincerity place  
In affected grimmace,  
And build their chief merit on lying.   

Yet I laugh at all such  
Who will tope like the Dutch,  
For the sake of the Liquor they drink;   

While they only propose  
To obtain a red nose,  
With the loss of their time and their chink.   

Those only are wise  
Who both equally prize:  
But refuse to be Servant to either:   

Who by friendly compliance,  
In sacred alliance  
Join Cupid and Bacchus together.   

For when ever they meet  
All our Joys are complete,  
And our jollity ne'er can expire:   

They our faculties charm,  
And us mutually warm,  
Whilst each from the other takes fire.    

TO CLORIS On Her Dream.  

VIsions of Old were sacred thought,  
As messages from Heaven brought,  
By which men how to act were taught.   

By them were Oracles conveyed,  
By them the greatest Monarches swayed,  
Their dictates all the wise obeyed.   

Then Cloris never blush to find  
Yourself in dreams to him so kind,  
Whom fate has ever Yours designed;   

What tho' with all Love's treasure blest  
Upon Your snowy panting breast,  
He seems his wearied self to rest;   

And in Your Arms those joys receive  
Which none but charms like Yours can give,  
Often Dying but to live.   

Tho' You the Lovely Boy embrace,  
And with a secret pleasure trace  
The shining glories of his face,   

Then join your glowing cheeks to his,  
And with an eager lover's kiss,  
Clasp him close and seal his bliss,   

Till he transported seem to say,  
Like Jove could I keep back the day,  
And make the sun his rise delay,   

Three nights should not suffice for me,  
In one I would join three times three,  
And dedicate 'em all to Thee.   

To Thee, whose charms if Jove had known,  
In some bright form HE had left his throne,  
T' obey a power above his own.   

The Cretans, vain Idolatry  
He had refused; and worshipped Thee,  
A much more glorious Deity.   

Yet fear not that these thoughts Exceed  
Those modest bounds, Heaven has decreed  
The virtuous of Your Sex shall tread.   

No, fairest, no; they mean no Ill  
But Love by them declares his will,  
That You, what they foretell, fulfil.    

THE HVE and CRY AFTER A HEART  

WHile on the Flowery banks I Sat,  
Where Nature does herself display,  
Lamenting my too rigid fate  
In that my heart what gone astray,   

Armida soon surprised me there.  
Ar. What Strephon all alone, and sad?  
St. My Heart is gone I know not where.  
Nor where fewer to be had.   

And since 'tis gone pray bare a part  
Of all the sorrow I sustain  
For if I lose my subject heart,  
Where will the fare Armida reign?   

Ar. Armida, Swain, has hearts enough  
Subdued by charms unknown,  
And one She could impart to You  
But that You'll lose it like Your own   

Lucilla came; and thus she wept,  
Lu. A heart I've lost as well as You.  
Had they been by each other Kept  
To us they'd constant been, and true.   

This morn, when lying on my bed,  
I wondered why I did not sigh.  
All my soft, amorous cares were fled  
Away, yet still I knew not why.   

At length I found my heart was gone,  
That used those thoughts to entertain.  
I first believed I was undone,  
Yet did not wish it here again.   

A happiness I thought 'twould prove  
To be thus free: but found too soon  
I was for nought designed but Love:  
Fit for that great employ alone.   

Whether oh! whether could it go?  
I cried, to be contemned, or loved?  
But now too sensibly I know  
It sympathetically roved.   

St. I would ten thousand kisses give  
To her that finds: (Lu.) than no regard  
Be had to mine, 'tis yours I'll strive  
To find, in hopes of the reward.   

At last the kind Dorinda came  
Far brighter than the Early day:  
Is this your Heart? (cried she) for fame  
Reported that Yours fled away.   

St. With arrows 'tis disfigured so  
I know not by the outward frame,  
Whether the Heart is mine or no.  
The wounds assure me 'tis the same.   

The very same: Dorinda tell,  
Hard by what gentle murmuring stream.  
It lay, or in what lonely Cell,  
Awake, or in a softer dream.   

Do. Strephon, d'ye know Lucinda's grove,  
Where kind Amyntas used to come,  
And be a rival in Your Love?  
St. I know the place you mean, and whom.   

Do. There was it hovering round about,  
Then perched on high for better view.  
Lucinda turned, and found it out,  
And from her Eyes an arrow threw:   

Fluttering a while, like wounded thrush  
Whose wing just touched by fatal shot,  
Leaps up and down from bush to bush.  
And after all away it Got.   

I still pursued it with a glance  
And saw it to the fountain rove,  
Where tender Nymphs had used to dance.  
I b'lieve to quench its flames of Love.   

Diana with her Nymphs was there,  
And each disclosed an amorous Soul;  
They each pretended to a share,  
For beauty each deserved the whole.   

Goddess cried I the pray resign,  
With forty darts I pierced it through.  
The only time I made it mine,  
And now I come, and bring it You.   

St. Ah! Nymph why wast thou so severe?  
Can that so many darts endure?  
Do. Oh! these are Pelian darts, my Dear,  
And what they wound, they cure.   

Thus what I've conquered I restore,  
Here take it gentle swain.  
St. No keep it, give it me no more,  
For I shall loseed again.   

Do. If I keep Yours, Strephon, accept of mine,  
To You my heart I perfectly resign.  
ne'er fear its being lost: Your Nymph assures,  
That can't be any bodies else but Yours.    

To a Friend in the Country, who desired him to send him the News.  

AMidst the hurry of the busy Town  
Where I can Scarcely call one hour My own,  
Where all those noisy hindrances I find,  
That discompose a serious, thoughtful mind;  
You tell me I must write; and let you know  
How things at London since your absence go.  
What fashions are new-started, and from whence:  
Whether of English growth, or sent from France.  
What recreations are in vogue, what Plays  
Censorious Critics damn, and what they praise.  
Who sighs for who; and what admiring Beaux  
In lamentable Song, or senseless prose  
Their passions to Your Celia do disclose.  
In fine You'd ha'me send you all the News  
Private, or Public Letters can produce.  
And the whole Catalogue of lies recite  
Which Baldwin prints, or Pike and Dyer write.   

Excuse me Sir, if all you want is this,  
I needs must tell you that you ask amiss.  
All this and more is to your Barbour known,  
He hears when, where, and how all things are done.  
Versed i'th' Arcana of each neighbouring state,  
As well as if he managed the debate,  
And Precedent in every council sat.  
Ask him what Buffleurs does at Liege design,  
When cautious Catinat invests Turin,  
Or how Joyeux will act upon the Rhine;  
Where Nesmond Sails: What'er you'd wish to learn  
That Europe's present welfare does concern,  
With the same quickness he can run ye o'er  
As beggars tell their wants from door to door.  
Or a vain Quack his Jargon does repeat  
When he the gazing crowd designs to cheat.   

Nor can I either spend my Ink or Time  
To count the Fools who their's abuse in Rhyme.  
Nor let you know how with some monster's sight  
Lincolns-Inn-Fields, and Bridges-Street each night,  
Vainly endeavour people to delight.  
'Tis very difficult I must confess  
To say which suffers most the Stage or Press,  
They both with monstrous Births so often teem,  
And trifles which besotted Author's dream,  
That with impatience we expect to see  
When Dryden, Congreve, or bold Wycherly,  
Will draw in their defence and set 'em free.  
But till the Town beholds those happy days,  
'Twill scarce see more new fashons, then new Plays.    

TO His HIGHNESS the DUKE of GLOUCESTER Upon his Instalment, at Windsor ON Friday July 24th. 1696.  
TO You, Great Prince, whose Royal birth does join  
In one; the Danish, Scotch, and English line:  
Who from an Ancient stock of Monarches trace  
Th' illustrious Authors of your mighty race,  
With joy her early tribute Honour brings:  
And ranks your Childhood with the greatest Kings  
Justly conferring Dignities on You,  
Which only are to Godlike virtue due.  
Nor can Your want of Years their worth degrade,  
For Hero's are like Poets born, not made.   

TO SYLVIA Carrying Scaron 's NOVELS to Church instead of a Common-Pray'r Book.  

SYlvia, the Ends of going to Church  
Are many we own,  
'Tis to all of us known,  
Without any farther search.   

But of this I had scarce any notion,  
Till it was made plain,  
That some Amorous swain  
Was the object of your Devotion:   

If that be Your case, your mistake do not smother,  
For every one knows,  
If this way your heart goes,  
'Tis not fit that your prayers should go t'other,   

But than what Religion d'ye drive at?  
For I begin to doubt,  
Since I have found out  
That to Common prayer you prefer Private.   

After all I should think you Protestant,  
But that I can prove  
You're o'th' Family of Love,  
And no doubt but You'll soon make the best an't.   

Yet nevertheless,  
To You Sylvia I guess  
The promised reward will be given.  
For (as I've heard say)  
Much to love and to pray,  
Is the only sure way to reach Heaven.    

TO THE Learned Rich. Blackmore M. D. On his Ingenious POEM PRINCE ARTHUR.  

GReat is His task, and great should be his fame  
Whose noble toils a stately Palace frame;  
Where just proportion shapes each finished part,  
And the materials suit the bvilder's art:  
In whose design both use and beauty share,  
Dividing equally his skilful care.   

Nor less deserves the Bard, who dares to raise  
His tuneful voice in some great Hero's praise,  
And boldly Sing the Man whose glorious name  
Conveyed to us from distant Ages, came.  
Who all those triumphs our Forefathers saw,  
Knows in such lively Colours how to draw;  
That we amazed his wondrous virtues view,  
Envy, yet wish to imitate 'em too.  
Such is thy Arthur, such thy matchless Song.  
Sweet, yet Majestic; beautiful, yet strong:  
Both so surprising, that we hardly know  
To which the greater debt we Britain's owe.  
To Him, who bravely for our Country fought,  
Or You, who all his Battles thus have wrote;  
That Bards to come, when they thy work shall see,  
Him shall admire, and write in praise of Thee.  
Some British Monarch then, whose mighty name  
Rival's the Conquering Macedonian's fame,  
Like him will weep, when in immortal Rhyme  
(Placed beyond all the vain efforts of time)  
He saw Pelides' Godlike actions live  
And ruin'd Troy's unhappy fall survive.  
He'll weep: and weeping wish, that bounteous Heaven  
Which gave him Arthur's Soul, Thine to some Bard had given.  
To thee Great Poet and Physician too  
A double portion of our praise is due.  
The Muses lay with Lethargy oppressed,  
Till you by sovereign Art their ills redressed;  
Taught 'em to scorn the Stage's trifling game,  
And at a higher mark direct their aim.  
To it's first strength you Poetry restore,  
By You encouraged she again dares Soar.  
And her disease with Saul departing feels,  
While David-like, thy Muse both Sings and heals.  
In spite of Critics rage (great Sir) go on.  
Perfect the cure you have so well begun,  
Nor mind what men of witty malice say,  
Whose various fancy should you once obey,  
Like the famed Painter's piece your work would be:  
Which changed to please each nice spectator's eye,  
Became at last all o'er deformity.  
Blush not t' have dug thy oar from Virgil's mine.  
The stamp, not metal 'tis that makes the coin.  
Tho' this the Roman's be, yet That is Thine.    

THE ASSOCIATION.  

SErve Thee? no, ne'er think blind Fool,  
That manly reason will submit  
Itself to thy Despotic rule,  
Or bear the Yoke thou layest on it.  
The sweets of Liberty it long has known,  
Resolved in spite of Thee to keep 'em still it's own.   

Thus I a while Love's power defied,  
And played the Sullen malcontent  
With fruitless stubborness denied,  
To own his lawful government:  
And thought in point of honour could ne'er  
Allegiance both to Him, and sovereign Reason swear.   

'Twas error all I own it now,  
And my misguided zeal recall,  
To that great deity I bow  
Whose endless power extends to all.  
Since the whole World avers his right; for me  
Singly to thwart it, would the height of madness be.   

My will long since to him inclined  
Too cautious Honour, checks in vain:  
Desire with Cloes Beauty joined,  
Urge the attack, and conquest gain.  
I yield, and now to Liberty perfer  
The glorious privilege of serving Love and Her.   

Henceforth their constant Slave I'll prove,  
And whosoever those Rebels be,  
That dare ill-timed seditions move,  
Against their throne, are foes to Me.  
While Youth, and Vigour my intentions wait,  
I'll bravely lay 'em out in service of the State.   

Philosophy in vain shall try  
The growing passion to destroy,  
And vanquished morals routed fly  
When e'er they would our peace annoy.  
The glorious monarches shall triumphant reign,  
And reason not attempt to break the pleasing chain.    

TO A LADY That made Images in Wax.  

TO the Same matter Nature's Skill  
Imparts what shapes so  it will.  
And Love who Jove so of't transformed, can make  
Like him all Lovers different figures take.  
By a Like Power Lucinda You  
In wax can several forms renew.   

In this with Nature you agree:  
From Chaos You as well as She  
A piece of perfect Beauty can create.  
And on your hand bid all the Graces wait;  
But first like Love, with gentle heat  
Make it for impression fit.   

Prometheus' art YE already share:  
Your wax does humane figures bear.  
But if as that great Artist did, you'd give  
Your charming Images the power to live.  
You need not steal your fire above,  
I'll furnish you with that of love.    

TO BELINDA, On Her Recovery from her Fever.  
AS men when stormy winds begin to rise,  
And threatening Clouds o'er cast the gloomy Skies;  
By fears of future want, and death oppressed,  
Their suppliant eyes and hands to Heaven addressed,  
Beg a reprieve, and speak in tears the rest.  
So when Belinda's danger waked our fears,  
With vows our prayers, with sighs we mixed our tears;  
And humbly asked, relenting fate would Spare  
To blast the early beauties of the Fair.  
Nor vain has been the wish; she lives to know  
What she to us, what we to Heaven owe.  
She Lives: nor has the deadly ill decayed,  
Those Graces, which in all her Features played.  
Her sparkling Eyes their wont lustre dart.  
Her every look can still command a Heart.  
Unblasted Roses in her cheeks appear,  
And out-blown-Lillys spread their glories there.  
Her coral lips those downy seats of bliss  
With the same ardour wanton Zephirs kiss.  
Till forced from thence, to her white neck they go,  
And wondering view the yet unmelted Snow.  
There stay to gaze, like us amazed to find  
Where fire so lately raged, That left behind.  
Unchanged in all things, she with cold disdain  
Still hears her Lovers of their fate complain;  
Remembers not those pains she lately bore:  
But frowns, and loads unhappy us with more.  
Yet since Belinda lives we gladly die,  
Proud such a treasure at that rate to buy.  
So Curtius once into Earth's bowels road,  
And to his own, preferred a public good.   

To a Gentleman that was looking for his Spectacles whilst they were on his Nose.  
SIR,  

I Own, yours is a loss  
That would any man cross,  
Because I don't think I ere knew one,  
Who could justly deny  
That a false eye  
Was good, when one wanted a true one.   

Your Spectacles lay  
(As a man may so say,)  
Before your eyes only to blind 'em.  
So that it must be granted  
Their assistance you wanted,  
Were they for nothing else but to find 'em.    

TO A LADY Whose Smock-Sleeves were dirty and tucked up.  
FROM Monsieur De VOITURE.  

YOU Mopsa, who within Your Sleeve  
A Thousand Lovers entertain,  
Will you no neater lodging give  
To all your fawning, cringing train?   

There's no one doubts but that you may  
By right of Conquest, every Spark  
You have subdued, in Prison lay;  
But let it not be quite so dark.   

You keep my heart in dungeon too  
Like Malefactor to be used,  
Which, though devoted so to You,  
You have to ashes even reduced;   

I burning day and night have driven  
The Smoke into that place I fear;  
And that the fire of my Love  
Has made itself a Chimney there.    

A Latin Epig. Translated.  
PHyllis and Acon Shine with equal grace,  
Whilst but one Eye adorns each lovely Face.  
Thy Starry light to Her bright Youth impart,  
Thus she'll be Venus, whilst thou Cupid art.   

TO DORINDA ON VALENTINE 's Day.  

LOok how, my dear, the feathered kind  
By mutual caresses joined,  
Bill; and seem to teach us two,  
What we to love, and custom owe.   

Shall only You and I forbear  
To meet and make a happy pair?  
Shall we alone delay to live?  
This day an age of bliss may give.   

But Ah! when I the proffer make  
Still coily you refuse to take.  
My heart I dedicate in vain,  
The too mean present you disdain.   

Yet since the solemn time allows  
To choose the object of our vows;  
Boldly I dare profess my flame,  
Proud to be Yours by any Name.    

The Snowball.  

FAir Julia at my breast took aim,  
Then threw the gathered snow;  
Secure I dreaded thence no flame,  
Yet feel it burn me now.   

By nature cold it chills the veins.  
But when by Julia thrown,  
In the hot Feavourish blood it reigns  
With heat before unknown.   

My heart, bright Nymph, Your Beauty's due  
I offer at Your feet,  
Since reconciled by Love and You  
Even contraries can meet.   

Ah! let me not the torment know  
Of unallayed desire,  
In vain, in vain with Ice or snow  
You strive to quench the fire.   

'Tis You alone must cool the heat  
Which You alone could give.  
With equal flames my wishes meet  
If You would have me live.    

ODE the XI. Out of the First Book of Hor.  Tu ne qvaesieris etc. 
NEver tease thy Fair self ('tis all madness,) to know  
When or how my Dear Nymph to the Shades we shall go.  
Do not trouble old Partridge to rummage his Volumes  
And cast his fine Figures, or such what d'ye call'ums.  
For tho' to a minuit he could tell you your date,  
You'd be ne'er the less fearful to grapple with fate.  
Let us then thank the Gods for the Years that are past,  
Whether this winter we feel, be the last  
We shall hear stormy Boreas' bluster and roar;  
Or Heaven will fling us in one, or two more.  
Fill a brimmer, brave Girl, here's a health to old Time,  
But to think we can stop his career is a crime.  
He's too cunning for us, while we prattle and sip,  
He has taken his heels and gin' us the slip.  
If Yov've bills upon him, take 'em down on the nail,  
Tick not till to morrow, for fear he should fail.   

To a LADY whom I had the misfortune to hit as I was playing at Bowls.  

THat You, dear Nymph, have charms unknown,  
Both I and all the world must own:  
And that they are attractive too.  
But little did I think my Bowl  
Would Sympathetically roll,  
To the same place I used to do.   

Had this but been a ball of Gold,  
As was the famous one of old  
Contended for by th' matchless Three.  
My wonder I had strait laid by,  
And owned I knew the reason why,  
It came so readily to Thee.   

Dorinda do not stand so nigh,  
For if, to th' mark, it is the Eye  
Alone, that does direct our aim.  
Then I shall be undone by You,  
For whilst 'tis you take up my View,  
My bowl will bias there again.    

On a LADY who was almost Burnt to Death, whilst She was at Prayers in Her Closet.  

WIth fervent zeal the pious matron prayed,  
And her whole Soul in thought to Heaven conveyed.  
Intent on God her busy mind  
In holy raptures thither soared,  
All earthly mixture left behind  
Prepared to meet the bridal Lord.  
But while with oil her care the Lamp supplies,  
The greedy flames her Body make their prize.   

Yet Heaven who by this Ordeal trial found  
How earnest were her prayers, her faith how sound  
Relieved the almost Martyred Saint,  
And (tho' it proved her) rather chose  
She her reward a while should want,  
Than we the great example lose.  
Else had she shared that happy Prophet's fate  
Who snatched to Heaven in flames, forsook this mortal state.    

Upon BELINDA's having the Toothache.  

REstless you lay upon Your bed,  
The pillow did Your arm sustain,  
Your hand supporter of your head  
Can no way ease the cruel pain.   

The busy Zephirs once did wait  
To mix with an uncommon air,  
They hung upon your lips, and straight  
They rudely pressed, and entered there.   

A tender constitutioned Tooth  
Used to one constant, sweeter breeze,  
Changing as 'twere its clime forsooth,  
Had thereby gotten a disease.   

And the cold Rheum your gums did yield  
Was clearer far than morning dew,  
Or Crystal drops from rock distilled,  
Or from Your Eyes, that grief e'er drew.   

Your Teeth like Parian marble white,  
Did weep like Parian marble too.  
Sure Sign the day could not be bright  
When such dark clouds hung over You.   

Your cheek too swollen did impair  
The radiant glories of Your Eye,  
As if weak mortals could not bear  
So great a light so nigh.   

Says one 'twas tedious to produce,  
When Young, those Instruments of pain:  
And were I in your case, would choose  
To have them out again.   

Oh! no a tooth from Her, would be  
To Spoil the Music of her song.  
And then the Art would want a Key,  
Which sure is found in her alone.   

I tried if aught upon the ail  
A thousand kisses would prevail,  
Nor vain was my endeavour.  
I pressed the Cheek, and warmed the Gumm,  
Infused a heat, expelled the Rheum,  
And left her as well as ever.    

MARTIAL. Lib. 4. Epig. 22.  
SCarce yet enjoyed, and half afraid to prove  
The melting joys of consummated Love,  
From my embraces leapt the bashful Bride:  
And plunging in the crystal River, tried  
To cool Love's heat, and all her beauties hid.  
But the pure stream betrayed her trembling there,  
Amidst the waves I saw, and knew the fair,  
(Like flowers enclosed in glass:) my ravished sight  
Ran over every part with fresh delight.  
Till eager grown to taste the tempting bliss,  
I dived, and spite of coyness snatched a kiss,  
But the waves clearness made me stop at this.   

TO A LADY That wept for the loss of He little Dog,  
FROM Monsieur De VOITURE.  

BRight Goddess I so much adore,  
And whose assistance I implore,  
Forbear to weep in such a measure.  
If (as they say) Aurora's tears  
Consolidate in gems, my fears  
●ell me You'll lose too vast a treasure.   

Alas! I should too happy grow,  
Too rich, and sums too mighty own,  
Were half these tears but shed for me.  
But see! the lavished pearly drops  
Are thrown away upon poor pupps.  
That Kings and Kingdoms too would buy.   

Bright Cynthia in the Starry Sky,  
Who best can with Your glories vie,  
(Nor yet is Cynthia quite so fair)  
When ever she gins to rise  
Often weeps, and often sighs  
But for a Lover are her Tears.   

If like her You'd weep and sigh,  
You must Your cruelty lay by,  
And your affection better Show,  
Placing it better: like Her, You,  
Must distil the pearly dew  
On all us mortals here below.   

Her pity sure is weakness all  
Who for favourite Shocks can cry,  
With tender finger put in Eye;  
And unconcerned see us men fall.    

The FLATTERER.  
AH! happy King Damocles cries,  
How undisturbed are all thy joys?  
Who seest on thy well furnished board  
whate'er rich nature can afford;  
whate'er luxurious sense can feast,  
Or gratify the Eye, or taste.  
See with what hast the Courtiers run  
To wait on Thee their rising Sun?  
How they observe the awful nod  
Of mighty Thee their only God?  
Thy word can make the poor man great,  
And like the Deity's created.  
Thy frown can change the rich man's fate.  
How beauty, pleasure, ease and Love  
As thy attendants always move.  
Ah! happy King might I but be  
For one short day as great as Thee,  
With joy the next my hated breath  
I would resign to welcome Death.  
Unknowing wretch the King replied,  
Thy wish obtained will soon decide  
Our Happiness; and let thee know  
That I am more a wretch than thou.  
And now in Royal Honours dressed  
Attended to a sumptuous feast  
The mock King goes, where o'er his head  
By the weak tenure of a thread  
He hanging sees the pointed Steal,  
To check the Luxury of is meal.  
Then at the smiling Tyrants feet  
Lays down in haste his Robes of State.  
Not that I so much dread (says he)  
The fatal Sword I yonder see,  
Tho' that be sharp, yet I begin  
To feel more pointed cares within.   

Written in a Young Lady's Waller.  
FAlsely do flattering Poets say  
That all the Gods Love's power obey.  
That whate'er beauty does command  
Its Edicts nothing can withstand.  
Just now, when through my wounded Heart  
From Your fair Eyes Love shot his dart,  
When on your beauteous face I gazed  
At that bright Heaven of charms amazed;  
I would the silent Lyre ha' strung  
To Lays beyond even waller's Song.  
I would, Dorinda, You have set  
Far above his Amoretta,  
Above his Sacharissa too,  
I would have raised more beauteous You.  
And verses made as his complete,  
MY expression soft, my fancy neat,  
Surprising thoughts in every line  
With pleasing turns, like His, should shine.  
The tuneful God refused t' inspire  
My breast with that Poetic fire.  
Which through all Waller's veins did run  
And spite of coldness urged him on.  
When in Pens-hurst's shady Grove,  
He sung of Sidney and of Love.  
Howe'er Dorinda read him through,  
And think when ought you like, You view.  
Had Phoebus done as much for me,  
I would have said the same of Thee.   

A LETTER To a FRIEND, Concerning an University Life.  

RIding to Oxford (Sir) as slow a pace  
Perhaps, as Hackney Steed in no good case  
Can carry; and cold inclinations to the place.  
Like well stayed Alderman whom age had taught  
To move as dull and heavy as his thought,  
Or as his words, when for his brethren's use  
Some city Apothegm he'd produce.  
By that time I Twelve miles from Town had passed,  
Out bolts a Parson in such wondrous haste,  
Rushing through hedge, and leaping over Dike,  
That I for my part never saw the like.  
And straight I asked him if he'd lost his way,  
And what occasion led him thus astray.   

I thought Sir to descry a nearer cut  
To Oxford than was Ever yet found out.  
For if that Place lie in a line direct,  
I know no reason why I should affect  
A Circular road, and not new ways detect.   

Oh! Sir you always while you live must own  
The farthest way about's the nearest home.  
And I believe if you had left your Horse  
To's own discretion you'd ne'er fared the worse.  
For His in this seems greater Far than Yours.  
But if you'll deign to keep along with me—   

Sir I embrace the opportunity.   

Why then allons Monsieur, come on: I guess  
You are a worthy member of that place.  
Pray how d'ye like it, between you and me.  
All things with you, Sir, I suppose agree?   

All very well: how can I choose but love  
That place which no man are could disapprove  
On any just pretence; close by whose side  
The murmuring streams of gentle Isis glide,  
While Zephirs from the neighbouring Hills inspire  
The Soul, and gently fan Poetic fire.  
There free from noise and in a safe recess  
We may enjoy a perfect happiness.   

A perfect Happiness! pray hold a blow  
And let's dispute it out before we go.  
Is their no Helicon but Isis' stream?  
And no Parnassus but the hills You name?  
What must we never benefit mankind,  
Thus to one corner of the World confined?  
Must we consume our Youthful vigorous days  
Fit for employment, in inglorious ease?  
Pray where's the satisfaction that is got  
In letting all men know Your good for nought?   

Why good for nought? cause in a close retreat  
We envy not the glories of the great,  
Free from Ambition, that does toil create.   

Ambition! is the greatest blessing sure  
That man could here enjoy, or Heaven confer.  
How weary would each step of life be gone  
Were't not Ambition that enticed us on?  
This like a ferment working in the vein  
Stirs us to action, but creates no pain.  
Nor is it through a tedious course of ease,  
That we must purchase perfect happiness.  
In business, Sir, You must yourself embroil,  
There is no pleasure if there is no toil,  
'Tis from the ills  undergone, we know  
Whether we're truly happy now or no.  
He that goes always in one even way  
And meets not rubb's that make him turn, or stray,  
No pleasant intervals can e'er enjoy,  
Continued ease will soon itself destroy.  
No fragrant sweetness does attend that rose  
Which you are always holding at Your nose.   

Therefore upon this stage let every man  
Appear with as much credit as he can,  
What tho' success endeavours don't attend,  
And men of business sometimes miss their end.  
It argues still a lofty generous Soul  
Whose hopes no fears could ever yet control.  
'Tis not my business to myself to live.  
There's yet a nobler end at which I drive;  
Else would it seem as I were brought up here,  
To show how insignificant I were.  
With emulation thus we ought to strive,  
And let our stock of fame ourselves survive.  
For 'tis a Satisfaction sure too mean,  
Unactive to pass o'er life's lazy scene,  
And then to be, as if we'd never been.  
In short, it is the duty that You own  
Your Country Sir, to come abroad and show  
Yourself; if you your duty did but know.  
And if without offence it may be said,  
I think it looks as tho' you were ill bred,  
And if 'tis possible, worse taught than fed.   

Nay as for learning Sir, I hope no parts  
Of Europe will pretend to half those Arts,  
In such exact perfection as we do.   

'Tis therefore, Sir, I lay the blame on You.  
For all the stock of learning that You boast  
If not imparted to the World, is lost.  
What tho' the stream be deep and crystal too?  
If like the Nile it don't the land o'erflow.  
The Oar that's treasured up is sure abused;  
And might as well not be, as not be used.  
So Sir d'ye see a f— t for all this stuff,  
Which I and all the World know well enough,  
Will not be worth to e'er a poring sot  
Of all the packing tribe, one single groat.  
Therefore the Stagarite from shelf dismount,  
Des Cartes too; and turn 'em to account.  
Believe me, Sir, if You would get by them,  
Translate 'em to the place from whence they came.  
For I must plainly tell you that success  
Won't follow from the methods you profess.  
For if the gentile learning of the Age  
You're for, from this Yourself first disengage.  
For if old Statutes many years ago  
Compiled, are to direct your studies now,  
When those who made 'em had a different taste  
Of Learning, than the world at present has:  
With straight girt doublet then may N— on huff,  
And swagger with his Ears beneath a ruff,  
Were open trowsers (as they used to do  
Two hundred years since) and be still a Beaux.  
This difference indeed may be supposed  
Between You both; he onlyed be exposed  
To th' laughter of the gazing crowd, but You,  
To ridicule and disadvantage too.  
And that from the 〈…〉  
From what th' old Stagarite had used to give  
With greater Ease, than e'er he could believe.   

Sir I'll maintain the Rawest Youngster there  
Whom too fond Parent's over forward care  
Removed from Rod tothth' University,  
(As surely thinking that the tender tree  
If once transplanted to another Soil,  
Would answer's expectations and his toil.)  
Even this Spark five terms at least, before  
HE has taken a degree; and full Ten more  
Before he has deserved it; shall adore  
Those Ancient Sots, whose whimsick brain alone  
Found out Dame Nature's ways before unknown,  
Whereby she acted, or at least she might have done.  
To their opinions having his confined,  
With bold assurance he thwarts all mankind:  
Thinks he can't err while in their steps he goes,  
Tho' on what grounds he follows, he scarce knows.  
And may to meritorious faith pretend,  
Whilst he believes what he can't comprehend.  
He never Stoops so low as common sense  
Too mean a quarry for his just pretence.  
And thinks all us illiterate clowns, and fools,  
Who talk not in the jargon of the Schools.  
But give me leave to tell him he's undone.  
And were he sensible how Far he had run  
In a wrong course, he gladly would return.  
He'd come abroad where looking all around  
At the first view he would his sense confound.  
Start like Columbus on his new found shore,  
At th' sight of People he ne'er saw before.  
Pleased with discoveries he had made, he'd cry  
He'd found a part o'th' world as well as Herald  
Thus much I'm sure he could not choose but own,  
He'd found a part of it to Him unknown.  
More I'd ha' said but Parson in a huff  
Thus Syllogistically cut me off.   

Sir since I know not where to mend my lot,  
'tis best to be content with what I've got  
Ergo, d'ye see Sir, I'll not Stir a jot.   
FINIS.   

ERRATA.  
PAge 12. line 20 for wise, r. Wise. p. 25. l. 2. seize, r. seize. p. 34. l. 1. there, r. their. l. 14. lose, r. lose. p. 35. l. 1. r. Impostor. p. 51. l. 9 supprissed, r. suppressed. p. 52. l. 16. amazed, r. amazed. p. 55. l. 2. to, r. too. p. 64. l. 11. Id'as, r. Ida's. p. 68 l. 3. to, r. too. p. 78. l. 4. far, r. fair. p. 80. omit the point that follows stream. p. 82. Pray r. prey. p. 92. l. 11. could, r. I could. p. 109. l. 14. radiant, r. radiant.