THere is lately Published, Miscellaneous Letters and Essays, on several Subjects. Philosophical, Moral, Historical, Critical, Amorous, etc. in Prose and Verse. Directed to John Dryden, Esp; the Honourable George Granvill, Esq Walter Moyle, Esq Mr. Dennis, Mr. Congreve, and other Eminent Men of th' Age. By several Gentlemen and Ladies.  
Printed for Benj. Bragg, at the White Hart, over against Waterlane, Fleetstreet.   

CHORUS POETARUM: OR, POEMS ON Several Occasions.  

BY THE  
Duke of Buckingham, the late Lord Rochester,  
Sir John Denham,  
Sir Geo. Etheridge,  
Andrew Marvel, Esq  
The famous Spencer,  
Madam Behn,   
And several other Eminent Poets of this Age.  
Never before Printed.  
LONDON: Printed for Benjamin Bragg, at the White Hart, over against Waterlane in Fleetstreet. MDCLX●XIV.   

THE Epistle Dedicatory, TO Sir FLEETWOOD SHEPPARD.  
SIR,  
INnovation lies under so very Scandalous a Name, that to break an old Custom, tho' never so Erroneous, is esteemed little less than the profannest of Sacriledgies, So necessary we think it to believe our Ancestors wiser, than ourselves! This makes me afraid to turn out of that beaten Path, my Predecessors in Dedications, have made the Via Regia for us to tread; they have fixed the Custom of rarely, or never-speaking Truth to our Patrons, and I should be convicted of too open a breach of this, by more Witnesses than the Law requires, if I should in this Epistle attempt your Praise; because all, that have the Happiness of an Intimacy with you, know, and all that have heard of you believe your Merit deserves the greatest. Besides I should incur the Imputation of that intolerable Impertinence some News-Mongers are so guilty of, in repeating, with abundance of Ceremony, what all the World knew before: And to tell my Readers that Sir FLEETWOOD is a Man of admirable Address, and vicacity in Conversation, that his Reflections are both Judicious and Pleasant; that he knows not only Himself, but the World too; and other Truths, too numerous to particularise, would be but a dull Repetition of what his daily Converse has already, and every moment does prove ten thousand times more effectually; for,  
Segnius iritant animos demissa per Aurem  
Quam quae sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus, et quae  
Ipse sibi tradit Spectator.—  
The World Loves to hear something new, something not heard of before, viz. That such a Miser is a liberal Maecenas; such a thoughtless pert Debochee, a Man of Honour, Temperance, Justice and Generosity; such a stigmatised Sot, a Man of Address and Wit: But I must inform 'em that the threadbare Authors have found, even that Method ineffectual; all the Dedicator can say, will not persuade the Parsimonious Patron to be liberal, or the Town to think him so: all his forced Encomiums on his Sense, will scarce make him so much a Man of Wit, as to rise above some little paltry Present; for with Authors, Sir, as well as Whores,  Res est, crede mihi, ingeniosa DARE. 
And whatever the World may think their Brains, their Gold will be always sterling with the Poets.  
I esteem myself more happy in the Choice of your Patronage, because it secures me from Scandalously incurring the same Follies and Vices I condemn in others. But as I have no common Patron in Sir FLEETWOOD SHEPPARD; so I will not treat you like one, I'll endeavour to imitate You, Sir, that is, entertain you agreeably, as you do all your Friends. But I'm not so vain, as to mean this of any thing I have, or shall say in this Dedication: no, I leave that lucky Assurance to our brisker Authors, who full of themselves, and the University, set up Dogmaticly to assert their own Excellence, and the Follies of all others; let them think to atone for their own nauseous Translations, by railing at the poor Beaux, and crown themselves with Laurel, for having wretchedly attaqu'd those despicable Animals. The Entertainment, Sir, that I propose, is the following Collection of Verses, where you'll find both Variety and Excellence; for a great many of the ensuing Poems merit that Title.  
If there can be a Definition given us of Wit, and good Poetry, I'm sure the Praise and Fate of Authors are not really so Arbitrary, as they are generally made. I have frequently heard Men, who have in their Performances excelled, censure others, very positively, without giving any Reason for what they said; when in those very things they exploded, there have concurred all they ever required to a good Poem, Propriety, and Noble Boldness of Thought and Expression, the Images daring, and natural, etc. and in Discourses, the Arguments demonstrative, and succinct; the Reflections Just and Brillant. On the other hand, I have seen Authors, meet with a very welcome Reception in the World, who in my Opinion have but a slender pretence to Merit. Whose works are like St. James' Park on a Sunday or Holiday, a strange Extravagant Medley, here a heap of dull Insipid Stuff, with a pert Air, like a Company of heavy, gaudy fluttering awkered City Prentices, with their Swords tied up to their Middles; there a dull Thought drossed in an effected Expression, like Miss in her Holiday Garb, as stiffly adjusted as her Father's Beard, when he goes to the Change, or a Sermon. There a false glittering Reflection, set off with the Emphatic Mein of a suburb Harlot to engage the straggling Shopkeeper on his Dominical day of Vacation from Cheating; besides a thousand other congergated Blunders, like the Flood of the undistinguished Mob, that laboriously contribute their share of bustle to the raising a Dust and Noise, as well as the Spleen.  
But if the World would receive the Standard of Wit and Excellence given us by so good a Judge, as Mr. Dryden, viz. Propriety of Thoughts and Words, or the Thoughts and Words elegantly adapted to Subject, Authors would meet with a much different Fate, from what they have of late. They would not build their Reputation on any Faction, and challenge Wit from the supposed Justice of the Cause they espouse; from the Eminent Man they have the Impudence to attaque; or the Elimosinary Verses of their established Acquaintance, the Tribute of their Friendship, not Judgement; from the Extravagance of the Paradox they advance, or in short, from the Assurance of their own parts; but only from their true and innate Worth, as they equalled, or fell short of the Standard of Excellence. This I desire should be the guide of the Reader's Censure of the following Verses; not that I've any Hope my own Will escape the better by this means; for I confess myself beforehand, so far from a Poet, that I don't think myself so; I know by experience, that the Muse has too much of the Jilt of that Sex, she's represented of, to one that has no Money; Want starves Poetry, as well as pleasure; and an empty Purse will never win one of the nine Sisters to the Arms of their greatest Admirer. They are like other Temporary Friends, flying from our distress, and quitting us like our Shadows, as soon as the Sun withdraws. I have met with too many Misfortunes, and too few Friends to have Sedateness, and Freedom of Mind, enough to write, as I could wish; without the Golden Bough, there's no Being  
— Led through the Cumaean Cave,  
To hearth ' impatient Maid divinely rave.  
Yet notwithstanding this, I have presumed to insert some of my own Verses in this Miscellany, whose Fate I shall not be over-solicitous for; hoping I may hereafter be able to produce something, my Enemies will not so easily condemn. I shall leave the whole, Sir, without any farther Apology, to your Candour, and good Humour, who can not only distinguish betwixt the Manners of the Authors you read, and their Wit; but also allow the Merit of the Performance, where you, and all honest Men, must condemn the Subject, 'tis to this Candour, and Generous Temper of yours, Sir, that, with the Book, I commit myself, who am,  
SIR, Your Humble Servant, CHARLES GILDON.   

Advertisement TO THE READER.  
AMongst my other Misfortunes I have lately met with an Adventure, which, for the time I confess troubled me more, than any thing that ever befell me. A dull Impertinent Abuse of several of those Gentlemen, I had publicly declared myself an admirer of, being thrust into the Epistle Dedicatory of the second Volume of the Lady's Letters, Some were pleased very unjustly to lay it at my Door. I'm too sensible of my own defects to be so Mortified at the despicable Opinion those Gentlemen had of my sense, who believed it; but I confess I was sensibly touched with the Scandalous Judgement they made of my Morals, which I do without Arrogance pretend to be as Orthodox as any Man's, how Heterodox soever my other Opinions may be thought by some. I speak this so publicly to satisfy those whose Friendship I value, and whose Merit I have ever allowed, and cannot be bribed by the justest Resentment to deny or lessen. I wish the Opiniated Author of the Epistle, would be as just in the owning his Brat, as he was unjust in its Production.   

POEMS ON Several Occasions.   

ON His Majesty's Conquests IN IRELAND.  
Made immediately after the Victory at Sea, 1692.  

HOW great a Transport is a brave Man in,  
When echoing Trumpets bid the Fight begin?  
With Joy, the listening Warrior hears them sound,  
And rears himself, all ravished, from the Ground:  
He grasps his Sword, and lifts his ponderous Shield,  
And big with Joy, flies to the fatal Field:  
The God of War his heated Breast inspires,  
And his glad Soul swells to receive the Fires:  
Already, he descries the distant Plain,  
Already seems to view the horrid Scene,  
Hear clashing Spears, and Groans of dying Men.  
Such was our Monarches transport at the Boyne:  
There, Nassau, all the Work was Heaven's, and thine.  
Thyself the foremost, like the leading God,  
Thy Soldiers gladly followed through the Flood;  
Bending the Waves beneath them with their Tread,  
They raised a Tempest, tho' the Winds were laid.  
Each Army, like a well-appointed Fleet,  
Cut through the rapid Streams, and mid way met;  
Whilst from both Shore's the thundering Ordnance speaks,  
In louder Sounds, than those of Brazen Beaks.  
All Elements, Fire, Water, Earth and Air,  
Join in the fight, and mingle in the War.  
Clouds of black Smoke the face of Heaven obscure,  
The Earth is shaken, and the dashed Waters roar;  
Hundreds are swallowed up, the furious Tide,  
With a strong Current, rowls away the Dead.  
Already they have shot the Gulf of Death,  
And need no Wastage over Lakes beneath;  
Fate stretched himself, and both the Banks bestride,  
Fixing a deadly foot on either side,  
Whilst underneath his Arch the River flowed,  
Whose Waters risen up to him, swelled with Blood;  
By thousand differing ways, a thousand fall,  
See Death in all its forms, and dire in all.  
The Stately Youth, that stood erect but now,  
Struck by the mortal Dart, are leveled low;  
Whole Heads and Arms are lopped, the shivering Spear  
Strikes its sharp Splinters through the wounded Air;  
All instruments of Death the Fates employ,  
Whom the Swords spare, the Waters do destroy.  
From dying Chiefs the River gains a Fame,  
But Sconberg gives it an immortal Name:  
Bred up in Camps, inur'd to horrid Wars,  
Loaden with Fame and Honour, as with Years;  
Brave as he lived, the good old General fell,  
And his great Master did revenge him well.  
O! had thy mighty shade been by t'have seen  
What Troops of Ghosts he sent to wait on thine,  
Thy thankful Genius would his steps attend,  
The best of Masters, and the bravest Friend;  
To him thy Art of Conquering would bequeath,  
Who fought to make thee famous in thy Death:  
For whilst the Waters of the Boyne shall flow,  
Succeeding Ages shall remember you.   

Soldiers and Chiefs without distinction drop,  
Only the King, stood as Immortal up;  
Around thy Head a thousand Deaths did fly,  
Spent in the Air; the boldest destiny  
Durst only touch thee in its passage by.  
Thy stronger Genius did the stroke decline,  
Fate had the power of every Life but thine.  
Heroes on either side rush dauntless on;  
The day is vanished ere the Battle's done.  
Groans of fallen Soldiers mount up to the Skies,  
Compassionate Echoes answer to their Cries.  
Whole heavens concerned, as 'twere itself in fight,  
And diseased Nature sickens at the sight;  
Nought stops the merc'less Victor in his course,  
Strongly he urges on th' Impetuous Horse,  
And bears down all with a resistless force:  
So swiftly does he drive the flying Steed,  
That Victory can scarce keep equal speed.  
Heaven lookswith pity on the mighty Dead,  
And grieved to see so many thousands bleed,  
Spreads the thick Veil of Night, to keep themhid.  
The Sun went down with an unwonted red;  
Bloody he looked, as if himself had bled.  
He seemed to fall in the same famous Stream;  
Our Nassau fought, and seemed to fall by him.  
Those very waters where the God lay Drowned,  
Our greater Hero passed and went beyond.  
The Heavens withdraw their Lustre, and their Fires  
And day itself, the last of all, expires.  
Night, Horror, and Confusion, fill the Plain,  
Darkness and Death, shut in the gloomy Scene.   

Winds waft the dreadful Tidings round their Coast;  
Aloud they tell them how their Isle is lost;  
Bid them take Wings, and fly in haste away,  
The Conqerour comes on, as Swift as they.  
Fierce, and Resistless, through the Land he past;  
His Fame, and he seemed to make equal haste.  
At his approach th' affrighted Realm is shaken,  
The chiefest Cities yield without a Stroke.  
To the proud Walls of Lmrick, Siege he lays,  
Which nought but Winter had the power to raise.  
The gathering Clouds do warn him to be gone,  
And timely show the Tempetst drawing on.  
His Orders for a brave Retreat are given,  
The Pious Hero only yields to Heaven.  
So Tyre stopped Alexander's eager haste;  
Withstood him for a while, tho' won at last.  
Now-he returns from the half vanquished Isle;  
And seeks in Foreign Camps for nobler Toil.  
He leaves his Army to his General's Care,  
And shows the ways, they must pursue the War.  
With the vast help of the dread Nassau's Name,  
His gallant Chiefs purchase their share of Fame.  
They Fought secure of Honour, and Success;  
The Cause was Heavens, and the Army his.  
Conquest is easier made, when once begun;  
Like high swollen waters, when the Sluice is drawn,  
The Torrent from a far comes rolling on.   

To distant Realms his conquering Arms he bears,  
And Hostile Lands are made the Seat of Wars.  
On him, and us these Blessings are bestowed,  
Peace flourishes at home, and War abroad.  
Disdainful Princes are compelled to bow;  
And haughty France gins to feel us now.  
With Powers unequal, they a War maintain,  
Compelled already to Resign the Main.  
The greatest Navy they could ever Boast,  
The work of thirty years, one Conflict lost.  
Both Fleets encountered with Impetuous Shocks,  
Resounding as the waves, that dash the Rocks.  
The Cann on roared as loud as did the Seas,  
And Fire, and Smoak rolled o'er the Ocean's Face,  
Some sunk, some scattered through the watery Field,  
And some from farther flight disabled Yield.  
Once more, we're Sovereign Masters of the Sea,  
And have our Passage to Invasion Free.  
On the proud Foe, we may our Armies pour,  
Resistless as the Seas, that wash their shore.  
Again, we may recover Empire there:  
England can do it, and its Monarch dare.  
'Tis he must pull the growing Tyrant down;  
'Tis he will lead the British Armies on.  
Go all you gallant Youths, your Arms prepare,  
Go with your Royal Leader to the War.  
Yours is the Right, with Conquest make your Claim,  
And raise at once, your Fortunes and your Fame.  
None but old Men confined within our Isles,  
And tender Maids, unfit for mighty Toils.  
Albion unpeopled, need not fear Surprise,  
Heaven has Created it a Guard of Seas.  
The Aged Sires to Altars shall repair,  
And with a Pious Force, win Heaven by Prayer.  
The sighing Virgins shall your absence mourn,  
And every Beauty beg your safe return.  
With Vows and Tears, assenting Heaven shall move,  
And that shall Crown your Arms, and they your Love.  
Thrice happy Victors destined to receive  
What Heaven, and heavenly Beauty has to give.  
But one, by far surpassing all the rest,  
Shall make her much loved Naffau chief Blest.  
The Queen of Britain, and of Beauty smiles,  
And thanks her Conquering Warrior for his Toils.  
Each rowlling day, new Honours does prepare;  
Gives him new Glory, adds new Charms to her.  
He Reaps the noble Harvest of the Field,  
And gives her all the Crop that it can yield.  
Thus whilst his wreaths, thy lovely Temples bind,  
And all the Laurel Crowns he won, are thine;  
And all by Crowning thee become Divine;  
From every Part shall vanquished Princes come;  
Thou shall pronounce the Royal Captives doom.  
Each Vassal shall bow down his suppliant knee,  
And all the Earth receive their Laws from thee.   

Tune then your Jo Paeans to their praise,  
To our great King eternal Trophies raise.  
Let the good Dorset all his Fights rehearse;  
The noblest Actions, in the noblest verse.  
Let the best Pencil draw him as he stood,  
Repelling Fate, and the surrounding Flood.  
Paint him Triumphant over Earth, and Sea,  
Paint him so great, as all may know 'tis he.  
All his loved Subjects watch his wished return,  
Prepare his Triumphs, and his Throne adorn;  
Pour all your Treasure out beneath his Feet.  
And be your Payment, as your Debt is, great.  
Supply him from your unexhausted Store.  
So brave a Prince never led you forth before.  
Preserve him, Heaven, from all the rage of War?  
Divert the threating point of every Spear;  
Shield him, some God, and let no Shaft come near.    

To AMARILLIS.  
Out of the Anthologia of the Italian Poets.  
SEven Summer Heats, and Winter's Frosts are past,  
Since, Amarillis, I beheld you last:  
Yet, nor the Winter's Frosts, nor frequent Rains,  
Can quench my Fires, or cool my burning pains;  
Nor the seven Summers, with their scorching heat,  
Expel my Flames, or make my Love abate.  
You, when the dawning day gins to break,  
Are my first Song; yours, the first name I speak:  
And when the mounting Sun has reached his height▪  
From his Meridian, shining warm, and bright;  
My Morning Theme at Midday I rehearse:  
You fill my Numbers, and inspire my Verse.  
Then when encroaching Night comes hastening on,  
The shadows length'ning, as the Sun goes down;  
Still their first Theme my constant Songs pursue,  
And all I talk, and think, is still of you.  
You, in my Dreams, my flattered Arms enfold;  
Oh! that those Dreams, that sooth me so, could hold:  
But they once gone, and Day again in view,  
With the renewing Light, my Pains renew:  
I fly my House, as that increased my Grief,  
And yet in open Air, find no relief;  
O'er Hills, and Dales, through every conscious Grove,  
Born by my restless Passion, on I Rove,  
Aloud complaining; with my piteous Moans,  
I fill the sounding Rocks, and tyre the listening Stones.  
Echo alone, my loud complaints, returns,  
Echo alone, with kind condoleance mourns.  
Oft as the Sighs from my heaved Heart arise,  
From neighbouring Caves, as often she replies,  
Shares more than half my Wees, redoubling all my Cries.  
Oft as some rugged Clift's ascent I gain,  
And thence look downward on the distant main;  
Mad as the Billows of the foaming Sea,  
To the regardless Waves, and Winds, I pray:  
Paying wild Vows to the fair Nymphs, that keep  
Their wat'ry Courts around the spacious Deep.  
The Sea, and Sea-green Nereids I implore,  
To waste me safely to the wished for Shoar;  
But should that prove too much for them to give,  
For me, too great a Favour to receive;  
Still, let me go, tho' to be wrecked, and lost,  
If even my wreck itself, may reach her Coast.  
How often do I bless the Zephyrs flight,  
Which steers them to my lovely Charmer's sight?  
‛ Wish that no Rocks may their soft Pinions tear,  
Nor Clouds oppose their passage through the Air;  
But that, securely, they their wings may move,  
Securely bear the message of my Love.  
Tell Amaryllis how her Daphnis dies,  
Express my Passion, and repeat my Sighs.  
How oft, to Winds, whose swift moved Pinions sweep,  
In their return from thence, the yielding Deep,  
Did you, I cry, my Amaryllis see?  
And did she? did she once remember me?  
Does she not yet, all thoughts of Love resign?  
Or are they, are they still unmoved like mine?  
But the Deaf Winds, on which hoarse Murmurs fly,  
And raging o'er the Seas, make no reply;  
O'er my abandoned Head, away they bear,  
And leave me motionless, with Grief, and Fear.  
Nor can the pastimes of my fellow Swains;  
Nor Damsels dancing on the flowery Plains;  
Nor Songs of Sylvan Gods, compose my Soul,  
Where Amaryllis has usurped it whole.   

To CHRISTINA, Queen of Sweden.  
By Mr. Marvel. 
BEllipotens virgo, septem Regina trienum,  
Christina, Arctoi lucida stella poli;  
Cernis quas merui dura sub casside rugas,  
Utque senex armis impiger or a fero.  
Invia fatorum dum per vestigia nitor,  
Exequor & populi fortia jussa manu;  
At tibi submittit frontem reverentior umbra,  
Nec sunt hi vultus regibus usque truces.   
Englished by Sir F. S. 
BRight Martial Maid, Queen of the frozen Zone,  
The Northern Pole supports thy shining Throne.  
Behold what Furrows Age, and Steel can blow;  
The Helmet's weight oppressed this wrinkld Brow.  
Through Fates untrodden Paths I move, my Hands  
Still act my Freeborn People's bold Commands;  
Yet this stern Shade, to you submits his Frowns,  
Nor are these Looks always severe to Crowns.    

On the late Sickness of Madam MOHUN, and Mr. CONGREVE.  
EPIGRAM.  
ONE fatal Day, a Sympathetic Fire  
Seized him, that writ, and her that did inspire.  
Mohun, the Muse's Theme, their Master Congreve,  
Beauty, and Wit, had like to've lain in one Grave.   

On a Lady's Arrival from Holland.  
ALL things move forward, with a prosperous Breeze,  
And none but gentle Zphyrs swell the Seas,  
Whilst the proud Ship its pompous load conveys.  
Holland, with Grief, surrenders up the Fair,  
And we, with Pride and Joy, receive Her here;  
While in one bottom, they resign their store,  
And by enriching us, themselves grow poor:  
Much to those generous Provinces we own,  
For Heroes much, but more for Beauty now.  
Abroad your Warriors conquer with their Arms,  
And here alike, you conquer with your Charms;  
While hourly in your crowded ways you meet  
The Youth of Britain bleeding at your Feet.  
In War the vanquished Foes for Mercy sue,  
And we bow down for pity here to you:  
Alike in Power, you Life or Death afford,  
The conquering Beauty, or the conquering Sword.   

Engraved on a Medal of the French King ' s.  

PRoximus & similis regnas, Lodoice, Tonanti,  
Vim summam, summâ cum pietate geris;  
Optimus expansis alis, at maximus armis,  
Protegis hinc Anglos, Teutones inde feris.  
Quin coeant toto Ti'ania foedera Rheno;  
Illa aquilam tantum, Gallia fulmen habet.   

Englished thus:  
SEcond to Jove alone, in whom unite  
Unbounded Virtue, with unbounded Might.  
Whether to secure Innocents' oppressed,  
Or quell those Monsters which the World infest:  
In vain the Titans against Heaven combine,  
In vain the Imbattled Squadrons crossed the Rhine,  
Theirs is the Eagle, but the Thunder's thine.    

A Letter from two Gentlemen in the Country to a Friend in the City.  
WHile we in Country Conversation 
Note, that the different Print distinguishes what each writes. That in the Roman is writ by the Knight, that in the Italic by the Squire.   
Hear strange odd stories of the Nation,  
Without one word of right Relation:  
You have the Truth of what befalls  
The heavy Dutch, and active Gauls:  
Which Side has got the best in Battles,  
And which has lost their Goods and Chattels.  
You've all the Wit too that is sown,  
In Speech and Pamphlet o'er the Town;  
But lest at some unlucky Time,  
You may want something new in Rhyme,  
We'll tell you how the Day and Night,  
Is spent betwixt the SQUIRE and KNIGHT.  
Th'Account is true, as Gospel Text,  
I writ the first Line, I the next.  
Singly you ought to trust to neither,  
Yet you may credit both together.  
We make a shift to rise as early,  
As he that dreamt of Mrs. Farly.  
After short Conference held with Heaven,  
(For Country-Sins are soon forgiven;)  
Each takes his Book, the best beloved,  
SQUIRE takes Lucretius; KNIGHT takes Ovid.  
We're now Inventing, now Translating,  
And sometimes Drinking, sometimes Eating.  
I writing Loves of Lady's Errand,  
I signing Country Bumkins Warrant;  
Till Dinner calls, where, after Grace,  
The KNIGHT puts on his serious Face,  
Yet lays about, and eats apace.  
The same Grace after, as before,  
For neither I, nor I, have more.  
We rise, and go to what we please,  
Have several sports for several days,  
And faith we live in Mirth and Ease.  
In Town you're fine Folk; yet we'll tell you,  
In what we Country Folk excel you.  
Here's no damned Mischief to be gotten;  
No Gallant clapped, no Mistress rotten.  
Green Grass contents the humble Lovers,  
And Shades of Haycocks are our Covers:  
Our Lasses, what they want in Beauty,  
Make out in faithful Love and Duty.  
'Twixt you and I, KNIGHT, Love's a leap,  
Where he can have it sound and cheap;  
But hates to waste his little Riches,  
On jilting Sluts, and pocky Bitch's.  
Believe me, Jack, in what is true,  
He has a better— than you,  
Which I admire you never knew.  
Now let out Services be given,  
To all our Friends on this side Heaven.  
We've nought to say to those gone thither,  
Or elsewhere fled, the Lord knows whither:  
Let them enjoy what e'er can flow,  
From Bliss, which they alone must know,  
We're content to stay below.  
As Merchants deal with Indian Rabbles,  
And sell them Bells, and such like Baubles;  
And so the Knaves by every Trangam,  
Get Gold and Jewels, marry hang'em.  
We send you here a Doggrel Letter,  
From you, expecting much a better.  
Which we with eagerness solicit,  
The greatest Favour next, a Visit.  
But that we fear's too great a Toil,  
Nor would you think it worth your while,  
To change good Wine, and handsome Whores,  
For Drink, and Doodies, such aś ours.  
Our Friends, we never will importune,  
To loss of Pleasures, or of Fortune;  
Nor too much urge you to forsake all,  
The Joys, we can't pretend to equal.  
May all good Fortune still caress you,  
And Wine and Women join to bless you.  
Beauty consult all Charms to fire you,  
As Knight, and I conspire to tyre you.  
That Thought came timely, by my troth,  
And at this juncture well for both.  
The tedious Writer bear the trouble,  
In spite, to give the Reader double.   
By Madam Behn. 

I.  
THE Gods are not more blest than he,  
Who fixing his glad Eyes on thee,  
With thy bright Rays his Senses cheers,  
And drinks with ever thirsty Ears:  
The charming Music of thy Tongue,  
Does ever hear, and ever long;  
That sees with more than humane Grace;  
Sweet Smiles adorn thy Angel Face.   

II.  
But when with kinder Beams you shine,  
And so appear much more Divine:  
My feeble sense, and dazzled Sight,  
No more support the Glorious Light,  
And the fierce Torrent of Delight.  
Oh! than I feel my Life decay,  
My ravished Soul then flies away;  
Then Faintness does my Limbs surprise,  
And Darkness swims before my Eyes.   

III.  
Then my Tongue fails, and from my Brow  
The Liquid Drops in Silence flow:  
Then wandering Fires run through my Blood:  
Then Cold binds up the languid Flood.  
All Pale and Breathless than I lie,  
I sigh, I tremble, and I die.    

To the Precise Cloris.  
A Paraphrase on the beginning of the last Chorus in Seneca's Oedipus.  

FAtis agimur, cedite Fatis,  
Non solicitae possunt curae  
Mutare rati stamina fusi,  
Quicquid patimur mortale genus,  
Quicquid faeimus venit ex alto,  
Omnia certo tramite vadunt,  
Primusque dies dedit extremum.   

SUbmit to Fate, 'tis her Tyrannic Reign,  
Against whose blind Decrees, Man strives in vain;  
Not all his Anxious Cares, nor searching Skill,  
Can change, or move her Arbitrary Will.  
'Tis from above that all our Actions flow,  
To Partial Fate, what e'er we bear, we own;  
To certain Roads all things confined we see,  
And each Man's first day does his last decree.  
Cease then your fruitless Sighs, your Vows, and Tears,  
The Gods are deaf to wretched Mortals Prayers,  
Or Power, or Will, they want to ease our torturing Cares.  
Sooner shall Priests deserted Virtue love,  
And sooner Princes modest Worth shall move,  
Than Sighs and Prayers, the stubborn Powers above.   

Tell me, vain Biggots, who e'er sound Success;  
In having more, or in suffering less;  
By all your daily, and your nightly Cries,  
Your Fasts, and Penance, and such idle Toys.  
Then be no more by holy Lies misled,  
Of airy Bliss, prepared to feast the Dead;  
But use those few, those wretched Hours you have,  
To please the SENSE, there's nought beyond the Grave.   

Fair Cloris then, lay Biggotry aside,  
Take Sense and Reason for your surer Guide;  
And quit not certain Joys, for Hopes above,  
There's nothing there, as all Men grant, but Love:  
Forestall those Joys then whilst you're here, and try  
How sweet it is to love before you die.  
You so on both sides will be sure to gain,  
For after Life, if naught at all remain,  
You won't have spent your preciousHours in vain.  
But if from hence we pass to endless Love,  
You'll be no Novice in the Joys above.  
Then give a Lose to Fancy, and Desire,  
Let ev'ry soft and Amorous Thought take Fire;  
Commit thy Conduct to indulgent LOVE,  
Ah! then, bright Nymph, (believe me) you will prove  
What melting Raptures, and what ecstasy,  
The God decrees you shall receive from me:  
When all dissolved within thy clasping Arms,  
Thou tast'st my vig'rousLove, I rifle all thyCharms.  
Then both our ravished Souls, shall swiftly rise,  
View and enjoy each other at our Eyes;  
Till mounting Transports wing their mutual flight,  
To leave us drowned in streaming, warm delight;  
Each Phoenix hour, thus in Love's Beams we'll burn  
Which still shall loaden with fresh Joys return,  
And rise more gay from's Aromatic Urn.  
Thus we should live, and thus to live were made,  
Fate brings us Ills enough, without our Aid.    

To his Departing Friend.  By a young Gentleman of Eighteen. 
THey say that Swans, as by the Streams they lie,  
Salute Approaching Fate with Melody;  
But if they lost a thing so dear as thee,  
They sure would spare that charming Obsequy:  
If they but knew what 'tis to lose a Friend,  
They sure would choose then a more silent end.  
The deepest Sorrow in deepest Silence gleams,  
The hottest Fires have still the smallest flames:  
Tho' noisy Grief, a Heart untouched declares,  
Yet piercing Woe may flow in Sighs and Tears.  
'Twou'd be unkind to see a Friend departed,  
Without the Sighs of a forsaken Heart.  
These numerous Sighs, my pregnant Griefs produce,  
Without the help of my ungodly Muse:  
What Sorrow dictates, like a Friend receive,  
Share you the Sorrow, which with me you leave,  
'Tis this is Friendships' sad Prerogative.   

On Cleona, walking in the Sun.  By the same. 
SEE where she walks in the Sun's glowing Ray,  
Casting all round more bright, more beamy Day!  
See how the blushing God in haste retires,  
And in a sullen Cloud hides all his vanquished Fires!  
What Beauty did his flying Daphne grace,  
That shines not brighter in her lovely Face?  
Why then pursues he not this nobler Chase?  
What better Object can his Wishes move?  
'Tis sure his wild Ambition checks his Love:  
Jealous of Empire he her Love declines,  
He sees below how bright her Beauty shines;  
And fears if once exalted to the Skies,  
She'd rob him of his Eastern Sacrifice;  
Make the mad World his fainter Power disown;  
And pay their juster Homage at her Throne.  
For his weak Beams alternately still set,  
And wrap the sad forsaken World in Jet.  
Whilst the strong Glories of Cleona's Eyes,  
Nor dimly set, nor need a brighter Rise.  
These still dart forth their full Meridian Light  
(Without one Cloud, without successive Night)  
To all those happy Zealots, who embrace  
The soft Religion of her Heavenly Face;  
Whilst grosser Infidels, deprived of Sense,  
Want all the numerous Joys her Charms dispense.  
From the black Caverns of eternal Night,  
When Clouds of rising gloom oppressed the Light:  
Thus Israel still enjoyed the cheerful Day,  
And only Aegypt's native Sons in solid Darkness lay.   

Written on a Letter, sent to his Mistress.  
GO, envied Lines, possess a Bliss far higher  
Than I, who send you, dare, alas! aspire:  
You'll kiss her balmy Hands, employ her Eyes,  
For which your fond Endicter hourly dies.  
Preposterous Fate, to cast such Gifts away  
On those, who cannot taste her bounteous Joy,  
Whilst I, who should the mighty Blessing prize,  
Languish to touch her Hands, and gaze upon her Eyes.   

To CUPID.  
A SONG.  
I Know thy Malice, trifling Boy,  
Thou wouldst my Happiness destroy,  
Because Septimius wounded lies,  
Not by thy Darts, but Acme's Eyes.  
Shake not at me thy threatening Dart,  
But wound the cruel Acme's Heart:  
But oh! I fear thy Deity will prove  
Too weak to thaw that Icy Maid to Love.   

In Praise of satire.  

WHilst Saturn reigned with his old Golden Face,  
An easy Bliss he spread o'er all our Race.  
No Priest, no King, no State, no Partial Law,  
Curbed Vice and Folly with unequal Awe;  
But with Success, unclouded Reason strove  
To unite all within the Bonds of Love,  
And universal Happiness, combined  
To fix its safe Dominion o'er Mankind.   

Then Gods and Men, beneath th'innocuous Shades,  
With harmless Flocks, and yet as harmless Maids;  
From impious Gild secure, together lay,  
While Love and rural Notes, blessed all the livelong Day.  
But when young Jove usurped the Heavenly Crown,  
And sent the pious Saturn whirling down,  
This universal Consort soon gave over,  
And Reason's Harmony was heard no more.  
Swift fled the broken Joys o'th' Silver Age,  
Swifter their sad Remains of the next Stage;  
Till all born down with the Impetuous Tide  
Of Lust and Envy, Avarice and Pride,  
And Follies vast, and numerous beside,  
Wisdom in vain, with the Auxiliary Law,  
Unite their force to stop the mighty flaw:  
The various Law, and Wisdom's surer Rules,  
Are braved by thriving Knaves, and powerful Fools.  
Riches and Power give Innocence, and Brains,  
And only little Crimes the Actor stain,  
Whilst taller Villainies securely reign,  
From satire only could we hope redress;  
From that alone derive our Happiness:  
All other Helps to prosperous Crimes give way,  
To Golden Hopes a flattering Homage pay:  
Impartial satire Truth alone can sway:  
For Rogues, whose Wealth or Power outbrave the Law,  
By juster Satirists are kept in awe;  
A purple Villain in his safest hold,  
Tho' barricadoed round with mighty Gold,  
Can't guard his Crimes from this consuming Flame,  
Nor yet secure, from Infamy, his blasted Name.  
satire, like Bolts from the great Thunderer sent,  
Strikes Rogues above all other Punishment.    

A Letter to Walter Moyle, Esq  By A. H. Esq 
DEar Moyle, blessed Youth, whose forward Wit pursues  
The noble Pleasures, Reason bids thee choose:  
Reason, which ruling by the Laws of Sense,  
Does a just easy Government dispense;  
Quitting those Laws, turns Tyrant, wildly reigns,  
By revealed projects of distempered Brains.  
Dear Moyle, what shall I fancy now employs  
Thy time? What prudent, what well chosen Joys?  
Dost thou with speed the flying Fair pursue?  
Beauty leads on, and Pleasure is in view;  
Oh! boldly follow, she's reserved for you.  
Retiring Modesty, and Triumphant Love,  
In her warm Breast, a doubtful Combat move:  
She yields, she yields, I see the blushing Maid  
Stormed from without by you, within betrayed;  
By her own Heart, no longer can hold out,  
The Victor enters now the long maintained Redoubt.  
Or to this Joy do choicest Books succeed?  
Which you with Judgement choose, with Judgement read;  
Searching the ancient Stores of Greece and Rome,  
And bring from thence their useful Treasures home.  
Or does some honest, some delightful Friend,  
With easy Conversation, recommend  
The sparkling Wine, while Wit and Mirth attend?  
CONGREVE, the matchless rising Son of Fame,  
Whom all Men envy, tho' they dare not blame:  
HOPKINS, whose Mind and Muse, both without Art,  
Gives him a well fixed Title in your Heart.  
DUNKAN, whose Wit and Reason each man loves,  
Charms us like Beauty, and like Books improves.  
EYTON, whom Vice becomes, of Vigour full,  
Foe to the Godly, Covetous, and Dull.  
Thus while in Town so early you possess,  
Whatever perfects Life and Happiness;  
And in their turns do all the Pleasures know,  
Which Learning, Beauty, Friendship can bestow,  
In this Retreat, I'm pleased in following you  
In a wild Maze of Thoughts; and so, dear Friend, adieu.   

A SONG.  By C. H. Esq 

I.  
IN all the dismal Rage of War,  
Undaunted and unmoved I stood,  
I marched insensible of Fear,  
Through Storms of Fire, and Showers of Blood.   

II.  
Amidst the Dangers of the Field,  
Defensive Arms can Aid afford;  
Fate finds resistance from the Shield,  
And Foes are conquered by the Sword.   

III.  
Here I am left without a Guard,  
Helpless as naked Indians, slain;  
And fear to seize the least Reward,  
In lieu of all my mighty pain.   

iv  
I dare not snatch the smallest Bliss,  
Such is the awful Love that charms me;  
Should I presume to force a Kiss,  
One angry Glance from her disarms me.    

A SONG.  By the same. 

I.  
WHile others, with the taste of Bliss,  
The Faith of Loyal Slaves approve,  
And oft engage 'em with a Kiss,  
You more unkindly starve my Love.   

II.  
Soldiers oppressed with too much Toil,  
Halt often ere the Battle's done,  
Till having partly shared the Spoil,  
They spur with fiercer Courage on.   

III.  
Thus Israel's Host began to faint,  
In marching o'er the Desert Sand,  
Their Vigour and their Patience spent,  
Ere yet they reached the promised Land.   

iv  
But when they saw in Showers of Rain  
The wondr'ous Food profusely given,  
Encouraged to renew their pain,  
They Journeyed on to purchase Heaven.    

A Translation out of the Priapeia.  
The Complaint of Priapus for being Veiled.  By C. B. Esq. 

TH'Almighty's Image of his Shape afraid,  
And hid the noblest Part e'er Nature made,  
Which God alone succeeds in his creating Trade!  
The Fall, this Fig-leaved Modesty began,  
To punish Woman by obscuring Man.  
Before where e'er his stately Cedar moved,  
She saw, adored, and kissed the thing she loved.  
Why do the Gods their several Signs disclose;  
Almighty Jove his Thunderbolt expose:  
Neptune his Trident, Mars his Buckler show,  
Pallas her Spear, to each Beholder's View;  
And poor Priapus be alone confined,  
T'obscure the Woman's God, and Parent of Mankind?  
Since freeborn Brutes their Liberty obtain;  
Long hast thou 
* Anima ex Traduce.  Journey-worked for Souls in vain.  
Storm the Pantheon, and demand thy Right,  
For on this Weapon 'tis depends the Fight.    

Raleigh 's Ghost in Darkness: Or Truth covered with a Veil.  By Andrew Marvel, Esq Britannia. 
AH Raleigh! when thou didst thy Breath resign  
To Trembling James, would I had yielded mine.  
Cubs didst thou call 'em? Hadst thou seen this Brood  
Of Earls, of Dukes, of Princes of the Blood;  
No more of Scottish Race thou wouldst complain:  
Those would be Blessings in this spurious Train.  
Awake, arise from thy long blessed Repose,  
Once more with me partake of mortal Woes.  Raleigh. 
What mighty Power hath forced me from my rest?  
Ah! mighty Queen, why so unseemly dressed?  Britannia. 
Favoured by Night, concealed in this Disguise,  
Whilst the lewd Court in drunken slumbers lies,  
I stole away, and never will return,  
Till England knows who did her City burn;  
Till Cavaliers such Favourers be deemed,  
And Loyal Sufferers by the Court esteemed;  
Till Commons Votes cut Noses, Guards disband,  
Till Atheist L— shall leave this Land;  
Till K— a happy Mother shall become,  
Till Charles love Parliaments, and James hate Rome.  Raleigh. 
What fatal Crimes make you for ever fly  
Your own Land, Court, and Progeny?  Britannia. 
A Colony of French possess the Court,  
Pimps, Priests, Buffoons, the Privy-Chambers sport.  
Such slimy Monsters ne'er approached the Throne,  
Since Pharaoh's Reign, nor so defiled a Crown:  
I'th' sacred Ears Tyrannic Arts they croak,  
Pervert his Mind, and good Intentions choke;  
Tell him of Golden Indies, Fairy Lands,  
Leviathans, and absolute Commands.  
Thus Fairy like, the King they steal away,  
And in his place a Lewis Changeling lay.  
How oft would I've him to himself restored;  
In's Left the Seal, in's Right Hand placed the Sword?  
Taught him their use, what Danger would ensue  
To those that try to separate these two?  
The Bloody Scotish Chronicles turned over,  
Show him how many Kings in purple Gore  
Were hurled to Hell by learning Tyrant's Lore.  
The other day, famed Spencer I did bring.  
In lofty Notes, Tudor's blessed Reign to sing.  
How Spain's proud Power her Virgin Arms controlled,  
And Golden Days in peaceful Order rolled!  
How like ripe Fruit she dropped from off the Throne,  
Full of grey Hairs, good Deeds, and great Renown!  
So the Jessean Hero did appease  
Saul's stormy Rage, and checked his Black Disease;  
So the learned Bard, with artsul Song repressed  
The swelling passions of his Cankered Breast:  
Then to confirm the Cure so well begun,  
To him I threw this glorious setting Sun;  
How by the People's Love, pursued from far,  
Set mounted on a bright Triumphant Carr,  
Outshining Virgo, or the Julian Star.  
Whilst in Truth's Mirror the glad Sun I spied,  
Entered a Dame, bedecked with spotted Pride;  
Four Flower-de-luces' in an Azure Field,  
Her Crest doth bear the ancient gallic Shield;  
By her usurped, she brought a bloody Sword,  
Inscribed LEVIATHAN, the Sovereign Lord;  
Her Tow'ry Front a fiery Meteor bears,  
From Exhalations, bred of Blood and Tears;  
Around her, fierce ravenous Curs complain;  
Plague, Death, Slavery, fill her pompous train;  
From th' easy King she Truth's fair mirror took,  
Upon the Ground in spiteful rage it broke,  
And frowning thus with proud disdain she spoke.  
Are Threadbare Virtue's Ornaments for Kings?  
Such poor Pedantic Toys teach Underling.  
Do Monarches rise by Virtue, or the Sword?  
Who e'er grew great by keeping of his word?  
Virtue, a faint Green-Sickness to brave Souls,  
Dastards their Hearts, their active Hands controls.  
Their Rival Gods, Monarches of th'other World,  
This mortal Poison amongst Princes hurled;  
Fearing the mighty projects of the Great,  
Should drive them from their proud Celestial seat,  
If not o'er-awed by some new holy cheat.  
These pious Frauds too slight t' enslave the Brave,  
Are proper Arts the long-eared Rout t' enslave.  
Bribe hungry Priests to deify your Might,  
To teach your Will the only rule of Right,  
And sound Damnation to those dare deny't.  
The Heaven's design against Heaven you should turn,  
Then they will fear those Powers they once did scorn;  
When all the nobler Interest in Mankind,  
By Hirelings sold to you, shall be resigned,  
And by Impostures God and Man betrayed,  
The Church and State you safely may invade:  
So boundless Lewis in full Glory shines,  
Whilst your starved Power in legal Fetters pines.  
Shake off those Baby-bands from your strong Arms,  
Henceforth be deaf to the old Witches Charms.  
Taste the Delicious Sweets of SOVEREIGN POWER;  
'Tis Royal Game whole Kingdoms to devour.  
Three spotless Virgins to your Bed I ll bring,  
A Sacrifice to you, their God and King:  
As these grow stolen, we'll harasse humane Kind,  
Rack Nature till new Pleasures she shall find,  
Strong as your Reign, & beauteous as your Mind.  
When she had spoke, a confused murmur risen  
Of French, Scotch, Irish, all my mortal Foes;  
Some English too disguised (with shame) I spied,  
Brought up by that vile Son-in-Law of H—:  
With fury drunk, like Bachanals they roar,  
Down with Magna Charta, that common Whore.  
With joint consent on helpless me they flew,  
And from my Charles to a base Goal me drew;  
My reverend Age, exposed to Scorn and Shame,  
To Boys and Bawds they made me public Game.  
Frequent Addresses to my Charles I send,  
And my sad Fate unto his care command;  
But his great Soul transformed by the French Dame,  
Had lost all Sense of Honour, Justice, Fame,  
And like tamed Spinster in Seraglio sits,  
Besieged by Whores, Buffoons and Bastard Chits,  
Lulled in security rolling in his Lust,  
Resigns his Crown to Angel Querovels trust.  
Masked James, the Irish Pagods doth adore,  
His Cheiftaine Teague commands on Sea and Shoar.  
Thus the State's night-mared by this Hellish Rout,  
And none are left, these Furies to cast out.  
Oh! Vindex come, and purge this poisoned State,  
Descend, descend, ere the Cure grow desperate.  Raleigh. 
Once more, Great Queen, thy Darling strive to save,  
Snatch him again from Scandal, and the Grave;  
Present to's Thoughts his long-scorned Parliament,  
The Basis of his Throne and Government;  
In his deaf Ears sound his dead Father's Name,  
Perhaps that Spell may's erring Soul reclaim:  
Who knows what good Effects from thence may spring?  
'Tis Godlike Good to save a falling King.  Britannia. 
Raleigh, no more, so long in vain l've tried,  
The S— from the Tyrant to divide:  
As easily learned Virtuoso's may,  
With Dog's Blood, his gentle Kind convey  
Into the Wolf, and make him Guardian turn  
To the Bleating Flock, by him so lately torn.  
If this Imperial Isle once taint the Blood,  
It's by no powerful Antidote withstood;  
Tyrants, like Leprous Kings, for public weal,  
Must be immured, lest their Contagion steal  
Over the whole those left of Jesse's Line.  
To this firm Law their Sceptre did resign.  
Shall then this base Tyrannic Brood evade,  
Eternal Laws by God and Mankind made?  
To the Serene Venetian State I'llgo,  
From her sage Mouth famed Principles to know;  
With her I Will the Ancients wisdom read,  
And teach my People in their steps to tread:  
By this grand Pattern such a State I'll frame,  
Shall darken Story, and engross loved Fame;  
Till than my Raleigh, teach our noble Youth  
To love Sobriety, and holy Truth;  
Watch and preside thou o'er their tender age,  
Lest Court Corruptions should their Souls engage:  
Tell them how Arts and Arms in thy young days  
Employed the Youth, nor Tavern, Stews and Plays;  
Tell them the generous Scorn they ought to owe  
To Flattery, Pimping, and a gaudy Show;  
Teach them to scorn a mean, tho' Lordly Name  
Procured by Lust, by Treachery and Shame;  
Make them admire the Sidneys, Talbots, Veres,  
Drakes, Cavendish, Baker, Men void of slavish Fears.  
True Sons of Glory, Pillars of the State,  
On whose famed Deeds, all Tongues, all Writers wait.  
When with fresh Ardour their brave Breasts do burn,  
Back to my dearest Countty I'll return;  
Tarquin's just judge, and Caesar's equal Peers,  
With me I'll bring to dry my People's Tears.  
Publicola, with healing Wings shall pour  
Balms in their wounds, and flecting Life restore:  
Greek Arts, and Roman Arms, in her conjoined,  
Shall England raise, relieve oppressed Mankind;  
So days bright Sun th' infected Globe did free  
From noxious Monster, Hellborn Tyranny  
So shall my England in a holy War,  
In Triumphlead, chained Tyrants from afar;  
Her true Crusadoes shall at last pull down  
The Turkish Cressant, and the Persian Crown;  
Freed by thy Labours, fortunate blessed Isle,  
The Earth shall rest, the Heaven shall on us smile,  
And this kind secret for Reward shall give,  
No Poisonous Monarch on thy Earth shall live.   

The Loyal SCOT, by Cleveland 's Ghost.  
Being a Recantation of his former satire: Entitled, The Rebel Scot  By Andrew Marvel, Esq 

OF the old Heroes, when the Warlike Shades  
Saw Douglas marching through the Elysian Glades;  
They strait consulting gathered in a Ring,  
Which of their Poets should his Welcome sing:  
And as a favourable Penance, chose  
Cleveland, on whom they would that Task impose.  
He understands, but willingly addressed  
His ready Muse to court their welcome Guest.  
Much had he cured the tumour of his Vein:  
He judged more clearly now, and saw more plain:  
For those soft Airs had tempered every Thought,  
And of wise Lethe he had took a Draught.  
Abruptly he began, disguising Art,  
As of his satire this had been a Part.   

Not so, brave Douglas, on whose lovely Chin,  
The early down but newly does begin;  
And modest Beauty yet his Sex did veil,  
While envious Virgins hope he is a Male.  
His shady Locks turn back themselves to seek,  
Nor other Courtship know but to his Cheek:  
Oft as he in I'll Eske, or Sien by Night,  
Heard'ned with cold those Limbs, so soft, so white,  
Amongst the Reeds, to be espied by him,  
The Nymphs would rustle; he would forward swim;  
They sighed, and said, Fond Boy, why so untame,  
That fliest Love's Fire, reserved for other Flame?   

First, on his Ship he faced that horrid Day,  
And wondered much at those that ran away;  
Nor other Fear himself could comprehend,  
Than lest Heaven fall ere thither he ascend,  
But entertains the while his time so short,  
With birding at the Dutch, as if in Sport;  
Or waves his Sword, and could he them conjure  
Within its Circle, knows himself secure.   

The fatal Bark him Board's, with grappling Fire,  
And safely through the Port the Dutch retire;  
That precious Life he yet disdains to save,  
Or with known Art to try the gentle Wave:  
Much him the Honours of his ancient Race  
Inspire, nor would he his own Deeds deface;  
And secret Joy in his calm Soul doth rise,  
That Monk looks on to see how Douglas dies.   

Like a glad Lover, the fierce Flame he meets,  
And tries his first Embraces in their Sheets:  
His Shape exact, which the bright Flames enfold,  
Like the Sun's Statue stands of burnished Gold.  
Round the Transparent Fire about him glows,  
As the clear Amber on the Bee does close;  
And as on Angels Heads their Glories shine,  
His burning Locks adorn his Face divine.   

But when on his Immortal Mind he felt  
His altering form, and sold'red Limbs to melt;  
Down on the Deck he laid himself, and died  
With his dear Sword reposing by his side,  
And on the flaming Plank he rests his Head,  
Like one that hugs himself in his warm Bed;  
The Ship burns down, and with his Relics sinks,  
And the sad Stream beneath his Ashes drinks.   

Fortunate Boy, if e'er my Verse may claim  
That matchless Grace, to propagate thy Name;  
When Oeta and Alcides are forgot,  
Our English Youth shall sing the valiant Scot   

Shall not a Death, so generous, now when told,  
Unite our Difference, fill the Breaches old;  
Such in the Roman Forum, Curtius' brave,  
Galloping down, closed up the gaping Cave.  
No more discourse of Scotch and English Race,  
Nor chant the fabulous hunt of Chevy-Chase;  
Mixed in Corinthian Metal by thy noble Flame,  
Our factions melting thy Colossus frame.   

Prick down the point, whoever hath the art,  
Where Nature, Scotland doth from England part:  
Anatomists may sooner fix the Cells,  
Where Life resides, or Understanding dwells.  
Yet this we know, tho' that exceeds our skill,  
That whosoever separates them, does ill  
Will you the Tweed, that sudden Bounder call,  
Of Soil, of Wit, of Manners, and of all?  
Why draw we not as well the thrifty Line  
From Thames, Trent, Humber, or at least the Tyne?  
So may we the State-Corpulence redress,  
And little England, when we please, make less.   

What Ethick River is this wondrous Tweed,  
Whose one side Virtue, t'other Vice doth breed?  
Or what new Perpendicular does rise  
Up from the Stream, continued to the Skies,  
That between us the common Air should bar,  
And split the Influence of every Star?  
But who considers right, will find indeed,  
'Tis Holy Island parts us, not the Tweed.  
Tho' Kingdoms join, yet Church will Kirk oppose;  
The M—res still divide, the Crown does close.   

As in Rogation Week they whip us round,  
To keep in mind the Scotch and English bound.  
The World in all does but two Nations bear;  
The Good, the Bad, and those mixed every where:  
Under each Pole, place either of the two,  
The Bad will basely, Good will bravely do;  
And few indeed can parallel our Climes,  
For Works Heroic, or Heroic Crimes.  
The Trial would however be too nice,  
Which stronger were, a Scotch or English Vice;  
Or whether the same Virtue would reflect  
From Scotch or English Heart the same effect.   

NATION is all but Name, a Shibboleth,  
Where a mistaken Accent causes Death:  
In Paradise, Names only Nature showed;  
At Babel, Names from Pride and Discord flowed;  
And ever since, Men with a Female spite,  
First call each other Names, and then they fight.  
Scotland and England cause of just uproar?  
Do Man and Wife signify Rogue and Whore?  
Say but a Scot, and strait they fall to sides,  
That syllable like a Picts wall divides.   

Rational men's words Pledges are of Peace,  
Perverted, serve dissension to increase:  
For shame extirpate from each worthy Breast,  
That senseless Rancour against Interest.  
One King, one Faith, one Language, and one Isle,  
England and Scotland, all but Cross and Pile:  
CHARLES, our great Soul, this only understands,  
He our Affections both, and Will commands;  
He, where Twin-Sympathies cannot atone,  
Knows the last Secret how to make us one.   

Just so the prudent Husbandman, that sees  
The idle Tumult of his factious Bees;  
The Morning Dews, and Flowers neglected grown,  
The Hive a Comb-ease, every Bee a Drone;  
Covers them over, till none discern his Foes,  
And all themselves in Meal and Friendship lose;  
The Insect Kingdom strait gins to thrive,  
And each work Honey for the common Hive.   

Pardon, young Hero, this my long Transport;  
Thy Death more nobly did the same exhort;  
My former satire for this Verse forget;  
My fault against my Recantation set:  
I singly did against a Nation write;  
Against a Nation thou didst singly fight:  
My differing Crime does more thy Virtue raise,  
And such my Rashness best thy Valour praise.   

Here Douglas smiling said, he did intent,  
After such Frankness shown, to be his Friend;  
Forewarned him therefore, least in time he were  
Metempsychosed into some Scotch Presbyter.    

To the Memory of the most Illustrious Prince GEORGE, Duke of Buckingham.  

WHEN the Dread Summons of commanding Fate  
Sounds the last Call at some proud Palace Gate;  
When both the Rich, the Fair, the Great, and High,  
Fortune's most darling Favourites must die;  
Strait at the Alarm the busy Heralds wait,  
To fill the solemn Pomp, and mourn in State.  
Scutcheons and Sables than make up the show,  
Whilst on the Hearse the mourning Streamers flow,  
With all the Rich Magnificence of Woe.  
If Common Greatness these just Rites can claim,  
What nobler Train must wait on Buckingham!  
When so much wit, Wit's great Reformer dies;  
The very Muses at thy Obsequies,  
(The Muses, that Melodious cheerful Choir,  
Whom Misery could ne'er untune, nor tyre;  
But chirp in Rags, and even in Dungeons sing,)  
Now with their broken Notes, and flagging wing,  
To thy sad Dirge their murmuring Plaints shall bring.  
Wit, and Wit's God, for Buckingham shall mourn,  
And his loved Laurel into Cypress turn.   

Nor shall the nine sad Sisters only keep  
This mourning day; even Time himself shall weep,  
And in new Brine his Hoary Furrows steep.  
Time, that so much must thy great Debtor be,  
As to have borrowed even new Life from thee;  
Whilst thy gay Wit has made his sullen Glass,  
And tedious Hours with newborn Raptures pafs.  
What tho' black Envy with her rancorous Tongue,  
And Angry Poets in imbittered Song,  
(Whilst to new Tracks, thy boundless Soul aspires,)  
Charge thee with roving Change, and wandering Fires.  
'Twas biased Anger did thy Virtue wrong,  
Thy Wit a Torrent for the Banks too strong;  
In twenty smaller Rills o'er-flowed the Dam,  
Tho' the main Channel still was Buckingham.   

Let Care the busy Statesman overwhelm,  
Tugging at th' Oar, or Drudging at the Helm;  
With labouring Pain so half-souled Pilots plod;  
Great Buckingham a sprightlier Measure trod,  
When o'er the mounting waves the Vessel road:  
Unshocked by Toils, by Tempests undismayed,  
Steered the great Bark, and as that danced he played.   

Nor Bounds thy Praise to Albion's narrow Coast,  
Thy Gallantry shall foreign Nations boast:  
The gallic Shoar, with all the Trumpets of Fame,  
To endless Ages shall resound thy Name,  
When Buckingham, Great CHARLES Ambassador,  
With such a Port the Royal Image bore;  
So near the Life th'Imperial Copy drew,  
As even the Mighty Lovis could not view  
With wonder only, but with Envy too:  
His very Fleur de Lys es fainting Light,  
Half Drooped to see the English Rose so bright.   

Let Grovelling Minds of Nature's basest Mould,  
Hug and adore their dearest Idol Gold.  
Thy nobler Soul did the weak Charms defy,  
Disdained the Earthy Dross to mount more high.  
Whilst humbler Merit on Court Smiles depends,  
For the gilt shower, in which their Jove descends;  
Thou mount'st to Honour for a braver end;  
What others borrow, thou cam'st there to lend.  
Didst sacred Virtue's naked self adore,  
And left'st her Portion for her sordid Wooer.  
The poorer Miser, how dost thou outshine,  
He the World's Slave, but thou hast made it thine.  
Great Buckingham's Exalted Character,  
That in the Prince lived the Philosopher.  
Thus all the Wealth thy generous Hand has spent,  
Shall raise thy Everlasting Monument:  
So the famed Phoenix builds her dying Nest,  
Of all the richest Spices of the East:  
Then the heaped Mass, prepared for a kind Ray,  
Some warmer Beam of the great God of day,  
Does in one hallowed Conflagration burn,  
A precious Incense to her Funeral Urn.  
So thy bright Blaze felt the same Funeral Doom.  
A Wealthier Pile than old Mausolus Tomb.  
Only too great, too proud to imitate,  
The poorer Phoenix more ignoble Fate:  
Thy Matchless Worth all Successors defies,  
And scorned an Heir should from thy Ashes rise;  
Gins, and finishes that Glorious Sphere,  
Too mighty for a second Charioteer.    

The two ways Regulus the Roman was put to Death by the Carthaginians.  

WHen the bold Carthaginian  
Fought with Rome for Dominion,  
Little Reg was ta'en in the Quarrel;  
They led him up Hill,  
And fore against his Will,  
They tumbled him down in a Barrel.   

The other way.  
When the bold Carthaginian  
Fought with Rome for Dominion,  
Little Reg was ta'en in the strife;  
When his Eyelids they pared,  
Good Lord how he stared!  
And could not go to sleep for his Life.    

Caelia 's Welcome into the Country from the Hurry of the Town.  
WElcome, fair Calia, to this calmer Cell,  
Where, now thou'rt here, ten thousand Graces dwell.  
Thus Jove once came into th' Arcadian Plain,  
And lodged his Godhead with an humble Swain.  
Thus came bright Venus to Anchises Bed,  
And thus from busy Heaven to her Adonis fled;  
Amidst the smiling Lawns, and silent Groves,  
To feast with undisturbed Delight, the happy Youth she loves.  
Thus you, dear Maid, to my poor Cell repair;  
So like the Gods, in all you do, you are.  
Oh! that our Bodies could more close unite,  
Than those of S●●●●●cis and Aphrodite!  
No more than should I sigh, no more complain,  
No more in absence be consumed with Pain:  
Believe me, Caelia, all the time you're gone,  
My anxious Days, and sleepless Nights, make one continued Moan:  
For as a Turtle that has lost its Mate  
In murmuring Coos condemns its cruel Fate;  
Pensive I wander through the conscious Grove,  
To find the Truant Fugitive, my Love;  
But when my fond pursuit is fruitless made,  
My mournful Sighs, fill all the lonely Shade.  
Thy Presence all my bootless Sighs destroys,  
And blest with thee, I hope no vaster Joys.  
No, give Caelia, give me all thy Heart,  
Full of those mighty Raptures you impart:  
When I lie panting on thy throbbing Breast,  
And let the fond Enthusiast freely take the rest.  

De Caelia & Cupidine.  

Vidit Amor dominam; stupuit, cecidêre sagittae;  
Armavit sese Caelia, fugit amor.   

Englished thus:  
Love Caelia saw, and down his Arrows threw,  
She armed herself, th'astonished God withdrew.    

Mentulae verba ad Dominam.  
Hei mihi! quam variis distringor, Lesbian, Fatis?  
Uror, & à nostro manat ab igne Liquor.  
Sum Nilus, sumque Aetna simul; restringite Flammas,  
O Lachrymae; aut Lachrymas ebibe, flamma, meas.    

A Familiar Dialogue betwixt Strephon and Sylvia.  By the late Lord Rochester. STREPHON. 
SYLVIA ne'er despise my Love,  
For COLON's mightier Dart,  
My Force and Vigour you shall prove,  
Will reach your panting Heart.  
To Fools such Monster's Nature sends,  
For want of Brains, a dull amends.  SYLVIA. 
Content yourself with what's your due;  
Him you excel in Wit 'tis true,  
But COLON has his Merits too.  
Wit is but Words, and Words but Wind,  
That dallies with a wanton Mind;  
As Zephyr's gentle Breezes play,  
With my extended Limbs in May:  
But you methinks, sweet Sir, should know,  
'Tis Substance that prevails below.  
To each than his just dole I'll give,  
With you Ill talk, with him Ill—  
Your Wit shall raise my strong Desires,  
And he shall quench their raging Fires.  
Thus both your Merits I'll unite,  
You shall my Ear, her please my Appetite.  STREPHON. 
This said, with speed the cursed Bitch retired,  
And left me with just Indignation fired;  
But taught in Woman's prostituted Schools,  
That Men of Wit, but Pimp for— Fools.   

Against, and for Life.  Aut non nasci, aut quam citissime mori. 

— 'Tis my Birthday, and I'll keep it,  
With double pomp of Sadness.   

BEneath the mournful Yew, oppressed with Grief,  
Sylvanus thus deplored the Woes of Life.   

Oh Life! thou Ill, that all our Sorrows braves,  
Thou Carnaval of Fools, thou Mart of Knaves!  
Oh Life! thou peddling Shop of wretched Toys,  
Tedious thy Pains, but swift are all thy Joys.  
(For so Men call the Intervals of Woe)  
We hope thy Pleasures, but thy Pains we know.  
Thou Sovereign Ill, which fond Opinion guards  
With endless Tortures, and as long Rewards;  
VIRTUE was formed by Hypochondriac Brains,  
To patch thy tattered Ease, and soothe thy raging Pains;  
But like ill Medicines by worse Quacks applied,  
It but inflamed, and made the Wounds more wide.  
Th'imposing Cinic Virtue vainly strove,  
From smooth to rugged Paths, to make us move:  
Few Proselytes it had, yet made those Slaves  
To rich imperious Fools, and sordid thriving Knaves.  
Till by opposing still the common Stream,  
It lost its substance, and now's only Name.   

Next GRACE. advanced, and with an Air divine,  
Resolved corrupted Nature to refine;  
Whate'er it was in its robuster Age,  
It does but weakly now its Foes engage.  
GRACE. faintly strives against our wild Desires,  
NATURE thrusts on amain, and routed Grace retires,  
Whenever they meet This still to that gives place,  
So strong is NATURE, and so weak is GRACE.;  
The only Good in this alone does lie,  
Not to be born, or soon as born to die.  
Strephon the Gay, who heard his Friend complain,  
Advanced, and thus essayed to ease his Pain.   

For an Ill we can't help, 'tis a Madness to grieve,  
And if Life's an Ill, but a span 'tis we live;  
Then prithee, fond Shepherd, no more of this Sorrow,  
Let's leave these sad Shades, and to London to morrow;  
Where we'll drown this preposterous whimsy of Thinking,  
In laughing and play in Love, and good drinking.  
If Cynthia prove coy, let her pine for her folly;  
We'll laugh at her Pride, and defy Melancholy;  
Since for the dull Chink, honest C— l or B— n,  
With Nymphs fair as she, and more loving, can fit one;  
Nymphs brighter than Gold, more sparkling than Wine,  
Whom their Trade, and their Form for Pleasure design.  
If Life be an Ill, good Faith, never spare it,  
Give its Nights to soft Love, and its Days to brisk Claret.    

On FORTUNE.  By the Duke of Buckingham. 
FOrtune made up of Toys, and Impudence,  
That common Jade, that has not common Sense;  
But fond of Business, insolently dares  
Pretend to rule, yet spoils the World's Affairs.  
She fluttering up and down, her Favours throws  
On the next met, not minding what she does,  
Nor why, nor whom she helps, or injures knows;  
Sometimes she Smiles, then like a Fury raves,  
And seldom truly loves but Fools and Knaves:  
Let her love whom she please, I scorn to woo her.  
While she stays with me, I'll be civil to her;  
But if she offers once to move her Wings,  
I'll fling her back all her vain Gugaw things;  
And Armed with Virtue will more Glorious stand,  
Than if the Bitch still bend at my Command:  
I'll marry Honesty, tho' ne'er so poor,  
Rather than follow such a dull blind Whore.   

On a Lewd Scotch Parson.  By Mr. Dennis. 
A Canting Scot in thy vile Sermons preaches,  
By thy lewd Life the Devil his Doctrine teaches;  
Thy Flock is damned; for what confounded Sot  
Will not believe the Devil before the Scot?   

The Enjoyment.  By the Marquis of M. 
SInce now my Sylvia is as kind as fair,  
Let Wit and Joy succeed my dull Despair.  
Oh! what a Night of Pleasure was the last!  
A large Reward for all my Torments past;  
And on my Head, if future Mischiefs fall,  
This happy Night shall make amends for all:  
Twelve was the happy Minute that we met,  
And on her Bed were close together set;  
Tho' listening Spies might be perhaps too near,  
Love filled our Hearts, there was no room for Fear.  
Now whilst I strove her melting Heart to move,  
With all the powerful Eloquence of Love▪  
In her fair Face I saw the Colour rise,  
And an unusual softness in her Eyes;  
Gently they look, and I with Joy, adore  
That only Charm they never had before.  
The Wounds they gave her Tongue was wont to heal,  
But now these gentle Enemies reveal  
A Secret, which that Friend would fain conceal.  
What she forbids, Love does by Signs command,  
Languishing Looks, and pressing close my Hand,  
And I her cipher quickly understand.  
My Eyes transported too with Amorous rage,  
Seemed fierce with Expectation to engage:  
But fast she holds her Hands, and close her Thighs,  
And what she longs to do, with frowns denies.  
A strange Effect on foolish Woman wrought,  
Bred in Disguises, and by Custom taught.  
Custom, that all the World to Slavery brings,  
The dull Excuse for doing silly things.  
Custom, which Wisdom sometimes overrules,  
But serves instead of Reason to the Fools:  
So Sylvia by the Method of her Sex,  
Is forced a while herself and me to vex.  
But now; when thus we have been struggling long,  
My Strength grows weak, and her Desire grows strong.  
How can she choose but let the Conqueror in?  
He strives without, and Love betrays within.  
Her Hands, at last, to hid her Blushes, leave  
The Fort unguarded, ready to receive  
My fierce Assaults, made with a Lover's haste,  
Like Lightning piercing, and as quickly passed.  
Thus does fond Nature with her Children play,  
First shows us Joy, then snatches it away.  
'Tis not excess of Pleasure makes it short,  
The pain of Love's as raging as the sport;  
And yet alas! that lasts, we sigh all night,  
With Grief, but scarce one Minute with Delight.  
Some little pain might check her kind desire,  
But not enough to make her once retire.  
Maid's Wounds for Pleasure bear, as Men for praise,  
Here Honour heals, there Love their smart allays.  
The World (if just) would harmful Courage blame,  
And this more innocent Reward with Fame.  
When she reflects upon her conquered Womb,  
So many Terrors past, and Joys to come;  
Whose Harbingers did roughly all remove,  
To make great room for great Luxurious Love;  
Pleased with the mighty Guest her Arms embrace  
My Body, and her Hands a better place;  
Which with one touch, so pleased, and proud does grow,  
It swells beyond the Grasp that makes it so;  
Confinement scorns in any straighter Walls,  
Than those of Love, where it contented falls;  
Tho' twice overthrown, he more inflamed does rise,  
And will to the last Drop fight out the Prize:  
She like some Amazon in Story proves,  
That overcomes the Hero, whom she loves.  
In the close Fight she took so great delight,  
She then could think of nothing but the Fight;  
With Joy she laid him panting at her Feet,  
But with no less did his Recovery meet:  
Her trembling Hand first gently raised his Head,  
She almost dies for fear that he is dead:  
Then binds his Wounds up with a busy Hand,  
And with that Balm enables him to stand;  
Till by her Love she conquers him once more,  
And wounds him deeper than she did before;  
Tho' fallen from the top of Pleasure's Hill,  
With Longing Eyes we look up thither still;  
Still thither our unwearied Wishes tend,  
Till we that height of Happiness ascend  
By gentle steps; the Ascent itself exceeds  
All Joy, but only that to which it leads.  
First, than so long and lovingly we kiss,  
As if like Doves we knew no other Bliss;  
Still in one Mouth our Tongues together play,  
Whilst wanton Hands are pleased no less than they,  
Thus clinged together now a while we rest,  
Breathing our Souls into each other's Breast:  
Then give a gentle Kiss of all our Parts,  
While this best way we make a change of Hearts.  
Here would my Praise, as well as pleasure dwell;  
Enjoyment's self I scarce like half so well:  
The little this comes short in Rage and Strength,  
Is largely recompensed with endless Length.  
This Pleasure would remain, if we could stay,  
But Love's too eager to admit delay,  
And hurries us with Speed so smooth away.  
Now wanton in our Joys we nimbly move  
Our Pliant Hands in all the shapes of Love;  
Our Motions, not like that of perter fools,  
Whose active Body shows their heavy Souls;  
But Sports of Love, in which the willing Mind,  
Makes Men as able as their Hearts are kind;  
That Love would ease us of our eager Fire,  
Which, with such active Zeal we now require;  
At last we force that Blessing we desire.  
In Woman's Ours Men labour with great pain,  
And thus we Heaven with Violence obtain.  
Oh! Heaven of Love, thou Moment of Delight!  
Wronged by my words, my Fancy does thee ●ight.  
Methinks I lie all melting with her Charms,  
And fast locked up within her Legs and Arms.  
Bend are our Minds, and all our Thoughts on Fire,  
Just labouring in the pangs of fierce Desire,  
At once, like Misers, wallowing in their Store,  
In full Possession, yet desiring more.   

LIFE.  By Mr. Motteux. 

WHile Frantic Winds with Fury blow,  
And Plough, and shake the fickle Main,  
The working Billows swell, with dreadful noise they flow,  
To Vales and Hills they turn the liquid Plain:  
Their oozy Beds profoundest Waters leave,  
As if the Sea's proud Brood, like Earth's, would try  
T'extinguish and confound the Glories of the Sky.  
Their bold Gygantic Heads they proudly heave,  
O'er Mountain's rival Mountains soar,  
And foam, and rave, with horrid Roar;  
But soon each following surge its leading surge controls,  
Successively pushed on, the fluid Mountain rowls,  
And dashed and spent, dies on the Shoar;  
Buried and lost in th' universal Tomb,  
It's vast maternal Womb.   

So in Life's dubious Course,  
Wild Fortune's shocks the Soul disturb,  
With their impetuous Force;  
Swelled by its Power, the Passions rage,  
No bounds the soaring Will can curb;  
Presumptuous Minds dare Heaven engage:  
But crowding Years push on, and forwards drive,  
Till hurried on, vain Men arrive  
On Death's inevitable Coast,  
Where all, dissolved to dust, in Nature's Mass are lost.    

The FLEA, out of Ovid.  

THou little Insect, canst thou prove  
So great an Enemy to Love,  
Thus to molest the beauteous She,  
Whose Frame was spotless, but for Thee?  
I've traced the Footsteps of thy Wrong,  
And now pursue thee with my Song.   

Base Vermin! that delight'st in Blood,  
And juicy Virgins are thy Food;  
Those Spots, the Trophies thou hast won,  
Now seem to blush for what is done;  
And when thy Gorge is filled with Gore,  
(Her Veins contain the richest Store;)  
Thou Maudlin sheddest repenting Tears,  
Black as thyself, their Stain appears:  
Thou dost invade her slumbering Hours,  
And robbest her Rest, as she does ours;  
IT is then thou wand'rest o'er the Plain,  
Where we employ our Thoughts in vain;  
Her Lips, Breasts, Knees, Thighs, all is free,  
As free as open Air to thee.   

It grieves me, when I think that Bliss,  
Without Fruition, should be less;  
While on her Couch th'extended Dame,  
Wishing a Partner of her Flame,  
Just as she dies, when none is nigh,  
Thou boldly dost attack here Thigh;  
Nay, impudently darest t'invade  
The sweet Recess for others made;  
Improvidently, without Gust,  
thou'rt made a Denizon of Lust.  
Now let me perish, but my Foe  
Is much the happiest thing I know;  
Thy shape, tho' strange, must be the Dress,  
To which Orinda gives access:  
Thus masked, I shall discover more,  
Than all my Courtship did before.   

If Nature would transform my Shape,  
And suffer me to be thy Ape;  
But on condition, to restore  
The Features which I had before;  
I'd try if Magic Charms could move  
Such wonderful Effects of Love.  
If Medicines be as strong as they,  
I'll presently commence a Flea;  
And what Medea's Charms have done,  
Or Circe's Drugs, is fully known.   

Suppose the Change— this Pilgrim dress,  
Conveys me to the Goal of Bliss;  
Upon th'extremities I stand,  
And thence survey the Promised Land.  
With silence and with haste I strove  
To shade me in the sacred Grove;  
Where unperceived, and acting nought  
Of Harm, save what was in my Thought;  
I break the Chains of my Disguise,  
And Manhood Shoots between her Thighs  
Perchance the Dame with Fear oppressed,  
Will call me Monster, Villain, Beast;  
Threatening to call aloud for Aid,  
When squeamish Honour is betrayed;  
Then if Entreaties fail, must I  
Dwindle into a Pensive Fly.   

When that is o'er another Scene,  
Presents me in the Lists again;  
Then I invoke the Cyprian Dame,  
To be propitious to my Flame;  
And all the Heavenly Powers t'express  
Their Care of Lovers in Distress;  
Sighs, Prayers, and gentle Force combine,  
To make the coy Orinda mine;  
She to my Wishes yields her Charms,  
And hugs the Turncoat in her Arms.    

To SYLVIA: An Excuse for having loved another in her Absence.  By Mr. Dennis. 

I Never was inclined to range,  
Till you from Love and me did fly;  
Your cruel Absence made me change,  
And for a meaner Beauty die.   

Me an inferior Beauty fired,  
Her Eyes supplied your absent Eyes;  
So when the radiant Sun retired,  
Earth's short-lived Fire the God supplies,   

But when his everlasting Rays  
Again shine forth divinely bright;  
Straight Elemental Fire decays  
Half quenched by Golden Streams of Light.   

To Phoebus than we turn and gaze,  
And the descending God admire;  
And let, to bask in his bright Blaze,  
Our glimmering sickly Flames expire,   

Abroad to meet his Beams we run,  
Beams that revive us as they burn;  
Alternate Breathes suck in the Sun,  
Alternate Breathes his Praise return.   

Whoever too much that Power can praise,  
By which he lives, by which he sings:  
Hail! thou that dost inspire my Lays,  
Thou brightest of refulgent things.   

Thou warmest my Heart, and chear'st my Eye,  
With Godlike Hints thou firest my Soul;  
When thou art absent, still I die,  
Thy Motions all my Life control.   

These two last Stanza's (says my Friend)  
Meant of the Sun, are hardly true;  
But nothing juster e'er was penned,  
If, Sylvia, they were meant of you.    

No true Love between Man and Woman.  

NO, no,— 'tis not Love— You may talk till Dooms day,  
If you tell me 'tis more than mere Satisfaction;  
I'll never believe a Title you say,  
Tho' Baxter and Oates were the Heads of your Faction.   

The Poets therefore were a number of Owls,  
To make such a stir with a Baby-face God;  
While they set poor Priapus to scare the wild Fowls,  
That rules with a far more Scepter-like Rod.   

'Tis true, he may sometimes be blindly put to't;  
But the Bow and the Arrows are surely his due;  
For when that his Arrows are ready to shoot,  
They make the more pleasing wound of the two.   

'Twas he was the Father of all the Graces;  
For he's the beginning and end of our wooing;  
Your Smiles, and your Ogles, and alluring Grimaces;  
They all do but end in Feeling and Doing.   

When a Man to a Woman comes creeping and his cringing,  
And spends his high Raptures on her Nose and her Eyes;  
'Tis Priapus inspires the Talkative Engine,  
And all for the sake of her lily white Thighs.   

Your Vows and Protests, your Oaths all and some,  
Ask Solon, Lycurgus, both Learned and Smart;  
They'll tell you the place from whence they all come,  
Is half a Yard almost below the Heart.   

There's nothing but Virtue the Object of Love;  
Nor Beauty nor Colour Love minds in the least:  
They're only the Idols of Pleasure, by Jove,  
Where th'Altar's Desire Priapus High Priest.   

Your Lips, and your Eyes, with their Diamonds and Coral,  
Are only like Capers and Sampire in Pickle;  
For talk what you please, 'tis her Men adore all,  
That has the best Fiddle Priapus to tickle.   

Now if she be rich, 'tis the Portion he'd have,  
Or a Coach and fine clothes, that her Love do encourage;  
But alas! if either do either deceive,  
Love presently cools like a Mess of Beef Porridge.   

Then if this be your Love, the Devil take Love,  
Where Self-Satisfaction is all the design:  
But let me have that which all Men approve,  
An Angel in Purse, and a Glass of good Wine.    

A satire against Poetry.  
In a Letter to the Lord D.—  

LET my Endeavours, as my Hopes, depend  
On you, the Orphan's Trust, the Muse's Friend:  
The Great good Man, whose kind Resolves declare  
Virtue and Verse, the Object of your Care,  
When hungry Poets now abdicate their Rhimes,  
For some more darling Folly of the Times.  
S— l and— I here forbear to name,  
Condemned to Laurel, tho' unknown to Fame:  
Recanting S—tle brings the tuneful Ware,  
Which wiser Smithfield damned to Sturbridge-Fair;  
Protests his Tragedies, and Libels fail  
To yield him Paper, Penny-Loaves, and Ale;  
And bids our Youth by his Example fly,  
The Love of Politics and Poetry;  
And all Retreats, except New-hall, refuse,  
To shelter tuneful D—'s Jockey Muse.   

Is there a Man to these Examples blind,  
To chinking Numbers fatally inclined;  
Who by his Muse, would purchase Meat and Fame,  
And in th' next Miscellanies plant his Name?  
Were my Beard grown, the wretch led thus advise;  
Repent, fond Mortal, and be timely wise.  
Take heed, be not by gilded Baits betrayed,  
Clio's a Jilt, and Pegasus a Jade.  
By Verse you'll starve, John 
* The Cambridge Bellman, a Poctaster.  Saul could never live,  
Did not the Bellman make the Poet thrive.  
Go rather to some little Shed, near Paul's,  
Sell Chevy-Chase, and Baxter's Salve for Souls.  
Cry Raree-S●ows, sing Ballads, transcribe Vote:  
Be Carr, or Catch, or any thing but— Oats.   

Hold, Sir, some Bully of the Muse's cries,  
Methinks you're more Satirical than wise.  
You rail at Verse indeed, but rail in Rhyme,  
At once encourage, and condemn the Crime.  
— True, Sir, I writ, and have a Patron too,  
To whom my Tributary Songs are due:  
Yet, with your leave, I d honestly dissuade  
Those wretched Men from Pindus' barren Shade.  
Who, tho' they tyre their Muse, and rack their Brains  
With blust'ring Heroes and with piping Swains,  
Can no Great Patient-giving-Man engage,  
To fill their Pockets, and their Title Page.   

Were I like these, by angry Fate decreed,  
By Penny Elegies to get my Bread,  
And want a Meal, unless George Croome and I  
Could strike a Bargain for my Poetry;  
I'd damn my Works, to wrap up Soap & Cheese,  
Or furnish Squibs for City Prentices  
To burn the Pope, and celebrate Queen Bess.  
But on your Ruin stubbornly pursue,  
Herd with the little hungry chiming Crew;  
Obtain the airy Title of a Wit,  
And be on free-cost, noisy in the Pit.  
Print your dull Poems, and before 'em place  
A Crown of Laurel, and a Meager Face;  
And may just Heaven thy hated Life prolong,  
Till thou (blessed Author) seest thy deathless Song  
The dusty Lumber of a Smithfield Stall,  
And findest thy Picture starch d to stubborn Wall  
With Jonny Armstrong, and the Prodigal.  
And to complete the Curse—  
When Age and Poverty come faster on,  
And sad Experience tells thee thou'rt undone;  
May no king Country Grammar-School afford  
Ten Pounds a Year for Lodging, Bed and Board:  
Till void of any fixed Employ, and now  
Grown useless to the Army and the Plough,  
You've no Friend left but trusting Landlady,  
Who stows you in kind truckle Garret-high,  
To dream of Dinners, and curse Poetry.   

Still I've a Patron, you reply, 'tis true;  
Fate, and good Parts, you say, may get one too:  
Why faith, even try, writ, flatter, dedicate;  
Your Lords, and his forefather's Deeds relate.  
Yet know, he'll wisely strive Ten Thousand ways,  
To shun a Needy Poet's fulsome Praise.  
Nay, to avoid thy Importunity,  
Neglect his State, and condescend to be  
A Poet, tho' perhaps a worse than thee.  
Thus from a Patron he becomes a Friend,  
Forgetting to reward, learns to commend;  
Receives your long six Months successless Toil,  
And talks of Author's Energies, and Style;  
Damns the dull Poems of the scribbling Town,  
Applauds your Writings, and repeats his own.  
Thou Wretch, in Complaisance obliged must sit,  
Extol his Judgement, and admire his Wit.  
Tho' this Poetic Peer perhaps scarce knows,  
With jingling Sounds to tagg insipid Prose;  
And should be by some honest Manly told,  
He'd lost his Credit to secure his Gold.   

But if thou'rt blessed enough to write a Play,  
Without the hungry Hopes of kind third day;  
And he presumes, that in thy Dedication,  
Thou'lt fix his Name, nor bargain for his Station;  
My Lord, his useless kindness than assures,  
And vows to th'utmost of his Power he's yours;  
Likes the whole Plot, and praises every Scene,  
And played at Court, 'twould strangely please the Queen.  
And you may take his Judgement sure, for he  
Knows the true Spirit of good Poetry.   

All this you see, and know, yet cease to shun,  
And seeing, knowing, strive to be undone.  
So Kidnaped Slave, when once beyond Gravesend,  
Rejects the Counsel of recalling Friend;  
Is sold to dreadful Bondage he must bear,  
And see's unable to avoid the Snare.  
So practised Thief, if taken, ne'er dismayed,  
Forgets the Sentence, and pursues the Trade;  
Tho'yet he almost feels the smoking Brand,  
And sad T. R. stand fresh upon his Hand.   

The Author then with daring Hopes would strive,  
With well-built Verse, to keep his Fame alive:  
And something to Posterity present,  
That's very new, and very excellent.  
Something beyond the uncalled drudging Tribe,  
Beyond what BEN could write, or I describe;  
Should in substantial Happiness abound,  
HisMind withPeace, his Board withPlenty crowned.  
No early Duns should break his Learned Rest,  
No saucy Cares his nobler Thought-molest;  
Only th'ent'ring God should shake his labouring Breast.  
In vain we bid dejected S—tle hit  
The Tragic Flights of Towering Shakespear's Wit:  
He needs must miss the Mark, who's kept so low,  
He has not Strength enough to draw the Bow.  
In vain from our starved Songsters we require,  
The height of COWLEY's, and ANACREON's Lyre.  
In vain we bid them fill the Bowl,  
Large as their Capacious Soul;  
Who, since the King was crowned, ne'er tasted Wine,  
But writ at Eight, and know not where to dine.  
D— t indeed, and R— r might write,  
For their own Credit, and their Friend's Delight:  
Showing how far they could the rest outdo,  
As in their Fortunes, in their Writings too,  
There was a time, when OTWAY charmed the Stage,  
OTWAY, the Hope, and Sorrow of the Age:  
When the full Pit, with pleased Attention hung,  
Charmed on each Accent of Castalio's Tongue:  
With what a Laughter was his SOLDIER read?  
How mourned we, when his JAFFIER struck, and bled?  
Yet this great Poet, who with so much Ease  
Still drew his Pen, and still was sure to please:  
The lightning is less lively than his Wit,  
And Thunderclaps less loud, than those o'th' Pit:  
Had of his many Wants much earlier died,  
But that kind Banker E— n supplied,  
And took for Pawn the Embryo of a Play,  
Till he could pay himself next full third Day.   

Were Shakespear's self alive again, he'd ne'er  
Degenerate to a Poet from a Player.  
For now no Sidneys will three Hundred give,  
That needy Spencer and his Fame may live;  
None of our poor Nobility can send  
To his Kings-Bench, or to his Bedlam Friend.  
Chemists and Whores by this great Lord were fed,  
(These by their honest Labours earned their Bread;)  
But he was never so expensive yet,  
To keep a Creature merely for its Wit.  
But now your Yawning prompts me to give o'et,  
Your humble Servant, Sir— I've done— no more.    

EPIGRAM.  By Mr. Killingworth. 
PUgh Tom,— how dost come by these horrid Caprices,  
Art ashamed of thy Face, that thou pullest down thy Breeches?  
For what is it else, tho' we laugh at the matter,  
To quit pretty Version, and write sorry satire?  
Thou'dst done well enough, hadst thou stuck to pure Rhyming:  
Let Slovens mind the Sense, you Beauxes mind the chiming.  
Sweet before was thy Fame, but now by dull thinking,  
Methinks the Perfume is quite voided in stinking.   

To the Infinitely loved Memory of my Dearest—  
A Pastoral.  
THYRSIS, ALTHEA.  
BEneath a silent Grove's diverting Shade,  
Where lofty Trees a pleasant Vista made;  
Thyrsis, and kind Althaea, mournful pair,  
He Brown, but young, she young, but Heavenly Fair;  
Yet more allied in Woes, extended lay,  
And in sad Ditties spent the tedious Day:  
Melania was their Song, Melania late  
Arcadia's Glory, whose untimely Fate  
Drew Floods of Tears from every Shepherd's Eye,  
And rugged Satyrs wept by Sympathy.  
Good Corydon, who ranged the Fields and Groves  
To fetch the hindmost of his lingering Droves;  
Observed 'em gazing in a Peaceful Ring,  
To hear Althaea and her Thyrsis sing;  
No Stalls no Fodder missed, but all around,  
Stood exstasyed with the Melodious sound;  
While in Alternate humble Rhymes, to Fame  
They consecrated dear Melania's Name,  
And flattering Echoe's airy Notes returned the same.  THYRSIS. 
No more let teeming Earth's fair Bosom yield,  
Her bloomy Sweets to deck the smiling Field;  
No more let yonder Stream forsake its Head,  
To wash our fertile Meads; Melania's dead!  ALTHEA. 
Melania's Bosom nobler Sweets could yield,  
Than all the various Beauties of the Field;  
Soft as these gentle Rills, which round us play,  
Not fleeting so, but far more pure than they.  ALTHEA. 
No more let Leaves adorn the drooping Trees,  
But on their Boughs eternal Winters frieze;  
Let Roses all their blushing Glories shed,  
And Lilies hang their Heads. Melania's dead!  THYRSIS. 
Melania in her pleasant Youth outvy'd  
The levy Groves in all their verdant Pride:  
Ruddy as blushing Roses newly blown,  
And by her Whiteness, Lilies lost their own.  THYRSIS. 
Hark what a sullen silence spreads the Grove,  
Once the fair Scene of harmless Joys and Love;  
The Sylvan Chorus tune their Throats no more,  
But in soft Throbs Melania's Fate deplore.  ALTHEA. 
IT was here when the Divine Melania sung,  
On circling Trees the Sylvan Chorus hung  
Around her Head, and with her Heavenly Voice,  
In Symphony made Woods and Hills rejoice.  ALTHEA. 
At large, no more our trembling Lambkins play,  
Nor frisking Kids through the wild Forests stray,  
Nor has my Thyrsis seen the sportive Fawns  
Of late, run skipping nimbly o'er the Lawns.  THYRSIS. 
Safe were our Lambkins, safe our Kids and Fawns,  
When her bright Eyes secured the Fields & Lawns;  
No strolling Wolves would near our Sheep-Coats stray,  
But fled like Midnight Ghosts before the day.  THYRSIS. 
Has not Althaea seen our Milk-white Cow?  
How fair her Eyes, how large and smooth her Brow;  
How gently she would to the Milk-pale come,  
Wooed by her Neighbouring Herds, and loved at home.  ALTHEA. 
A sweeter Beauty filled Melania's Eyes,  
Her Forehead did with nobler smoothness rise;  
The gentlest Shepherdess of all the Plain,  
Admired by Us, and loved by every Swain.  ALTHEA. 
Has not my Thyrsis seen Lycisca's Care,  
How fierce and watchful when the Wolf was near?  
How fine and clean her Shape, how fond kind,  
Staunch as thy Loves, and fleeter than the Wind?  THYRSIS. 
With gallant Scorn, Melania quelled the Crowd,  
O'er-awed the Wanton, and subdued the Proud;  
Cast in the finest mould of Nature true,  
And swift to Goodness, and more kind than you.  ALTHEA. 
wherever she came, she raised a constant Spring,  
Rocks turned to Pastures, and our Kine would bring  
Their Udders strutting home, our Lambs at large,  
With thrifty Fat would their small Limbs o'er charge.  
When she went hence the Grass and Flowers would droop,  
The mournful Swains beneath their Cares would stoop;  
Her cheerful Looks our languid Hopes revived,  
And in her Presence smiling Nature lived.  THYRSIS. 
wherever she came, our pregnant Ewes would bear,  
Twins for each Quarter of the changing Year;  
Our Bee-hives soon with noblest Sweets overflowed,  
And shooting Oaks, as if on Tiptoes, stood  
To see their Queen; when she returned, the Trees  
Dropped their pale Leaves around the lazy Bees;  
Starved in their empty Cells, our Flocks decayed,  
And all the Music of the Plain was laid.  ALTHEA. 
Sweet are our bleating Lambs, and sweet the Cow  
Does breathe, and sweetly towards her Fellows low;  
Sweet are the tender Grass, and painted Flowers,  
And sweet the Field, new dashed with pearly Shows;  
Sweet are the Banks of yonder Crystal Stream,  
And Virgin Loves are a delightful Theme;  
More sweet than all is dear Melania's Name,  
Fragrant as Virtue, and more large than Fame.  THYRSIS. 
Soft are the Coolings of a gentle Breeze,  
To wearied Shepherds; soft the murmuring Trees,  
When fanned with easy Winds, or purling Rills,  
Which o'er sharp Stones, the teeming Rock distils;  
Soft are the mournings of the Lovesick Swain,  
Harmless the Sports on flowery Tempe's Plain;  
More soft, more harmless, dear Melania's Mind,  
From all the Dregs of common Earth refined.  ALTHEA. 
Pale Death, alas! has snatched the lovely Maid;  
In a dark Cave the lifeless Corpse is laid:  
Her Cheeks, no Lilies now, no Roses grace,  
But Tyrant paleness revels in their place;  
While neither Moon, nor Stars, nor Sun can peep  
Through the dark Hollows of the wasteful Deep.  THYRSIS. 
But when around the doleful News was spread,  
And the sad Echoes sobbed, Melania's dead;  
The mournful Swains, their Flocks neglected, lay  
In Tears all Night, in sigh all the Day;  
The grieving Flocks their sweetest Pastures scorned,  
And for her Fate their Savage Tigers mourned:  
The whispering Woods Melania's Death condoled;  
From Hills to Hills the disinal Tidings rolled,  
And each small Rill, supplied by weeping Springs,  
New Floods still to augment our Sorrow brings.  ALTHEA. 
But sing, my Thyrsis, sing, what fatal cause  
Precipitated Nature's gentler Laws,  
To crop her tender Blossom; had she bowed  
To the sharp Wounds of Love's insulting God?  
Had Jealousy e'er racked her tender Breast,  
Or torturing Grief her native Strength oppressed?  THYRSIS. 

Rise then, my Muse, mount on a stronger wing,  
In loftier Strains, Melania's Virtues sing:  
No common Loves e'er reached her Godlike Soul,  
No loser Passions could her Thoughts control:  
Jealous of none, to every Shepherd kind;  
Beloved by all, herself to none confined.  
Friendship alone, that nobler Love, possessed  
The soft Recesses of Melania's Breast:  
Friendship, that Heaven on Earth, that sacred Band,  
Which does blest Souls, and happy God's command:  
Friendship, that rapid Flame, whose wondrous heat  
Dissolved the Pillars of its mouldering Seat;  
But swelled her Soul with an expanded Ray,  
Toward the bright Sources of Eternal Day.  
Damon, too happy Swain, her Thoughts embraced,  
And she the first in Damon's Friendship placed;  
On her kind Bosom Damon eased his Woos,  
On his Me●inia did her Soul repose;  
Their Tears were oft, and oft their Smiles combined,  
Their darling Souls through friendly Glances joined:  
One Grief alone, one Joy, one Soul informed,  
Their Breasts, one Love their tender Bosoms warmed.  
The Northern World, long lost in Darkness stay,  
With less Impatience for returning Day,  
Than without Damon sweet Melania lived,  
Than for Melania's Absence Damon grieved.   

Cursed be suspicious Brutes, that durst divide  
Hearts much by Blood, by Friendship more allied.  
Cursed be those narrow Souls, that can't admit  
Passions above their crazy Thoughts and Wit.   

Damon and kind Melania loved, it's true,  
And to each other's fond Embraces flew;  
Their Sympathetic Souls with Ardour met,  
No Jealousies their present Joys beset:  
But in soft Chat they passed their drowsy time,  
And neither knew, nor could suspect a Crime;  
So harmless Doves with Cooing murmurs meet,  
And oft with their repeated Billings greet;  
Yet all secure from Gild, they knew no shame,  
Their Souls ne'er swelled with that impurer Flame;  
Condemned by Virtue, but with Thoughts as free,  
As the first Man in the World's Infancy:  
They pleased each other; not those untaught Smiles,  
By which our fearless Infant Age beguiles  
So thians of all their Rage; not that blessed Fire,  
Which does the vast Superior World inspire  
With never-sading Love, had less offence,  
Or chaster Thoughts, or nobler Innocence.   

Melania's Bosom, chaste as that pure Snow,  
Which faming Winds from Northern Mountains blow:  
No untamed wish e'er knew that Virgin-seat,  
Thither no modish Follies durst retreat;  
But sacred Innocence there built her Nest,  
Richer than all the Spices of the East;  
Sweeter than Odours from those wondrous Fires,  
Wherein the Phoenix, now full-aged, expires.   

Damon's maturer Age to virtue's Lore,  
Submissive long, the deep Impressions bore  
Of sweet Melania's Goodness all his Breast;  
The fair Ideas of her Soul possessed;  
His Heart no Lawless Fancies e'er could move,  
Filled with his own Astraea's boundless Love;  
Astraea too Melania's Soul possessed,  
Astraea, with Melania's Love, was blest.  
While Love and Friendship Damon's Heart divide,  
No Ebb e'er slakes his double rising Tide;  
But both Poetic, lofty Dreams outflew,  
chaste as Astraea's, as Melania's true.   

But jealous Fools disturbed their envied ease,  
Nor can the Rules of sacred Friendship please  
Unnurtured Souls, whose grovelling Fancies rove  
Only on senseless Lusts, and Brutish Love.   

And as from that huge Elm, which shades our Cell,  
Broke by a Storm, the spreading Branches fell,  
And torn from their old Trunk, and unsupplyed  
By native Sap, soon dropped their Leaves, and died;  
So fell Melania, so the blushing Flowers  
Of Poppies sink, oppressed by hasty Showers:  
The Cowslip so, when to the scythe it yields,  
In its own Sweets embalmed, perfumes the fragrant Fields.   ALTHEA. 

Such is thy Voice, my Thyrsis, such thy Song,  
The Verse so easy, and the words so strong,  
That should the Gods of Love and Music join,  
Their Harmony, my dear, must yield to thine.   

Not drooping Plants love more the gentle Rains,  
Or pretty Nymphs to trip it o'er the Plains,  
Or wearied Swains in coolest Shades to sleep,  
Or Damon o'er Melania's Hearse to weep,  
Than I to hear my tuneful Thyrsis sing,  
And to my longing Ears her dearest Name to bring;  
And if just Fame thy Rustic Muse can give,  
Or Virtue from Oblivion's force retrieve,  
Ever Melania's Love, and Praise, and Name, shall live.    

The Tempest.  
A Fragment.  
WHen the next horrid Scene salutes their Eyes,  
And nothing they discern but Seas and Skies,  
Nor these too long; for now black Clouds arise;  
Contending Winds from several Quarters roar,  
And rising Seas roll to the foaming Shoar;  
The clamorous Sailors climb the rattling Shrouds,  
And horrid Thunder rends the bellowing Clouds;  
Flashes of Fire, with their amazing Light,  
Strike through the Gloom, and interrupt the Night,  
The hideous deep restoring to their Sight.  
Vows like themselves, lost by the Winds their form,  
Their Pilot quits the Helm, their Pilot now's the Storm:  
Fate on amain with the next Billow rowls,  
A damp like Death, strikes thro' their Limbs, and Horror through their Souls.   

To the Sacred Memory of Charles the First.  

HAil, Glorious Martyr! Saint triumphant, Hail!  
Fixed now above our sordid Earth,  
Blessed with an immortal Birth,  
Lovely, gentle, soft and kind,  
A Royal, still, and a Seraphic Mind,  
Against whose radiant Head no sullen Clouds prevail.  
Hail, thy great Master's parallel!  
He too was born a Prince, divinely pure,  
From Ills within himself secure;  
But from abroad, pursued with all the Storms of Hell.  
I see, I see the wondrous Infant fly,  
Arrayed with Godlike Majesty.  
The Winds and Clouds his little Frowns obey;  
And bright Angelic Guards attend him all the way;  
Those happy Subjects still attend their King,  
And all around their Hallelujahs sing;  
With their great Master's Lot content,  
In an inglorious Banishment,  
While impious Slaves stand of his Throne possessed,  
By every Fiend adored, and every Rebel blessed.   

See where the Youth returns! his wondrous Eyes,  
Bright as that Lightsome Orb, which gilds the Skies;  
His Shape Divine, ineffable his Face,  
Above the Charms of Human Race,  
Cast in a perfect Mould,  
The Lines all easy, and the Figure bold:  
By an unerring Artist's Hand designed,  
To represent in Flesh and Blood,  
As far as a material Substance could,  
The lively Image of his own Almighty Mind  
Clothed all with Goodness, and adorned with 〈◊〉  
Wise as the Serpent, harmless as the Dove,  
And kind as every Influence above.  
At his Command a sudden Calm overspread The rolling Seas,  
And every fierce Disease Before him fled,  
And with his mighty Voice he roused the slumbering Dead.  
All Nature to his Hand submissly bowed,  
And Hell itself his sacred Power allowed,  
While with a thousand Miracles he tried  
To cicurate his Rebel's boundless Pride:  
Yet all so good, so kind, so free,  
As none could e'er effect but he,  
The glorious Central point of all the Deity.   

But Man, th' unhappy cause of his own dreadful Woes,  
No bounds of Reason or of Prudence knows;  
But with a wild unguided Soul,  
Does all his own Felicities control.  
And tho' in Shades of horrid Night,  
He gropes and pores, and longs for Light,  
Yet when it comes, he gapes & sickens at the sight  
So the famed Jewish Rabbins wondering stood,  
Crushed and overwhelmed with Good,  
Blind with Light's invading Beams,  
Drunk with Mercy's flowing Streams,  
And mad with their own senseless Dreams,  
Not their own Monarches Rights, or Influence understood.  
Hark how they curse! Hark how the slaves revile,  
Their Lord, and Ermine Innocence defile!  
Oppress him with a thousand Lies,  
A thousand silly Crimes surmise;  
Now in a friendly smooth Disguise,  
And then as surly Enemies,  
A thousand Rebel Arts and Stratagems devise;  
While he, the Tyrant and the Traitor, stands  
Obedient to his own Rebellious Slaves commands.  
He too the mark of common Scorn was made,  
Kissed by a Judas, and betrayed,  
Charged with a fond Design,  
Their ancient Policies to undermine,  
Slily to introduce the Roman Power,  
And make Exotic Rites Judaean Schemes devour;  
Accused, condemned, raised to the fatal Tree,  
Branded with shameless Infamy,  
And Malice still pursued his sacred Name.  
Then to be true, or just, or kind,  
To be to Christian Laws confined,  
To own their Sovereign Prince, or strive  
To keep his Honours, or his Rights alive,  
Exposed to danger, and exposed to Shame.   

But the Day breaks, the sullen Gloom withdraws;  
And Death rescinds his Perso-Median Laws;  
His Bars, his Chains, his Rockey Walls give way,  
And jocund Angels bless the rising Day:  
Up to the Palace of the Skies,  
On humble Clouds the mighty Conqueror flies:  
The Crown, the Sceptre, and the Throne,  
All changed; no Cross, no Reed, no Thorns were seen;  
But, with a sweet Majestic Mien,  
Fair Love still in his Eyes triumphant shone,  
None pressed him now with a mock Purple load,  
But Silver Light around him flowed;  
No Wounds, no Gashes in his Sides appeared,  
But for, his Iron Sceptre feared.  
Nations together dashed in pieces flew,  
And pale the trembling Parricidal Rabble flew;  
No Crimson Drops fell from his mournful Head,  
But sprightly Beams his radiant Tresses shed,  
And o'er the spacious Orb a solid Glory spread,  
Their Heavenly Notes the tuneful Angels raised,  
And their triumphant Monarch praised.  
Sweet Harmony pierced all the Globe around,  
No sullen Jars in Nature's Calm were found,  
But the mad Fiends themselves were hushed with the melodious sound.   

And at his Feet we see,  
With humble Air, and bended Knee,  
One robbed with an inferior Majesty;  
Three Royal Crowns beneath him laid,  
Weighty with Gems and massive Gold;  
A snowy Circle does his Neck enfold,  
With Ruby Drops, yet more Illustrious made;  
And oft his Eyes, and oft his Hands he rears,  
And still a Suppliants garb he wears,  
Heaving Sighs and flowing Tears,  
And all the marks of tender Pity and Compassion bears;  
'Tis Charles the Good, the Just, Charles now no more  
Exposed to Hurricanes on a tempestuous Shoar;  
Charles of a brighter Crown possessed,  
And nobler Rays his sacred Brows invest,  
With all his mighty Master's favours blest.  
No garbled Senate now, no Rebels dare  
Infringe his Rights, or raise a fatal War;  
No bold Blasphemers can disturb his Peace,  
Or Impious Libels break his envied Ease;  
But still with ancient Pity moved,  
His holy Prayers are all improved,  
To beg Heaven's Pardon for a cursed Land,  
Whereall obnoxious still to Heavenly vengeance stand.   

Ah wretched Land, since that first dismal time,  
When Honesty was doomed a Crime,  
And pure and undefiled Religion wore  
The ugly colour of the Scarlet Whore!  
When to address to Heaven, would give Offence,  
If it were clothed with Gravity or Sense;  
To gull the Mob on some Red-lettered Day,  
Enthusiastic Rapture bore the sway,  
And Godliness in nauseous Cant, and everlasting Nonsense lay.  
Not God nor Man could due Obedience claim,  
But all was wasted in Rebellious Flame,  
And poor St. Paul got a Malignant's Name.  
When for Religion dear, and dearer Liberty,  
The Dragon's Tail would dare to plead,  
And raise the Members all against their Head,  
On wild pretence of strange Apostasy;  
When the damned Hypocrites within those Walls,  
Where first our pious Laws were made,  
Our Laws, our Bodies, and our Souls betrayed,  
And in one fatal Pile,  
Devoured the Glories of our mournful Isle,  
And sung a joyful Howl at Britain's Funerals;  
Then guarding Angels left their ancient Charge,  
And Hell broke lose, and Rebel Fiends at large,  
Stalked through our Streets, and haunted every Field,  
And every Rebel's Breast,  
Was by a thousand innate Devils possessed,  
And did a thousand Fruits of Hellborn Malice yield.  
Then on our Palaces,  
Satyrs and Dragons, and unnumbered Monsters more,  
Can without Opposition seize,  
And Lucifer on the bright Throne could roar;  
Then the unthinking Rabble bowed,  
To a more various, and more Hellish Crowd,  
Than Idol-making Egypt ever knew,  
Or then Chineses now, or Indian Bramins do;  
The Land was deluged with an impious Flood;  
And every little Sect baptised in Loyal Blood.  
Hark how the whining Tribe, with canting tone,  
And many a deep forced Sigh, and many an ugly Groan,  
Invoke their God not him, whose powerful Hand  
Does the wide Universe command;  
But their own Moloch, to whose scorching Womb,  
They their own wretched Heirs devote,  
And all the Sons of Virtue doom,  
To clog the bloody Devil's unmeasurable Throat.  
Observe their heaved up Hands, and lifted Eyes,  
Doleful Sobs and eager Cries,  
Gay Hypocrify's disguise.  
Hark how the Pulpit rings, with Fist and Voice,  
A furious Zeal, and a Sentorian Noise!  
Those precious Saints sure have at last designed  
To seize by force on Heaven's Imperial Throne,  
And make the Vassalled World their own,  
By Prayers and Tears combined.  
No, 'tis a Grace, alas! before some bloody Feast,  
A bold Affront to all the Powers above,  
To just Obedience, and to sacred Love.  
Great Charles, Heaven's Representative, must be  
The Sacrifice to their immoderate Sanctity;  
His Blood a Cordial for a Saintly Guest:  
So to indulge a Brutish Court,  
To please a Villain, and to please a Whore,  
The Baptists reverend Head was made their sport,  
Lopped off by Arbitrary Power;  
Each Crime first from an impious Oath gins,  
That against Heaven designed, this against Heaven and Kings.   

O for the Gothick Tyrant's dreadful Fate!  
Why should the blows of Vengeance large and deep,  
Only reach the Regal State,  
And to Rebellious Traitor's sleep?  
Struck with a frantic Rage, the Monster viewed,  
The Pike's huge Head, and with his ghastly Eyes,  
He thought the Senatorian bleeding Head pursued,  
His easiest Minutes: at his noblest Feasts,  
Murder and Gild were all his Guests,  
And sullen Horrors did his Heart surprise:  
He raged, he stormed, and in his guilty Soul,  
Did ever lashing Furies roll.  
Eternal gnawings racked his tortured Breast,  
By Hell, and every Devil possessed;  
Till thrust by vengeful Fates, down to an easeless Rest:  
Why should I spend my weighty Curses so?  
As if the Slaves could scape th'inevitable Blow?  
Alas! they fret, they rave; not their old Mate,  
The preaching Porter e'er disclosed  
A Soul less quiet, less composed  
Than the Imperious Villains; rolling Seas,  
Roused by impetuous Storms above the Sky,  
When at each others Heads the towering Billows fly,  
Are hushed, and silent all compared with these.  
Some by Cadmaean broils are crushed, and some  
From lingering Justice have their fatal doom;  
But still their Godless Heirs survive,  
Heirs to their Crimes, and Aphorisms too,  
And still their bloody Plots, and dark Intrigues pursue;  
And still to damn again a thoughtless Nation strive:  
Like Midnight Wolves on buried Saints they pray,  
Or like Hyaena's, eat the Day,  
And scatter Blood, and scatter Poisons all the way;  
No hallowed Ground the Royal Manes can secure,  
But sacred Monuments the Brutes invade;  
The blooming Sweets of Virtue Heavenly pure,  
Can't guard the venerable shade,  
Or fragrant Memory;  
But could our holy Villains get the Day,  
And once more revish the Imperial sway,  
Charles in his Name again, and Books and Heirs should die.  
I see the discontented Crew,  
The Brats of Commonwealth, together swarm,  
And, deaf to each obliging Charm,  
Again their baffled Stratagems renew.  
I see their dark Cabals, and know  
How deep their gloomy Mines, and Midnight Consults go;  
I watch their secret motions, and reveal  
What their Confederate Devils would fain conceal:  
I see the Back-Doors gaping stand,  
The silent ingress of the crawling Band:  
So the black Gates of Hell unfolding show,  
When the grim Fiends to Council go,  
To raise the Posse of the Realms below.  
I see their softer Arts, their murdering Smiles,  
Their wheedling Courtship, and their fawning Wiles,  
And the broad Cameronian Dagger drawn,  
And for the wished Success, their lavish Souls in pawn:  
Yet sleep secure, ye sacred Pair:  
See where the fiery Guards possess the light some Air.  
The shining Squadrons all around  
With Victory and Virgin-Triumphs crowned,  
They watch the bloody Heart, the murdering Hand,  
And all their Motions countermand;  
While Rebels sink by their own weight o'er-born,  
And God and Charles above, their headlong Counsels scorn.   
Amen.  
L. M.   

On a Gentleman, who had been a great Penitent.  
An EPIGRAM.  
THE Sun still sets, and leaves the Earth to Night,  
Still sets in Waves, that it may rise more bright:  
The same advantage your great Penance shares;  
You rise a Phoebus from a Sea of Tears.   

To his MISTRESS.  By Sir John Denham. 
GO, Love-born Accents of my dying Heart,  
Steal into hers, and sweetly there impart  
The boundless Love, with which my Soul does swell,  
And all my Sighs there in soft Echoes tell:  
But if her Heart does yet repugnant prove  
To all the Blessings that attend my Love;  
Tell her the Flames that animate my Soul,  
The pure, and bright, as those Prometheus stole;  
From Heaven, tho' not like his by theft, they come,  
But a free Gift, by the eternal Doom.  
How partial, cruel Fair one, are your Laws,  
To reward th' Effect, yet condemn the Cause?  
Condemn my Love, and yet commend my Lays,  
That merits Love more, than these Merits priase:  
Yet I to you my Love and Verse submit,  
Without your Smile, that Hope, and these want Wit.  
For as some hold no colours are in deed,  
But from Reflection of the Light proceed:  
So as you shine, my Verse and I must live,  
You can Salvation and Damnation give.   

SONG.  By Th. Ch. Esq 

I.  
AS I beheld the bright Corinna's Eyes,  
The sturdy Spirit of Love began to rise.  
Ah! me, said I, fair Nymph, what is't you do?  
You've raised the Devil, but will you lay him too?  
Save me, oh! save me by your powerful Charms,  
And take me to the Circle of your Arms.   

II.  
Fear not, said she, this is a harmless Devil,  
I'll calm his Rage, and teach him to be civil;  
Of this intruding Fiend I know the Force,  
The longer he contends he will far the worse:  
Then opened her Magic Book, and with a Spell,  
Conjured the saucy Daemon into Hell.    

SONG.  By Sir George Etheridge. 

I.  
FAir Iris, all our time is spent  
In trifling, whilst we dally  
The Lovers, who'd indifferent,  
Commit the grossest Folly.  
Ah! stint not then the flowing Pleasure  
To such a wretched scanty measure;  
Since boundless Passion, boundless Joys will prove:  
Excess can only justify our Love▪   

II.  
Excess, in other things so bad,  
In Love's the justest Measure:  
No other Reason's to be had  
In that Seraphic Pleasure.  
From growing Love, bright Nymphs, your Faces  
Receive ten thousand sweeter Graces:  
My Iris, then, that you may be divine,  
Let your soft Flame spread Night and Day, like mine.    

To King WILLIAM.  

— Similem quae praetulit aetas?  
Concilio, vel Marte Virum? nunc Brutus amaret  
Vivere sub Regno tali; submitteret Aulae  
Fabritius; cuperent ipsi servire Catones.   

Thus Englished.  
In Council Wise, in War so great a Man,  
What Age did e'er produce, or ever can?  
Brutus himself, this best of Kings would Love,  
The wise Fabritius would to Court remove,  
And Cato too, whom Caesar could not tame,  
Would now a subject live with greater Fame.    

To my Friend Mr. Charles Hopkins: On reading his Translations out of Ovid and Tibullus.  By Mr. C. G. 
THus sweetly once the Lovesick Orpheus sung,  
When on his Voice the Sylvan Audience hung;  
Thus smooth his Numbers, and thus soft his Song,  
That calmed the Native Rage of the Infernal Throng.—  
Ah! no— my Friend, I wrong thy nobler Fame,  
He only Woods, Stones, Brutes, and Hell could tame;  
And Female Madness strove in vain t'assuage,  
Falling a Victim to their Thoughtless Rage:  
But Thou, canst melt a WOMAN's boundless Hate,  
bend all her stubborn Pride and all her Rage abate:  
Exalt her sordid Mercenary Mind,  
And make the Sex soft, genrous, just, and kind.  
Go on, dear Youth, with lucky Omens move,  
And teach the British Ladies how to love.  
Show ev'ry Spring, by which the Passions rise,  
How Admiration first attaques the Eyes;  
Thence how it gently does the Heart surprise:  
How there it kindles that unruly Fire,  
That melts our pastIndiffrence to glowing hot desire.  
Show the mistaken methods of the Fair,  
Who drive their sighing Slaves to cursed Despair.  
Ah! let thy Verse more tender Thoughts inspire,  
And make relentless fair Ones burn with equal Fire.  
Like Ovid's, shall thy Picture then be worn,  
And the glad Hand of every Youth adorn,  
As a sure Philtre against his Mistress' Scorn.   

By SPENCER.  
PHillis is both blithe and young;  
Of Phillis is my Silver Song:  
I love thilk Lass, and in my Heart  
She breeds full many a baleful Smart.  
Kids, cracknels, with my earliest Fruit,  
I give to make her hear my Suit;  
When Colin does approach overjoyed,  
My Hopes, alas! are all accoyed.  
Were I not born to love the Maid,  
Yet she calls Miracles to her Aid.  
When stormy Stou'rs had dressed the year,  
In shivering Winters wrathful Cheer:  
Phillis, that lovely cruel wight,  
Found me in a dreerie Plight;  
And Snowballs gently fling at me,  
To wake me from my Lethargy.  
Fire I ween there was y pent  
In all those frozen Balls she sent:  
For, Ah! woe's me, I felt them burn,  
And all my Soul to Flames I turn.  
Ah! Phillis, if you'd quench my Fire,  
Burn yourself with as fierce Desire.   

To SYLVIA.  

I.  
DID you, my charming Sylvia, live  
Where frozen Nature ne'er inspires  
Soft Love, or thaws to warm Desires,  
Yet sure you would some Pity give  
To one condemned to so severe a Fate,  
To bear the rigour of the Night, and what's far more, your Hate.   

II.  
Bright lovely Charmer, lay aside  
This useless, this ungrateful Pride,  
That all my Happiness destroys,  
And robs thee of ten thousand Joys.  
Let ancient Tales of one coy Matron boast,  
Thy Charms are not bestowed to be for fansyed Trifles lost.   

III.  
Thee Nature in these Glories dressed,  
To make the sighing Lover blest:  
A sight of thee gives mighty Joys,  
Far greater still thy melting Voice;  
To kiss thee must our grosser Make refine;  
But oh! t'enjoy thee! must make us grow Divine.    

An Imitation of  

Qualis nox fuit illa dii Deaeque!  
Quam mollis torus! Haesimus calentes;  
Et transfudimus hinc & hinc labellis  
Errantes animas; valete curae:  
Mortalis ego sic perire coepi. Petronii sat.   

OH! what a Night was that, ye Powers Divine!  
When I lay locked within her Arms, she clasped in mine:  
O'er Love's unbeaten wild's I freely ranged,  
Whilst at our Mouths our wandering Souls w'exchanged.  
Farewell all mortal Cares, in haste farewel,  
I'm now, where boundless Joys and Raptures dwell.   
FINIS.