Licenced and Entered according to Order.   

POETICAL RECREATIONS: Consisting of ORIGINAL POEMS, SONGS, ODES, etc. With several New TRANSLATIONS.  
In Two PARTS. PART I. Occasionally Written by Mrs. JANE BARKER. PART II. By several Gentlemen of the UNIVERSITIES, and Others.  
— pulcherrimá Virgo  
Incedit, magnâ juvenum stipante cateruâ. Virg.  
LONDON, Printed for Benjamin Crayle, at the Peacock and Bible, at the West-end of St. Paul's. 1688.   


Sr. Clement cottrel Kt. Master of the Ceremonies    

THE PUBLISHER TO The Reader.  
LEST the Book might appear Naked, and unfashionable, I thought it could not be altogether unnecessary to say something by way of Preface; Therefore, not to be tedious, and pedantickly stuff it up with Quotations of several Languages, (as some affect, to show Learning) I shall only say this of the ensuing Poetical Recreations, That the kind reception some other things of this nature have found, encouraged me in the attempt of Publishing these; and I hope they may give as equivalent satisfaction as any that have preceded them: for the ensuing Verses have passed the test of several that know how to judge of Poetry, and that was sufficient to prompt me to the adventure.  
The First Part of these Miscellanies are the effects of a Lady's Wit, and I hope all the Courtly will (though out of a Compliment) allow them for valuable: But however, not to say much more of her Verses, I doubt not but they will commend themselves far better than I can pretend to; for all good things carry with them a certain irresistible Authority, not to be opposed.  
The Second Part flows from the Pens of those whose Educations gave them the opportunity of improving their natural Endowments at the Universities, and some others who wanted those advantages; and by reading you may find the difference of Parts improved, and Parts as barely natural: And as Learning is but a way to set off Nature, so very often we see Nature naked to appear more beautiful, than when confined or daubed by aukered and unnecessary Art, which makes it often prove like a good Face spoiled by ill Paint, and injurious Washeses. But not to pretend to give you a particular Harangue of each Author, and an account of their Writings, who have been so kind to the World as to contribute to this Piece; I shall only say that that which Horace said of himself, is applicable to them: 
Libera per vacuum posui Vestigia princeps,  
Non aliena meo pressi pede.—  
They've trod new Paths, to others Feet unknown,  
And bravely ventured to lead others on.  If you that read, like, and recommend, so that the Book sells, I am obliged, and you pleased: And therefore I shall leave you to the trial. Vale.  B. CRAYLE.  

To Madam JANE BARKER, On Her Incomparable POEMS.  

SOon as some envious Angel's willing hand  
Snatched Great Orinda from our happy Land;  
The Great Orinda, whose Seraphic Pen  
Triumphed o'er Women, and outbraved even Men:  
Then our Male- Poets modestly thought fit,  
To claim the honoured Primacy in Wit;  
But, lo, the Heiress of that Lady's Muse,  
Rivals their Merits, and their Sense out-do's;  
With swifter flights of fancy wings her Verse,  
And nobler Greatness valiant Acts rehearse.  
Her Modish Muse abhors a constant dress,  
Appears each day in fineries afresh:  
Sometimes in pompous Grandeur she does nobly stalk,  
Then clad in tragic Buskins does Majestic walk;  
She swells in blushing Purple, or looks big in Arms,  
Proclaims destructive Wars, & triumphs in Alarms;  
Denounces fall of States, and fate of greatest Kings,  
Ruin of mighty Monarches, and of mighty Things.  
Sometimes her angry Muse, filled with Satiric rage,  
Lashes the frantic follies of a froward Age;  
Then whips, and fiery Serpents every Verse entwine,  
And sharpest-pointed Vengeance fills each threatening line.  
Sometimes her kinder Muse does softly sing  
Of native joys, which in the Country spring:   

Then,  
Noiseless as Planets, all her Numbers move,  
Or silent breathe of a sleeping Dove;  
Soft as the Murmur of a gentle Air,  
Or Midnights whispers 'twixt an Amorous pair.  
A genuine sweetness through her Verses flow,  
And harmless Raptures, such as Shepherds know;  
She fills each Plain, each Wood, each shady Grove,  
With wearied Echoes of repeated Love.  
Bald and Bombastick equally you eat,  
In even paces all your Numbers run.  
Spencer's aspiring fancy fills your Soul,  
Whilst lawful Raptures through your Poems roll,  
Which always by your guidance do submit,  
To th' curb of judgement, and the bounds of Wit.  
When in a Comic sweetness you appear,  
Ben Johnson's humour seems revived there.  
When lofty Passions thunder from your Pen,  
Methinks I hear Great Shakespeare once again.  
But what does most your Poetry commend?  
You even begin where those great Wits did end.  
Your infant fancy with that height is crowned,  
Which they with pains and cost (when old) scarce found.  
Go on, Dear Madam, and command our praise,  
Our freshest Laurels, and our greenest Bays.   
St. John's College.  PHILASTER.  

To the Ingenious Mrs. BARKER, On Her Excellent POEMS.  

LOng since my Thoughts did thus for boding tell,  
The Muses would their Governors expel,  
And raise a Female Heir unto the Crown,  
One of their Sex to sit upon the Throne:  
And now the time is come, we joy to see  
We're Subjects to so great a Queen as thee;  
Before in all things else we did submit,  
(Madam) in all things else but only Wit:  
Such was our vain Self-love, and stubborn Pride,  
But Heaven was pleased to take the weakest side.  
And now as Captives to our Conqueror,  
We must surrender all into your Power,  
Not daring to keep back the smallest part,  
But own with shame, and praise your great Desert.   

Nor are you so desirous of the Bays,  
As to deny Others deserved Praise;  
But giving them an Everlasting Name,  
You merit to yourself a nobler Fame;  
While your own Glory you so much neglect,  
And Others with such skill and care protect,  
More lasting Trophies to yourself erect.  
But ah, how high your Fancy takes its flight,  
Whilst they admire at you, gone out of sight:  
So all in Fire Elijah fled unkind,  
And left Elisha wondering here behind:  
They, like Elisha, for a Blessing call,  
You hear their Prayers, and let the Mantle fall.  
With this they strange unheard-of things can do,  
Had they a fiery Coach, they'd be Elijah's too.   

Farther oblige the World (good Madam) still  
By divine Raptures of your warbling Quill.  
Restore the Muses, and true Poetry,  
And teach what Charms do in true Measures lie:  
And when you find a time best to retreat,  
Spin out into a Web of Fancy, and of Wit.  
Let me your Muse a Legacy inherit,  
A double Portion of your sacred Spirit.   C. G.  

To the Ingenious AUTHOR, Mrs. JANE BARKER, ON HER POEMS.  

I.  
AS in the ancient Chaos, from whose Womb  
The Universe did come;  
All things confused, disordered were,  
No signs o'th' lustre, which did after grace  
The whole Creation's face;  
Nothing of Beauty did appear,  
But all was a continued boundless space,  
Till the Almighty's powerful Command,  
Whose Action e'er more quick than thought,  
The Infant World out of confusion brought;  
Whose all-commanding hand,  
With Beasts & Trees did bounteously adorn the fruitful Land.   

II.  
So where my Thoughts, if Thoughts can be  
Designed from Wit, and Poetry,  
Nothing but Ignorance appeared,  
Dull ignorance, and folly too,  
With all that Crew,  
And homebred Darkness held the regency,  
Till your Almighty Pen  
This Chaos cleared,  
And of old armed Men,  
Strange Miracles rose out o'th' Earth:  
So to your charming Wit I owe  
These Verses, 'tis your Word that makes them so;  
Which raised from such a barren ground,  
Strive to resound  
Your praise, who by such harmless Magic gave them Birth.   

III.  
And as the heavens, to which we all things owe,  
Scarce own those Bounties which they do bestow:  
So you're as kind as they,  
Submit your kinder influence,  
To be by us determined, us obey;  
And still from them  
Give us even for our weakness a reward,  
Without regard  
To Merit: Or if any thing we do,  
Worth praise, though solely it proceed from you,  
Yet for our smallest diligence you doubly do repay.  
St. John's College.   EXILIUS.  

In Elegantem JANAE BARKER Poeticen Epigramma.  
FOnte Caballino janam cum cerno lavatam,  
An Sapph est, inquam, quae rediviva canit?  
Non, ait, at parere ut possim praeclara Virorum  
Facta datum; haud aliis, sed peperisse viros.  M. Heliogenes de L' Epi. Philos. ac Med. P.  

To Mrs. JANE BARKER, On Her Ingenious POEMS.  

WE Men would fain monopolise all Wit,  
And e'er since Adam named the Beasts, claimed it,  
Thinking in that, by him, our Patent writ.  
How grossly we mistook, Orinda knew,  
We are convinced too by your Verse and Yo●.  
'Tis true, at Ten, we're sent to th' whipping fry,  
To tug at Classic Oars, and trembling lie  
Under Gill's heavy lash, or Buzby's Eye.  
At Eighteen, we to King's or Trinity are sent,  
And nothing less than Laureate will content;  
We search all Sects, (like Systematick Fools)  
And sweat o'er Horace for Poetic Rules.  
Yet after all these Mountain-throes and din,  
At length drops out some poor crude Sooterkin,  
And makes— cob Tonson vexed he e'er put in.   

But here a Lady, with less noise and pain,  
Lays by her Bobbins, Tape, and Point-Lorrain;  
Attends her serene Soul, till forth she brought  
Fancy well-shaped, and true digested Thought.  
Shadwell and Settle yield she hath the knack,  
And swear she will outdo Revolting jack;  
She cloaths her Sense in such a modest Style,  
That her chaste Lines no Reader can defile.   

Madam, your happy Vein we all admire,  
Pure unmixed rays (just so Ethereal fire  
Will shine above the Atmosphere of gross desire,)  
Brisk Airs, chaste Sense, and most delighting Lays;  
Take off your Top-knots, and put on the Bays.   S. C. Esq.  

To the Incomparable GALAECIA, On the Publication of Her POEMS.  

WHen a new Star does in the Skies appear,  
And to some Constellation, shining there,  
New lustre adds, and gilds the rolling Sphere.  
Then all the Sons of Art, wondering to see  
The bright, and the amazing Novelty;  
By most accurate Observations, try  
To search, and find its perfect Theory;  
To know its colour, form, place, magnitude,  
And from strange Causes strange Effects conclude:  
So all Men, pleased with thy ingenuous fire,  
Who beauteous Verse, and happy slights admire;  
With joy behold a Wit so pure as thine,  
In this dark Age of Ignorance to shine,  
And scatter Rays so dazzling and Divine.  
All think it glorious, and with vast delight,  
Gaze on a Star so charming, and so bright;  
Nor are amazed that Wits less gay and clear,  
At the approach of thine, should disappear.  
That Poetaster's of a low degree,  
Should now neglected, and valued be,  
And spreading Fame confined alone to thee;  
Since none so nicely are observed, and viewed,  
As the large Stars of the first Magnitude.   

And may your piercing Wit shine always bright  
As th' Evening Star in a clear frosty Night,  
Unrivalled by the Moon's faint borrowed light.  
May never interposing sorrows meet,  
To cloud, or to obscure your growing Wit.  
But may your Rhimes be still employed to tell,  
What satissaction does in Knowledge dwell;  
And as you have begun, so yet go on,  
To make coy Nature's secrets better known;  
And may we learn in purest Verse, from thee,  
The Art of Physic, and Anatomy;  
While the much-pleased Apollo smiles to see  
Medicine at once improved, and Poetry.   FIDELIUS.  

A TABLE OF THE POEMS Contained in the FIRST PART OF POETICAL RECREATIONS.  
AN Invitation to my Friends at Cambridge. 
Page 1  To Mr. Hill, on his Verses to the Duchess of York, when she was at Cambridge. 
p. 4  To my Cousin Mr. E. F. on his Excellent Painting. 
p. 6  To my Reverend Friend Mr. H— on his Presenting me The Reasonableness of Christianity, and The History of King Charles the First, etc. 
p. 8  To Mr. G. P. my Adopted Brother, on the nigh approach of his Nuptials. 
p. 11  A Virgin Life. 
p. 12  To my Friend Exillus, on his persuading me to Marry Old Damon. 
p. 14  To Dr. R. S. my Indifferent Lover, who complained of my Indifferency. 
p. 16  On the Death of my Dear Friend and Playfellow, Mrs. E. D. 
p. 18  The Prospect of a Landscape, beginning with a Grove, proceeding to a Rivulet, and ending with a Hill. 
p. 20  To Sir F. W. presenting him Cowley's first Works. 
p. 28  To Ovid's Heroines in his Epistles. 
ibid.  To my Honourablle Uncle Colonel C— after his Return into the Low-Countries. 
p. 29  On the Apothecary's Filing my Bills amongst the Doctor's. 
p. 31  To my unkind Strephon. 
p. 34  To my Friend S. L. on his receiving the Name of Little Tom King. 
p. 37  Necessity of Fate. 
p. 38  A Letter to my Honoured Friend Mr. E. S. 
p. 40  On my Mother and my Lady W. who both lay sick at the same time under the Hands of Dr. Paman. 
p. 42  In Commendation of the Female Sex. 
p. 44  To my Brother whilst he was in France. 
p. 46  On the Death of my Brother. 
p. 47  On the same: A Pindaric Ode. 
p. 51  Part of the 19th Psalm. 
p. 56  Coming from— in a Dark Night. 
p. 58  To my Dear Cousin Mrs. M. T. after the Death of her Husband and Son. 
p. 59  To my Young Lover. 
p. 61  To my Young Lover on his Vow. 
p. 62  To my Young Lover: A Song. 
p. 64  To my unkind Friend Little Tom King. 
p. 65  A 2d Epistle to my Honoured Friend Mr. E. S. 
p. 70  A Pastoral Dialogue betwixt Two Shepherd-Boys. 
p. 7●  To Mr. C. B. on his Incomparable Singing. 
p. 76  The Complaint. 
p. 78  A Song. 
p. 79  The Unruly Heart: Song. 
p. 81  Song. 
p. 82  Song. 
p. 83  A Bacchanalian Song. 
p. 84  An Ode. 
p. 86  Absence for a Time. 
p. 87  Parting with— 
p. 89  The Anchorite. 
p. 91  jane, Nan, and Frank, their Farewell to Captain C. going to Sea. 
p. 92  To her Lover's Complaint: A Song. 
p. 94  To my Adopted Brother Mr. G. P. on my frequent Writing to him. 
p. 95  To my Friends against Poetry. 
p. 96  To the Importunate Address of Poetry. 
p. 97  A Farewell to Poetry, with a long Digression on Anatomy. 
p. 99  On the Death of my Brother, a Sonnet. 
p. 107  Resolved never to Versify more. 
p. 108    

ERRATA.  
Partly. I. Page 19 Line 1. for the, read ye.  
Part II. Page 47. line 4. for Celestial, read the Celestial.  
Page 48. line 4. for crack, read choke.  
Page 61. line 6. for your, read you.  
Page 89. line 7. for Things, read Thinns.  
Page 192. line 6. for but obtain, read obtain.  
Page 211. line 8. for streams, read stream.  
Page 268. line ult. for reserved, read refined.  
Page 278. line 19 for Fight, read Sight.   

Miscellany POEMS. PART I.  By Mrs. JANE BARKER. 

An Invitation to my Friends at Cambridge.  

IF, Friends, you would but now this place accost,  
ere the young Spring that Epithet has lost,  
And of my rural joy participate;  
You'd learn to talk at this distracted rate.   

Hail, Solitude, where Innocence does shroud  
Her unveiled Beauties from the censuring Crowd;  
Let me but have her Company, and I  
Shall never envy this World's Gallantry:  
We'll find out such inventions to delude  
And mock all those that mock our solitude,  
That they for shame shall fly for their defence  
To gentle Solitude and Innocence:  
Then they will find how much they've been deceived,  
When they the flatteries of this World believed.  
Though to few Objects here we are confined,  
Yet we have full enlargement of the Mind.  
From varying Modes, which do our Lives enslave,  
Lo here a full Immunity we have.  
For here's no pride but in the Sun's bright Beams,  
Nor murmuring, but in the Crystal streams.  
No avarice is here, but in the Bees,  
Nor is Ambition found but in the Trees.  
No Wantonness but in the frisking Lamb●,  
Nor Luxury but when they suck their Dams.  
Nor are there here Contrivances of States,  
Only the Birds contrive to please their Mates;  
Each minute they alternately improve  
A thousand harmless ways their artless love.  
No Cruel Nymphs are here to tyrannize,  
Nor faithless Youths their scorn to exercise;  
Unless Narcissus be that sullen he  
That can despise his amorous talking she.  
No Emulation here does interpose,  
Unless betwixt the Tulip and the Rose;  
But all things do conspire to make us blessed,  
(Yet chiefly 'tis Contentment makes the Feast)  
'Tis such a pleasing solitude as yet  
Romance ne'er found, where happy Lovers met:  
Yea such a kind of solitude it is,  
Not much unlike to that of Paradise,  
Where all things do their choicest good dispense,  
And I too here am placed in innocence.  
I should conclude that such it really were,  
But that the Tree of Knowledge won't grow here●  
Though in its culture I have spent some time,  
Yet it disdains to grow in our cold Clime,  
Where it can neither Fruit nor Leaves produce  
Good for its owner, or the public use.  
How can we hope our Minds then to adorn  
With any thing with which they were not born;  
Since we're denied to make this small advance,  
To know their nakedness and ignorance?  
For in our Maker's Laws we've made a breach,  
And gathered all that was within our reach,  
Which since we ne'er could touch; Although our Eyes  
Do serve our longing-Souls to tantalise,  
Whilst kinder fate for you does constitute  
Luxurious Banquets of this dainty Fruit.  
Whose Tree most fresh and flourishing does grow,  
E'er since it was transplanted amongst you;  
And you in Wit grow as its branches high,  
Deep as its Root too in Philosophy;  
Large as its spreading Arms your Reasons grow,  
Close as its Umbrage does your judgements show;  
Fresh as its Leaves your sprouting fancies are,  
Your Virtues as its Fruits are bright and fair.    

To Mr. HILL, on his Verses to the Duchess of YORK, when she was at Cambridge.  
WHat fitter Subject could be for thy Wit?  
What Wit for Subject could there be more fit  
Than thine for this, by which thou'dst nobly showed  
Thy Soul with Loyal Sentiments endued?  
Not only so, but proved thyself to be  
Mirror of what her Highness came to see:  
Who having seen the Schools of Art, the best  
She found concentered in thy matchless Breast;  
And doubtless when she saw the eager joys  
Of Ears no less ambitious than their Eyes,  
She did conclude their coming was not there  
To see her only, but thy Wit to hear:  
Thine whose ascent shall learned Cambridge grace,  
And show it's no such foggy level place  
As most affirm; for now the World shall know  
That 
* Wood● Auth●● another Spee●●  Woods and Hills of wit in Cambridge grow,  
Whose lofty tops such pleasing Umbrage make,  
As may induce the Gallants to forsake  
Their dear-loved Town, to gather in this place  
Some witticisms of a better race,  
Than what proceed from swearing Critics, who  
Kick Tavern Boys, and Orange-Wenches woo,  
Are Machavillians in a Coffeehouse,  
And think it wit a poor Street-Whore to chouse;  
And for their Father Hobbs will talk so high,  
Rather than him they will their God deny:  
And lest their wit should want a surer proof,  
They boast of crimes they ne'er were guilty of.  
Thus hellish cunning dressed in Masquerade  
Of Wit's disguise, so many have betrayed,  
And made them Bondslaves, who at first did fly  
Thither Wit's famine only to supply.  
But now I hope they'll find the task too great,  
And think at last of making a retreat:  
Since here's a Pisgah-Hill whereon to stand  
To take a prospect of Wit's holy Land,  
Flowing with Milk of Christian innocence,  
And Honey of Cic'ronian Eloquence.   

To my Cousin Mr. E. F. on his Excellent PAINTING.  

SHould I in tuneless lines strive to express  
That harmony which all your lines confess,  
Ambition would my judgement so outrun,  
Even as an Archer that would hit the Sun.  
My Muse, alas! is of that humble size,  
She scarce can to a Countertenor rise;  
Much less must she to treble notes aspire,  
To match the Beauties of your pencil●s Choir:  
Yet quite forbear to sing, she can●t, since you  
Such ample objects for her praises show.  
No Poet here can have his tongue confined,  
Unless he's, like his Master Homer, blind,  
But must in spite of all his conscious fears,  
Say something where such Excellence appears.  
Where each line is in such due order placed,  
Nature stands by afraid to be disgraced.  
Lo in the Eye such graces do appear,  
As if all Beauties were united there.  
Yet different Passions seem therein to move,  
Grave even as Wisdom, brisk and sweet as Love:  
The lips, which always are committing rapes,  
(To which the Youths fly more than Birds to th' Grapes)  
With colour that transcends the Indian-lake,  
And harmless smiles they do their Conquests make.  
I should be tedious should I mention all  
Which justice would the chiefest Beauties call,  
Whose line'ments all harmony do show,  
And yet no less express all Beauty too,  
A strange reverse of nature seems to be,  
That now we Beauty hear, and Music see;  
Yet just proportion in true numbers mere,  
Which make a Chorus even heavenly sweet.   

Could I think Ancient Painters equalled thee,  
I should conclude Romance true History;  
Not think it strange that Pictures could excite  
Those Gallant Hero's then to love and fight;  
Nor say that Painters did on them impose,  
Since they made Gods and Mortals like to those;  
As Poets did create the Deities,  
So Painters gave them their ubiquities:  
For had not Painters them to th' Vulgar shown,  
They only to the Learned had been known:  
Nor are we less than they obliged to you,  
Who give us Beauty, and immortalize it too.    

To my Reverend Friend Mr. H—. on his Presenting me The Reasonableness of Christianity, and The History of King CHARLES the First, etc.  
GOod Sir, if I could my Resentments show  
In words, how much I am obliged to you,  
I would invoke some Muse to teach me how  
T' express my gratitude in number now;  
But, Sir, the kindness which to me you showed,  
Transcends the bounds of finite gratitude:  
What number then, alas, can there be fit  
To cipher kindness which is infinite?  
And such is that which teaches us to know  
God and ourselves, and what we ought to do:  
For whilst I in your Parish spent my Youth,  
I gained the knowledge of all saving Truth;  
And when my Exit was by fate designed,  
To show, you'd not imposed upon my Mind  
(In its Minority, what Reason might  
In its mature and fullgrown vigour slight)  
You kindly gave me in Epitome,  
The Reasonableness of Christianity.  
Which shows there's no necessity to make  
Us discard Reason when our Faith we take.  
For God, who knew how apt we were to slide  
From Faith, if we'd no reason sor our Guide,  
Made all his Precepts, which on Faith were fixed,  
To be with reason, and our interest mixed;  
For howsoever by some they're understood,  
I'm sure it is our interest to be good:  
And lest Example should be wanting to  
Excite us to what Precepts bid us do,  
He always gave us some, whose Virtues did  
Exalt good deeds, and wicked ones forbid;  
Whose Christian strength was able to subdue  
The busy World, Flesh, and the Devil too.  
Amongst whom there's none more Eminently good  
Than he who sealed the Truth with's Royal Blood;  
Who proved himself by's Royal Sufferings  
The best of Men, as well as best of Kings:  
As David was Christ's Sire, and Servant, so  
Charles was his Brother, Son and Servant too.  
Much might be said to call our Wonder forth,  
And fall much short of his transcendent Worth;  
For he so far all praises does surpass,  
That who speaks most, speaks short of what he was.  
For nothing can his matchless worth express,  
Nor characterise his mighty Soul, unless  
Wisdom herself assume religious dress.  
Thanks then, Good Sir, to you, for giving me  
This complete Mirror of Christianity.   

To Mr. G. P. my Adopted Brother; on the nigh approach of his Nuptials.  
Dear Brother,  
THy Marry'ng humour I dare scarce upbraid;  
Lest thou retort upon me Musty Maid;  
Yet prithee done't its joys too much esteem,  
It will not prove what distance makes it seem:  
Bells are good music, if they're not too nigh,  
But sure 'tis base living in a Belfery.  
To see Lambs skip o'er Hills is pretty sport,  
But who would justle with them in their Court?  
Then let not Marriage thee in danger draw,  
Unless thou'rt bit with Love's Tarantula;  
A Frenzy which no Physic can reclaim,  
But Crosses, crying Children, scolding Dame:  
Yet who would such a dangerous Medicine try,  
Where a disease attends the remedy;  
Whilst Love's Diaryan it assays to cure,  
It introduces Anger's Calenture.  
Ah, pity thy good humour should be spoiled,  
The glory of thy wit and friendship soiled:  
From Married Man wits Current never flows,  
But grave and dull, as standing Pond, he grows;  
Whilst th' other like a gentle stream does play,  
With this World's pebbles, which obstruct his way.  
What should I talk, this and much more you know  
Of all the troubles you must undergo.  
Yet if we'll eat Tythe-pig, we must endure  
The punishment to serve the Parson's cure.   

A VIRGIN LIFE.  
SInce, O ye Powers, ye have bestowed on me  
So great a kindness for Virginity,  
Suffer me not to fall into the Powers  
Of men's almost Omnipotent Amours;  
But in this happy Life let me remain,  
Fearless of Twenty five and all its train,  
Of slights or scorns, or being called Old Maid,  
Those Goblins which so many have betrayed:  
Like harmless Kids, that are pursued by men,  
For safety run into a Lion's Den.  
Ah lovely State how strange it is to see,  
What mad conceptions some have made of thee,  
As though thy Being was all wretchedness,  
Or foul deformity i'th' ugliest dress;  
Whereas thy Beauty's pure, Celestial,  
Thy thoughts Divine, thy words Angelical:  
And such aught all thy Votaries to be,  
Or else they're so, but for necessity.  
A Virgin bears the impress of all good,  
In that dread Name all virtue's understood:  
So equal all her looks, her mien, her dress,  
That nought but modesty seems in excess.  
And when she any treats or visits make,  
'Tis not for tattle, but for Friendship's sake;  
Her Neighbouring Poor she does adopt her Heirs,  
And less she cares for her own good than theirs;  
And by Obedience testifies she can  
Be's good a Subject as the stoutest Man.  
She to her Church such filial duty pays,  
That one would think she'd lived i'th' pristine days.  
Her Closet, where she does much time bestow,  
Is both her Library and Chapel too,  
Where she enjoys society alone,  
I'th' Great Three-One—  
She drives her whole Lives business to these Ends,  
To serve her God, enjoy her Books and Friends.   

To my Friend EXILLUS, on his persuading me to Marry Old Damon.  
WHen Friends advice with Lovers forces join,  
They'll conquer Hearts more fortified than mine●  
For mine lies as it wont, without defence,  
No Guard nor Art but its own innocence;  
Under which Fort, it could fierce storms endure,  
But from thy Wit I find no Fort secure.  
Ah, why wouldst thou assist my Enemy,  
Who was himself almost too strong for me?  
Thou with Idolatry mak'st me adore,  
And homage do to the proud Conqueror.  
Now round his Neck my willing Arms I'd twine,  
And swear upon his Lips, My Dear, I'm thine,  
But that his kindness then would grow, I fear,  
Too weighty for my weak desert to bear.  
I fear 't would even to extremes improve,  
And jealousy, they say, 's th' extreme of Love;  
That after all my kindness to him shown,  
My little Neddy, he'll not think't his own:  
Even thou my Dear Exillus he'll suspect,  
If I but look on thee, I him neglect:  
Not only He-friends innocent as thou,  
But he'll mistrust She-friends and Heaven too.  
Thus best things may be turned to greatest harm,  
As saying th' Lord's Prayer backward proves a charm.  
Or if not thus, I'm sure he will despite,  
Or underrate the easie-gotten prize.  
These and a thousand fears my Soul possess,  
But most of all my own unworthiness;  
Like dying Saints, I wish for coming joys,  
But humble fears that forward wish destroys.  
What shall I do then? hazard the event?  
You say, Old Damon's, all that's excellent.  
If I miss him, the next some Squire may prove,  
Whose Dogs and Horses shall have all his love;  
Or some debauched pretender to lewd wit,  
Or covetous, conceited, unbred Citt.  
Thus the brave Horse, who late i'th' Coach did neigh,  
Is forced at last to tug a nasty Dray.   

To Dr. R. S. my indifferent Lover, who complained of my Indifferency.  
YOu'd little reason to complain of me,  
Or my unkindness or indiff'rency,  
Since I by many a circumstance can prove,  
That interest was the motive of your love;  
But Heaven itself doth ever hate th' address,  
Whose crafty Motive's only interess;  
No more can honest Maids endure to be,  
The objects of your wife indiff'rency.  
Such wary Courtship only should be shown  
To cunning jilting Baggages o'th' Town:  
For faithful Love●s the rhetoric that persuades,  
And charms the hearts of silly Country Maids.  
But when we find your Courtship's but pretence,  
Love were not Love in us, but impudence.  
At best I'm sure it needs must prove to us  
(What ere you think on't) most injurious.  
For had I of that gentle nature been,  
As to have loved your Person, Wit, or Mien,  
How many sighs and tears it would have cost,  
And fruitless expectations by the Post,  
Saying he is unkind; oh, no, his Letter's lost;  
Hoping him sick, or lame, or gone to Sea,  
Hope any thing but his inconstancy.  
Thus what in other Friends cause greatest fear,  
To desperate Maids, their only comforts are.  
This I through all your Blandishments did see,  
Thanks to ill nature that instructed me:  
Thoughts of your sighs, would plead sometimes for you,  
But second thoughts again would let me know,  
In gayest Serpents strongest Poisons are,  
And sweetest Rosetrees sharpest prickles bear:  
And so it proves, for now it does appear,  
Your Flames and Sighs only for Money were.  
As Beggars for their gain turn Blind and Lame;  
On the same score a Lover you became:  
Yet there's a kindness in this false Amour,  
It teaches me ne'er to be Mistress more.  
Thus Blazing Comets are of good portent,  
If they excite the People to repent.   

On the DEATH of my Dear Friend and Playfellow, Mrs E. D. having Dreamed the night before I heard thereof, that I had lost a Pearl.  
I Dreamed I lost a Pearl, and so it proved;  
I lost a Friend much above Pearls beloved:  
A Pearl perhaps adorns some outward part,  
But Friendship decks each corner of the heart:  
Friendship's a Gem, whose Lustre does outshine  
All that's below the heavenly crystalline:  
Friendship is that mysterious thing alone,  
Which can unite, and make two Hearts but one;  
It purifies our Love, and makes it flow  
I'th' clearest stream that's found in Love below;  
It sublimates the Soul, and makes it move  
Towards Perfection and Celestial Love.  
We had no by-designs, nor hoped to get  
Each by the other place amongst the great;  
Nor Riches hoped, nor Poverty we feared,  
'Twas Innocence in both, which both revered:  
Witness this truth the Wilsthorp-Fields, where we  
So oft enjoyed a harmless Luxury;  
Where we indulged our easy Appetites,  
With Pocket-Apples, Plumbs, and such delights.  
Then we contrived to spend the rest o'th' day,  
In making Chaplets, or at Check-stone play;  
When weary, we ourselves supinely laid  
On Beds of violets under some cool shade,  
Where th' Sun in vain strove to dart through his Raȳs●  
Whilst Birds around us chanted forth their Lays;  
Even those we had bereft of their young,  
Would greet us with a Querimonious Song.  
Stay here, my Muse, and of these let us learn,  
The loss of our deceased Friend to Mourn:  
Learn did I say? alas, that cannot be,  
We can teach Clouds to weep, and Winds to sigh at Sea,  
Teach Brooks to murmur, Rivers too re-flow,  
We can add Solitude to Shades of Yeaugh.  
Were Turtles to be witness of our moan,  
They'd in compassion quite forget their own:  
Nor shall hereafter Heraclitus be,  
Famed for his Tears, but to my Muse and Me;  
Fate shall give all that Fame can comprehend,  
Ah poor repair for th' loss of such a Friend.   

The Prospect of a LANDSCAPE, Beginning with a GROVE.  

WEll might the Ancients deem a Grove to be  
The Sacred Mansion of some Deity;  
For it our Souls insensibly does move,  
At once to humble Piety and Love,  
The choicest Blessings Heaven to us has given,  
And the best Offering we can make to Heaven;  
These only poor Mortality make blessed,  
And to Inquietude exhibit rest;  
By these our rationality is shown,  
The cognisance by which from Brutes we're known.  
For who themselves of Piety divest,  
Are surely but a Moral kind of Beasts;  
But those whom gentle Laws of Love can't bind,  
Are Savages of the most sordid kind.  
But none like these do in our Shades obtrude,  
Though scornfully some needs will call th●m rude  
Yet Nature's culture is so well expressed,  
That Art herself would wish to be so dressed:  
For here the Sun conspires with every Tree,  
To deck the Earth with Landskip-Tapistry.  
Then through some space his brightest, Beams appear●  
Which does erect a Golden Pillar there.  
Here a close Canopy of Bows is made,  
There a soft grassy Cloth of State is spread,  
With Gems and gayest Flowers embroidered o●re,  
Fresh as those Beauties honest Swains adore.  
Here Plants for health, and for delight are met,  
The Cephalick Cowslip, Cordial Violet.  
Under the Diuretic Woodbine grows  
The Splenetic Columbine, Scorbutic Rose;  
The best of which, some gentle Nymph doth tak●,  
For saithful Corydon a Crown to make;  
Whilst on her Lap the happy Youth's head lies,  
Gazing upon the Aspects of her Eyes,  
The most unerring, best Astronomy,  
Whereby to Calculate his destiny;  
Whilst o'er their heads a pair of Turtles Coo,  
Which with less zeal and constancy do woo●●;  
And Birds around, through their extended throats,  
In careless Consort chant their pleasing Notes;  
Than which, no sweeter Music strikes the Ear,  
Unless when Lover's sighs each other hear;  
Which are more soft than Austral Breeses bring,  
Although they say they're harbingers of th' Spring.   

Ah silly Town! wil't thou near learn to know,  
What happiness in Solitude does grow?  
But as a hardened Sinner for's defence,  
Pleads the insipidness of innocence;  
Or some whom Virtue due respect would grant,  
But that they feign they're of her ignorant:  
Yet Blindness is not laudable to plead,  
When we're by wilful Ignorance misled.  
Should some, who think't a happiness to get  
Crowds of acquaintance, to admire their Wit;  
Resolve their Sins and Follies to discard,  
Their Cronies quickly would them disregard.   

'Tis hard we must (the World's so wicked grown)  
Be complaisant in Sin, or live alone:  
For those who now with Virtue are endued,  
Do live alone, though in a multitude.  
Retire then all, whom Fortune don't oblige,  
To suffer the distresses of a Siege.  
Where strong temptation Virtue does attack,  
'Tis not ignoble an escape to make:  
But where no Conquest can be hoped by ●ight,  
'Tis honourable, sure, to escape by flight.  
Fly to some calm retreat, where you may spend  
Your life in quietude with some kind Friend;  
In some small Village, and adjacent Grove,  
At once your Friendship and your Wit improve;  
Free from those vile, opprobrious, foolish Names,  
Of Whig or Tory, and from sordid aims  
Of Wealth, and all its train of Luxuries;  
From Wit sophisticate, with fooleries.  
From Beds of Lust, and Meals o'ercharged with Wine,  
Here temp'rately thou may'st on one Dish dine:  
In wholesome Exercise thou may'st delight  
Thyself, and make thy rest more sweet at night.  
And i● thy mind to Contemplation leads,  
Who God and Nature's Books has, surely needs  
No other Object to employ his thought,  
Since in each leaf such Mysteries are wrought;  
That who so studies most, shall never know  
Why the strait Elm's so tall, the Moss so low.  
Oh now, I could enlarge upon this Theme,  
But that I'm unawares come to the stream,  
Which at the bottom of this Grove does glide;  
And here I'll rest me by its flowery side.    

Sitting by a Rivulet.  

I.  
AH lovely stream, how fitly may'st thou be,  
By thy immutability,  
Thy gentle motion and perennity,  
To us the Emblem of Eternity:  
And to us thou dost no less  
A kind of Omnipresence too express.  
For always at the Ocean thou  
Art always here, and at thy Fountain too;  
Always thou go'st thy proper Course,  
Spontaneously, and yet by force,  
Each Wave forcing his Precursor on;  
Yet each one runs with equal haste,  
As though each feared to be the last.  
With mutual strife, void of contention,  
In Troops they march, till thousands, thousands past.  
Yet gentle stream, thou'rt still the same,  
Always going, never gone;  
Yet dost all Constancy disclaim,  
Wildly dancing to thine own murmuring tuneful Song;  
Old as Time, as Love and Beauty young.   

II.  
But chiefly thou to Unity layest claim,  
For though in thee,  
Innumerable drops there be,  
Yet still thou art but one,  
Th'Original of which from Heaven came:  
The purest Transcript thereof we  
I'th' Church may wish, but never hope to see,  
Whilst each Pretender thinks himself alone  
The Holy Catholic Church Militant;  
Nay, well it is if such will grant,  
That there is one else where Triumphant.   

III.  
But gentle stream, if they,  
As thou dost Nature, would their God obey;  
And as they run their course of life, would try  
Their Consciences to purify:  
From self-love, pride, and avaricy,  
Stubbornness equal to Idolatry;  
They'd find opinion of themselves,  
To be but dangerous sandy Shelves,  
To found or build their Faith upon,  
Unable to resist the force  
Of Prosperity's swelling violent source,  
Or storms of Persecution:  
Whose own voracity (were't in their power)  
Would not only Ornaments devour,  
But the whole Fabric of Religion.   

IV.  
But gentle stream, thou'rt nothing so,  
A Child in thee may safely go  
To rifle thy rich Cabinet;  
And his Knees be scarcely wet,  
Whilst thou wantonly dost glide,  
By thy Enameled Banks most beauteous side;  
Nor is sweet stream thy peaceful tide,  
Disturbed by pale Cynthia's influence;  
Like us thou dost not swell with pride  
Of Chastity or Innocence.   

But thou remain'st still unconcerned,  
Whether her Brows be smooth or horned;  
Whether her Lights extinguished or renewed,  
In her thou mindest no Vicissitude.  
Happy if we, in our more noble State,  
Could so slight all Vicissitudes of Fate.    

A HILL.  
OH that I could Verses write,  
That might express thy praise,  
Or with my Pen ascend thy height;  
I thence might hope to raise  
My Verse upon Fame's soaring wing,  
That it might so advance,  
As with Apollo's Lyre to Sing,  
And with the Spheres to Dance.  
This was never Finished.   

To Sir F. W. presenting him Cowley's first Works.  
WHen vacant hours admit you to peruse,  
The mighty Cowley's early Muse;  
Behold it as a bud of wit, whose growth  
O'retops all that our Isle brought forth:  
And may it still above all others grow,  
Till equalled, or outdone by you●   

To Ovid's HEROINES in his Epistles.  

BRight she's, what Glories had your Names acquired,  
Had you consumed those whom your Beauties fired,  
Had laughed to see them burn, and so retired:   

Then they could ne'er have gloried in their shames,  
Either to Roman, or to English Dames,  
Had you but warmed, not melted in their flames.   

You'd not been wracked then on despair's rough coast,  
Nor yet by storms of Perjuries been tossed,  
Had you but fixed your flowing Love with Frost.   

Had you put on the Armour of your scorn,  
(That Gem which does our Beauty's most adorn)  
What hardy Hero durst have been forsworn.   

But since they found such lenity in you,  
Their crime so Epidemical does grow,  
That all have, or do, or would be doing so.    

To my Honourable Uncle Colonel C— after his Return into the Low-Countries.  
DEar Sir, the joys which range through all your Troops,  
Expressed by Caps thrown up, and English Whoops,  
Were the old marks of Conquest, which they knew  
They should obtain, when they obtained you;  
As being the Soul, which animation gave  
To all their Valours, and to all their brave  
Achievements, by which your honoured Name  
Shall be Eternalized in th' Book of Fame:  
Though we partakers of your Glories are,  
And of your joys by sympathy do share;  
Yet Absence makes the pleasure but in part,  
And for your safety, Fear our joys does thwart:  
Fear, which by you's the worst of Sins esteemed,  
At best is a Mechanic Passion deemed;  
Yet when your danger she presents to us,  
She's then both good and meritorious.  
Think then how we're excited by this Fear,  
To mourn your Absence, though your Worth revere:  
Besides, methinks 'tis pity that you should,  
For sordid Boors, exhaust your Noble Blood.  
Think then, dear Sir, of making your return,  
And let your Presence Britain's Isle adorn.   

On the Apothecary's Filing my Bills amongst the Doctors.  
I Hope I shan't be blamed if I am proud,  
That I'm admitted amongst this Learned Crowd;  
To be proud of a Fortune so sublime,  
Methinks is rather Duty, than a Crime:  
Were not my thoughts exalted in this state,  
I should not make thereof due estimate:  
And sure one cause of Adam's fall was this,  
He knew not the just worth of Paradise;  
But with this honour I'm so satisfied,  
The Ancients were not more when Deified:  
For this transcends all common happiness,  
And is a Glory that exc●eds excess.  
This 'tis, makes me a famed Physician grow,  
As Saul amongst Prophets turned a Prophet too.  
The sturdy Gout, which all Male power withstands,  
Is overcome by my soft Female hands:  
Not Deb'ra, judith, or Semiramis  
Could boast of Conquests half so great as this;  
More than they slew, I save in this Disease.  
Mankind our Sex for Cures do celebrate,  
Of Pains, which fancy only doth create:  
Now more we shall be magnified sure,  
Who for this real torment find a Cure.  
Some Women-haters may be so uncivil,  
To say the Devil's cast out by the Devil;  
But so the good are pleased, no matter for the evils  
Such ease to Statesmen this our Skill imparts,  
I hope they'll force all Women to learn Arts.  
Then Blessings on ye all ye learned Crew,  
Who teach me that which you yourselves never knew●  
Thus Gold, which by th' Sun's influence does grow,  
Does that i'th' Market Phoebus cannot do.  
Blessed be the time, and blessed my pains and fate,  
Which introduced me to a place so great.  
False Strephon too I now could almost bless,  
Whose crimes conduced to this my happiness.  
Had he been true, I'd lived in sottish ease;  
Ne'er studied aught, but how to love and please:  
No other flame my Virgin Breast had fired,  
But Love and Life together had expired.  
But when, false wretch, he his forced kindness paid,  
With less Devotion than e'er Sexton prayed.  
Fool that I was to sigh, weep, almost die,  
Little forthinking of this present joy●  
Thus happy Brides shed tears they know not why.  
Vainly we blame this Cause, or laugh at that,  
Whilst the Effect with its how, where and what,  
Is an Embryo i'th' Womb of Time or Fate.  
Of future things we very little know,  
And 'tis heavens kindness too that it is so.  
Were not our Souls with Ignorance so buoyed,  
They'd sink with fear, or over-set with pride.  
So much for Ignorance there may be said,  
That large Encomiums might thereof be made.  
But I've digressed too far, so must return,  
And make the Medick Art my whole concern;  
Since by its Aid I've gained this mighty place  
Amongst th' immortal AEsculapian Race;  
That if my Muse will needs officious be,  
She too to this must be a Votary.  
In all our Songs its Attributes rehearse,  
Write Recipes (as Ovid Law) in Verse;  
To measure we'll reduce Febrifick heat,  
And make the Pulses in true measure beat:  
Asthma and Physic shall chant lays most sweet,  
The Gout and Rickets too shall run on feet:  
In fine, my Muse, such Wonders we will do,  
That to our Art Mankind their ease shall owe;  
Then praise and please ourselves in doing so:  
For since the Learned exalt and own our Fame,  
It is no Arrogance to do the same,  
But due respects and complaisance to them.   

To my Unkind STREPHON.  
WHen last I saw thee, thou didst seem so kind,  
Thy Friendship & thy Mirth so unconsined;  
Thy Mind serene, Angelical thy Face,  
Wit and good humour every part did grace;  
That nought unkind appeared to my dull sense,  
To cloud the Glories of Love's Excellence.  
Thus ere the Sun his leave of us he takes,  
Behind the Trees a glorious Landscape makes;  
So in thy Mien those Glories did appear,  
To show it seems Friendship was setting there:  
But now't's obscured, whether it descends  
Into the Ocean of more worthy Friends;  
Or that it does to State or business move,  
Those Regions of th' Antipodes of Love,  
I know not, only it withdraws its light,  
Exposing of our Microcosm to night:  
A night all clad in Sorrows, thickest Air,  
Yet no less cold than those that are most clear:  
But as when heat by cold contracted is,  
Grows stronger by its Antiperistasis;  
So shall my Passion in this frigid state  
Grow strong in fervent love, or torrid hate;  
But should I frown, or scorn, or hate, 'twould be  
But laughter and divertisement to thee:  
Then be thou still unkind, I am resolved  
I'th' like unkindness ne'er to be involved;  
But those whom Frowns and Anger cannot move,  
It is but just to persecute with Love,  
Like good Old Romans, although banished I  
Shall still retain my first integrity.  
But what should make thee thus to banish me,  
Who always did do, and will honour thee;  
Unless thou'rt like those jealous Romans grown,  
And falsely fear I should erect a Throne  
Within thy Breast, and absolutely prove  
Myself the mighty Monarch of thy Love:  
No sure, thy judgement never could be wrought,  
To think that I should harbour such a thought;  
Thou couldst not think I aimed at such a state,  
Who in thy Breast had no confederate;  
Nor Worth wherewith the 
* The noble and sordid Passions.  Nobles to engage,  
Nor Wealth to stifle the Plebeian Rage:  
Nor had I Troops of Beauties at Command,  
For Grief long since those Forces did disband:  
Besides, thou knowst I always did despise,  
In Love, those Arbitrary tyrannies:  
Nor do I less abhor the Vulgar crowd  
Of sordid Passions, which can bawl so loud  
For Liberty, that they thereby may grace  
Pride, Lust, or Av'rice, with a Tribune's place;  
But might I choose, Love's Regiment should be,  
By Friendship's noble Aristocracy.  
But now, alas, Love's Powers are all depressed,  
By th' powerful Anarchy of Interest:  
But although Hell and Earth therein combined,  
I little thought what now too well I find,  
That ever Strephon could have been unkind.   

To my Friend Mr. S. L. ON HIS Receiving the Name of Little Tom King.  
FEar not, dear Friend, the less'ning of thy Fame,  
Because here's Little fixed upon thy Name;  
Thy matchless Worth, alas, is too well known,  
To suffer damage by detraction.  
Nor can the Splendour of thy glorious Rays  
Gain Augmentation by our worthless praise;  
But as the faithful Diamonds lustre's shown,  
Whether set on Foils, or in the Fire thrown;  
So art thou Little King, whose Worth cross Fate,  
By no Vicissitude can vitiate:  
So sweet thy Humour, so genteel thy Mien;  
So wise thy Actions, all thy Thoughts serene;  
That Envies self, who does all praise regret,  
Must own in thee Virtue and Wisdom's met;  
For were't thou really such as is thy Name,  
I'm sure thy Wisdom would adorn the same;  
And to the silly World it should be shown,  
That Virtue could add Splendour to a Throne.   

Necessity of Fate.  

I.  
IN vain, in vain it is, I find,  
To strive against our Fate,  
We may as well command the Wind,  
Or th' Seas rude Waves to gentle manners bind,  
Or to Eternity prescribe a date,  
As frustrate aught that Fortune has designed.  
For when we think we're Politicians grown,  
And live by methods of our own;  
We then obsequiously obey  
Her Dictates, and a blindful Homage pay.   

II.  
For were't not so, surely I could not be  
Still slave to Rhyme, and lazy Poetry;  
I who so oft have striven,  
My freedom to regain;  
And sometimes too, for my assistance took  
Business, and sometimes too a Book;  
Company, and sometimes Love:  
All which proves vain,  
For I can only ●hake, but not cast off my Chain.   

III.  
Ah cruel Fate! all this thou didst sore-show,  
Even when I was a Child;  
When in my Picture's hand  
My Mother did command,  
There should be drawn a Lawrel-bough:  
Lo than my Muse sat by and smiled,  
To hear how some the Sentence did oppose,  
Saying an Apple, Bird, or Rose  
Were objects which did more be●it  
My childish years, and no less childish wit.   

IV.  
But my smiling Muse well knew that constant Fate,  
Her promise would complete;  
For Fate at my initiation,  
In the Muse's Congregation,  
As my Responsor promised then for me,  
I should forsake those three,  
Soaring honours, and vain sweets of pleasure,  
And vainer fruits of worldly treasure;  
All for the Muse's Melancholy Tree,  
ere I knew aught of its great Mystery.  
Ah gentle Fate, since thou wilt have it so,  
Let thy kind hand exalt it to my brow.    

To my Honoured Friend, Mr. E. S—.  
OH had I any Charms of equal Powers,  
To lay those spirits which are raised by yours;  
I would employ them all, rather than now  
Suffer my babbling Rhimes to trouble you:  
But ah! alas my Spells are all too weak,  
To keep a silence which you urge to break;  
Though I remember justly where and when  
I promised ne'er to trouble you again;  
And when I spoke, I meant my words for true,  
But those Resolves were cancelled at review  
Of your obliging Lines, which made me know  
Silence to be the greater fault o'th' too:  
For where Perfection does in triumph sit,  
'Tis rude to praise, but sinful to omit.  
I often read your Lines, and oft admire,  
How Eloquence and Fancy do conspire,  
With Wit and judgement to make up a Choir,  
And grace the Music of Apollo's Lyre.  
But that which makes the Music truly sweet,  
Virtue and Innocence in Chorus meet:  
So smooth, so gentle all your Writings are,  
If I with other Authors them compare,  
Methinks their Modish Wit to me does show,  
But as an Engyscope to view yours through:  
Nor do your Writ●ngs only smoothly glide,  
Whilst your whole life's like some impetuous tide;  
But both together keep a gentle pace,  
And each other do each other grace.  
There's very few like you that do possess  
The Stoics strictness, Poet's gentleness.  
I much admire your Worth, but more my Fate,  
That worthless I thereof participate;  
Even so the Sun disdains not to dispense  
On meanest Infects his bright influence;  
But gives them animation by his Rays,  
Which they requite, like me, with worthless praise;  
Which now I'm sure's grown troublesome to you,  
But you must bear that fate which others do:  
For those that needs will taste of Parent's joys,  
Must too endure the plague of Cradle-noise.   

On my Mother and my Lady W—. who both lay sick at the same time under the Hands of Dr. Paman.  
LIke two sweet Youths striped naked on the Strand,  
Ready to plunge, in consternation stand,  
Viewing the dimples of that smiling Face,  
Whose frigid Body they design t' embrace,  
Till by their Guardian Angel's care, some friend  
Snatches them from the danger they intent:  
So did these Pious Souls themselves prepare,  
By putting off the Robes of worldly care.  
Thus fitted (as they were) in each degree,  
To launch into a blessed Eternity;  
They both had shot the Gulf—  
Had not thei● Guardian-God, good Paman sent,  
Who by his Skill a longer time them lent.  
Ah happy Paman, mightily approved,  
Both by thy Patients, and the Poor beloved.  
Hence let no Slander light upon the Fame  
Of thy great Art, much less upon thy Name:  
Nor to bad Drugs let Fate thy Worth expose,  
For best Receipts are baffled oft by those:  
Nor let no Quack intrude where thou dost come,  
To crop thy Fame, or haste thy Patient's doom;  
Base Quackery to Sickness the kind Nurse,  
The Patient's ruin, and Physicians curse:  
Let no infectious Sickness seize thy Blood,  
But that thou may'st live long to do much good.  
May all the Blessings light on thee that can  
Attend a Doctor, or a Christian Man.  
Since by thy care thou hast restored to us,  
Two in whom Virtue's most conspicuous:  
Better, I'm sure, no Age can ever show,  
Whose Lives are Precepts, and Examples too.   

In Commendation of the Female Sex. Out of SCIPINA.  
AH Beauteous Sex, to you we're bound to give  
Our thanks for all the Blessings we receive;  
Even that we're Men, the chief of all our boast  
Were without you, but a vast blessing lost.  
In vain would Man his mighty Patent show,  
That Reason makes him Lord of all below;  
If Woman did not moderate his rule,  
He'd be a Tyrant, or a softly fool.  
For e'er Love's documents inform his Breast,  
He's but a thoughtless kind of Household Beast.  
Houses, alas, there no such thing would be,  
He'd live beneath the umbrage of a Tre●:  
Or else usurp some freeborn Native's Cave;  
And so inhabit, whilst alive, a Grave:  
Or o'er the World this Lordly Brute would rove,  
Were he not taught and civilised by Love.  
'Tis Love and Beauty regulate our Souls,  
No rules so certain as in Venus' Schools:  
Your Beauty teacheth whatsoe'er is good,  
Else good from bad had scarce been understood.  
What's eligible by your smiles we know,  
And by your frowns refuse what is not so.  
Thus the rough draught of Man you have refined,  
And polished all the Passions of his mind.  
His Cares you lessen, and his joys augment;  
To both extremes set the just bounds Content.  
In fine, 'tis you to Life its relish give,  
Or 'twere insipid, not worth while to live:  
Nay more, we're taught Religion too by you:  
For who can think that such Perfections grew  
By chance? no, 'twas the divine Powers which thus  
Chose to exhibit their bright selves to us:  
And for an Antepast of future bliss,  
Sent you their Images from Paradise.   

To my BROTHER, whilst he was in France.  
DEar Brother, So far as you advance  
Your knowledge, by your journey into France●  
So far and more I'm sure I backward go,  
For I can't say As in praesenti now;  
Nor ever shall (I am so much concerned  
For your dear safety) whilst you are returned.  
Nothing at present wont pleasure yields,  
The Birds nor Bushes, or the gaudy Fields;  
Nor Osier holts, nor Flowery banks of Glen;  
Nor the soft Meadow-grass seem Plush, as when  
We used to walk together kindly here,  
And think each blade of Corn a Gem did bear.  
Instead of this, and thy Philosophy,  
Nought but my own false Latin now I see;  
False Verse, or Lovers falsest of the three:  
Even thoughts of formor happiness augment  
My Griefs, and are my present punishment;  
As those who from a state of Grandeur fall,  
Find adverse Fate hard to dispense withal.  
Had Devils never Heaven seen,  
Their Hell a smaller Curse had been.   

On the DEATH of my Brother.  
COme Sorrow, come, embrace my yielding heart,  
For thou'rt alone, no Passion else apart;  
Since of my Dear by Death I am bereft,  
Thou art the faithfullest Lover I have left;  
And so much interest thou hast got in me,  
All thoughts of him prove only Pimps to thee:  
If any joy s●em to accost my Soul,  
One thought of him does presently control  
Those fawning Rivals; all which steal away,  
Like wandering Ghosts at the approach of day.  
But hold, fond Grief, thou must forbear a while,  
Thy too too kind Caresses, which beguile  
Me of my Reason,— retire whilst I  
Repeat the Life, the Death, the Elegy,  
Of him my Soul adored with so much pride,  
As makes me slight all worldly things beside;  
Of him who did by his fraternal Love,  
More noble Passions in my Bosom move,  
Than e'er could be infused by Cupid's Darts,  
Or any feigned, adulterate, sordid Arts;  
Of him whose blooming Youth pleased each Man's Eye,  
And tempted Women to Idolatry;  
Of him whose growing Art made Death afraid,  
He should be vanquished, and his Throne betrayed  
'Cause with success, and yet no less applause,  
He rescued many from the Tyrant's jaws:  
At last the Tyrant raging full with spite,  
Assaults his Enemy with all his might;  
And for his Second brings a fever too;  
In this Attacque what could our Champion do?  
He bravely fights, but forced at last to yield,  
Nature, his Second, having lost the Field:  

* Doctors.  Many bring in their Aid, but 'tis too late,  
Grim Death had gotten a Decree from Fate;  
Which retrograded all that great supply,  
Whose powerful Arms makes Death and Fevers fly  
But why, great Fate! wouldst thou so cruel be,  
Of joy at once to rob the World and Me!  
What joys so e'er we to ourselves propose,  
Fate still will frustrate, or at least oppose;  
'Tis her Ambition sure to let us know,  
She has the Regiment of all below.  
If it be so, command some mournful Muse  
T' inspire my Soul, and then my Heart infuse  
With Essence of some Dirges, that I may  
His Matchless worth to all the World display.  
Nor Fate, nor Muse will help us now, I find,  
All flee the Wretched, even as Ships the Wind.  
My Dear, hadst thou to me bequeathed thy Wit,  
Thy Character had long ago been writ  
I'th' most sublime and lasting Verse,  
That e'er Adorned the greatest Hero's Hearse.  
But were thy great Encomium writ by me,  
'Twould be the ready way to lessen thee:  
Therefore I must desist from that design,  
And the attempt to better hands resign;  
Only repeat what mournfully was said,  
As in thy cold and narrow Bed was't laid  
By the Apollo's 
(a) Old Doctors.  of thy noble Art,  
(Who seemed to grudge me in their grief a part)  
Alas, he's gone who should have lived to be  
An honour to our Great Society.  
" Alas, he's gone who should supply the place  
" Of some of us, when time has left no space  
" Betwixt us and the Grave; but now we see  
" How they're deceived, who hold no vacancy:  
" And all the Gallant AEsculapian 
(b) Young Physicians.  Crow,  
" Whos's great Example from Spectators drawn  
" Such floods of tears, that some mistook their aim,  
" And thought a real shower from Heaven came.  
But I, as if the Fountain of this Source,  
With Handkerchiefs strove to retard the course;  
But all in vain, my real loss was great,  
As many thought, whose Words I here repeat:  
" I cannot blame you for lamenting so,  
" Since better friend no friend did e'er forego;  
" A public Sorrow for this loss is due,  
" The Nation surely, Madam, mourns with you.   

On the same. A Pindaric ODE.  

I.  
WHat have I now to hope or fear,  
Since Death has taken all that's dear  
In him, who was my joy, my love,  
Who raised my Passion far above  
What e'er ●he blind God's shafts could do,  
Or Nymph or Swain e'er knew:  
For Friendship does our Souls more gently move,  
To a Love more lasting, noble, and more true,  
Than dwells in all the Amorous Crew;  
For Friendship's pure, holy, just,  
Without canker, soil, or rust  
Of Pride, Cov●tousness, or Lust;  
It to Ambition makes no room,  
Nor can it be by Interest overcome,  
But always keeps its proper state,  
I'th' midst of most injurious Fate;  
Even Death itself to 'tis Bonds can give no date.   

II.  
But O Tyrant! thou  
Canst at one blow  
Destroy Fruition's happiness,  
Wherein we Lovers place our bliss;  
For without it, Love's but an ample theme  
Of Imaginary joys,  
Those gay-deluding toys,  
By which our most fixed thoughts are crossed;  
Or as one that wakes out of a dream,  
Finds all the pleasing Objects lost:  
Or as Sodom's beauteous fruit,  
Whose outside makes a fair pretence,  
To gratify another sense;  
But touch it, and you'll find how destitute  
It's of all good,  
Much more unfit for food:  
So may our pleasures make a specious show  
To th' vulgar view;  
But his absence whom I now deplore,  
Makes all my joys but Ashes at the core.   

III.  
Ah Death, thou wast severe,  
Thus from me to tear,  
The Hopes of all my future Happiness,  
The Copartner of my present Bliss,  
The Alleviator of my Care,  
The partaker of what ever Fate did share,  
To me in my Life's progress;  
If bad, he would bear half at least,  
Till the Storm was overblown or ceased;  
If good, he would augment it to excess,  
And no les● joy for me than for himself express.   

IV.  
Of my Youth he was the Guide,  
All its extravagance with curious ey●,  
He would see and rectify:  
And in me he infused such humble pride,  
As taught me this World's pleasures to deride:  
He made me know I was above  
All that I saw or could enjoy,  
In this giddy toy,  
Of the whole World's happiness:  
And yet again this Paradox would prove,  
That to myself should seem less,  
Than ought I saw i'th' mighty Universe.   

V.  
Nor was his kindness only fixed on me,  
For freely he  
Did on all friends his Love and Wit dispense,  
As th'Heavens do their influence;  
And likewise did no diminution know,  
When his Wit he did bestow,  
Amongst his wondering Auditors,  
Who could not choose where Wit was so pro●ound,  
And Virtue did so much abound,  
But to become his faithful Plauditors:  
All which he did receive,  
With less concern than they could give;  
Which proves that Pride his Heart did never touch:  
For this he always understood,  
That best Ambition still was such,  
As less desired to be wise than good.   

VI  
But thus his Virtues to enumerate,  
Serves but my Sorrows to accumulate,  
As cyphers in Account,  
Till the Sum ad infinitum mount;  
A Sum which none but Death can calculate;  
Which he most dexterously can do,  
By subtracting the one Figure ●rom ●he row;  
For one's but one, if taken from the train  
Of Pleasures, Riches, Honours, Wit:  
Nor can a King his Power maintain;  
If all these cyphers should recede●rom ●rom it.  
What matter then what our attendance be,  
Whether happiness or misery:  
For when the mighty Leveller does come,  
It seems we must be all but one,  
One in equality.   

VII.  
How soon he comes, I need not care,  
Who may to me a better fortune share;  
For of all happiness I here despair,  
Since he is gone who Animation gave  
To all that's pleasant to my thoughts, or brave:  
Even my Studies he inspired,  
With lively vigour, which with him retired,  
And nought but their Bodies (Books) remain:  
For Sorrow does their Souls inchain  
So fast, that they can ne'er return again.    

Part of the XIX. PSALM.  

I.  
THE heavens declare the Glory of God,  
And th' Firmament doth show  
To all Mankind dispersed abroad,  
What Works his mighty hands can do:  
The silent Nights and speechless Days,  
To each other chant their lays,  
Which make a tuneful Serenade,  
To th' mighty Universe;  
And find a Language to rehearse  
The praise of him who them and us has made.   

II.  
And in them he hath fixed a place  
For the Glorious Sun,  
Which comes forth with Bridegroom's strength and grace,  
The Earth his happy Bride t' embrace.  
And as a Giant does rejoice to run  
His course, where he is sure to be  
Crowned with glorious Victory:  
For nothing in this World's circumference,  
Can be hid from his bright influence.    

Coming from— in a Dark Night.  

I.  
FArewell, O Eyes, which I ne'er saw before,  
And 'tis my interest ne'er to see ye more;  
Though th' deprivation of your light,  
I'm sure, will make it doubly Night;  
Yet rather I'll lose my way i'th' dark than stay;  
For here I'm sure my Soul will lose her way.   

II.  
Oh 'tis not dark enough, I wish it were,  
Some Rays are still on my Eyes Atmosphere;  
Which give sufficient light, I find,  
Still to continue me stark blind;  
For to Eyes that's dazzled with too radiant light,  
Darkness proves best restorative o'th' light.    

To my Dear Cousin Mrs. M. T. after the Death of her Husband and Son.  
DEar Coz. I hope by this time you have dried,  
At least set bounds to th'almost boundless tide  
Of flowing Tears: I'm sure my wish is so,  
Which Love and Interest does oblige me to;  
For you can bear no Sufferings alone,  
All yours are mine by participation;  
And doubtless all your Friends, in some degree,  
Must bear a share, if they can love like me:  
Then if not for your own sake, yet for ours,  
And in submission to th' Eternal Powers,  
Not only dry your Eyes, but cheer your Brow,  
And lend us joys, and we'll repay them you.  
Rouse up your Soul, and show yourself endued  
With Mother's Prudence, Father's Fortitude;  
In other Virtues you have equalled them,  
In these strive to outdo your worthy Stem;  
For here Ambition can't excessive be,  
Neither esteemed pride or vanity:  
(For when we to the top of Virtue climb,  
We're sure in no mistake, much less a crime.)  
But by this brave attempt you shall subdue  
Cross Fate, which otherwise would conquer you.  
But after all that can be said on this,  
I am not ignorant how hard it is  
To conquer Passions, and ourselves subdue;  
Though advised by Friends, and assisted too  
By the prevailing Powers of Grace from Heaven,  
Still Counsels harder to be took than given:  
Not that I thought your Griefs profuse, but knew  
Much to a Son, more to a Husband's due:  
Only remember that our Lord has taught,  
Thy will be done; therefore we must in thought,  
As well as words, submit to his intents,  
Who can bring good out of the worst Events;  
Whose Mercy oft protracts the bad Man's doom,  
And takes the good Man from the ill to come.   

TO MY Young Lover.  
INcautious Youth, why dost thou so mis-place  
Thy fine Encomiums on an o'er-blown Face;  
Which after all the Varnish of thy Quill,  
It's Pristine wrinkles show apparent still:  
Nor is it in the power of Youth to move  
An Age-chilled heart to any strokes of Love.  
Then choose some budding Beauty, which in time  
May crown thy Wishes in thy blooming prime:  
For nought can make a more preposterous show,  
Than April Flowers stuck on St. Michael's Bow.  
To consecrate thy firstborn Sighs to me,  
A superannuated Deity;  
Makes that Idolatry and deadly Sin,  
Which otherwise had only Venial been.   

TO MY Young Lover ON HIS VOW.  

I.  
ALas, why mad'st thou such a Vow,  
Which thou wilt never pay,  
And promise that from very now,  
Till everlasting day?  
Thou meanest to love, sigh, bleed, and die,  
And languish out thy breath,  
In praise of my Divinity,  
To th' minute of thy Death.   

II.  
Sweet Youth, thou knowst not what it is  
To be Love's Votary;  
Where thou must for the smallest bliss,  
Kneel, beg, and sigh, and cry.  
Probationer thou shouldst be first,  
That thereby thou may'st try,  
Whether thou canst endure the worst  
Of Love's austerity.   

III.  
For Worlds of Beauties always stand  
To tempt thy willing Eye,  
And Troops of Lusts are at thy hand,  
To vanquish thee, or die.  
And now this Vow exposes thee  
To th' third (of all the worst)  
The Devil of inconstancy,  
That Tempter most accursed.    

TO MY Young Lover. A SONG.  

TO praise sweet Youth, do thou forbear,  
Where there is no desert;  
For, alas, Encomiums here,  
Are jewels thrown i'th' dirt.   

For I no more deserve Applause,  
Now Youth and Beauty's fled;  
Than a Tulip, or a Rose,  
When its fair Leaves are shed.   

However I wish thy Praises may,  
Like Prayers to Heaven born;  
When holy Souls for Sinners pray,  
Their Prayers on them return.    

To my Unkind Friend, Little Tom King.  

I.  
WEll, by experience now I see,  
This World's made up of flattery,  
Compliments and formality;  
Since nought but interest now can bind  
Even old acquaintance to be kind.  
'Twere madness then to hope to find  
True Friendship in the Modern Crew  
Of late-contracted Friends.  
Hence then acquaintance all adieu,  
I can't oblige my Friendship to pursue  
Such dull insipid ends,  
As nought but to a Ceremony tends.  
Since Friendship from old Friends is flown,  
Rather than endure the prattlings,  
The flatteries and the censurings,  
Which a Modish Friendship brings,  
My pensive Dove shall sit and coo alone.   

II.  
But perhaps it will be said,  
Unlucky Business has this mischief made:  
Business, that plausible excuse  
Of all unkindness to a Friend,  
That Bankrupt, that ne'er pays Principle nor Use,  
Of all the Time that e'er we to him lend.  
Yet Business now's a Merchant of such Fame,  
That he has got the whole Monopoly  
Of Time, Love, Friends, and Liberty;  
Of which, if there be scarcity,  
Business is to blame;  
For nought can vended be, but in his Name.   

III.  
Since then the World's so much to Business pro●e,  
'Tis time that idle I was gone:  
Alas, why do I stay,  
When that canker business (which I hate)  
With Interest is confederate,  
Eats our pleasant shady Friends away?  
We're left obnoxious to the storms of Fate;  
Nay even then the hottest Gleams  
Of Prosperities brightest Beams,  
Help but to make us dwindle and decay.  
And though we strive ourselves to shade  
Under the closest Rules of Constancy;  
Yet when the Powers of Fate invade,  
That too, alas, will shake and fade,  
And make us see,  
That though our best Ambition strives  
To keep a reg'lar harmony:  
Yet Fate will ring her Changes on our Lives,  
Till discordant Death arrives;  
Who informs us by his latest Knell,  
Whether we have made up this World's Consort well.   

IV.  
Hence I'll not murmur then,  
Though some grow Proud, and others really Great  
Or heap up Riches by deceit,  
Since they must pay it all again  
To Death, who rapaciously devours  
All, for which we drudge in vain,  
And sell our ease for fruitless pain:  
All which we like mistaken fools call ours,  
Whilst in some lazy Solitude may I  
Enjoy myself alone,  
Free from this World's buzzing frantic feuds,  
And sweets and stings of Fate's Vicissitudes,  
Have nothing else to do but die.  
I care not who esteems me as a Drone,  
For out o'th' World so secretly I'll steal,  
That babbling Fame shall not the theft reveal;  
And when I to my long repose am gone,  
My dearest Brother, who is gone before,  
Half way will meet me in the Air, or more;  
Where we'll be happy in Excess,  
In Mansions of Eternal blessedness.  
Yet if there can be  
Any allay of this felicity;  
It will be this, when he shall find,  
That I no other news can bring,  
From his Old Friend, my Little King,  
But that he was unkind.    

A Second EPISTLE. To my Honoured Friend Mr. E. S.  

I.  
OFt has my Muse and I fallen ou●,  
And I as oft have banished her my Breast;  
But such, alas, still was her interest,  
And still to bring her purposes about:  
So great her cunning in insinuation,  
That she soon gained her wished-for restoration:  
But when I found this would not do,  
A Violent Death I put her to.  
But see, my Friend, how your All-pow'rfull Pen  
(O Miracle!) has raised her from the Dead again.   

II.  
And now, alas, what can she do,  
Or speak or show,  
How very much she is obliged to you?  
For where the Boons so great, it were a rude  
Presumption to pretend to Gratitude;  
And a mad project to contrive to give  
To you, from whom she does her All receive:  
Yet if she Traffic on your Stock, and thrive,  
'Tis fit, how e'er the Principal be spent,  
To pay the Interest of Acknowledgement.   

III.  
And with her I must acknowledge too,  
The honour which you did on me b●stow,  
Though I unworthy were of it:  
Not but your judgement knew well how to choose  
A worthier Subject than my Muse,  
To exercise th' Exu'brance of your Wit;  
But that your Goodness over all presides,  
And nobly in Triumph rides;  
Whilst other Virtues march in Troops behind,  
Friendship does the Chariot guide,  
Which may perhaps run too much of one side:  
Friendship, as well as Love, sometimes is blind;  
And that she may be always so,  
My Prayers shall ever tend,  
'Cause I no other Title have to show,  
Or tenure to the love of any Friend.    

A PASTORAL DIALOGUE Betwixt Two Shepherd Boys.  

1 Boy. I Wonder what Alexis ails,  
To sigh and talk of Darts,  
Of Charms which o'er his Soul prevails,  
Of Flames and bleeding Hearts:  
I saw him yesterday alone,  
Walk crossing of his Arms;  
And Cuckoo like was in a tone,  
Ah Caelia, ah thy charms!   

2 Boy. Why sure thou'rt not so ignorant,  
As thou wouldst seem to be;  
Alas the cause of his complaint,  
Is all our destiny.  
'Tis mighty Love's All-pow'rfull Bow,  
Which has Alexis hit;  
A powerful Shaft will hit us too,  
E'er we're awar● of it.   

1 Boy. Love, why, alas, I little thought  
There had been such a thing;  
Only for Rhyme it had been brought,  
When Shepherds use to Sing.  
I'm sure, what e'er they talk of Love,  
'Tis but conceit at most;  
As Fear i'th' dark our fancies move,  
To think we see a Ghost.   

2 Boy. I know not, but the other day,  
A wanton Girl there were,  
Who took my Stock-Dove's Eggs away,  
And Blackbirds Nest did tear.  
Had it been thee, my dearest Boy,  
Revenge I should have took;  
But she my Anger did destroy,  
With th' sweetness of her Look.   

1 Boy. So t'other day a wanton Slut,  
As I slept on the Ground,  
A Frog into my Bosom put,  
My Hands and Feet she bound:  
She hung my Hook upon a Tree,  
Then laughing, bade me wake;  
And though she thus abused me,  
Revenge I cannot take.   

Chorus. Let's wish these Overtures of State,  
Don't fatal Omens prove;  
For those who lose the Power to hate,  
Are soon made slaves to Love.    

To Mr. C. B. On his Incomparable SINGING.  

THE Honour that the Air receives  
From thy Melodious Voice,  
Sure makes it grieve it● cannot giv●  
More Echoes to the noise.   

Whilst Atoms joyfully advance,  
In happy Consort they  
Do in a nimble careless Dance,  
Thy charming Notes obey.   

Birds have been said to fall down dead  
At th' shouting of a throng;  
Hadst thou been there, it had been said,  
Thou'dst raised 'em with a Song.   

If th' Mind upon the Body works  
By secret Sympathies;  
Who knows what in thy Music lurks,  
To cure all Maladies.   

If Fate this Physic should prefer,  
Thy Practice is decreed;  
All London and Montpelier-  
Physicians shall exceed.   

Hence forward then let Poets Sing  
No more of Orpheus;  
Since we have one, whose Voice may bring  
Health to attend on us.    

THE COMPLAINT.  

I.  
HOw oft, ah wretch, hast thou profusely swore  
Me, as the Gods thou didst adore;  
And that my Words should be to thee,  
As of Divine Authority:  
In this my Power exceeded theirs,  
To me thou ne'er didst wander in thy Prayers.   

II.  
And oft thou prayest, bathed in thy Tears,  
Dropped from the clouds of loving fears;  
And on my Hand thy Faith confess,  
And after that beg for redress;  
Whilst on the Altar of my lip,  
For Sacrifice, let no occasion slip.   

III.  
But now thou'rt grown profane Atheistical,  
Not changed thy Faith, but cast off all:  
So Sacrilegious too thou art,  
thou'rt not content to rob in part,  
To bear my Rites (thy Vows) away;  
But by thy cruelty thou dost assay  
To bring the beauteous Fabric to decay.    

A SONG in SCIPINA.  

IN vain does Nature her free gifts bestow,  
To make us wise or fair;  
If Fortune don't her Favours show,  
Scorned or neglected we may go,  
Not worth a Look, much less a Lover's care.   

Or if we should some pitying Eyes command,  
Or those of admiration;  
So unendowed fair Structures stand,  
Admired; but not one helping hand  
Will rescue them ●rom Time's dilapidation.   

Then surely vain it is for me to strive  
With native Charms or Art;  
For Beauty may as well survive  
Her Climacterick Twenty-five,  
As without Wealth to get or keep a Heart.    

A SONG.  

I.  
THE Heart you lest, when you took mine,  
Proves such a busy Guest;  
Unless I do all Power resign,  
It will not let me rest.   

It my whole Family disturbs,  
Turns all my Thoughts away;  
My stoutest Resolutions curbs,  
Makes judgement too obey.   

If Reason interpose her Power,  
Alas, so weak she is;  
She's checked with one small soft Amour,  
And conquered with a Kiss.    

A SONG.  

GIve over my Fidelius, my Fidelius give over,  
Since Menaelus your Father dislikes our Amour,  
In silence let us our misfortunes deplore.   

Not that his ●air Flocks or green Pastures so wide,  
He will betwixt Sylvia and Damon divide,  
But that duty forbids thee to make me thy Bride.   

And if for our duty we suffer well here,  
Heaven shall for such Lovers choice Blessings prepare,  
Honeymoon shall eternally wait on us there.    

A SONG.  

I.  
AS Amorous Corydon was laid  
I'th' shady Myrtle Grove;  
Thus did his Words his Sighs upbraid,  
For telling of his Love.  
Ah Traitorous Rebels, without sense,  
Of what her Scorn can do;  
'Tis I must die for your offence,  
And be thought guilty too.   

II.  
Nor can I blame ill Fate, for this  
My wretched hopeless state;  
Nor yet Philena's Cruelties,  
Who kills me with her hate.  
But your audacious Villainies  
Occasions this my fall;  
Else I had died a Sacrifice,  
But now a Criminal.    

A Bachanalian SONG.  

TRoy had a Breed of brave stout Men,  
Yet Greece made shift to rout her;  
'Cause ●ach Man drank as much as Ten,  
And thence grew Ten times stouter.   

Though Hector was a Trojan true,  
As ever Pissed' gen Wall, Sir;  
Achilles banged him black and blue,  
For he drank more than all, Sir.   

Let Bacchus be our God of War,  
We shall fear nothing then, Boys;  
We'll drink all dead, and lay 'em to bed;  
And if they wake not conquered,  
We'll drink 'em dead again, Boys.   

Nor were the Grecians only famed  
For Drinking, and for Fight;  
But he that drank, and wasn't ashamed,  
Was ne'er ashamed on's Writing.   

He that will be a Soldier then,  
Or Wit, must drink good Liquor;  
It makes base Cowards fight like Men,  
And roving Thoughts sly quicker.   

Let Bacchus be both God o● War,  
And God of Wit, and then, Boys,  
We'll drink and ●ight, and drink and write;  
And if the Sun set with his light,  
We'll drink him up again, Boys.    

An ODE.  

I'Ve often thought, but ne'er till now could find  
Why Heroes so much striven,  
Their Greatness to improve;  
'Tis only this, that Women might be kind,  
And answer Love with Love.   

Fortune no Goddess is, but for their sake;  
Alas! she can't be pressed,  
Nor kissed, nor do the rest:  
Riches and she, of which Men so much make,  
Are only Pimps at best.   

One this way stalks, another that to's game;  
One's brave, this Hector's high,  
This pretends Piety:  
But I'm deceived if Woman bened their aim,  
Still Woman's in their Eye.   

Sceptres and Crowns were silly trifling things;  
'Twould be but poor repast,  
To please the sight and taste,  
But that they make Men absolutely Kings,  
And Kings choose Queens at last.    

Absence for a Time.  

I Dread this tedious Time more than  
A Fop to miss a Fashion,  
Or the Pope's Head Tavern can  
Dread the long Vacation.   

This time's as troublesome to me,  
As th'Town when money's spent;  
Grave Lectures to a Debauchee,  
Or Whigs to th' Government.   

Methinks I almost wish 'twas torn  
Out of the Rolls of Fate;  
Or that some Power, till his return,  
Would me annihilate.   

But I, alas, must be content,  
Upon necessity;  
Since him, until this time be spent,  
I cannot hope to see.   

No more than we can hope to have  
The Life of perfect bliss,  
Till by Afflictions, and the Grave,  
We're separate from this.    

Parting with—  

ALthough thou now puttest me in doubt,  
By going I know not where;  
Yet know my Soul will beat about,  
Not rest till she have sound thee out,  
And tend upon thee there.   

Look to your actions then, for she  
So strict a watch will keep;  
That if you give one thought from me,  
She'll swear it is ●lat Felony,  
Though 't be when you're asleep.   

But if a sigh, or glance, or smile  
Should to my Rival escape,  
She'd cry out Robbery and spoil;  
But if a kiss thy Lips should soil,  
Then Murder and a Rape.   

All this a Metaphor may seem,  
Or mad Philosophy  
To the unthinking World, who deem  
That but a fancy or a dream,  
Which Souls do really hear and see.    

THE Anchorite IN SCIPINA.  
AH, happy are we Anchorites that know  
Not women's Ebbs, nor when their Love will flow.  
We know no Storms that rage in women's Breasts,  
But here in quiet build our Halcyon Nests;  
Where no deceitful Calm our Faith beguiles,  
No cruel frowns, nor yet more cruel smiles;  
No rising Wave of Fate our hopes advance,  
Nor fear we fathomless despair of Chance;  
But our strong Minds, like Rocks, their firmness prove,  
Defying both the Storms of Fate and Love.   

jane, Nan, and Frank, their Farewell to Captain C. going to Sea.  

I.  
SInce thou wilt needs go  
To Sea, God knows whether,  
We wish thee good Company,  
Good Wine and good Wether;  
The best of Sea-Cates we wish for thy Diet,  
And, if it were possible, good Seamen and quiet;  
And on every Strand,  
Where e'er thou shalt land,  
We wish there may be  
Girls buxom and free,  
To bid thee a thousand kind welcomes from Sea.   

II.  
And the worst Enemy,  
E'er thou may'st meet,  
May be a small straggler  
I'th' seam of thy Sheet:  
To which let no Sickness thee ever confine,  
But what comes by drinking our Healths in choice Wine;  
And on every Strand,  
Where e'er thou shalt land,  
We wish thou may'st find  
True Topers o'th' kind,  
That can turn off jane, Nan, and Frank in a Wind.    

To her Lover's Complaint. A SONG.  

I.  
IF you complain your Flames are hot,  
'Tis 'cause they are impure,  
For strongest Spirits scorch us not,  
Their Flames we can endure.   

II.  
Love, like Zeal, should be divine,  
And ardent as the same;  
Like Stars, which in cold Wether shine,  
Or like a Lambent Flame.   

III.  
It should be like the Morning Rays,  
Which quickens, but not burns;  
Or th' innocence of children's plays,  
Or Lamps in Ancient Urns.    

To my Adopted BROTHER, Mr. G. P. On my frequent Writing to Him.  

DEar Brother, You will think that now,  
Epistles grow on every Bow,  
O'th' multitude of Shin-gay Trees,  
And so drop off like Soland Geese.  
In this the Analogy holds forth,  
They are produced of airy froth;  
But how they'll answer in the rest,  
Without conjuring, may be guessed:  
For when you find they want the heat  
Of Wit and Sense to make them meat;  
And that the inside's only down,  
Soft as the scope they grew upon:  
You'll curse the Winds officious wings,  
Because to you no good it brings;  
And swear the Proverb's now reversed,  
Which so oft has been rehearsed:  
For now it must be understood,  
It's happy Wind blows any good;  
But thank yourself for so being served,  
And praise no more where 'tis not deserved:  
For praise, the Gad-fly of the mind,  
To pure desert should be confined,  
Lest it set it Cock-a-hoop,  
And make it run with Tail turned up,  
Through the Woods, and o'er the Downs,  
Through Cities, Villages, and Towns;  
And plague both genteel Fops and Rabble,  
With its Nonsense, Rhyme and Babble,  
Till by its follies they are urged,  
To send it home severely scourged,  
With the keenest Whips of Scosfing,  
Damning, Censuring and Laughing.   

Then prithee, George, prevent this wretched Fate,  
And all their damning Censures antedate.    

To my Friends against POETRY.  
DEar Friends, if you'll be ruled by me,  
Beware o'th' Charms of Poetry;  
And meddle with no fawning Muse,  
They'll but your harmless Love's abuse.  
Though to Orinda they were tied,  
That nought their Friendship could divide;  
And Cowley's Mistress had a Flame  
As pure and lasting as his Fame:  
Yet now they're all grown Prostitutes,  
And wantonly admit the Suits  
Of any Fop, that will pretend  
To be their Servant or their Friend.  
Though they to Wit no Homage pay,  
Nor yet the Laws of Verse obey,  
●ut ride poor Six-foot out of breath,  
●nd wrack a Metaphor to death;  
●ho make their Verse imbibe the crimes,  
●nd the lewd Follies too o'th' times;  
●ho think all Wit consists in Ranting,  
●nd Virtuous Love in wise Gallanting:  
And Thousand sorts of Fools, like these,  
Make Love and Virtue what they please:  
And yet as silly as they show,  
Are Favourites o'th' Muses now.  
Who then would honour such a She,  
Where Fools their happier Rivals be●  
We, surely, may conclude there's none,  
Unless they're drunk with Helicon,  
Which is a Liquor that can make  
A Dunce set up for Rhyming Quack:  
A Liquor of so strange a temper,  
As can our Faculties all hamper;  
That whoso drinks thereof is oursed  
Unto a constant Rhyming thirst;  
I know not by what spell of Witch,  
It strikes the Mind into an itch;  
Which being scrubbed by praise, thereby  
Becomes a spreading Leprosy;  
As hard to cure as Dice or Whore,  
And makes the Patient too as poor;  
For Poverty's the certain Fate  
Which attends a Poet's state.   

TO THE Importunate ADDRESS OF POETRY.  
KInd Friend, I prithee cease t' infest  
This barren Region of my Breast,  
Which never can a Harvest yield,  
Since Sorrow has overgrown the Field.  
If Interest won't oblige thee to't,  
At least let Honour make thee do't;  
'Cause I ungratefully have chose  
Such Friends, as will thy Charms oppose●  
But nought I see will drive thee hence,  
Grief, Business, nor Impertinence:  
Still, still thou wilt thy joys obtrude  
Upon a Mind so wholly rude,  
As can't afford to entertain  
Thee with the welcome of one strain:  
Few Friends, like thee, will be so kind,  
To come where Interest does not bind:  
Nay some, because they want excuse  
To be unkind, will feign abuse.  
But thou, kind Friend, art none of those,  
Thy Charms thou always dost oppose  
Against all Inqui●tudes o'th' Mind:  
If I'm displeased, still thou art kind;  
And by thy Spells dost drive away  
Dull Spirits, which with me would stay;  
And fill'st their empty places too  
With Thoughts of what we ought to do.  
Thoughts to the Soul, if they be good,  
Are both its physic and its food:  
They fortify it in distress,  
In joy th' augment its happiness:  
Thoughts do attend us at all times,  
They urge us to good deeds, and crimes:  
They do assist us in all states,  
To th' Wretched they're Associates.  
And what's more strange than all before,  
They're Servants to the innocent and poor;  
But to the Rich and Wicked, Lords or something more.   

A Farewell to POETRY, WITH A Long Digression on ANATOMY.  

FArewell, my gentle Friend, kind Poetry,  
For we no longer must Acquaintance be;  
Though sweet and charming to me as thou art,  
Yet I must dispossess thee of my Heart.  
On new Acquaintance now I must dispense  
What I received from thy 
(a) Having learned Latin by reading the Latin Poets.  bright influence.  
Wise Aristotle and Hypocrates,  
Galen, and the most Wise Socrates;  
AEsculapius, whom first I should have named,  
And all Apollo's younger brood so famed,  
Are they with whom I must Acquaintance make,  
Who will, no doubt, receive me for the sake  
Of Him 
(b) My Brother. , from whom they did expect to see  
New Lights to search Nature's obscurity.  
Now, Bartholine, the first of all this Crew,  
Does to me Nature's Architecture show;  
He tells me how th' Foundation first is laid  
Of Earth; how Pillars of strong Bones are made;  
How th' Walls consist of carneous parts within,  
The outside pinguid, over-laid with Skin;  
The Fretwork, Muscles, Arteries, and Veins,  
With their Implexures, and how from the Brains  
The Nerves descend; and how they do dispense  
To every Member, Motive Power and Sense;  
He shows what Windows in this Structure's fixed,  
How tribly Glazed, 
(c) The Three Humours of the Eye, and its several Tunicks.  and Curtains drawn betwixt  
Them and Earth's objects; all which proves in vain  
To keep out Lust, and Innocence retain:  
For 'twas the Eye that first discerned the food,  
As pleasing to itself, than thought it good  
To eat, as b'ing informed it would refine  
The half-wise Soul, and make it all Divine.  
But ah, how dearly Wisdom's bought with Sin,  
Which shuts out Grace, le's Death and Darkness in!  
And because we precipitated first,  
To Pains and Ignorance are most accursed;  
Even by our Counterparts, who that they may  
Exalt themselves, insultingly will say,  
Women know little, and they practise less;  
But Pride and Sloth they glory to profess.  
But as we were expatiating thus,  
Walaeus and Harvey cried, Madam, follow us,  
They brought me to the first and largest 
(d) Ad infimum ventrem.  Court●,  
Of all this Building, where as to a Port,  
All necessaries are brought from far,  
For sustentation both in Peace and War:  
For War this Commonwealth does oft infest,  
Which pillages this part, and storms the rest.   

We viewed the Kitchen called 
(e) Morbi in infimo ventre, Di●rrhaea, etc.  Ventriculus,  
Then passed we through the space called Pylorus;  
And to the Dining-Room we came at last,  
Where the 
(f) Venae Lactea.  Lactaeans take their sweet repast.  
From thence we through a Drawing-room did pass,  
And came where Madam jecur busy was;  
Sanguificating 
(g) Secundum Opinionem Galinist. contra receptaculum common.  the whole Mass of Chyle,  
And severing the Cruoral parts from bile:  
And when she's made it tolerably good,  
She pours it forth to mix with other Blood.  
This and much more we saw, from thence we went  
Into the next Court, 
(h) Per Diaphragma.  by a small ascent:  
Bless me, said I, what Rarities are here!  
A Fountain like a Furnace did appear,  
Still boiling over, and running out so fast,  
That one should think its Efflux could not last;  
Yet it sustained no loss as I could see,  
Which made me think it a strange Prodigy.  
Come on, says Harvey, don't stand gazing here,  
But follow me, and I thy doubts will clear.  
Then we began our journey with the Blood,  
Traced the Meanders of its Purple flood.  
Thus we through many Labyrinths did pass,  
In such, I'm sure, Old Daedalus ne'er was;  
Sometimes i'th' Outworks, sometimes i'th' first Court;  
Sometimes i'th' third these winding streams would sport  
Themselves; but here methought I needs must stay,  
And listen next to what the Artists say:  
Here's Cavities, says one; and here, says he,  
Is th' Seat of Fancy, judgement, Memory:  
Here, says another, is the fertile Womb,  
From whence the Spirits Animal do come,  
Which are mysteriously engendered here,  
Of Spirits from Arterious Blood and Air:  
Here, said a third, Life made her first approach,  
Moving the Wheels of her Triumphant Coach:  
Hold there, said Harvey, that must be denied,  
'Twas in the deaf Ear on the dexter side.  
Then there arose a trivial small dispute,  
Which he by Fact and Reason did confute:  
Which being ended, we began again  
Our former journey, and forsook the Brain.  
And after some small Traverses about,  
We came to th' place where we at first set out:  
Then I perceived how all this Magic stood  
By th' Circles of the circulating Blood,  
As Fountains have their Waters from the Sea,  
To which again they do themselves convey.  
But here we find great Lower by his Art,  
Surveying the whole 
(i) De cordis Structura.  Structure of the Heart:  
Welcome, said he, sweet Cousin, are you here,  
Sister to him 
(k) My deceased Brother.  whose Worth we all revere?  
But ah, alas, so cruel was his Fate,  
As makes us since almost our Practice hate;  
Since we could find out nought in all our Art,  
That could prolong the motion 
(l) De Motu Cordis.  of his Heart.   

I.  
BUT now, my Dear, thou knowst more than Art can,  
Thou knowst the substance of the Soul of Man;  
Nay and its Maker too, whose Powerful breath  
Gave Immortality to sordid Earth.  
What joys, my Dear, do Thee surround,  
As no where else are to be found,  
Love, Music, Physic, Poetry;  
And in each Art each Artist does abound,  
And all's converted to Divinity.   

II.  
No drooping Autumn there,  
No chilling Winter does appear;  
No scorching Heat, nor budding Spring,  
Nor Sun does Seasons there divide,  
Yet all things do transcend their native pride;  
Which fills, but does not nauseate,  
No change or want of any thing,  
Which time to periods or perfection brings;  
But yet diversity of state,  
And of Soul's happiness there is no date.   

III.  
Shouldst thou, my Dear, look down on us below,  
To see how busy we●  
Are in Anatomy,  
Thou'dst laugh to see our Ignorance;  
Who some things miss, & some things hit by chance,  
For we, at best, do but in twilight go,  
Whilst thou see'st all by th' most Transcendent light,  
Compared to which the Sun's bright Rays are night:  
Yet so Celestial are thine Eyes,  
That Light can neither dazzle nor surprise;  
For all things there  
So perfect are,  
And freely they their qualities dispense,  
Without the mixture of Terrestrial dross,  
Without hazard, harm or loss;  
O joys Eternal satiating Sense,  
And yet the Sense the smallest part in gross.    

On the DEATH of my Brother. A SONNET.  

I.  
ASk me not why the Rose doth fade,  
Lilies look pale, and Flowers die;  
Question not why the Myrtle shade  
Her wont shadows doth deny.   

II.  
Seek not to know from whence begun  
The sadness of the Nightingale:  
Nor why the Heliotrope and Sun,  
Their constant Amity do fail.   

III.  
The Turtles grief look not upon,  
Nor reason why the Palm-trees mourn;  
When, Widow-like, they're left alone,  
Nor Phoenix why herself doth burn.   

IV.  
For since He's dead, which Life did give  
To all these things, which here I name;  
They fade, change, whither, cease to live,  
Pine and consume into a Flame.     

MISCELLANEA: OR, THE Second Part OF POETICAL RECREATIONS.  
Composed by several Authors.  
— Non, ubi plura nitent in carmine, paucis  
Offendi maculis, quas aut incuria fudit  
Aut humana parum cavit Natura.— Hor.  
LONDON, Printed for Benjamin Crayle, at the Peacock and Bible, at the West-end of St. Paul's. 1688.   

A TABLE OF THE POEMS Contained in the Second Part OF POETICAL RECREATIONS.  
A Paraphrase on an Hymn, Sung when the Corpse is at the Grave. By T. S. Fellow of Maudlin● College, Oxon. 
Page 1  Advice to his Friends, lamenting the Death of I. F. By the same Hand. 
p. 3  epitaph on Mrs. E. F. who sickened of the Small Pox, and deceased Decemb. 31. 1686. being the Day before her intended Nuptials. 
p. 5  An Epitaph to the Memory of Sir Palm Fairborn, Governor of Tangier, etc. 
p. 6  An Elegy on the Death of N. D. Doctor of Physic. 
p. 7  Upon Heaven. 
p. 1●  On the Martyrdom of King Charles the First. 
p. 1●  Upon one's Birthday. 
p. 1●  Upon Christ's Nativity. 
p. 1●  On the same. 
p. 1●  More on the same Subject. 
p. 21.  On New-years-day. 
p. 23  Eyes and Tears. 
p. 2●  To Mrs. jane Barker on her Romance of Scipin● By I. N. Fellow of St. John's College, Cambridge 
p. 2●  To Mrs. jane Barker on her Resolution of Versifying no more. By the same Author. 
p. 3●  To Mrs. jane Barker on her Incomparable Romanc● of Scipina. By a Gent. of St. John's Col. Camb. 
p. 3●  On the Posthume and Precious Poems of Sir Matthew Hale. By a Gentleman of Lincolns-Inn. 
p. 3●  To Mr. Tho. Wright, on his Compendious Histories entitled, God's Revenge against Murder an● Adultery, with The Triumphs of Friendship and Chastity. By I. Whitehall. 
p. 3●  On the same: By another Hand. 
p. 4●  On Christmas-day. 
p. 4●  On Death. 
p. 4●  On the Divine Spirit. 
p. 4●  To the Memory of the Illustrious Prince George, Du●● of Buckingham. 
p. 4●  Upon the Death of Oliver Cromwell, in Answer 〈◊〉 Mr. W—'s Verses: By Mr. Godolphin. 
p. 5●  On the last Dutch War: By Mr. B. Willie, som●ti●● Mr. of the Free-School of Newark upon Trent. 
p. 55  The last Sayings of a Mouse, lately starved in a Cupboard. 
p. 59  To the Secretary of the Muses: A New-years-gift 
p. 62.  An Epitaph on the Secretary to the Muses. 
p. 65  A satire, in Answer to the satire against Man: By T. L. of Wadham-Colledge, Oxon. 
p. 67  A Congratulatory Poem to his most Sacred Majesty, james the second, etc. on his late Victories o'er the Rebels in the West. 
p. 83  On the same. 
p. 85  A Panegyric on his Present Majesty james the Second, etc. 
p. 86  A Congratulatory Poem to his Majesty james the Second, on his Succession to the Crown. 
p. 91  On the Presentation of a Bird to his Mistress. 
p. 94.  Advice to silly Maids: By an Unknown Author. 
p. 95  Farther Advice to Young Ladies. 
p. 98  Advice to a Town-Miss: By Mr. Worsdell. 
p. 100  The Preference of a Single Life before Marriage: Written at the Request of a Lady. 
p. 102  Upon Clarinda's putting on her Vizard-Mask. 
p. 103  The Middle Sister, ascribed to Clarinda. 
p. 105  An Elougy on Mrs. M. ●. By a Gent. of the Inner-Temple 
p. 106  A Love-Poem: By an Oxford Gentleman 
p. 109  Another Love-Poem: By the same Author 
p. 112  The Lover's Will 
p. 114  A Love Letter: By W. S. M. D. 
p. 116  A Speech to his Mistress in a Garden 
p. 118  An Address to a Gentlewoman walking in a Garden: By an Oxford Gentleman 
p. 119  Upon a Gentlewoman's Refusal of a Letter from one she was engaged to: By Sir C. S. 
p. 122  In Praise of a Deformed, but Virtuous Lady: or a satire on Beauty 
p. 125  A Love-Letter: By W. S. Gent. 
p. 129  In Praise of Letters 
p. 131  The Idea: By Charles Cotton, Esq 
p. 133  Love's Sympathy 
p. 134  A Pindaric Ode on Mr. Cowley 
p. 136  An Ode: By Mr. R. D. of Cambridge 
p. 137  An Ode of Anacreon paraphrased: Beauties Force 
p. 138  A Pindaric Ode: By Mr. I. Whitehall 
p. 140  From Ovid's Amorum, lib. 2. El. 4. and Lucretius lib. 4. That he loves Women of all sorts and sizes 
p. 142  The Parallel 
p. 145  Song 
p. 147  The Young Lover, a Song: By Mr. Wright 
p. 149  The Prodigal's Resolution, Song 
p. 150  The Doubtful Lover Resolved, A Song 
p. 151  Song: The Cavalier's Catch 
p. 153  On sight of a Lady's Face in the Water: Song 
p. 154  A Song 
p. 155  On the Serpentine Combustion by Squibs on my Lord Mayor's Day: An Heroic Poem 
p. 156  To his much esteemed Friend Mr. I. N. on his Reading the ●irst Line of Pindar, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, etc. by Mr. Whitehall 
p. 159  A Dialogue between jack and Dick, concerning the Prohibition of French Wines 
p. 161   

The 12 following Copies done by the Publisher.  To Clarinda on her Incomparable Painting and Wax-work 
p. 172  A Young Man to an Old Woman, courting him 
p. 174  To Clarinda, a Song 
p. 177  On his Secret Passion for Cosmelia 
p. 179  To Clarinda on his Deserting her, and loving Cosmelia 
p. 185  To Cosmelia on her Departure into the Country 
p. 187  On a Rose s●icking on a Lady's Breast 
p. 188  On the most Charming Galecia's Picture 
p. 190  The Young Lover's Advocate: being an Answer to a Copy of Verses: Written by Galaecia to her Young Lover on his Vow 
p. 192  To my Ingenious Friend Mrs. jane Barker on my Publishing her Romance of Scipina. 
p. 194  A Batchellor's Life, in pursuit of Mrs. Barkers Verses in Praise of a Single Life 
p. 196  The Exchange of Hearts. A Song 
p. 199.  Upon a Flock of Goldfinches 
p. 200  An Answer of the Poet to one, complaining of their Negligence, in not Writing the Duke of Buckingham's Elegy 
p. 204   

These 13 following Copies done by Mr. Hovenden Walker, sometime of Trinity-college in Dublin.  Psalm 139. paraphrased from Verse 7. to Verse 13. 
p. 207  A Pastoral, in imitation of Virgil's 2d Eclogue 
p. 210  The fourth Elegy of Cornelius Gallus of the Miseries of Old Age. Made English 
p. 219  To my Mistress: Translated out of Tibullus 
p. 226  The Agreement 
p. 228  Song 
p. 231  The Innocent Discovery 
p. 234  The Petition. A Song 
p. 234  Fate. A Song 
p. 235  My Religion 
p. 237  The Kiss 
p. 239  The Wrack. A Song 
p. 241  To Mr. P. Berault upon his French Grammar 
p. 242  Song 
p. 245  The same Song Inverted, by Mr. Walker 
p. 246   

The Five following Copies done by Mr. C. G. of AEton-Colledge.  A Paraphrase on part of the 23d idyl. of Theocritus 
p. 247  Chorus 1. Of Seneca's Agamemnon 
p. 255  The Penitent 
p. 259  To Duserastes 
p. 262  The Vow 
p. 263   

The Six following POEMS by Mr. T. B. of Cambridge  An Elegy on King Charles the Second 
p. 265  A Dithyrambique, made just before the King and Queen went to their Coronation 
p. 269  To their Graces, the Duke and Duchess of Albemarle, upon their Voyage for jamaica 
p. 280  Ovid. Amor. lib. 2. Eleg. 15. A Ring presented to his Mistress 
p. 283  To Afer. Martial. Epig. 31. lib. 4. Made English 
p. 285  An Excuse for not Rhyming in the Time of the Rebellion 
p. 286    

MISCELLANY POEMS.  
PART II. Written by several Authors.  

A Paraphrase on an HYMN Sung when the Corpse is at the Grave.  By T. S. Fellow of Maudlin-Colledge, Oxon. 

I.  
HOW full of Troubles is the Life of Man!  
Vain like a bubble, shorter than a span;  
He springs and blossoms as an early Flower,  
Whose silken Leaves the Frosts and Snow devour:  
He, like the ●leeting Shadow, hastes away,  
Unable to continue in one stay;  
It disappears, and can't survive the day.   

II.  
The Noon-tide of our Life is placed in Death,  
We're not secure of one light puff of Breath;  
To whom, O God, can we for succour fly,  
But unto thee, by whom we live and die?  
'Tis for our Sins thou dost employ this Sting,  
Thou justly angry art, our God and King,  
But takest no delight in punishing.   

III.  
O Holy, Mighty Lord and Saviour,  
Declare thy signal Mercies, and thy Power;  
Condemn us not unto the pains of Hell,  
Where Horror reigns, and endless Torments dwell;  
From whence no ransom ever can be made,  
Since we our blessed Redeemer have betrayed,  
And both his Will and Laws have disobeyed.   

IV.  
Thou knowst the secret Closet of our Hearts,  
Thy divine Presence fills our secret parts;  
Therefore be merciful unto our Prayer,  
Most worthy judge, thy wretched People spare.  
Forsake us not when on our Deathbeds thrown,  
Lest through despair we deeply sigh and groan,  
And Hell grow proud of the Dominion.    

Advice to his Friends, lamenting the Death of I. F.  By the same Hand. 
RIse and rejoice all ye that Mourn,  
Dry every Eye that weeps;  
The Body in this hollow Urn,  
Is not quite dead, but sleeps.  
See how the Leaves in Autumn's falling Dew  
Forsake the weeping Tree;  
And how the jocund Spring renews  
With Buds their infancy.  
What though the Root lie underground,  
The Boughs to Heaven aspire;  
Thus Bodies in the Grave are found,  
The Souls are mounted higher.  
Hark! hark! I hear the Trumpet's Voice  
Cry, Come ye Blessed, come;  
Methinks I hear our Friend rejoice,  
That he is Summoned home.  
Now Dronish Death hath lost her Sting,  
The Grave her Victory;  
For Christ in Triumph rides as King  
Of this great jubilee.  
Arise, my Friends, and wipe your Eyes,  
Salvations drawing nigh;  
Let's live to die, and die to rise,  
T' enjoy Eternity.  T. S.  

EPITAPH on Mrs. E. F. who sickened of the Small Pox, and Deceased December the 31st. 1686. being the Day before her intended Nuptials.  
THis fair young Virgin, for a Nuptial Bed  
More fit, is lodged (sad Fate!) among the Dead;  
Stormed by rough Winds, so falls in all her pride  
The full-blown Rose designed t' adorn a Bride.  
Truth is, this lovely Virgin from her Birth,  
Became a constant strife 'twixt Heaven and Earth.  
Earth claimed her, pleaded for her; either cried  
The Nymph is mine, at length they did divide;  
Heaven took her Soul, the Earth her Corpse did seize,  
Yet not in Fee, she only holds by Lease,  
With this proviso; When the judge shall call,  
Earth shall give up her share, and Heaven have all   

An EPITAPH to the Memory (and fixed on the Tomb) of Sir PALM FAIRBORN, Governor of Tangier, who, in Execution of his Command, was Mortally Wounded by a Shot from the Moors, that then besieged the Town, Octob. 24. 1680.  
YE Sacred Relics, which this Marble keep,  
Here, undisturbed by Wars, in quiet sleep:  
Discharge the Trust, which when it was below,  
Fairborn's undaunted Soul did undergo,  
And be the Towns Palladium from the Foe.  
Alive and dead he will these Walls defend,  
Great Actions, Great Examples must attend.  
The Candian Siege his early Valour knew,  
Where Turkish Blood did his young hands imbrue  
From thence returning with deserved applause,  
Against the Moors, his well-fleshed Sword he draws;  
The same the Courage, and the same the Cause.  
His Youth and Age, his Life and Death combine,  
As in some great and regular design,  
All of a piece throughout, and all Divine.  
Still nearer Heaven his Virtues shone more bright,  
Like rising Flames expanding in the height,  
The Martyr's Glory crowned the Soldier's Fight.  
More bravely British Gen'ral never fell,  
Nor Generals Death was e'er revenged so well;  
Which his pleased Eyes beheld before their close,  
Followed by Thousand Victims of his Foes.   

An ELEGY on the Death of N. D. Doctor of Physic.  By I. C. 
WHat, will my Mourning yet no period find!  
Must sighs & sorrow still distract my Mind?  
My Sense grows ●eeble, and my Reason's gone,  
Passion and Discontent usurp the Throne.  
With blubbered Eyes my veiled sight grows dim;  
Ah, cruel Death, could you ●ind none but him  
To gratify your hungry jaws withal;  
Or, if in haste, none but a Doctor's fall?  
However, you might forbore your stroke a while;  
But possibly you thought, he might beguile  
Your craving Appetite of many more,  
Which you expected to strike long before.  
But sure my Mind's disturbed, my Passions rav●,  
To censure Death, and quarrel with the Grave●  
Alas, he's bound, the blow he cannot give,  
Till his Commission shows we must not live.  
Yet hence we learn, and may this inference make,  
That if Physicians Souls their journey take  
Into a distant Climate, well may Ours:  
Then with what care ought we to spend those hours,  
Or rather few remaining Sands, which are  
In so much Bounty tendered to our care?  
The purest Drugs, composed with greatest Skill,  
Can't preserve Life, when Death has power to kill:  
Peasant and Prince are both to him alike,  
And with an equal blow doth either strike.  
All must surrender when his Arm is stretched,  
With such a weighty force his blow is fetch't.  
But oh! I wander from my Virtuous Friend;  
'Tis true indeed he's dead, but yet no end  
Can e'er obscure or hide his Honoured Name,  
For o'er the World the Golden Wings of Fame  
Shall spread his praise, and to his Friends proclaim,  
That whilst alive, His Soul was always dressed  
With Robes of Innocence; the peaceful Guest  
Of a good Conscience, ever filled his Breast.  
His smiling Countenance abroad would send  
His hearty Wishes to his real Friend;  
His Words were few, but of important weight,  
Mixed with no stains of flattery, or deceit.  
Too much in's way his Library has stood,  
Himself he minded not for others good.  
'Tis strange! to think he should himself neglect,  
Whose study 'twas to cure what e'er defect  
Nature might fall into; yet this he did:  
In short, his Worth, though smothered, can't be hid.  
To sound his Praise may th' utmost Skill engage,  
Since that he died the Wonder of his Age.  
Well may his friends then, and acquaintance weep,  
When such a brave Physician's fallen asleep.   

UPON HEAVEN.  
OH thou Theanthropos! who didst contain  
In one joint Body here both God and Man;  
And thou who'rt Alpha and Omega still,  
To blazon forth thy Courts, assist my Quill;  
Enlarge my Fancy, and transport my Mind,  
Above the common pitch of Humane kind.  
Oh represent and spread before my Muse  
One glimpse of heavens great light, which when she views,  
May make her soar in Raptures, and make known  
The glorious Seat of heavens triumphant Throne  
But first, before my Tongue begins to speak  
Such unknown joys, which no Man yet could make  
A true description of (though Poets have  
Feigned an Elyziums' bliss beyond the Grave)  
I crave thy pardon for my bold attempt,  
In showing Sense what here for Faith was meant,  
Like the bright Amathyst and Onyx Stone,  
This glorious Fabric is erected on;  
The entrance Gates of this great Court excel  
The most Magnificent and Orient Pearl;  
Brighter than burnished Gold her Walls appear;  
Of spangled Stars her Floor and Pavements are;  
Her high-built Pillars from the dazzling ground,  
Look as beset all over with Diamond;  
Like purest Sardonyx her Roof does show,  
Whilst as green Emeralds are spread below  
The blushing Ruby, and the glittering Saphir,  
Mixed with bright Chrysolites, and Stones of jasper,  
Make but a poor Resemblance of this light,  
Whose gilt and radiant Beams appear too bright;  
For aught of humane Race to view or see,  
Unless transformed to Immortality.  
Thousands of Angels guard the outward Gate  
From th' utmost spleen and rage of Devil's hate;  
Who keep this Palace from or Siege or Storm,  
For all those Martyrs, who have bravely born  
With an undaunted patience th' utmost Ill,  
That Men or Devils could bethink or will;  
But when once past from th' outward Gates, you'll spy  
Millions of Angels blessed Eternally;  
Also Illustrious Cherubs, Seraphins,  
Clapping their gilded and rejoicing Wings;  
Numbers unnumbered of the Saints in light,  
Singing their Hymns to God both day and night;  
There nought but simple Love and Rest abide,  
All worldly Grief and Cares are laid aside;  
Freed from all cross Events, and slavish Fear,  
In joy and Peace they live for ever there.   

ON THE MARTYRDOM OF King CHARLES the First.  
THE crimson Theme on which I now do treat,  
Is not unregistered, or out of date;  
No, it's wrote deep in every Loyal Breast,  
And with loud Accents will be still expressed;  
Though Time should take more wings, and faster hast  
His sudden flight from hence; yet soon as past  
Such Tragic cruelty, this mournful Theme  
In bloody Characters would still remain.  
I wish my Pen had ne'er had cause to write  
This one day's Prodigy, more black than Night;  
The very Fiends themselves are now outdone,  
For Men the shape of Devils have put on.  
What but the spawn of Hell could thus design!  
Or hatch such treachery to undermine  
The best of Kings on Earth, nay pull him down  
From his own Regal and Established Throne?  
What, was there none but Charles the First, the Great  
And most indulgent worthiest Potentate,  
To vent their rage upon? Oh barbarous Crew!  
A King beheaded! by's own Subjects too!  
Ecclesiastical and Civil Writ  
Unto the World did ne'er as yet transmit  
So Tragical a Scene, or mournful News,  
Save one alone, jesus the King of th' jews;  
Who was like Charles our Sovereign betrayed,  
Whom the same show of justice did degrade:  
But now the jews from these do differ hence,  
Their Errors did from Ignorance commence,  
Because they thought not Christ their lawful Prince:  
But these cursed Regicides did fully know  
Charles was their King, and had proclaimed him so●  
The Ancient Fathers always owned their Prince  
God's Representative in Truth's defence.  
And since that Kings to God Vicegerents are,  
Their Subjects ought true Loyalty to bear,  
Who are protected by their Princely care.  
But as if Nature had these Miscreants left,  
And of Humanity they were bereft;  
' Stead of Allegiance, they preach up Intrusion;  
Sound a Battalia, and make all confusion;  
And then delude and cheat the Common-weal  
With a pretence, that all was done through Zeal●  
Whilst an unnatural War they do b●gin,  
And persevere in their Rebellious Sin,  
Till they've entrenched upon their Sovereign's Rig●●  
By Usurpation, and by lawless Might.  
Then next they seize his Person with pretence,  
That they're his chiefest Bulwark of defence;  
At last his Head and Crown lop off at once,  
Without a Reason, or a just Response.  
At which black deed, should th' Elements dissolve●  
And th' Universal World itself involve  
In present ruin, should th' infernal Lake  
Flash out in Flames; Or should the Waters break  
Through their strong Banks, and so a Deluge make,  
Should Sun and Moon at once Eclipsed be,  
And to complete a full Calamity  
Stars fall from Heaven, and dash in pieces those  
Who did their sovereign and his Laws oppose:  
This we might judge is to their Merit due,  
Who such perfidious treachery pursue.  
Forgive my passion, if I do transgress  
Beyond the limits of true Holiness.  
I wish that all effectually repent  
This bloody Sin, whereby they may prevent  
Those heavy judgements which predict th' Event.  
And may those Persons, who were Actors in  
This cursed Cause against the Father, bring  
Their true Obedience to his Son, now King;  
That so they may to him, and all his Race,  
And to themselves, bring a continued Peace:  
And after crowned with honour and success,  
At last enjoy Eternal happiness.   

UPON ONE'S Birthday.  
LOok upwards, O my Soul! and thou may'st see  
Once more thy Birth-days Anniversary.  
Another year of Time is passed by,  
And now methinks hath slid so silently,  
As if unmeasured yet; and thus will seem  
Most of thy Days, when spent, in thy esteem.  
Man's Life is fitly likened unto Fire,  
Which unsupplyed with fuel, does expire.  
And thus no soon's run our ●leeting Sand,  
But the Glass breaks by Death's destroying hand.  
Since then, my Soul, that Time so fast doth slide,  
How much art thou obliged to provide  
That which may beautify thy nobler part,  
And also cleanse and purify thy Heart  
From all pollution, which within doth reign,  
And in that Empire such Dominion gain?  
Make firm Resolves, by new Engagements tie  
Thy Passions up, restrain their liberty.  
Place thy affections upon things above,  
Try then to surfeit i● thou canst on Love;  
In time secure that which alone can last,  
When youth and beauty, strength and life are past.  
Then as thy Sands do was●e, and Years increase,  
Thou shalt at last expire with joy and Peace.   

UPON CHRIST's NATIVITY.  

BEhold an Universal Darkness has overspread  
This lower World, and Man in Sin lies dead.  
Now black Despair his heavy burden's made,  
And being fallen, God's Wrath can ne'er be paid:  
For since his Native Innocence is flown,  
All the first promises of Bliss are gone.  
Think then, O Adam! on the state thou'rt in,  
And all Mankind by reason of thy Sin.  
Alas poor Man! thy Paradise is lost,  
And thou mightst justly from thy Bliss be tossed  
Into th' infernal Lake; where with great pain,  
B'ing exercised, thou mightst lament in vain.   

But stay a while, What music's this I hear!  
Which sounds so sweetly from the heavenly Sphere!  
Look here, O Man! are thine Eyes upwards bend?  
Here's Angels, surely, on a Message sent.  
Man. What Anthem's this, sweet Angels, that you sing  
Unto us Men? do ye glad tidings bring?  
Ang. We come from Heaven, we declare no Ill,  
But Peace on Earth, and unto Men goodwill.  
M. How so, we pray? can God be friends again?  
Will he be reconciled to sinful Men?  
Is God so kind, so merciful a God,  
So soon to cast away his angry Rod?  
A. You need not doubt, would you but with the Eye  
Of steadfast Faith, pierce through the Starry Sky,  
You might behold there God himself contriving,  
Not for your Death, but your Eternal Living.  
M. But how shall we of this assured be?  
What sign or token may we find or see?  
A. Want ye a sign? then do but us believe:  
Here's one, behold a Virgin does conceive:  
A Virgin true and chaste does now bring forth  
A Son unto you of Transcendent Worth:  
This is the true Messias, whom of old  
The Patriarches and Prophets so foretell;  
This is the Seed to Adam, promised  
By God, to break the subtle Serpent's Head:  
M. This being then the day of jesus Birth,  
Let us affect our Hearts with godly Mirth;  
Let us, I say, both triumph, joy, and sing,  
Glory be to our Christ, our Priest, our King.    

On the same.  
EArly i'th' Morn I waked, and first my Ear  
The Bellman did salute with th' time of Year.  
And next the joyful Cock, who'd left his Nest,  
Ceases not crowing Christus natus est.  
The lesser Birds in sweeter Notes do sing,  
And louder Sounds Echo from Bells that ring.  
Amidst this joy, I upward cast my Eyes,  
And saw more brighter Rays adorn the Skies;  
Where e'er I looked, a happy change I viewed,  
Nature herself did seem as if renewed:  
But when surprised with such a beauteous Scene,  
I then resolved to think what this might mean;  
And presently my Thoughts enlarged were,  
And Christ his Incarnation did appear,  
In the most great and highest Acts of Love,  
Such as will Reason to amazement move:  
For who can think on Man, lost and undone,  
To be redeemed from Death by God's own Son,  
And not be stricken with the quickest sense  
Of so much Love, and charming Excellence?  
Rouse then thy Minds best faculties, and soar  
Up to a pitch, thou never reached before:  
Strive to come near, at least to imitate  
The holy Angels, in their happy state;  
Who always in a constant circle move,  
Of giving praises unto God above;  
And when to them the happy tidings came,  
They gladly were the Heralds to proclaim  
The joyful news to us; then shall not Man  
Sing the same Anthem they on Earth began?  
Give praises therefore unto God most high,  
And join thy Soul to the blessed Hierarchy.  
When thus Seraphick-Love thy thoughts employ,  
Thou shalt anticipate that Heavenly joy..   

More on the same Subject.  
LEt this days triumph o'er the World be crowned,  
A day of jubilee for ever owned,  
With Harp and Violin our Mirth we'll show,  
Unto this day all gratitude we owe.  
Let Lute and Timbrel, and Majestic touch  
Of the sweet Vial too proclaim as much.  
Let Talbrot also, and the loud-spoke Cymbal  
join with the sweeter of the Virginal;  
Let all the Voices, both of Base and Treble,  
join in this harmony; let polished Marble,  
To future Ages, keep his honoured Name,  
That they with equal pleasure speak the same:  
And that a perfect joy may be expressed,  
At the Solemnity of such a Feast,  
Let the whole Earth put on her Robes of Green,  
And be in Triumph when this day is seen;  
And also let the pretty winged Choir,  
From their warm Nests with joyfulness retire;  
And fill the Air with sweet melodious Notes,  
Which they sing forth from out their warbling Throats:  
Let the Floods clap their hands, and therein show,  
That they rejoice with all the World below;  
Let Angels too above bedeck the Sky,  
And in soft strains divulge their Harmony;  
Let the Illustrious Cherubins descend  
With their delicious Carols to attend  
Man's happy change, which Christ alone did bring,  
Who is become our Prophet, Priest, and King.  
O blessed Redeemer! why wouldst thou come down,  
Rather so lowly, than with great Renown?  
As soon as born, why didst thou not give order  
To be proclaimed the World's great Emperor?  
Or cam'st not vailed in an Angel's Shrine,  
Or took the Nature of a Seraphin?  
But this had been contrary to thy Will,  
Who came the Prophet's Sayings to fulfil:  
Besides, thy Message had a nobler End,  
Namely, the World of Sin to reprehend;  
And to refine and purge our thoughts from Earth,  
Conveying to us Grace by second Birth;  
To influence our Minds from Heaven above,  
And to possess us here with Peace and Love.   

ON NEW-YEARS-DAY.  
OH Time, with Wings thou well may'st painted be,  
For that shows swiftness and celerity;  
And thy keen Scythe as truly doth bespeak,  
What mighty devastations thou dost make.  
That which thy hand incircles is a Glass,  
Whose Sands with fleeting constancy do pass  
An Emblem, which adapted is to show,  
What short duration all things have below;  
The Revolution of another Year,  
Does plain and obvious to each Eye appear:  
The New-Year is in Infancy begun,  
And to its latter period soon will run;  
For when the last Years Scene of things are gone,  
The Revolutions of the New post on.  
View the Creation made with curious Art,  
And you'll see motion run through every part;  
For whensoe'er that ceases, presently  
The Object does begin to waste and die.  
But now this Festival of New-years-day,  
A more exalted Subject doth display;  
For it exhibiteth upon Record  
The Circumcision of our blessed Lord;  
Which Institution was by God decreed  
For a distinction unto Abr'am's Seed:  
But when our Saviour came, what need was there  
But that this jewish Rite should disappear?  
The Circumcision of the Heart was then  
Esteemed more proper for the Sons of Men;  
Instead of Circumcision and the Passover,  
Our Saviour therefore did enjoin two other  
More Sacred Sacraments, which Christians now  
Do celebrate with a most solemn Vow.  
The former 
(a) Circumcision.  Rite Mortification taught,  

(b) Baptism.  This a more comprehensive meaning brought;  
To wash off Adam's Sin is the intent,  
As Water is a cleansing Element.  
And all the Laws our Saviour did enjoin,  
Than those he has removed, are more sublime;  
Since nothing came from him but what's Divine.  
Each Festival that keeps his Memory,  
Should not without our due respect pass by.  
'Tis fit we should commemorate such days  
With an ecstatick and exalted praise,  
And all our Faculties in Transport raise.   

EYES and TEARS.  

I.  
HOW wisely Nature did decree,  
With the same Eyes to weep and se●!  
That having viewed the Object vain,  
We might be ready to complain.   

II.  
What in the World most fair appears,  
Yea even laughter turns to tears;  
And all the jewels which we prise,  
Melt in these Pendents of the Eyes?   

III.  
Lo, the Allseeing Sun each day  
Distils the World with Chemic Ray;  
But finds the Essence only showers,  
Which strait in pity back he powers.   

IV.  
Yet happy they whom Grief doth bless,  
That weep the more, and see the less:  
And to preserve their Sight more true,  
bath still their Eyes in their own Dew.   

V.  
So Magdalen in Tears more wise,  
Dissolved those Captivating Eyes;  
Whose liquid Chains could flowing meet,  
To fetter her Redeemers Feet.   

VI  
The sparkling Glance that shoots desire,  
Drenched in these Waves, does lose its ●ire:  
Yea oft the Thunderer pity takes,  
And here the hissing Lightning slakes.   

VII.  
Open then mine Eyes your double sluice,  
And practise so your noblest use;  
For others too can see, or sleep,  
But only humane Eyes can weep.   

VIII.  
Now like two Clouds dissolving drop,  
And at each Tear in distance stop:  
Now like two Fountains trickle down;  
Now like two Floods return and drown.   

IX.  
Thus let your Streams o'er-●low your Springs,  
Till Eyes and Tears be the same things:  
And each the others difference bears,  
These weeping Eyes those seeing Tears.    

To Mrs. JANE BARKER, on her most Delightful and Excellent Romance of SCIPINA, now in the Press.  By I. N. Fellow of St. John's College in Cambridge. 

HAil! Fair Commandress of a gentle Pen,  
At once the Dread, and dear Delight of Men;  
Who'll read with Transports those soft joys you've writ,  
Then fear their Laurels do but loosely ●it,  
Since You invade the Primacy of Wit.  
Accept, kind Guardian, of our sleeping Fame,  
Those modest Praises, which your Merits claim.  
'T'as been our Country's Scandal, now of late,  
For want of Fancy, poorly to Translate:  
Each pregnant Term, some honest, labouring brain  
With toilsome drudgery, and mighty pain,  
Has told some new Amour from France or Spain.   

Running us still so shamefully o'th' score,  
That we have scarcely credit left for more.  
But Thou, in whom all Graces are combined,  
And native Wit with equal judgement joined,  
Hast taught us how to quell our Bankrupt Fear,  
By bravely quitting all the long Arrear.  
Thy single Payment, they'll with thanks allow  
A just return for all those Debts we owe.  
What though their Tale more numerous appear?  
Our Coyn's more noble, and our Stamp more fair.  
So have I seen a Score o'th' Dunning Race,  
Discharged their Paltry Ticks with one Broadpi●●   

Nor hast Thou more engaged thy Native Home●  
Than the bare Memory of ancient Rome:  
So far thy generous Obligations spread,  
As both to bind the Living and the Dead.  
'Twould please thy Hero's awful Shade, to see  
His Part thus Acted over again by Thee;  
Where even his bare Idea has that power,  
Which Real Scipio only had before:  
Such tenderness his very Image moves,  
That every gentle Maid that reads it, Loves.  
●o see with what new Air the Lover charms!  
●ill doubly blessed in fair Clarinthia's Arms.  
triumphs of War were less than those of Peace;  
Nor was He e'er so Great in any Arms, as these.   

What crowds of Weeping Loves wilt Thou create,  
When in thy Lines they find their Pictured Fate?  
Thou'st framed each Passion with so soft an Art,  
As needs must melt the hardest Stoicks heart.  
Did Zeno live to see thy moving sense,  
He'd sure in Love an Epicure commence;  
●he cold Insensible would disappear,  
And with each Mourning Fair he'd shed a Tear.  
But when He reads the happy Lover's joys,  
He'd tell the rapturous pleasures with his Eyes:  
On's wrinkled brows a smiling Calm would shine,  
He'd think each Period of thy Book Divine,  
And with impatience kiss each tender line.   

Yet all this while, such are thy harmless Flames,  
As neither Age itself, nor Envy blames:  
The Precise-Grave-Ones cannot disapprove  
Thy Gallant Hero's honourable Love.  
Thy Lines may pass severest Virtue's Test,  
More than Astraea's soft, more than Orinda's chaste.  
Young Country Squires may read without offence,  
Nor Lady Mothers fear their debauched Innocence.  
Only beware, Incautious Youths beware,  
Lest when you see such lovely Pictures there;  
You, as of old the Fair Enamoured Boy,  
Languish for those feigned Beauties you descry,  
And pine away for Visionary joy..  
Then if by day they kindle noble Fire,  
And with gay thoughts your nightly Dreams inspire,  
Bless, Bless the Author of your soft desire.   PHILASTER.  

To Mrs. JANE BARKER, on her Resolution of Versifying no more.  By the same Author. 
MAdam, I can't but wonder why of late,  
What you so loved, you now so much should hate.  
Your Muse, with whom you thought yourself once blest,  
That now should banished be from your fair Breast:  
'T may convince some (but that it ne'er shall me)  
That in your Sex there is inconstancy;  
Whom formerly with name of 
(a) Meaning the Muse.  Gallant graced,  
By you so suddenly should be displaced.  
Is this the recompense which you intent  
Now to bestow on your so early Friend?  
Who when a Child, put in your hand a Bough 
(b) The lady being painted with a Bough of Bays in her Hand. ,  
Hoping, in time, it might adorn your Brow.  
Methinks you do't, as if you did design  
Fate's all resistless power to countermine.  
What else should be the cause, I cannot see,  
That makes you so averse to Poetry;  
Unless't be this, 'Cause each poor rhyming Fool,  
To get a place i'th' Ballad-maker's School,  
Spews forth his Dogrel-rhimes, which only are  
Like rubbish sent i'th' Streets, and every Fair.  
Is this an Argument, 'cause Beggars Eat,  
Therefore you'll fast, and go without your Meat?  
So Virtue may as well aside be laid,  
Because a Cloak for Vice too oft it's made.  
Shall a true Diamond of less value be,  
Because abroad some Counterfeit we see?  
But when compared, how easily may we know  
Which are for sale, and which are for a show.  
Then give not over, for in this Town they'll say,  
A new Gallant has stolen your Heart away:  
Besides, the Muses cannot choose but pine;  
In losing You, they'll lose their Number Nine.   

To the Incomparable AUTHOR, Mrs. JANE BARKER, On her Excellent ROMANCE of SCIPINA.  By a Gentleman of St. John's College, Cambridge. 
FAir Female Conqueror, we all submit  
To the joint force of Beauty, and of Wit:  
And thus like vanquished Slaves in Triumph led,  
Laurels and Crowns before the Victor spread.  
What stupid Enemy to Wit and Sense,  
Dares to dispute your Sex's Excellence?  
That Sex which doth in you Triumphant come,  
To praise with Wit of Greece the Arms of Rome;  
Secured by solid Sense, you soar sublime  
Above the little fluttering flights of Rhyme.  
Ancient Philosophy, embraced by few,  
Smiles and looks young to be caressed by you;  
Out-rivals Love, and drives him from your Breast,  
And is alone of your whole self possessed:  
No Word of yours the nicest can reprove,  
To show a more than modest sense of Love:  
But something still like inspiration shines,  
Through the bright Virgin Candour of your lines.  
How well are all your Hero's toils and fights,  
His long laborious Days, and restless Nights,  
Repaid with Glory by your charming Pen?  
How gladly would he act them over again?  
The Great Cornelian Race with wonder view,  
The Asian Conqueror, thus adorned by you;  
And th' younger Scipio willingly would quit  
His Titles for your more Triumphant Wit.  
On then, brave Maid, secure of Fame advance,  
Against the Scaroons and Scudderies of France.  
Show them your claim, let nought your Merit awe,  
Your Title's good spite of the Salique-Law;  
Safe in the Triumphs of your Wit remain;  
Our English Laws admit a Woman's Reign.  EXILIUS.  

ON THE POSTHUME and Precious POEMS OF Sir MATTHEW HALE, Late Lord Chief justice of His Majesty's Court of King's-Bench.  By a Gentleman of Lincolns-Inn. 
THE Rose and other fragrant Flowers smell best  
When they are plucked and worn in Hand or Breast;  
So this fair Flower of Virtue, this rare Bud  
Of Wit, smells now as fresh as when he stood,  
And by his Poetry doth let us know,  
He on the Banks of Helicon did grow:  
The Beauties of his Soul apparent shine,  
Both in his Works and Poetry Divine;  
In him all Virtues met, th' Exemplary  
Of Wisdom, Learning, and true Piety.  
Farewell Famed judge, Minion of Thespian Dame●,  
Apollo's Darling born with Enthian Flames;  
Which in thy numbers wave, and shine so clear,  
As sparks refracted in rich gems appear;  
Such Flames as may inspire, and Atoms cast,  
To make new Poets not like him in haste.   

To the Admired AUTHOR, Mr. THOMAS WRIGHT, ON HIS Incomparable HISTORIES, ENTITLED, God's Revenge against Murder and Adultery, with the Triumphs of Friendship and Chastity. Newly published in a small Vol. 8o  By Mr. I. Whitehall. 
SInce the too bold aspiring Angel fell  
(By his Ambition and his Pride) to Hell;  
And since Rebellious Man lost Paradise,  
The World is filled with various sorts of Vice;  
Murder and Lust, twin Tyrants, long have reigned,  
And a vast Empire through the World maintained.  
The Sword of justice could not stop their rage,  
They've boldly tyrannised in every Age;  
Nor could Divines their furious heat assuage.  
Yet doubtless, Friend, th' Examples you have given,  
May give them prospect of revenging Heaven.  
Your Pen with Eloquence divine inspired,  
Will cool the Souls with Lust and Murder fired.  
Tame all the Passions, regulate the Will,  
And stop that Rage which guiltless blood would spill.  
Such charming Oratory it doth give,  
As teacheth us by others Death to live;  
And from a Life of Chastity and Love,  
A great Advantage to ourselves improve.  
To tell thy Fame, I want great Spencer's Skill,  
The gentle charming power of Cowley's Quill:  
All Men of Sense will praise thy matchless Prose,  
For sharpest Briar bears the sweetest Rose.   

To his Ingenious FRIEND, Mr. THOMAS WRIGHT, ON HIS Compendious HISTORIES OF Murder, Adultery, Friendship and Chastity. Some of the former being Epitomised from Mr. Reynold's Murders.  By another Hand. 
MAny, 'tis true, knew of this Golden Mine,  
But all their Skill could not the Ore Refine:  
Th' inimitable REYNOLD's very Name,  
Startled at first our greatest Men of Fame;  
Each one by fear, from that great task was hurled,  
And tho'lanched out their Sails, were quickly furled.  
Wanting thy courage, they could never soar  
To this high pitch, which none e'er reached be●or●.  
The Vulgar paths thou shun'st, soaring sublime,  
Till with acquaint Eloquence thou fraught'st each line.  
None yet so sweetly charmed with Sense the times,  
So gently, and so well rebuked such crimes,  
As you, my Friend, have done; for you present  
Vice so deformed, the Wicked will repent;  
And by Examples of the chaste and kind,  
Fix bright Embellishments upon the Mind,  
Such as may make us to improve, and be  
Like patterns of Heroic Piety.  
Thy Wit and Skill may former Artists blame,  
And Reynold's Murders now we must not name.  
As sable Darkness, which attends the Night,  
To the Days Sunbeams is its opposite:  
So Vice from Virtue, Wrong from Right's the same;  
Then how canst thou write wrong, when WRIGHT's thy Name?   

ON Christmas-day.  
O God who art most Excellent and Wise!  
I see the Morning Beams break through the Skies;  
And with great admiration view the Light  
Which dissipates Night's darkness from my sight.  
But with a greater wonder I look on  
Those bright Illuminations, which thy Son  
Hath brought to light by's Incarnation.  
Look and admire I may, but can't express  
Such heights and depths of Love, in Prose or Verse:  
'Tis beyond th' art of empiric to display,  
What Christians solemnize this Festal day.  
Two sacred Words, are an Epitome  
Of what's effected in this Mystery,  
Redemption and Salvation; heavenly Letters!  
Which freed fallen Man from th' Bondage of his Fetters:  
Lust and Ambition, Avarice and Fraud,  
Was then his Master, and his Passions Lord:  
Till Christ, his great Redeemer, broke the Chain,  
And placed him in Paradise again.  
O Love most infinite! O Love divine!  
This Mystery of Love was truly thine;  
For neither Men nor Angels could atone  
Th' Almighty's Wrath, but God and Man in one:  
Wherefore Divinity submits to be  
Lodged in a Vessel of Humanity.  
How joyfully ●he heavenly Host above,  
Proclaim to Man, glad tidings of thy Love?  
And shall Mankind so much ungrateful be,  
Or rather sink into stupidity,  
As not with equal joy this Message hear,  
And all due reverence to their Saviour bear?  
And finally, Let's end these Festal days,  
With sweet Doxologies, and Songs of Praise.   

UPON DEATH.  
NAked I came from out my Mother's Womb,  
And naked must return unto my Tomb;  
Disrobed of all Enjoyments here below,  
Or what my Fancy had esteemed so;  
Laid down in silence, and by all forgot;  
Left in an Earthly Sepulchre to rot,  
And turn to noisome and corrupted Clay,  
My Manly Shape and Figure worn away:  
Thus when our little breath, and life's once gone,  
We make a Feast for Worms to feed upon.  
And though we should the most Endearments have,  
Of Wife and Children too, yet we must leave  
Them, and their Fortunes, unto Providence,  
When pale-faced Death shall summon us from hence  
Why do we stand amazed, and seem to fear,  
When e'er the news of a Friend's Death we hear?  
And not much rather to applaud the Tongue,  
That brought intelligence, he lived so long;  
For Life's so mutable, each little blast  
May the whole Fabric unto ruin hast:  
Life is a Bubble, which now you see here,  
And in a moment's time does disappear;  
Full as inconstant as the Wind; alas!  
'Tis far more brittle than a Venice-Glass;  
'Tis as a Shadow, which is quickly fled;  
Or as a Word, which in as small time's said;  
'Tis as a Vapour rising from the Earth,  
But at the most 'tis but a little Breath.  
And is this truly so? and shall my Eyes,  
Together with my Souls bright Faculties,  
Be cheated with the World's gay Vanities?  
Certainly no! Adieu ye cheating Pleasures,  
Which only bear the empty name of Treasures;  
No Sophistry, or stratagem, can hide  
Your gilded Vanity, your Lust and Pride:  
And as for Honour, that I'll most avoid,  
My lonesome Cottage shall not be annoyed  
By th' noisome Breath of a confused Rabble;  
Void of calm Reason, full of nonsense, babble.  
Besides, my Eyes are both too weak and dim  
To guide my Feet, whilst I so high must climb,  
To reach her Pinnacles; which if I do,  
'Tis but to make me fall from thence more low.  
And as for worldly Wealth, my bounds I set,  
According to what Prudence does direct.  
Our honest Industry is not denied,  
When all disponding Thoughts are laid aside:  
So much I can most lawfully desire,  
As may with decency my Life attire;  
And bear me up, lest I too much should Mourn,  
Before I fill my dark and silent Urn.  
Such serious Thoughts as these delight me best;  
Death, when fore-seen in time, does quite divest  
A Man of dubious Thoughts, and frightful Fears,  
And with a Plaudit closeth up his Years.   

ON THE Divine Spirit.  
AS when the labouring Sun hath wrought his tract  
Up to the top of lofty Cancer's back,  
The Icy Ocean cracks the Frozen Pole,  
Thaws with the heat of Celestial Coal;  
So when thy absent Beams begin t'impart  
Again a Solstice on my frozen Heart,  
My Winter's over, my drooping Spirits sing,  
And every part revives into a Spring:  
But if thy quickening Beams a while decline,  
And with their Light bless not this Orb of mine,  
A chilly Frost surpriseth every Member,  
And in the midst of june I feel December.  
O how this Earthly temper doth debase  
The noble Soul, in this her humble place!  
Whose wingy Nature ever doth aspire  
To reach that place, whence ●irst it took its ●ire.  
These Flames I feel, which in my Heart do dwell,  
Are not thy Beams, but take their fire from Hell.  
O quench them all, and let thy Light Divine  
Be as the Sun to this poor Orb of mine;  
And to thy Sacred Spirit convert those Fires,  
Whose Earthly fumes crack my devout Aspires!   

To the Memory of the 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.  
Fortunes most darling Favourites must die;  
Straight at th' 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 Rights can claim,  
What Nobler Train must wait on Buckingham!  
When so much Wit's Great Reformer, dies,  
The very Muses at thy Obsequies,  
(The Muses, that melodious cheersull 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●rom ●rom Thee;  
Whilst thy gay Wit has made his sullen Glass  
And tedious Hours with newborn Raptures pass.   

What tho'black Envy with her rancorous Tongue,  
And angry Poets in embittered Song  
(Whilst to new tracks thy boundless Soul aspires)  
Charge thee with roving Change, and wand'ring Firest  
Envy more base did never Virtue wrong;  
Thy Wit, a Torrent for the Banks too strong,  
In twenty smaller Rills o'er-flowed the Dam,  
Though the main Channel still was Buckingham.   

Let Care the busy Statesman over-whelm,  
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 rod,  
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,  
They gallic Shore, 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-Lize's ●ainting 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,  
Disdain the Earthly 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:  
Begins and finishes that Glorious Spheer,  
Too Mighty for a Second Charioteer.    

UPON THE DEATH OF OLIVER CROMWELL, In Answer to Mr. W —'s Verses.  By Mr. Godolphin. 
'TIS well he's gone, (O had he never been!)  
Hurried in Storms loud as his crying Sin:  
The Pines and Oaks fell prostrate to his Urn,  
That with his Soul his Body too might burn.  
Winds pluck up Roots, and fixed Cedars move,  
Roaring for Vengeance to the Heavens above:  
For Gild from him like Romulus did grow,  
And such a Wind did at his Ruin blow.  
Praying themselves the lofty Trees should fallen  
Without the Axe, so Orpheus went to Hell:  
At whose descent the sturdiest Oaks were cleft,  
And the whole Wood its wont Station left.  
In Battle Herc'les wore the Lion's Skin,  
But our Fierce Nero wore the Beast within;  
Whose Heart was Brutish, more than Face or Eyes,  
And in the shape of Man was in disguise.  
Where ever Men, where ever pillage lies,  
Like ravenous Vultures, or winged Navy flies.  
Under the Tropics he is understood,  
And brings home Rapine through a Purple Flood.  
New Circulations found, our Blood is hurled,  
As round the lesser, so the greater World.  
In Civil Wars he did us first engage,  
And made Three Kingdoms subject to his rage.  
One fatal stroke slew justice, and the cause  
Of Truth, Religion, and our Sacred Laws.  
So fell Achilles by the Trojan Band,  
Though he still fought with Heaven itself in hand.  
Nor could Domestic Spoil confine his Mind,  
Nor limits to his fury, but Mankind.  
The British Youth in Foreign Coasts are sent,  
Towns to destroy, but more to Banishment.  
Who since they cannot in this Isle abide,  
Are confined Prisoners to the World beside.  
No wonder then if we no tears allow  
To him who gave us Wars and Ruin too:  
Tyrants that loved him, grieved, concerned to see  
There must be punishment to cruelty.  
Nature herself rejoiced at his Death,  
And on the Halter sung with such a Breath,  
As made the Sea dance higher than before,  
While her glad Waves came dancing to the shore.   

ON THE LAST DUTCH WAR.  By Mr. Benjamin Willy, sometime Master of the Free-School of Newark upon Trent. 

Robbed of our Rights! and by such Water-Rats!  
We'll doff their Heads, if they won't doff their Hats.  
Affront from Hogen Mogen to endure!  
'Tis time to box these Butter-Boxes sure.  
If they the Flag's undoubted Right deny us,  
And won't strike to us, they must be struck by Us.  
A Crew of Boors, and Sooterkins, that know  
Themselves they too our Blood and Valour owe.  
Did we for this knock off their Spanish Fetters,  
To make 'em able to abuse their Betters?  
If at this rate they rave, I think 'tis good  
Not to omit the Spring, but let 'em Blood.  
Rouse then, Heroic Britain's, 'tis not Words,  
But Wounds must work with Leather-Apron-Lords.  
They're deaf, and must be talked withal, alas,  
With Words of Iron, spoke by Mouths of Brass,  
I hope we shall to purpose the next bout  
Cure 'em, as we did Opdam of the Gout.  
And when i'th' bottom of the Sea they come,  
They'll have enough of Mare Liberum.  
Our brandished Steel (tho' now they seem so tall)  
Shall make 'em lower than Low-Countries fall:  
But they'll e'er long come to themselves you'll see,  
When we in earnest are at Snick-a-snee.  
When once the Boars perceive our Swords are drawn,  
And we converting are those Boars to Brawn.   

Methinks the Ruin of their Belgic Banners  
Last Fight, almost as ragged as their Manners,  
Might have persuaded 'em to better things,  
Than to be saucy with the best of Kings.  
Is it of Wealth so proud they are become?  
Charles has a Wain, I hope, to fetch it home;  
And with it pay himself his just Arrears  
Of Fishing Tribute for this Hundred years;  
That we may say, as all the Store comes in,  
The Dutch, alas, have but our Factors been:  
They fathom Sea and Land, we, when we please,  
Have both the Indies brought to our own Seas;  
For Rich and Proud they bring in Ships by Shoals;  
And then we humble them to save their Souls.   

Pox of their Pictures! if we had 'em here,  
We'd found 'em Frames at Tyburn, or elsewhere.  
The next they draw be it their Admirals,  
Transpeciated into Finns and Scales;  
Or which would do as well, draw, if they please,  
Opdam with th' Seven sinking Provinces;  
Or draw their Captains from the conquering Main,  
F●rst beaten home, then beaten back again.  
And after this so just, though fatal strife,  
Draw their dead Boars again unto the Life.  
Lastly, Remember to prevent all Laughter;  
Drawing goes first, but Hanging follows after.  
If then Lampooning thus be their undoing,  
Who pities them that purchase their own Ruin;  
Or will hereafter trust their treacheries,  
Until they leave their Heads for Hostages.  
For as the Proverb thus of Woman's said,  
Believe 'em nothing, though you think 'em dead.  
The Dutch are stubborn, and will yield no Fruit  
Till, like the Wallnut-Tree, ye beat 'em to't.    

THE LAST SAYINGS OF A MOUSE, Lately Starved in a Cupboard. As they were taken in Shorthand by a Zealous Rat-catcher, who listened at the Keyhole of the Cupboard Door.  

WRetch that I am! and is it come to this?  
O short continuance of Earthly bliss.  
Did I for this forsake my Country Ease,  
My Liberty, my Bacon, Beans, and Pease?  
Call ye me this the breeding of the Town,  
Which my young Master bragged when he came down?  
Fool that I was! I heard my Father say  
(A Reverend Mouse he was, and his Beard grey)  
" Young Hunt-crum, mark me well, you needs must room,  
" And leave me and your Mother here at home:  
" Great is your Spirit, at high food you aim,  
" But have a care— believe not lying Fame;  
" Vast Bodies oft are moved by slender Springs,  
" Great Men and Tables are two different things:  
" Assure thyself, all is not Gold that shines;  
" He that looks always fa●, not always dines:  
" For oft I've seen one strut in laced Cloak,  
" And at th' same instant heard his Belly croak.   

By sad experience now I find too well,  
Old Hunt-crum was an arrant Sydrophel.  
And must I die? and is there no relief?  
No Cheese, though I give over thoughts of Beef.  
Where is grave Madge, and brisk Grimalkin now,  
Before whose Feet our Race was wont to bow?  
No Owl, no Cat, to end my woeful days?  
No Gresham Engine my lean Corpse to squeeze?  
I'd rather fall to Foes a noble prey,  
Than squeak my Soul out under Lock and Key●  
What's this? a pissing Candles latter end,  
My dear beloved Country-Save-all Friend?  
Thou dreadful Emblem of Mortality,  
Which nothing savour'st of solidity:  
Detested Droll'ry of my cruel Fate!  
This shadow of a Comfort comes too late.   

Now you my Brethren Mice, if any be  
As yet unstarved in all our Family,  
From your obscure Retreats rise and appear,  
To your, or to your Ghosts I now draw near.  
Unto my pristine dust I hast apace,  
Observe my hollow Eyes, and meager Face;  
And learn from me the sad reverse of Fate,  
'Tis better to be innocent than great.  
Good Consciences and Bellies full, say I,  
Exceed the pomp that only fills the Eye.  
Farewell you see (my friends) that knew me once  
Pampered and smooth, reduced to Skin and Bones.  
Poor as a Church-Mouse! O I faint! I die!  
Fly, fly from Cat in shape of Famine, f●y;  
Whilst at ●y Death I my Ambition rue,  
In this my Cupboard, and my Coffin too;  
Farewell to Victuals, Greatness, and to you.    

TO THE SECRETARY OF THE MUSES. A NEW-YEARS-GIFT.  
JULIAN,  
WIth care peruse the lines I send,  
Which when you've done, you'll find I am your friend;  
I write not for Applause, or if I do,  
Who'd value the Applause that comes from you,  
Or from your Patrons, who of late we see,  
However they're distinguished in degree,  
Forget themselves, and grow as dull as thee?  
As often drunk, as awkward in their dress,  
Fight with thy courage, Court with thy success.  
And when their fond Impertinences fail,  
They straight turn Satirists, and learn to rail;  
With false Aspersions whitest truths they touch,  
And will abuse, because they can't debauch.  
No, julian, 'tis not my design to glean  
Applauses either from thyself, or them;  
But merely to assume a friendly care,  
And give thee Counsel for th' ensuing Year.  
For if all powerful dullness keep its station,  
Dullness chief Manufacture of the Nation,  
Thou certainly must starve the next Vacation.  
To prevent which, observe the rules I give,  
We never are too old to learn to live.  
First then, to all thy railing Scribblers go,  
Who do their wit and worth in Libels show;  
Bid 'em correct their Manners, and their Style,  
For both of 'em begin to grow so vile,  
They are beneath a Carr-man's scornful smile:  
Tell 'em their false Coin will no longer pass;  
Nay, tell 'em that thou knowst it to be Brass:  
But above all, beg 'em to mend their strain,  
And yet I fear thy prayers will be in vain;  
For though the Old year, julian, now is done,  
We know there comes another rolling on,  
And still another too when that is gone.  
But Wit lies unmanured, the barren stor●  
Is ebbing out— I fear 'twill flow no more.  
'Tis well thou dost not live on Wit alone,  
For the dull trash the Men of Sense disown,  
Thy duller Coxcombs with Applauses crown.  
Since folly then, and nonsense find success,  
Let this dull trifle pass amongst the rest:  
But swear withal the Author is a Wit;  
Nay, when thou'rt in th' Enthusiastic fit,  
Swear 'tis the highest thing that e'er was writ.  
Thus with thy noise prepare 'em by degrees,  
thou'rt used to dullness, and thou knowst 'twill please,  
Dull then as 'tis, this New-years-gift of mine,  
If managed well, may help to get thee thine.   

EPITAPH ON THE SECRETARY to the MUSES.  
UNder this weeping Monumental Stone  
There lies a Scribe, who, while he lived, was known  
To every Bawd, Whore, Pimp, Fop, Fool in Town,  
For scandal he was born, and we shall find,  
That now he's dead, there's little left behind:  
Vast was his Courage, witness all the store  
Of noble Scars, that to his Grave he bore;  
All got in War, for he abhorred a Whore.  
Of spreading Libels nothing shall be said,  
Because 'twas that which brought him in his Bread,  
And 'tis a crime to vilify the Dead.  
His Honour for Religion still was great,  
In Covent-Garden Church he'd slumbering sit,  
To show his Piety was like his Wit.  
But above all, Drink was his chief delight;  
He drank all day, yet left not off at night:  
Drink was his Mistress; Drinking was his Health;  
For without Drinking he was ne'er himself.  
Ah, cruel Gods! what Mercy can ye boast  
If the poor Secretary's frighted Ghost  
Should chance to touch upon the Stygian Coast?  
But ah his loss, 'tis now too late to Mourn;  
He's gone, and Fate admits of no return.  
But whither is he gone? to's Grave, no doubt;  
Where, if there's any Drink, he'll find it out.   

A satire, In Answer to the satire against MAN.  By T. L. of Wadham College, Oxon. 

WEre I a Spirit, to choose for my own share,  
What case of Flesh and Blood I'd please to wear,  
I'd be the same that to my joy I am,  
One of those brave and glorious Creatures, Man;  
Who is from Reason justly named the bright  
And perfect Image of the Infinite:  
Reason's Mankind's Prerogative, no less  
Their Nature's honour, than their happiness:  
With which alone, the meanest Creature blest,  
Were truly styled the Lord of all the rest;  
Whence Man makes good his Title to the Throne,  
And th' whole Creation his Dominion own.  
Whence he o'er others, and himself presides,  
As safe from Error as Ten thousand Guides:  
Through Doubts distracting labyrinths it directs,  
And all the subtle Windings there detects.  
As safely steers through Life's wide Ocean,  
As Skilful pilate's through the boundless Main;  
It shows here Scylla, there Charybdi● lies,  
And between both securely leads the Wise;  
Who Quicksands, Rocks & Gulfs supinely braves,  
A desperate Fool may perish in the Waves;  
Who mad and heedless would his Guide refuse●  
Can't blame that reason which he cannot use.  
He that will close, or leave his Eyes behind,  
Should not accuse his Eyes, because they're blind.  
If knowingly, vain Man, his journey makes  
Through Error's fenny Bogs, and thorny Brakes,  
And craggy, steep, untrodden Paths he takes;  
'Tis downright Nonsense then to look upon  
His Errors (Nature's Imperfection,)  
And all Mankind indite with a wrong Bill,  
Which reaches not his Nature, but his Will.  
Besides, it's better reason to infer,  
That is most perfect, which can mostly Err;  
The Hound that's famed for far more politic Nose,  
Than Men in Parliament or Coffee-house;  
Than Country-Iustice, or Old Caesar's Horses,  
A Consul's made for's Skill in State-affairs;  
Who closest Plots can scent and spoil alone,  
With as much ease as he devours a Bone:  
jowler the Wise the plodding jowler is,  
Oft at a fault, and oft his Hare doth miss;  
While through unerring-paths a Stone descends,  
And still arrives at that towards which it tends.  
If therefore those are wisest which attain  
By surest means the Ends at which they aim:  
The latter, doubtless, will be wiser found,  
Though this is but a Stone, th' other a Hound.  
So much for Reason, th' next Attempts for Man,  
For him I must defend, and him I can.  
Well then: Man is composed of Cruelty and Fear,  
From these his great, and his best Actions are;  
The charge runs high, and deeply Man's arraigned,  
His Blood is poisoned, and his Nature stained.  
But I shall make it strait with ease appear,  
That the brisk accusations too severe;  
For undertaking to disparage him,  
They leave their Text, and make the Beast their Theme.  
And first the Fears that trouble him within,  
Proceed not from his Nature, but his Sin;  
Which, like pale Ghosts, while they the Murderer haunt,  
Do cramp his Soul, and all his Courage daunt.  
Frame ghastly Fantomes in his guilty Mind,  
Frightful above, below, before, behind:  
If in the House, alas the House will fall;  
If in the Street, each is a tottering Wall;  
If in the Fields, what if the Poles should crack,  
And the vast Orbs come tumbling on his back?  
A Bird, a Wasp, a Beetle, and a Fly,  
With no small dread approach his trembling Eye;  
For lately 'tis evinced, all Creatures are  
No less than Man, in the wild state of War;  
Which long ago the wary Emperor knew,  
Who hostile flies, with Princely Valour slew.  
Is he alone? he startles when he sees  
His moving shadow, and his shadow flees.  
For who can evidence but that may be  
No mere privation, but an Enemy?  
So when alone a timorous Wretch is scared,  
And when he's not, he's fearful of his Guard.  
What shall he do? or whither shall he fly?  
Who durst not live, and yet he durst not die:  
Say you who e'er have felt those painful stabs;  
Say wretched Nero, or more wretched Hobbs.  
Gild is of all, and always is afraid,  
From fear to fear successively betrayed;  
'Tis guilt alone breeds cow'rdise and distrust,  
For all Men would be Valiant if they durst;  
Those only can't, who swear, and whore, and cheat,  
And sell their Honour at the cheapest rate:  
Whom brawling Surfeits, Drunkenness and Claps;  
Hurry on headlong to the Grave perhaps:  
Such some call Devils, but we think the least,  
And therefore kindly head them with the best.  
Choose they themselves whose Case they'll please to wear,  
The Case of Dog, the Monkey, or the Bear.  
So far, I doubt not, but you'll find it clear,  
He's no true Man, who's thus composed of Fear:  
He o'er whose Actions Reason doth preside,  
Who makes the radiant Light his constant Guide;  
Vain fear can never o'er his Mind prevail,  
Integrity to him's a Coat of Mail;  
Of Virtues and of Honesty possessed,  
Against all ills he's trebly armed his Breast:  
Steel, Bra●s, and Oak, are but a weak defence,  
Compared to firm-resolved Innocence.  
This makes the Champion, 'midst the Bloody Field,  
Bolder than he who ●ore the sev'n-fold Shield,  
To brave the World, and all the dangers there,  
Though Heaven, Air, Sea & Land all constant were.  
As unconcerned as were the Forest Oak,  
He feels the Lightning, and the Thunderstroke:  
He meets the Lion, and the Ragged Bear,  
With a great mind that never stooped to fear.  
If the Winds blow, they spend their Breath in vain,  
Tho' they enrage and swell their boisterous Main.  
Till Waves arise, and foaming Billows roll,  
For calm in spite of Tempest is his Soul;  
And Siren-like he sings amongst the Storms:  
The brave can die, but can receive no harms.  
But Men are cruel: no, they're never so  
While they continue Men, not Monsters grow:  
But when degenerate, they their power employ,  
Not to preserve their kind, but to destroy.  
When once unnatural, they themselves engage  
In Blood and Rapine, Cruelty and Rage.  
Then Beasts on Beasts with greater Mercy prey,  
The ravenous Tigers are less fierce than they.  
The greatest Good abused, turns greatest Evil,  
And so fallen Lucifer became a Devil.  
But who'd not therefore Blessed Michael be,  
'Cause Devils are Angels too as well as he?  
Or else to instance in their proper sphere,  
Pale and corrupted Wine turns Vinegar,  
Will they beyond it therefore praise small Beer?  
While they debauched, are to each other Fiends,  
True Men are good unto themselves and Friends.  
Whose kindness, affability and Love,  
Make these abode below, like those above:  
Good without self, and without fawning kind,  
And own no Greatness but a Virtuous Mind:  
Grave, Learned, Noble, Valorous and Wise;  
High without pride, and meek without disguise.   

Having at large completed our defence,  
We will in short describe the Men of Sense.  
And first their Prowess, next their Learning show;  
Lastly their Wit, and then we'll let them go:  
" For that which fools the World, Religion,  
" Your pains are saved, because the Wise have none●  
Here Hell's great Agent Hobbs i'th' front appear'st  
Trembling beneath a load of guilt and fears:  
The Devil's Apostle sent to preach up Sin,  
And so convert the debauched World to him;  
Whom Pride drew in as Cheats, their Bubbles catch,  
And made him venture to be made a Wretch.  
Hobbs, Nature's pest, unhappy England's shame,  
Who damns his Soul to get himself a Name.  
The Resolute Villain from a proud desire,  
Of being Immortal, leaps into the fire:  
Nor can the Caitiff miss his desperate aim,  
Whose luscious Doctrine Proselytes will gain,  
(Though 'tis sufficiently absurd, and vain)  
Whilst proud, ill-natured, lustful Men remain.  
And that's as long as Heaven and Earth endure;  
This th'Halter once, but nothing now can cure.  
Next him his learned and wise Disciples view,  
Persons of signal parts, and honour too,  
As the ensuing Catalogue will show.  
Huffs, Fops, Gamesters, Highwaymen, and Players,  
Bawds, Pimps, Misses, Gallants, Grooms, Lackeys, and Pages;  
Such as the Poet justly thought a crime,  
To place in Verse, or grace them with a Rhyme.  
But now methinks I see towards me jig,  
Huge Pantaloons and huffing Periwig;  
With Hat and gaudy Feather o'er it spread,  
And underneath looks something like a Head.  
Bless me! what is this Antic shape? I can  
Believe it any thing besides a Man:  
But such it is, for I no sooner ask,  
But he bears up, and takes me thus to task.  
The Devil— strait down drop I,  
And my weak under-hearted Friend that's by:  
A Fiend broke loose, cried he, I fear him worse,  
He should a Hobbist be by th'size of's Curse.  
Plague— for a peevish snarling Cur;  
Mercy, I cry your Mercy, dreadful Sir;  
For a Broadside these Weapons fitter are,  
Three would at least sink a Dutch Man of War.  
These are the Sparks, who friends with stabs do greet,  
And bravely Murder the next Man they meet;  
With boldness break a sturdy Drawer's pate,  
If the Wine's bad, or Reckoning is too great.  
Kill a poor Bellman, and with his own Bell,  
'Tis a rare jest to ring the Rascal's Knell:  
Cry, Damn you to a Dog that takes the Wall,  
And for th' affront the ill-bred Cur must fall:  
Swear at a Coachman, and his Horses kill,  
To send th' uncivil Sons of Whores to Hell.  
Upon a rude and justling Signpost draw,  
Though the famed Champion George looked down and saw.  
Assault Glass-windows, which like Crystal Rock,  
Had firmly stood the sharp impetuous shock  
Of Twenty Winters, and despised their power,  
Yet can't withstand their matchless Rage one hour.  
From all th' Achievements of Romantic Knights,  
Their bold Encounters and heroic Fights;  
One only Parallel to this is brought,  
When furious Don the Giant Wind-mill fought.  
Oh that this Age some Homer would afford!  
Who might these deeds in deathless Verse record.  
Here would his large Poetic Soul obtain  
A subject worthy his immortal vein;  
Where greater deeds would his great Muse employ,  
Than when she sang the tedious Siege of Troy.  
Then stout Achilles, Ajax, Diomedes,  
The future Ages with contempt would read;  
Despise their Name, and undeserved Renown,  
Who Ten years spent to win a paltry Crown;  
For Warlike boldness, and Adventurous deeds,  
The Camp of Venus that of Mars exceeds.  
'Tis an Exploit, no doubt, that's nobler far  
T'attempt the Dangers of a Female War;  
Where in vast numbers, resolute and bold,  
Viragoes fight for Honour, and for Gold;  
And with unwearyed Violence oppose  
The fiercest Squadrons of assaulting Foes;  
With just such weapons, and such courage too,  
Did warlike Amazon's their Men subdue,  
Such venomed Arrows from their Quiver flew.  
Next we'll describe, from a few gen'ral hints,  
Their usual Learning, and Accomplishments.  
In the starched Notions of the Hat and Knee,  
T' excel them, they defy the bravest Herald  
How long they cringe, when within doors they greet,  
And when ye accost one in the open Street.  
Whether a Lady led must have the Wall;  
And if there's none, which Hand to lead withal.  
Which of the two the House first enters in,  
And then which first should the vain prate begin.  
When three full hours, without one word of sense,  
They'll talk you on genteel impertinence;  
And all shall be surprising Compliment,  
And each shall have at least five Madams in't;  
Besides the Courtish A-la-modish He,  
Intriegue Divine, and pleasant Repartee.  
Ladies of Pleasure, they from Honour know,  
By the Hood-knot, and the loose Gestico:  
They'll tell exactly, if her temper Red  
Be bounteous Nature's gift, or borrowed.  
Descry a Beauty through her Mask and Shroud,  
Call her a Sun that's got behind a Cloud.  
The vigour of those fopperies I lose  
For want of breeding, but you must excuse  
For this a Clownish, rude and Cloistered Muse.  
Nor must we all their Acts of Lust forget,  
In Excellence surpassing any yet:  
For Lust's more beastly, and more numerous too,  
Than Nero's Pimp, Petronius, ever knew:  
More than Albertus, or the Stagyrite,  
Though both profoundly on the Subject write.   

Now for their Wit.  
They have one waggery the top o'th' rest,  
Which we'll put first, because it is the best;  
To cheat a Linkboy of three-half pence pay,  
By slily stealing through some blind backway.  
But what completes the jest, the Boy goes on,  
Until the place appointed he's upon,  
Never suspects the cunning Hero's gone.  
Having thus choosed the Boy, and 'scap'd by flight, speed  
He scarcely sleeps for laughing all the Night.  
Tricks himself up th' next Morn, and hies with  
To tell his Miss th' intriegue of what he did;  
Who makes reply, 'Twas neatly done indeed.  
Then he all Company does tyre and worry  
For a whole week with that ridic'lous Story:  
Last night I happened at the Tavern late,  
To be where five of these great Wits were sat,  
And was so nigh as to overhear their prate:  
I dare to swear, that three amongst the five,  
Were Woodcock, Ninney, and Sir Loslitive.  
Had Shadwell heard them, he had stolen from thence●  
A Second part of his Impertinence:  
Prologues and Epilogues they did rehearse,  
With scraps and ends of stiff untoward Verse;  
And strong Almansor Rants culled from the Plays  
Of Goff and Settle, and great Poet-Bays.  
An hour or two being spent in this discourse,  
And all their store quite drained, they fall to worse;  
T' applaud th' invention of a swinging Oath,  
And better-humoured Curse that fills the Mouth.  
A Bawdy jest commands the gen'ral Vogue,  
And all admire and hug the witty Rogue.  
And if you once but chance to break a jest,  
On the dull phlegmatic and formal Priest:  
Or rather vent a Droll on Sacred Writ,  
For th' more ingenious still, the better Wit.  
If he can wrest a scrap to's present Theme,  
And pretty often daringly blaspheme;  
Oh, 'tis the Archest Rogue, the wittiest Thing,  
He shall e'er long be jester to the King:  
He parallels the Thrice-renowned Archee,  
And he shall write a Book as well as He:  
Nay more, Sir, he's an excellent Poet too,  
He'll all the City Ballad-men outdo;  
Their formal high-bound Muse waits to expect,  
When pensive Mony-wanters will contract  
With Clov'n-foot Satan, or some wanton Maid,  
In shape of Sweetheart is by him betrayed.  
Each common trivial humour of the City,  
Fills him with Rapture, and creates a Ditty.  
The bawlers of Small-coals, Brooms, Pins & Spoons,  
Afford him matter to indite Lampoons.  
If Sir Knight take a Purge a Tunbridge Waters,  
He'll show in rhyme how oft, how far he Squatters.  
In forty couples of Heroic Verse,  
Express the features, and the springs of's A—.  
Had Hopkins burlesqued David with design,  
These Wits had styled his silly rhimes divine:  
But since he did it with an honest Heart,  
Tom Hopkins Muses are not worth a F—.  
Certainly if the devil struck up and sung,  
After a pause so many Ages long;  
And played the Poet after once again,  
Though in that old abominable strain,  
He once delivered his dark Oracle;  
'Twould pass for Wit, because it came from Hell.  
But being of Patience totally bere●t,  
The Room and house in rage and haste I left.  
Now sum up all their Courage, Wit, and then  
Tell me if Reason will allow them Men;  
Rather a large and handsome sort of Apes,  
Whom Nature hath denied our Sulphur, given our Shapes.  
Such in hot Africa Travellers relate,  
Mankind in folly only imitate.  
But if a thing s' unlikely should be true,  
That they both wear our Shape and Nature too;  
I'd live contented under any state,  
Rather than prove so vain, absurd, degenerate:  
An Owl, a Kite, a Serpent, or a Rat,  
If a more hated thing, let me be that.  
Let them laugh on, and site the thinking Fools  
In Reverend Bedlam's Colleges and Schools.  
When Men distracted do deride the Wise,  
'Tis their concern to pity and despise;  
Let me to Chains and Nakedness condemned,  
My wretched life in frantic Bedlam spend;  
There sigh, pick straws, or count my fingers over,  
Weep, laugh, swagger, huff, quarrel, sing and roar;  
Or with Noll's heavenly Porter preach and pray,  
Rather than live but half so mad as they.    

A Congratulatory POEM To His most Sacred Majesty JAMES the Second, etc. On His late Victories o'er the Rebels in the West.  
SInce Heaven your Righteous Cause has owned,  
And with success your powerful Army Crowned;  
Silence were now an injury as rude,  
As were the Rebel's base ingratitude.  
While th' Glories of your Arms & Triumphs shine,  
Not to Congratulate, were to repine,  
Your Enemies themselves would strangely raise  
By disingenuous and inglorious Ways;  
By means no Vulgar Spirit would endure,  
But such as either Courage want, or Power.  
But while your Clemency proclaims aloud,  
Compassion to the miserable Crowd.  
Your Royal Breast with Love and Anger burns,  
And your Resentment into Pity turns.  
But they your Princely Pardon did refuse,  
And were resolved all Outrages to use.  
Stern Murderers, that rise before the light  
To kill the Innocent, and rob at Night:  
Unclean Adulterers, whose longing Eyes  
Wait for the Twilight; Enter in disguise,  
And say, Who sees us? Thiefs, who daily mark  
Those Houses which they plunder in the dark.  
Yet whilst your Loyal Subjects Blood they seek,  
With th' Gibbet or the Axe at last they meet.   

On the same.  
Could I but use my Pen, as you your Sword,  
I'd write in Blood, and kill at every Word:  
The Rebels then my Muse's power should feel,  
And find my Verse as fatal as your Steel.  
But sure, Great Prince, none can presume to write  
With such success as you know how to Fight;  
Who carry in your Looks th' Events of War,  
Designed, like Caesar, for a Conqueror.  
The World of your Achievements are afraid,  
And th' Rebels sly before you quite dismayed.  
And now, Great Prince, may you Victorious be,  
Your Fame and Arms o'er-spreading Land and Sea.  
May you our haughty Neighbours overcome,  
And bring rich Spoils and peaceful Laurels home;  
Whilst they their Ruin, or your Pardon meet,  
Sink by your Side, or fall before your Feet.   

A PANEGYRIC On His Present Majesty JAMES the SECOND: Occasionally Written since His late Victories obtained over the Scotch and Western Rebels.  
WHilst with a strong, yet with a gentle hand,  
You bridle Faction, & our Heart's command;  
Protect us from our selves, and from the Foe;  
Make us Unite, and make us Conquer too.  
Let partial Spirits still aloud complain,  
Think themselves injured, 'cause they cannot reign;  
And own no liberty, but whilst they may,  
Without control, upon their Fellows prey.  
Above the Waves, as Neptune showed his Face,  
To chide the Winds, and save the Trojan Race:  
So has your Majesty (raised above the rest)  
Storms of Ambition tossing us repressed:  
Your drooping Country torn with Civil hate,  
Preserved by you remains a Glorious State.  
The Sea's our own, and now all Nations greet  
With bending Sails, each Vessel of our Fleet.  
Your Power extends as far as Winds can blow,  
Or swelling Sails upon the Globe can go.  
Heaven, that has placed this Island to give Law  
To balance Europe, and her States to awe:  
In this Conjunction does o'er Britain smile,  
The greatest Monarch, and the greatest Isle.  
Whether the portion of this World were rend  
By the rude Ocean from the Continent:  
Or thus Created, it was sure designed  
To be the sacred refuge of Mankind.  
Hither th' Oppressed shall henceforth resort,  
justice to crave, and Succour from your Court.  
And then, Great Prince, you not for ours alone,  
But for the World's Defender shall be known.  
Fame, swifter than your Winged Navy, flies  
Through every Land that near the Ocean lies;  
Sounding your Name, and telling dreadful News  
To all that Piracy and Rapine use.  
With such a King the meanest Nation blest,  
Might hope to lift her head above the rest.  
What may be thought impossible to do,  
For us embraced by the Sea and You;  
Lords of the World's vast Ocean, happy We,  
Whole Forests send to reign upon the Sea:  
And every Coast may trouble or relieve,  
But none can visit us without our leave.  
Angels and we have this Prerogative,  
That none can at our happy Seat arrive:  
Whilst We descend at pleasure to invade,  
The Bad with Vengeance, and the Good with Aid.  
Our Little World, the Image of the Great,  
Like that about the Boundless Ocean set:  
Of her own Growth, has all that Nature craves;  
And all that's rare, as Tribute from her Slaves.  
As Egypt does not on her Clouds rely,  
But to her Nile owes more than to the Sky.  
So what our Earth, and what our Heaven denies,  
Our ever constant friend the Sea supplies.  
" The taste of hot Arabia Spice we know,  
" Free from the scorching Sun that makes it grow.  
" Without the Worm in Persian Silk we shine,  
" And without Planting drink of every Vine.  
" To dig for Wealth, we weary not our limbs;  
" Gold, though the heaviest Metal, hither swims:  
" Ours is the heaviest where the Indians mow;  
" We plough the deep, and reap what others sow.  
Things of the noblest kind our own Sail breeds;  
Stout are our Men, and warlike are our Steeds.  
Here the Third Edward, and the Black Prince too,  
France conquering, did flourish, & now you,  
Whose conquering Arms whole Nations might subdue;  
Whilst by your Valour, and your Courteous Mind,  
Nations, divided by the Seas, are joined.  
Holland, to gain your Friendship, is content  
To be your safeguard on the Continent:  
She from her Fellow Provinces will go,  
Rather than hazard to have You her Foe.  
In our late Fight, when Cannons did diffuse  
Preventing Posts, the terror and the news;  
Our Neighbouring Princes trembled at the roar,  
But our Conjunction makes them tremble more.  
Your Army's Loyal Swords made War to cease,  
And now you heal us with the Acts of Peace.  
Less pleasure take, brave Minds, in Battles won,  
Than in restoring such as are undone.  
Tiger's have courage, and the Ragged Bear;  
But Man alone can, whom he conquers, spare.  
To pardon willing, and to punish loath;  
You strike with one hand, but you heal with both.  
As the vexed World, to find repose at last,  
Itself into Augustus' Arms did cast:  
So England now doth, with like toil oppressed,  
Her weary Head into your Bosom rest.  
Then let the Muses with such Notes as these,  
Instruct us what belongs unto our Peace.  
Your Battles they hereafter shall indite,  
And draw the Image of our Mars in fight.  
Illustrious Acts high raptures do infuse,  
And every Conqueror creates a Muse.  
Here in low strains thy milder deeds we sing,  
And then, Great Prince, we'll Bays and Olive bring,  
To Crown your Head, while you Triumphant ride  
O'er vanquished Nations, and the Sea bestride;  
While all the Neighbouring Princes unto you,  
Like Ioseph's slaves, pay reverence and bow.   

A Congratulatory POEM ON HIS SACRED MAJESTY JAMES the SECOND's Succession to the Crown.  
NO sooner doth the Aged Phoenix die,  
But kind indulging Nature gives supply.  
Sick of her Solitude, she first retires,  
And on her Spicy Deathbed than expires.  
Thus God's Vicegerent unconcerned, declines  
The Crown, and all his Dignities resigns:  
Like dying Parents, who do first commend  
Their Issue to th' tuition of a Friend;  
And then, as if their chiefest care was past,  
Pleased with the Settlement, they breathe their last:  
So he perceiving th' nigh approach of Death,  
That with a Period must close his Breath.  
His Soul he first to God doth recommend,  
Then parts from's dearest Brother, and best Friend's  
Contentedly resigns his dying claim,  
To him Successor of his Crown and Fame:  
One whose wise Conduct knows how to dispense,  
Proper rewards to Gild and Innocence:  
A Prince, within the Circle of whose Mind  
All the Heroic Virtues are confined;  
That diff'rently dispersed, have made Men great,  
A Prince so just, so oft preserved by Fate.  
On then, Great Potentate, and like the Sun,  
Set with the splendid Glory you've begun.  
Disperse such hovering Clouds as would benight,  
And interpose themselves 'twixt us and light.  
You boldly dare Iehovah's Trust attest,  
Without a base persuading interest.  
When pleasing ●lattery puts on her charms,  
To take with gentle Arts and so●t Alarms;  
Fixed with a Gallant resolution, you  
Uncase the Hypocrite, who bids adieu  
To this confused and ill-digested State,  
Where Plots new Plots to Counterplot create:  
Trusting to Reason's Conduct as your guide,  
You leave the threatening Gulfs on either side●  
And then erect such marks as may appear,  
To caution others from a Shipwreck there.  
And since your Reign the Rebels plainly see  
The mean effects of their black Treachery,  
The Puritans may now expect in vain,  
To Gull with Pious Frauds the Land again:  
You, like a Great Columbus, will find out  
The hidden World of deep intrigues and doubt●  
England no more of jealousies shall know●  
But Halcyon Peace shall build, and Plenty flow.  
And the Proud Thames, swelled high, no more complains,  
But smilingly looks on the peaceful Plains.  
No Angry Tempest then shall curl her Brow.  
Glad to behold revived Commerce grow;  
Whilst We to JAMES the Second make Address●  
Striving who most shall Loyalty express.  
No Faction shall us from ourselves divide,  
More than the Sea from all the World beside,  
But linked together in one Chain of Love,  
And with one Spring Unanimous we'll move;  
That to our Foes regret it may be said,  
We are again one Body, and one Head:  
Which God preserve, and grant that long you may,  
In Righteousness and Peace the Sceptre sway.   

ON THE PRESENTATION OF A BIRD to his MISTRESS.  
WAlking abroad to taste the welcome Spring,  
And hear the Birds their lays mos● sweetly sing;  
Placed on a spreading Elm amongst the rest,  
(Whose rare harmonious warbling pleased me best)  
Was one I tempted to my lure, and caught,  
Which now (fair Saint) I send you to be taught:  
'Tis young, and apt to learn; and sure no Voice  
Was e'er so full of Art, so clear and choice  
As yours, t' instruct it, that in time 't may rise  
To be the sweet-tongued Bird of Paradise.   

ADVICE TO SILLY MAIDS●  By an Unknown Author. 
WIthin a Virgin's Bosom of Fifteen,  
The God of Love doth place his Magazeen:  
Hoards up his treasure, all his powerful Charms;  
Her Breasts his Quiver, and his Bow her Arms.  
Beauty sits then triumphant on her brow,  
She doth command the World, all Mortals bow,  
And worship at the Altars of her Eyes;  
She seems a Goddess, and Men Idolise.  
At these years' Nature hath performed her part,  
And leaves the rest to be improved by Art;  
Which with such skill is managed ●ive years more,  
Each day fresh Glories add to th' former store.  
The motion of the Body, rich attire,  
Obliging look, kind language; all conspire  
To catch poor Man, and set his Heart on fire.  
During this harvest, they may pick and choose;  
But have a care, fair Virgins, lest you lose  
Th' advantage which this happy season yields:  
Cold Winter-frosts will nip your blooming Fields,  
Whither your Roses, make your Lilies die,  
And quench the scorching Flambeau of your Eye.  
For when the clock of Age has Thirty told,  
And never Man yet touched your Copyhold,  
A sudden alteration than you'll find,  
Both in your state of Body, and of Mind:  
You than shall pine, for what you now do slight;  
Fret inwardly all day, and cry all night;  
Devour the Sheets with folded Arms, complain,  
And wish you had him there, but wish in vain.  
Then in your Thoughts insipid pleasures steal,  
And on lean Fancy make a hungry meal.  
Your Bodies too will with your Minds decay;  
As those grow crazed, so these will waste away.  
All nauseous food your Appetites will please,  
And nourish indigested Crudities.  
When once your Mind's disturbed, Nature begins  
To furl her Trophies up in wrinkled Skins.  
Who can expect the Body e'er should thrive,  
And lack its natural preservative?  
Wanting due seasoning, all flesh will taint;  
'Tis Man preserves Complexion more than Paint;  
So high a Cordial he doth prepare,  
In Nature's Limbeck, if applied with care,  
It will perform the very work of Fate;  
Not only Life preserve, but Life create.  
Be wise in time, lest you too late repent,  
And by some prudent choice those ills prevent:  
Get a brisk Consort to supply your want,  
But let him be a Husband, no Gallant.  
There lies much virtue in a Levite's Spell;  
But more in th' active part, performing well;  
There's the intrinsic worth, the charming bliss,  
That does convey your Souls to Paradise;  
'Twill make you die with a delightful pain,  
And with like ecstasy revive again.  
Part with that Virgin Toy, while in the prime,  
The Fruit will rot o'th' Tree, not took in time.  
But if you will continue proud and coy,  
And slight those Men who court you to enjoy;  
Here you in wretched Ignorance shall dwell,  
And may deservedly lead Apes in Hell.   

Farther ADVICE TO Young Ladies.  By another Hand. 

BE prudent, Ladies; Marry while you may,  
Lest, when too late, you do repent and say,  
You wish you had, whilst Sun had shone, made Hay.   

If in th' principium of your youthful days,  
Your Beauties 's like to Sol's bright shining Rays,  
Then are you Critical, and hard to please.   

When as you do begin to choose your Mate,  
You choose him first for Name and great Estate,  
And qualified, as I shall here relate.   

Good-natured, handsome, Eloquent and wise,  
Well learned, and Skilled in Arts, of equal size,  
'Tis Lady's Niceties to be precise.   

But when to Twenty-one arrived you be,  
You do begin to choose reservedly,  
Then the young Squire who keeps his Coach is he.   

But when as your Meridian is past,  
As posting Time doth swiftly passing haste,  
So will your Crystal Beauties fade as fast.   

Vesper succeeds Aurora in small space,  
And Time will soon draw wrinkles in that Face,  
Which was of late adored in every place.    

ADVICE TO A Town-Miss.  By Mr. Worsdell. 

DEar Mrs. Anne, I'm certain you'll find true  
The late Advice, in writing sent to you;  
And I assure you now with Pen in hand,  
In Verse or Prose I'm still at your command.  
If by Poetic Art I could assay  
To Stigmatize the blackness of your way,  
I'd fright you from that brutish, lustful Sin,  
Which you so much delight to wallow in.   

Soar with your thoughts, and penetrate the Sky,  
And view the Wing'd Celestial Hierarchy.  
Think to what Heavenly joys you're freeborn Heir,  
If you'll but follow virtuous Actions here,  
And that your Ransom cost your Saviour dear.  
Strive still for virtue's Paths with strong desire,  
For flames of Lust will end in flames of Fire.  
If once to Drunkenness inclined you be,  
You've sprung a Leak to all debauchery;  
And drinking Healths, the Body heats with Liquor,  
Which makes it prostitute to Lust the quicker.   

eat then those paths, don't foster in your Breast  
Such wicked Sins, they'll but disturb your Rest.  
Torture your Mind till Atropos divide  
The fatal twist, and send you to reside  
In horrors darksome shades, without a guide;  
Where you will find for your lascivious tricks,  
Charon must wa●t you o'er the River Styx:  
Too sure you'll find he'll not his way mistake,  
But row you safe unto Averna's Lake;  
And where you'll surely be compelled to land,  
Pluto himself will let you understand.    

The Preference of a Single Life before Marriage. Written at the Request of a Lady.  By the same. 
SHE that intends ever in rest to be,  
Both for the present and the future, free  
From cares and troubles, intermixed with strife,  
Must flee the hazard of a Nuptial Life:  
For having once had touch of Cupid's Dart,  
Once overcome by th' crafty Courtier's Art;  
And brought at last unto the Nuptial Bed●  
Adieu to joy and Freedom, for they're ●led.  
She's then involved in troubles without end,  
Which always does a Married Life attend:  
When as before she might have lived at ease,  
In Prayers, and Hymns and Psalms have passed her days;  
Been chief Commandress of her Will and Mind,  
And acted any thing her Will designed;  
She might go travel where and when she please,  
To pass away the tedious time with ease:  
But when once subject to the jugal Band,  
Her Wills confined, she's under a Command;  
And to reside at home must be her lot,  
Till Atropos unloose the Nuptial Knot.   

UPON CLARINDA'S Putting on Her Vizard Mask.  
SO have I seen the Sun in his full pride,  
O'er cast with sullen Clouds, and then denied  
To show its lustre in some gloomy night,  
When brightest Stars extinguished were of light:  
So Angels Pictures have I seen veiled over,  
That more devoutly Men should them adore;  
So with a Mask saw I Clarinda hide  
Her Face, more bright than was the Lemnian Bride.  
So I an offering to her ruby Lips  
Would make, but cannot paid for the Eclipse,  
That keeps off my be-nighted Eye; I mean  
The Curtain that divides it from the Scene.  
Say, my Clarinda, for what Discontent,  
Keep thy all Rosy Cheeks so strict a Lent?  
Or is thy Face, which thou dost thus disguise,  
In Mourning for the Murders of thine Eyes?  
If so, and thou'dst resolve not to be seen,  
A Frown to me had more than Midnight been.   

THE MIDDLE SISTER, Ascribed to CLARINDA.  
DAme Nature seems to make your Sisters stand,  
As Handmaids that attend on either hand;  
To right or left I turn not, Poets say,  
The middle is the best and safest way.  
Fortune and Nature are your Friends (my Fair)  
For they have placed you here in virtue's Chair:  
Doubtless in you the Middle Grace I see,  
On this side Faith, on that sweet Charity.  
Your Sisters stand like Banks on either side,  
Whilst you the Crystal stream betwixt them glide;  
Or, if you will, they walk on either side  
Like Bridemaids, you in middle like a Bride.  
What shall I farther add? The traveler sees  
A pleasant Walk between two rows of Trees:  
The smooth and silent Flood in th' middle flows,  
But the Shores murmur from the Banks rough Brows.   

AN ELEGY ON Mrs. M. H.  By a Student of the Inner-Temple. 

SOme do compare their Mistress in dull Rhimes,  
To Pearl and Diamonds brought from Indian Mines;  
Their Lips to Coral, & their Neck to Snow,  
Robbing both Indies to adorn them so.  
But these, alas, are Metaphors too bare  
To make perfection half itself appear;  
And to profane you so, would be a Sin,  
Worse to be pardoned, than commenced in:  
A Crime, that brings my Muse into suspense,  
'Twere blasphemy to fetch a Simile hence.   

In You each Member shows the whole to be,  
Not bare perfection, but a Prodigy.  
Nature turned spendthrift, now designs no mo●e  
T' amuse poor Mortals with such monstrous s●ore,  
Since you have made her Bankrupt quite, and poor.  
Your Eyes (like heavens Illustrious Lamps) dispen●e  
By Beams more bright a secret influence  
On all Admirers; and, like Heaven, do give  
A Power whereby poor Mortals be and live:  
Nor is this all, the Charms that constellate  
In your fair Eyes, they do not terminate.  
An equal share of those Celestial Rays,  
Crowns every Member with an equal praise;  
They're not confined to Lip, or Chin, or Hand,  
But universal are, as Sea and Land.   

Who views your Body with a curious Eye,  
May through that milky hue a Soul descry:  
A Soul! that breathes nought but Seraphic Love,  
The sweet Monopoly of that above:  
Modest as Virgins are, yet not unkind;  
Fair, but not proud; your Goodness unconfined  
To Time or Person, and your judgement great,  
But not possessed with a self-conceit:  
Perfection so divine, so pure and bright,  
Nor Pen nor Tongue can e'er express it right.  
The loftiest Epithet my Muse e'er knew,  
Admits a Greater, when applied to You;  
Who can resist such Charms, at whose Access  
Sol sneaks away to the Antipodes:  
Or in the Umbrage of some Cloud does hide  
His Face, as if he feared to be out-vy'd.  
A Fabric so Polite, and so complete,  
Heaven may behold with Envy and regret;  
To see in one poor Mortal thus Engrossed,  
All the perfections that she e'er could boast.  
And were you but immortal too (like it)  
Angels would pay that duty we omit;  
As if you were a Deity confined  
To humane Flesh, not wretched, but refined.    

A Love-Poem.  By an Oxford Gentleman. 
TO what kind GOD am I in debt for this  
Obliging Minute that bestows such bliss,  
As now to represent unto my sight,  
That which to Me alone can cause delight!  
How long in mournful Silence has my Sighs  
Bemoaned thy Absence? witness, O ye Skies.  
But now I have obtained my wished success,  
And have in view my chiefest happiness;  
I must with haste my prisoned thoughts reveal,  
Which has been long a torment to conceal.  
Phyllis, ah lovely Phyllis, thou art she  
Who showest Heaven in Epitome.  
Angels with pleasure view thy Matchless Grace,  
And both admire and love thy beauteous Face.  
Could Heaven some greater Masterpiece devise,  
Set out with all the Glories of the Skies;  
That Beauty yet in vain he should decree,  
Nothing like you can be beloved by Me.  
What Ornament and Symmetry I view,  
Where each part seems as Beautiful as New.  
I long t' enjoy those Hands, those Lips, those Eyess  
Which I, who love you most, know how to prise.  
But when my Arms embrace thy Virgin-Love,  
Angels shall sing our Bridal Hymn above.  
Nature then pleased, shall give her glad consent,  
And gild with brighter Beams the Firmament.  
Roses unbud, and every fragrant Flower  
Shall strip their Stalks to strew the Nuptial Bowe●:  
The firr'd and feathered kind the triumph shall pursue,  
And Fishes leap above the Water to see you;  
And wheresoever thy happy foot-steps●read ●read,  
Nature in triumph after thee is led.  
My Eyes shall then look languishing on thine,  
And wreathing Arms our soft Embraces join;  
And in a pleasing trembling seized all over,  
Shall feel delights unknown to us before.  
What follows will our pleasures most enhance,  
When we shall swim in Ecstasy and Trance,  
●nd speechless joys; in which sweet transport tossed,  
We both shall in a pleasant Death be lost.  
I know not where to end this happy Theme;  
But is it real? or some airy Dream?  
A sudden fear does all my thoughts surprise,  
I dare not trust the witness of my Eyes.  
How fixed I stand, and indisposed to move  
These pleasant Charms, unwilling to disprove:  
Like him, who Heaven in a soft Dream enjoys,  
To stir and wake, his Paradise destroys.   

ANOTHER Love-Poem.  By the same Author. 
PRide of the World in Beauty, Power, and Love;  
Best of thy Sex! Equal to Gods above:  
Unparalleled Virtue; they that search about  
The World, to find thy Virtue's equal out,  
Must take a journey longer than the Sun;  
And Pilgrims die e'er half their race is run.  
Your charming Beauty can't but please the sight,  
With all that is in Nature exquisite.  
About those Lips Ambrosial odours flow,  
Nectar, and all the Sweets of Hybla grow.  
Those sparkling Eyes resistless Magic bear;  
I see young wanton Cupids dancing there.  
What melting Charms there waves about thy Breast!  
On whose transporting Billows jove might rest●  
And with immortal Sweets be ever blest.  
Shall I but name the other charming Bliss,  
That would convey our Souls to Paradise?  
Gods! how she charms! none sure was e'er like thee,  
Whose very sight does cause an Ecstasy:  
Thou art so soft, so sweet, and silent all,  
As Births of Roses, or as Blossoms fall.  
Hide then those Eyes; take this soft Magic hence,  
My Happiness so much transports my Sense;  
That such another look, will make me grow  
Too firmly fixed, ever to let you go.  
Soul, summon all thy force thy joy to bear,  
Whilst on this Hand eternal Love I swear.  
Sweetest of Creatures! if there Angels be!  
What Angel is not wishing to be Thee?  
Can any happiness compare with mine?  
'Tis wretched sure to be a Power Divine;  
And not the joys of happy Lovers know:  
Wouldst thou, my Dearest, be an Angel now?  
O how the Moment's sweetly glide away!  
Nothing of Night appears, but all is Day.  
Inflamed with Love, these Minutes I'll improve,  
And sum an Age's Bliss in one Hours Love.  
But should I long such vehement raptures feel,  
I fear the transports of delight would kill.   

THE Lover's Will.  

LET me not sigh my last, before I breathe  
(Great Love) some Legacies; I here bequeathe  
Mine Eyes to Argus, if mine Eyes can see;  
If they be blind, then Love I give them thee;  
My Tongue to Fame, t' Ambassadors mine Ears,  
And unto Women, or the Sea, my Tears.   

My Constancy I to the Planets give,  
My Truth to them who at the Court do live;  
My Silence t' any who abroad have been,  
My Money to a Capuchin;  
My Modesty I give to Soldiers bare,  
And all my Patience let the Gamesters share.   

I give my Reputation unto those  
Which were my Friends; my Industry to Fo●s;  
To Schoolmen I bequeath my Doubtfulness,  
My Sickness to Physicians or Excess;  
To Nature all that I in Rhyme have writ,  
And to my Company I leave my Wit.   

To him for whom the Passing-bell next tolls,  
I g●ve my Physick-Books; my Written Rolls  
Of Moral Counsels I to Bedlam give,  
My Brazen Medals unto them which live  
In want of Bread; To them which pass among  
All Foreigners, I leave my English Tongue.   

Thou Love taught'st me, by making me adore  
That charming Maid, whose Twenty Servants more,  
To give to those who had too much before;  
Or else by loving where no Love received could be,  
To give to such as have an incapacity.    

A LOVE-LETTER.  By W. S. M. D. 
Sweet Lady,  
YOur conquering Eyes have by their Magic Art,  
Conveyed such Flames into my Captived Heart,  
I cannot rest; Ah therefore, do not prove  
Cruel to him whom your Eyes taught to Love;  
Nor blame this rude attempt, since what I do,  
My ardent Passion does compel me to;  
I would be silent, fearing to offend,  
But then my Torments ne'er would have an end.  
Yet though in this I may appear too bold,  
My Love is pure, and therefore may be told:  
Besides, you are so fair, your Virtues such,  
That should I strive, I cannot say too much.  
So well accomplished you're in th' Art of Love,  
You've Charms enough t' inflame another jove.  
Let not your coyness therefore blind the light  
Of your fair Eyes, which now do shine so bright;  
For she that gives occasion to despair,  
By all that's good is neither kind nor fair;  
Though outward Beauty soon may charm the Mind,  
And make the most obdurate Heart prove kind:  
Yet nothing charms an Amorous Heart so strong,  
As the sweet Notes of a fair Female Tongue,  
That charms the Soul, and all the Senses move,  
And adds new Sweets to the delights of Love.  
Love is the noblest Passion of the Mind,  
And she that unto it can prove unkind,  
Is either simple, destitute of Wit,  
Or else her Pride will not acknowledge it.  
But that's too black to dwell in your fair Breast,  
Nothing but things divine can there have rest.  
If therefore wilful Pride don't taint your Mind,  
But as your Face is fair, your Heart is kind.  
My Pen shall then maintain your worth and praise,  
And from all others I'll possess the Bays:  
But if by frowns against me you take Arms,  
Your Beauty has no Snares, your Eyes no Charms.  
And though a Stranger yet to you I am,  
If you prove kind, I'll not conceal my Name;  
Till than I rest to see these lines success,  
On which depends my future happiness.   

A Speech to his Mistress in a Garden.  
THE Glory which we see invest these Flowers  
Is lent, & they must live but some few hours;  
So Time, what we forbear to use● devours.  
From fading Leaves, you see how Time resumes  
Their fragrant scent, and sweet perfumes.  
Look but within the most retired places,  
Where utmost Skill is used to keep good Faces.  
Yet in some distant time they will be seen  
The spoil of Age: witness th' Egyptian Queen;  
Or the fair charming Helen, who by Time  
Had nothing left—  
But what at last expressed were by her Shrine.  
Or thus; Should some Malignant Planet bring  
Upon the Autumn, or the blooming Spring  
A barren drought, or rain a ceaseless shower,  
Yet 'twould not Winter's coming stop one hour.  
But could you be preserved by Love's neglect  
From coming Years decay, then more respect  
Were justly due to so divine a Fashion,  
Nor would I give indulgence to my passion.   

AN ADDRESS TO A Gentlewoman Walking in a Garden.  By an Oxford Gentleman. 
MAdam, I hope, though I a Stranger am,  
Your candid Goodness will not let you blame  
This bold intrusion, that does now bereave  
You of these privacies without your leave;  
And as you're fair, I hope you're no less kind,  
Craving your pardon then, I'll speak my mind:  
But oh! I fear my troubled Heart bodes ill,  
One word from you my life does save or kill;  
First for your pity than I must beseech,  
Lodged at your feet, you would behold this wretch.  
O that the Gods above would bring to pass,  
You might my suit, without my speaking guess;  
But that won't be, relating then, fair Saint,  
My firm-fixed Love in murmuring complaint.  
Not long since, walking through the shady Grove,  
To see those tender budding Plants improve;  
And coming downwards from the River's head,  
To hear the noise the purling Waters made,  
And see her various and delightful pride,  
Streaming in Circles as the Waters glide.  
Then 'twas I heard a shrill melodions sound,  
Pleasanter far than what I there had found.  
One while I thought it was some Angel's tune,  
Whose pleasing Echo still would reassume  
Its first high quavering strain, and then fall lower;  
In short, too charming for the strongest power.  
My curiosity then brought me to  
A lonesome Grotto, where as prying through  
Its verdant spreading branches, I did see  
That beauteous Form which thus has wounded me●  
And ever since my Passion is the same,  
Resist not then so true and pure a Flame;  
But with kind pity send me some relief,  
Since my Heart's stole by you, the pretty Thief,  
From whose bright Eyes such conquering Charms do dart,  
As might enslave and captivate each Heart:  
The greatest Praise is to your Beauty due,  
All must their Homage pay when seen by you.  
The Fruit-tree nodding with each blast that blows,  
Through the great pressure of her loaden Boughs,  
Seems to design none but your hand to crop  
Her pendent Clusters, from her Branches top.  
The purple Vi'let, and the blushing Rose,  
With sweet Carnations, wait till you dispose  
Their fragrant scent to your sagacious Nose.  
If you're displeased the fairest downwards drop  
Its fading pensive head, and withered top:  
But if you're angry, possibly the Sun  
Might stop his course, and not his journey run;  
At which th' amazed and affrighted World  
Might to its first rude Chaos soon be hurled.  
And since my Fate's wrapped up in what you doom,  
Do not my Passion with your scorn overcome;  
But with the Sweets of Love, and then we'll be  
Locked in Embraces to Eternity.   

UPON A Gentlewoman's Refusal of a LETTER from one she was engaged to.  By Sir C. S. 
NOT hear my Message, but the Bearer eat!  
What hellish Fiend enraged could more have done?  
Surely the God's design to make my Fate  
Of all most wretched, and unfortunate.  
'Twas but a Letter, and the Words were few,  
Filled with kind wishes, but my Fate's too true.  
I'm lost for ever, banished from her sight,  
Although by Oaths and Vows she's mine by right.  
Ye Gods! look down, and hear my Sorrows moan,  
Like the faint Echoes of a dying groan.  
But how is't possible so fair a Face  
Should have a Soul so treacherous and base,  
To promise constancy, and then to prove  
False and unkind to him she vowed to love?  
Oh, Barbarous Sex! whose Nature is to rook  
●nd cheat Mankind with a betraying look.  
Hence I'll keep guard within from all your Charms,  
And ever more resist all fresh Alarms;  
●'ll trace your windings through the darkest Cell,  
And find your Stratagems, though lodged in Hell.  
Your gilded Paintings, and each treacherous Wile,  
By which so easily you Mankind beguile;  
Winds are more constant than a Woman's Mind,  
Who holds to none but to the present kind:  
For when by absence th' Object is removed,  
The time is gone and spent wherein she loved.  
And is it not the very same with me,  
To slight my Love, when I must absent be?  
Perhaps sh'has seen a more atracting Face,  
And a new Paramour has taken place.  
And shall my injured Soul stand Mute, and live,  
Whilst that another reaps what she can give?  
Glutted with pleasures, and again renew  
Their past delights, although my claim and due●  
Oh, no, my Soul's enraged, revenge calls on,  
I'll tear her piece-meal e'er my fury's gone;  
Stretch out my Arm all o'er th' inconstant stain,  
And then cleave down her treacherous limbs in twai●●  
The greatest plagues Invention e'er could ●ind,  
Is not sufficient for th' inconstant Mind.  
I think I have overcome my Passion quite,  
And could not love, although 'twere in despite.  
As for the Man who must enjoy my room,  
He'll soon be partner in my wretched doom;  
He by her Faith, alas, no more will find,  
Than when she swore to me to prove most kind.  
Therefore I'll leave her, and esteem her less;  
And in myself both joy and acquiesce.  
But oh, my Heart, there's something moves there still,  
Sure 'tis the vigour of unbounded Will.  
Too much, I fear, my Fetters are not gone,  
Or I at least again must put them on.  
Methinks I feel my Heart is not got free,  
Nor all my Passions set at liberty,  
From the bright glances of her amorous Eye.  
Down Rebel-love, and hide thy boyish Head,  
I'm too much Man to hear thy follies plead:  
Go seek some other Breast of lower note;  
Go make some Old decrepit Cuckold dote:  
begun, I say, or straight thy Quiver, Bow,  
And thou thyself fall to destruction too.  
But oh, I'm gone, my Foes have all got ground,  
My Brains grow giddy, and my Head turns round.  
My Heart's entangled with the Nets of Love;  
My Passions rave, and now ye Gods above  
Help on my doom, and heave me to your Skies;  
Look, look, Mervinda's just before my Eyes:  
Help me to catch her e'er her Shadow fly,  
And I fall downward from this rolling Sky.   

In Praise of a Deformed, but Virtuous, LADY; OR, A satire on BEAUTY.  

FIne Shape, good Features, and a handsome Face,  
Such do the glory of the Mind deface;  
But Virtue is the best and only grace.  
Venus Man's Mind inflames with lustful fires,  
Consumes his Reason, burns his best desires.  
Were't thou, my Soul, but from my Body free;  
Had Flesh and Blood no influence on thee;  
Then wouldst thou love a Woman, & wouldst chu●●●  
The Soul-fair-she to be thy blessed Spouse.  
Beauty's corrupt, and like a Flower stands,  
To be collected by impurest hands;  
'Tis hard, nay 'tis scarce possible to find  
Virtue and Venus both together joyn●d;  
For the fair She, who knows the force and strength  
Of Beauty's charms, grows proud, and then at length  
Lust and Ambition will possess her Breast,  
Which always will disturb Man's peaceful rest.  
Beware my Soul, lest she ensnare thy sense;  
Against her Wiles, let Virtue be thy fence.  
Some please their fancies with a Picture well,  
And for mere toys, do real pleasures sell:  
No bliss, fond Cupid thinks like what is in  
The smoothing of his Ladies tender Skin.  
Her snowy Breasts, kind Looks, and sparkling Eye,  
Straight Limbs, with blushing Cheeks and Forehead high,  
In these his best and chiefest pleasures lie:  
What other parts she can for pleasure show,  
You can produce as well as she, I know.  
When Age with furrows shall have ploughed her Face,  
And all her Body o'er thick wrinkles place;  
Her Breasts turn black, her sparkling Eyes sink in,  
Fearful to see the bristles on her Chin,  
Her painted Face grown swarthy, wan, and thin;  
Her Hands all shrivelled o'er, her Nails of length  
Enough to dig her Grave, had she but strength.  
Such is the Mistress, that blind Poet's praise;  
Such foolish Themes, their groveling fancies raise.  
My Mistress is more lovely, and more fair;  
Graces divine in her, more brighter are:  
She is the source of Bliss, whilst Virtue reigns  
In her, all things impure her Soul disdains.  
Those fools ne'er knew pure Love's most sacred Arts,  
That e'er were conquered by blind Cupid's Darts,  
Or stand as slaves to their own carnal hearts.   

Madam,  
'TIS the pre-eminence that'● seen in you,  
Which does with sacred Love my heart subdue;  
For all must own who've read in Nature's Books,  
Modesty and Good-nature's in your Looks:  
Your Conversation's mild, these sacred Charms,  
Protection are against Lusts impurer harms.  
These and your other Virtues do excel,  
And matchless seem to want a parallel.  
In your most sacred Presence none can think  
Of Lust, or once its horrid Venom drink;  
You are an object that will soon dispel  
Lusts most delightful poisons sent from Hell;  
yourself the substance of the Saints above,  
You move my Soul with chaste and holy Love;  
For you alone large Offerings I design,  
And with continual prayers I wish you mine.  
Oh that Omnipotence would Bounty show,  
And make me happy in contracting you.    

A LOVE-LETTERS  By W. S. Gent. 
Madam,  
‛ Twoved prove a needless thing, should I  
Strive to set forth what's obvious to each Eye;  
To speak your Worth and Beauty, would but be  
To show the Sun at noon, which all Men see.  
Beauty itself, Youth smiles, and every grace,  
Do all pay tribute to your Heavenly Face.  
One smile from you might make the Dead to live,  
Yielding more Wealth than lavish Worlds can give●  
Your sparkling Eyes out-dart the pale-faced Moon;  
You are far brighter than the Eye of Noon.  
Phoebus' his Golden Fleece looks not so fair,  
As the fine silver threads of your soft Hair.  
Aurora mantled in her spreading Beams,  
To rouse up Mortals from their slumbering Dreams;  
When summoning the Morning, can't complete  
That modest blush which in your Cheeks take● seat●  
Whiter than untrod Snow on Mountains seen,  
And which I must confess beyond esteem,  
Are those white Ivory Teeth, whose even row,  
The harmony of Love in Union show.  
In various wantonness, each branching Vein  
Does your white Breasts with blue Meander's stain;  
From which clear Fountains flow with greatest measure,  
The most delightful Magazine of treasure.  
The Muses and the Sirens cease their Song,  
At the soft Music of your charming Tongue:  
Angel or Saint, I know not which by feature,  
Sure both are joined to make so sweet a Creature,  
The lovely chance-work, Masterpiece of Nature.  
As if the Gods mistaking Mould, that time  
Had cast your Species more than half divine;  
Who can his Passion from such Beauty tame,  
You've Charms enough to set the World on flame:  
Mixed with more tempting and attractive graces,  
Than can extracted be from humane Faces!  
Oh let me at those balmy Lips take ●ire,  
And with pursuit of Kisses even tyre;  
Which do display such a Vermilion red,  
And when with pleasure filled, then hold thy head  
Fast to my kindled and inflamed Heart,  
Pierced by your Eyes bright glancing beams, which dart  
Through my Souls secret and most inward part;  
Which done, let mine in your fair Bosom lie,  
Till in excess of joy and ecstasy,  
I there shall languish out my Soul and die;  
And afterwards with like transport of Mind●  
Revive again, and all my Senses find.   

In Praise of LETTERS.  
Letter's are winged postilions, and do move  
From East to West on Embassies of Love.  
The bashful Lover, when his stammering Lips  
Falter with fear from unadvised slips,  
May boldly Court his Mistress with the Quill,  
And his hot Passions to her Breast instill.  
The Pen can furrow a fond Females Heart,  
And pierce it more than Cupid's feigned Dart.  
Letters a kind of Magic Virtue have,  
And like strong Philtres humane Souls enslave;  
They can the Poles, and Emperor inform,  
What Towns in Hungary are won by storm  
From the great Turk: Mounsieur of them may know  
How Foreign States on French Intrigues do blow.  
The lucky Goose saved Jove's beleagu'rd Hill,  
Once by her Noise, but oftener by her Quill.  
It twice prevented Rome was not o'er-run,  
By the tough Vandal, and the roughhewn Hun.  
Letters can Plots, though moulded underground,  
Disclose, and their fell complices confound.  
Witness that fiery Pile, which would have blown  
Up to the Clouds, Prince, People, Peers, and Town,  
Tribunals, Church, and Chapel, and had dried  
The Thames, though swelling in her highest pride;  
And parboiled the poor Fish, which from her Sands  
Had been tossed up to the adjoining Lands.  
Lawyers as Vultures, had soared up and down,  
Prelates like Mag●yes in the Air had flown,  
Had not the Eagles' Letter brought to light  
That Subterranean horrid work of Night.  
Letters may more than History enclose,  
The choicest learning both in Verse and Prose:  
Witness Mich. Drayton, whose sweet-charming Pen  
Produced those Letters so admired by Men.  
Words vanish soon, and vapour into Air,  
While Letters on record stand fresh and fair;  
And like to Gordian Knots do Nature tie,  
Else all Commerce and Love 'twixt Men would die.   

The IDEA.  By Charles Cotton, Esq. 

ART thou then absent, O thou dear  
And only Subject of my Flame?  
Are these fair Objects that appear  
But shadows of that noble frame,  
For which I do all other form disclaim?   

Am I deluded? do I only rave?  
Was it a Phantasm only that I saw?  
Have Dreams such power to deceive?  
Oh, lovely Shade, thou didst too soon withdraw,  
Like fleecy Snow, that as it falls, doth thaw.   

Glorious Illusion! Lovely shade!  
Once more deceive me with thy light;  
'Tis pleasure so to be betrayed,  
And I for ever shall delight,  
To be pursued by such a charming Spirit.    

LOVE's SYMPATHY.  

I.  
SOul of my Soul! it cannot be  
That you should weep, and I from tears be free.  
All the vast room between both Poles,  
Can never dull the sense of Souls,  
Knit in so fast a knot:  
Oh can you grieve, and think that I  
Can feel no smart, because not nigh,  
Or that I know it not.   

II.  
theyare heretic thoughts, Two Lutes when strung,  
And on a Table tuned alike for Song;  
Strike one, and that which none did touch,  
Shall sympathising sound as much,  
As that which touched you see:  
Think then this World (which Heaven enrolls)  
Is but a Table round, and Souls  
More apprehensive be.   

III.  
Know they that in their grossest parts,  
Mix by their hallowed Loves intwined Hearts;  
This privilege boast, that no remove  
Can e'er infringe their sense of Love:  
judge hence then our Estate,  
Since when we loved, there was not put  
Two Earthen hearts in one breast, but  
Two Souls Co-animate.    

A PINDARIC ODE ON Mr. COWLEY.  
TO tune thy praise, what Muse shall I invoke, what Choir?  
None but thy Davideis, or thy David's Lyre:  
True Poet, and true Man,  
Say more than this who can;  
No, not an Angel's mighty Eloquence.  
These two,  
These only do,  
Of all perfections make a Quintessence.  
Then, my dear Cowley, die,  
For why should foolish I,  
Or foolish Sympathy,  
Wish thee to live? since 'tis no more to live, no more to die,  
Than to be here on Earth, and to be there about the Sky,  
Both to you shared equally.   

An ODE.  By Mr. R. D. of Cambridge. 

O Ye blessed Powers, propitious be  
Unto my growing Love!  
None can create my Misery,  
If Cloe but constant prove.  
Tell her if that she pity me,  
From her you'd ne'er remove.   

Each Breeze of Air, my groans shall bear,  
Unto her gentle Breast;  
Silently whispering in her Ear,  
I never can be blest;  
If she refuse to be my Dear,  
I never can have rest.   

Ye Groves, that hear each day my grief,  
Bear witness of my pain;  
Tell her I die, if no relief  
I from her Power can gain;  
Tell her, ah, tell that pretty Thief,  
I die through her disdain.   

Likely she may with piteous Eyes,  
When dead, my Hearse survey;  
And when my Soul amongst Deities  
Doth melt in Sweets away,  
Then may she curse those Victories  
That did my Heart betray.    

AN ODE of ANACREON paraphrased. Beauty's Force.  

I.  
I Wonder why Dame Nature thus  
Her various gifts dispenses,  
She every Creature else but us  
With Arms or Armour fences.  
The Bull with bended horns she arms,  
With hoofs she guards the Horse;  
The Hare can nimbly run from harms,  
All know the Lion's force.   

II.  
The Bird can danger fly on's Wing,  
She Fish with Fin's adorns;  
The Cuckold too, that harmless thing,  
His patience guards, and's horns:  
And Men she Valiant makes, and wise,  
To shun or baffle harms;  
But to poor Women she denies  
Armour to give, or Arms.   

III.  
Instead of all, she this does do;  
Our Beauty she bestows,  
Which serves for Arms, and Armour too,  
Against all our powerful Foes:  
And 'tis no matter, so she doth  
Still beauteous Faces yield;  
We'll conquer Sword and Fire, for both  
To Beauty leave the Field.    

A PINDARIC ODE.  By Mr. john Whitehall. 

I.  
MAdam, at first I thought,  
My Passions might to my Commands be brought,  
When, Love me not, you cried,  
And said in vain I did pursue  
The hopes of ever winning you;  
So I to slight it tried,  
But 'twould not do;  
For in the conflict I was almost crucified.   

II.  
At first did rise  
Beauty, which fought me with your powerful Eyes;  
And when I had in vain  
Driven th' Usurper from my heart,  
She drew her Bow, and shot a Dart,  
Which vanquished me again:  
What strength of Man, what Art  
Could with this Amazon a Combat long maintain.   

III.  
Next after her,  
Virtue well armed for Battle did appear,  
Attending on her side,  
Charity, Mercy, Eloquence,  
Wit and a Virgin Innocence,  
In warlike state did ride;  
And I find since  
I could not with all these contend, but must have died.   

IV.  
But if still you  
Do cry, forbear this Conquest to pursue;  
You must debauch your Mind,  
Turn all your Virtues into Vice,  
And make an Hell of Paradise,  
Be false, deformed, unkind:  
By this device,  
And by no other, I from Love may be declined.   

V.  
But why? but why  
Name I this great impossibility?  
I scarce could so remove  
The great affection which I bear,  
Were you as bad, as good you are,  
So difficult 't will prove  
To you, I swear;  
Eternal is your Goodness, and Eternal is my Love.    

From Ovid's Amorum, lib. 2. El. 4. and Lucretius, lib. 4. That he loves Women of all sorts and sizes.  
Pressed with my thoughts, I to confession fall,  
With anxious fears, till I lay open all;  
I sin and I repent, clear of the score,  
Then afterward relapse in Sin the more.  
Myself I guide, like some swift Pinnace tossed  
In Storms; the Rudder gone, and Compass lost;  
No certain shape or features stint my mind,  
I still ●or Love a thousand Reasons find;  
Melodiously one sings, then strait I long  
To quaver on her Lips, even in her Song.  
If she be versed in Arts, and deeply read,  
I'm taken with her learned Maidenhead:  
Or if untaught, and ignorant she be,  
She takes me then with her simplicity.  
I like whom rigid Education fools,  
Who would not try to put her past her rules;  
Though look demure, her Inclinations-swerve,  
And, once let loose, she jigs without reserve.  
Sanguine her looks, her colour high and good,  
For all the rest I trust her flesh and blood.  
Here living Snow my passion strangely warms,  
And straight I wish her melting in my Arms;  
White, Red, or Guinny black, or Gipsy brown,  
My dearly-well-beloved every one.  
If she is tall, my courage mounts as high,  
To stamp some new heroic Progeny:  
If little, oh how quick the Spirit moves!  
If large, who would not roll in what he loves?  
The lean provokes me with her naughty rubs;  
But if she's plump, 'tis then my pretty Fubs;  
And doubtless one might truck convenient sport,  
With either fat, or lean, or long, or short,  
With yellow Curls Aurora pleased her Fop,  
And Leda (jove well saw) was black-a-top.  
The black or yellow are alike to me,  
My Love will suit with every History.  
If Caelia sing, she, like a Siren, draws;  
If she sing not, we kiss without a pause:  
I love to rifle amongst Gems and Dress;  
Yet lumber they to Godlike nakedness.  
Buzzards and Owls on special quarry fall,  
Mine is a generous Love, and flies at all.  
I like the Rich, 'cause she is pampered high,  
And merry Beggar love for Charity;  
Widow or Wife, I'm for a Pad that's made;  
If Virgin troth, who would not love a Maid?  
If she be young, I take her in the nick;  
If she has Age, she helps it with a trick.  
If nothing charms me in her Wit or Face,  
She has her Fiddle in some other place.  
Come every sort and size, the great or small,  
My Love will find a Tally for 'em all.  
The foregoing Elegy having been Published imperfect, is here Printed from the best Copy.   

THE PARALLEL.  
AS when proud Lucifer aimed at the Throne,  
To have Usurped it, and made Heaven his own●  
(Blasphemous, damned design) but soon he fell,  
Guarded with dreadful lightning down to Hell;  
Or as when Nimrod lofty Babel built,  
(A Structure as Eternal as his guilt;)  
Let us, said he, raise the proud Tower so high,  
As may amaze the Gods, and kiss their Sky;  
He spoke— but the success was different found;  
heavens angry Thunder crushed him to the ground;  
So Lucifer, and so proud Babel fell,  
And 'tis a cursed fall from Heaven to Hell.  
So falls our Courtier now to Pride a prey,  
And falls too with as much reproach as They●  
And justly—  
That with his nauseous Courtship durst defile  
The sweetest, choicest Beauty of our Isle:  
That he was proud, we knew; but now we see,  
Like janus, looking on Eternity,  
Both what he was, and what he meant to be.  
Stern was his Look, and sturdy was his Gate;  
He walked, and talked, and would have kissed in state.  
Disdain and Scorn sat perching on his Brow;  
But, Presto! where is all that Grandeur now?  
Why vanished, fled, dissolved to empty Air,  
Fine Ornaments indeed to cheat the Fair:  
And which is yet the strangest thing of all,  
He has not got one Friend to mourn his fall:  
But 'tis but just that he who has maintained  
Such ill designs, should be by all disdained.  
Had not the lazy Drone been quite as blind,  
Equally dim both in his Eyes and Mind,  
He might have plainly seen—  
For the Example's visible to all,  
How strangely low ingrateful Pride may fall.  
Presumptuous Wretch! but that's too kind a Name  
For one so careless of a Virgin's Fame:  
For as the Serpent did by fraud deceive  
Th' unwary Soul of the first Virgin Eve;  
So he as impudently strove t' inspire  
The lovely Maid with his delusive fire:  
But Heaven be praised, now with the same success;  
For though his pride's as great, his cunning's less.   

SONG.  

I.  
MUsing on Cares of humane Fate,  
In a sad Cypress Grove;  
A strange dispute I heard of late,  
'Twixt Virtue, Fame, and Love.  
A Pensive Shepherd asked advice,  
And their Opinions craved,  
How he might hope to be so wise,  
To get a place beyond the Skies,  
And how he might be saved.   

II.  
Nice Virtue preached Religions Laws,  
Paths to Eternal Rest;  
To fight his Kings and Country's Cause,  
Fame Counselled him was best.  
But Love opposed their noisy Tongues,  
And thus their Votes outbraved;  
Get, get a Mistress, fair and young,  
Love fiercely, constantly and long,  
And then thou shalt be saved.   

III.  
Swift as a thought the Amorous Swain  
To Sylvia's Cottage flies,  
In soft Expressions told her plain  
The way to Heavenly joys.  
She who with Piety was stored,  
Delays no longer craved;  
Charmed by the God whom they adored.  
She smiled and took him at his Word;  
And thus they both were saved.    

SONG. The YOUNG LOVER.  By Mr. Wright. 

I.  
TUsh, never tell me I'm too Young  
For loving, or too green;  
She stays at least seven years too long,  
That's wedded at fourteen.  
Lambs bring forth Lambs, and Doves bring Doves,  
As soon as they're begotten:  
Then why should Ladies linger Loves,  
As if not ripe till rotten.   

II.  
Grey hairs are fitter for the Grave,  
Than for the Bridal Bed;  
What pleasure can a Lover have,  
In a withered Maidenhead?  
Nature's exalted in our time,  
And what our Grandams then  
At four and twenty scarce could climb,  
We can arrive at Ten.    

SONG. The Prodigal's Resolution.  

I.  
I Am a lusty lively Lad,  
Arrived at One-and-Twenty;  
My Father left me all he had,  
Both Gold and Silver plenty.  
Now He's in Grave, I will be brave,  
The Ladies shall adore me;  
I'll Court and Kiss, what hurt's in this?  
My Dad did so before me.   

II.  
My Father, to get my Estate,  
Though selfish, yet was slavish;  
I'll spend it at another rate,  
And be as lewdly lavish.  
From Madmen, Fools, and Knaves he did,  
Litigiously receive it;  
If so he did, justice forbid,  
But I to such should leave it.   

III.  
Then I'll to Court, where Venus' sport,  
Doth Revel it in plenty;  
And deal with all, both great and small,  
From twelve to five and twenty.  
In Playhouses I'll spend my Days,  
For there are store of Misses;  
Ladies, make room, behold I come,  
To purchase many Kisses.    

SONG. The Doubtful Lover Resolved.  

Feign would I Love, but that I fear,  
I quickly should the Willow wear:  
Fain would I Marry, but Men say,  
When Love is tried, he will away.  
Then tell me, Love, what I shall do,  
To cure these Fears when e'er I Woo.  
The Fair one, she's a mark to all;  
The Brown one each doth lovely call;  
The Black a Pearl in fair men's Eyes,  
The rest will stoop to any prize.  
Then tell me, Love, what I shall do,  
To cure these Fears when e'er I Woe.   

Reply.  
Go, Lover, know, it is not I  
That wound with fear or jealousy;  
Nor do Men feel those smarts,  
Until they have confined their Hearts.  
Then if you'll cure your Fears, you shall  
Love neither Fair, Black, Brown, but all.    

SONG. The CAVALIER's CATCH.  

I.  
DID you see this Cup of Liquor,  
How invitingly it looks;  
'Twill make a Lawyer prattle quicker,  
And a Scholar burn his Books:  
'Twill make a Cripple for to Caper,  
And a Dumb Man clearly Sing;  
'Twill make a Coward draw his Rapier,  
Here's a Health to james our King.   

II.  
If that here be any Round-head,  
That refuse this Health to pledge●  
I wish he then may be confounded,  
Underneath some rotten Hedge,  
May the French Disease overtake him,  
And upon h●s Face appear,  
And his Wife a Cuckold make him,  
By some jovial Cavalier.    

SONG. On Sight of a LADY's Face in the Water.  

STand still, ye Floods, do not deface  
That Image which you bear:  
So Votaries from every place,  
To you shall Altars rear.   

No Winds, but Lovers sighs blow here,  
To trouble these glad streams;  
On which no Star from any Sphere,  
Did ever dart such Beams.   

To Crystal then in haste congeal,  
Lest you should lose your bliss;  
And to my cruel Fair reveal,  
How cold, how hard she is.   

But if the envious Nymphs shall fear,  
Their Beauties will be scorned;  
And hire the ruder Winds to tear,  
That Face which you adorned.   

Then rage and foam amain, that we  
Their Malice may despise;  
And from your froths we soon shall see  
A second Venus rise.    

SONG.  

I.  
IF mighty Wealth, that gives the Rules  
To Vicious Men, and cheated Fools,  
Could but preserve me in the prime  
Of blooming Youth, and purchase Time;  
Then I would covet Riches too,  
And scrape and cheat as others do.   

II.  
But since that Life must slide away,  
And Wealth can't purchase one poor day;  
Why should my cares increase my pain,  
And waste my time with sighs in vain;  
Since Riches cannot Life supply,  
It is a useless Poverty.   

III.  
Swift time, that can't be bought to stay,  
I'll try to guide the gentlest way.  
With cheerful Friends brisk Wine shall pass,  
And drown a care in every Glass.  
Sometimes diverted with Love's Charms,  
I'll pleasure take in Celia's Arms.    

On the Serpentine Combustion by Squibs on my Lord Mayor's Day. An HEROIC POEM. Written Octob. 29. 1686.  
OF Hoods demolished, Tower's laid full low,  
Of crackling Crape, and Mantoes brought to woe;  
Of Scarf consumed, and Periwig on fire,  
Flaming Cravat, and ruinated Squire;  
Of lighted Petticoat, and Neck-cloth blazing,  
Whisk turned to Ashes, and fond Fops a gazing;  
Cuffs charked to Coal, and Point turned all to Cinder,  
And Gause soon Metamorphosed into Tinder:  
Of shining Gorget, sparkling jump of Fustian,  
And Apron deeply laced in dire Combustion;  
Scorched Quoif aloft, and singed Smock allow,  
I thought to sing in ample wise, I trow,  
Unto the tune of, Fortune is my Foe.  
But found the task too great for my weak Quill,  
For who is he that artfully can tell?  
How skipped the Squire, how the frighted Maid;  
And, like to Rocket, danced the Serenade.  
To shun the tract of Serpent, looking out  
For neat-made Manto, and well-fashioned Suit.  
As if when he had cast his Paper-skin,  
With those he did intend to clothe again:  
Or that to humane covering in spite,  
He'd have each Mortal to turn Adamite;  
And fire all, although but thinly clad,  
Esteeming clothes as Goods prohibited.  
Fierce in a quick pursuit, he scouts around,  
Where Linen, or where Woollen's to be found;  
And in his greedy rage, and hungry wrath,  
Devours Garments faster than the Moth.  
Within his blazing Circuit, as he wheels,  
Still making faster at the Head than Heels.  
Mounting aloft on ground, he makes small stay,  
But into arched Windows leads his way;  
Where Myriad following, make each Balcone,  
Involved in Flames, look like the torrid Zone.  
Swiftly they move about, with dismal quest,  
Not to be charmed by an Egyptian Priest;  
But still must cruise about where good Attire is,  
Spite both of Isis and her Friend Osiris;  
Scorning each Talisman, or Magic Spell,  
Dreadful as Dragons, and as Python fell;  
Scarce e'er to be destroyed, for Sages write,  
These Monsters still will annually affright;  
And Hoods and Perukes, with hot jaws will swallow,  
Until the City Praetor turn Apollo.  
Lest there should some misconstruction be made of this last Verse, let the Reader know that it alludes to that Fiction of Apollo's killing the Serpent Python; And so Allegorically intimates, that those fiery Serpents which usually fly about on my Lord Mayor's day, will annually continue so to do, unless destroyed by him.   

TO MY Much-esteemed Friend Mr. I. N. ON HIS Reading the first line of PINDAR 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, etc.  

HOld, there's enough, nay 'tis over much,  
'Tis worse than Cant in Conventicle.  
Is this the much-famed Friend to th' Muses,  
Who thus their Helicon abuses?  
Whose praise on Water thus is wasted,  
Claret the Puppy never tasted:  
What the Devil was his humour,  
To raise so scandalous a rumour?  
'Tis well 'tis Greek, that few may know it,  
Or 'twere enough t' infect a Poet:  
It is High Treason (I'll aver it)  
Against the Majesty of Claret.  
Sternhold and Hopkins heard it said so,  
(Not that I believe they read so)  
Therefore they gorged their Muse with Water,  
And spewed up eke, and also after.  

To bouse Old Wine, mad Pindar wont,  
Till by a Vintner being affronted,  
The peevish Cur (what could be ruder?)  
Forced on us 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  
He Water's damned Encomium made,  
Maliciously to spoil his Trade.  
But that shan't pass on me, by th' Mass●  
If I drink Water, I'm an Ass.  
To two great Kings I will be Loyal,  
My Monarch james, and Claret-Royal:  
Nor shall I love that Greek of thine,  
Scarce any Greek, except Greek Wine.   
Who'd be of Old mad Timon's mind,  
(Because he did) to hate Mankind?  
No, Sovereign Claret, I'll adore thee,  
Submissively fall down before thee;  
And will by Whores be burnt to Tinder,  
If I adore that Rebel Pindar.   Yours, I. Whitehall.  

A DIALOGUE Between JACK and DICK, Concerning the PROHIBITION OF French Wines.  

DICK.  
AH jack, hadst thou been t'other day,  
To see the Teeming Vine display  
The swelling Glories of her Womb,  
And hopeful Progeny to come,  
(Which Mirth and jollity create,  
And sweeten up the Frowns of Fate)  
Thou wouldst with me have sighed and said,  
Why has Obliging Nature made  
Such juice to be Prohibited?  
A juice, which duly understood,  
With kindly heats ferments the Blood;  
Not makes it posting to miscarry,  
As does the Hotspur, styled Canary;  
Nearly related ●tis unto't,  
And coloured over with the same Coat.  
Half Blood already, in one round  
It is assimulated found.  
With gentle Tides, Poetic Vein  
It swells into a comely strain.  
And binding all its Numbers tied,  
Breeds nothing dissolute, nor light.  
Whereas Canary, with Combustion,  
Makes still the Writer speak in Fustian.  
When ev'ry stroke by this devised,  
Is in Red●letters signalised.   

JACK.  
Dear Dick, it is not thou alone,  
That thus in woeful plaint makes moan;  
The main of the whole Kingdom joins,  
And weeps the loss of Claret Wines.  
As t'other day I musing went  
With unknown Griefs my Breast was penned:  
The cause I knew not, but did fear  
Some dreadful danger to be near.  
Turning my Eyes aside, I found  
A numerous Crowd, in woeful sound,  
Banning a Wight, with Accent ●ierce,  
About to Stave a well-teemed Tierce.  
Oh, 'twas a dismal sight to view!  
With Sleeves tuck't up, and Apron blue,  
The cruel and remorseless wretch,  
His blow was ready ●or to fetch.  
When straight a Philoclareteer  
Made up, and in this wise drew near:   

" Hold, hold, I say, that horrid Hand,  
" Enough our Mournful Streets are plained  
" With Scarlet dye, of dire contusion,  
" By braining Pipe in Execution.  
" What is the crime has been committed  
" By this poor Liquor, how indicted?  
To which he grimly gives Response,  
(As if he'd stave my Monsieur's Sconse.)  
Sir, mind your business, you are ruder  
Than e'er I yet found bold Intruder;  
In short, Sir, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  
'Twas all the answer he could get,  
Which put my Youngster in a pet,  
And forced him to this language keen,  
" Oh thou more fierce than e'er has been:  
" The wildest Tigers Bacchus drew,  
" Or hottest Rage yet ever knew,  
" Of harmless Claret thus to spill  
" The Blood, and Urban gutters fill;  
" As 'twere no more to be looked after,  
" Than Urine stale, or Kennel Water.  
" How many of the thirsty train,  
" Open their Mouths, as Earth for Rain;  
" For one poor drop of the rich juice,  
" This swelling Vessel does produce.  
" The better half of all the crude  
" And undigested multitude;  
" Now demi-Rogues, and near Disloyal,  
" Two spoonfuls makes them all turn Royal.  
" When did you know the Lad did love  
" True Claret, and rebellious prove?  
" Besides, it Rubies does create,  
" Of richer dye, and greater state,  
" Than e'er was planted as a Trophy  
" On mogul's Crown, or Persian Sophy.  
" Rascal, look to't, you'll rue it one day,  
" For spoiling of this brisk Burgundy.   

Oh, had you seen the People stand,  
Each one with Handkerchief in hand,  
With watery Eyes, surveying o'er  
The coming Floods of Purple gore.  
You, you yourself had shed one Tear,  
Among the Thousands let fall there!  
To see a hopeful Vessel come,  
With Gales of Sighs 'twas ushered from  
The peaceful Harbour where it lay,  
In shameful wise, to view the day.  
From Mansions of dark Sable Night,  
And shady Grots, stored with delight,  
Of luscious taste, and racy smell,  
And rosy blush of Carbuncle;  
With Hoops disjointed, Tackle broke,  
Would force a Groan from Heart of Oak.  
Half ruptured, bruised, in dismal show,  
He thrust up every avenue;  
Till to the open Street he comes,  
Bestrid by many ill-bred Bums,  
Over his bulky Body striding,  
You never saw so ill a riding;  
For the fierce Wight no more regret had,  
Than Greek or Tartar ready booted,  
To seize with their light Horse, the prey  
Of Youth, or Damsel gone astray.  
The Vagabond, and Truant Tub,  
Which held so many Quarts of Bub,  
Forced by Ill luck, and Wind, to fall  
(By missing Port) on Cannibal,  
And savage Shores, he basely binding,  
And all his Teeth together grinding.  
With Words insulting thus accosts:   

France, boast no more, that by thy Vine  
Thou canst an English Soul confine,  
To soop up nought but what is gotten,  
From sour Burgundian Grape grown rotten.  
Old British Drinks (which Bard of Yore  
Tasted, and lived till near Five score)  
We've got the Art now for to heighten,  
And our endarkned Souls enlighten,  
Above what pitch you e'er can manage,  
By all your bo●sting French Appannage.  
The Apple o'er the Grape shall reign,  
And Hereford's above Campaign.  
The Vine no more shall rule the Field,  
But to Pomona, Bacchus yield.  
This said, he gives the fatal blow;  
And now the Streets o'er-whelmed do flow,  
With ruddy juice of Crimson gore,  
Which in loud Cataracts do pour  
Through every Channel; and the Tide  
Mounts up alo●t on every side.  
'Tis hard to guests which flowed more high,  
That in the Streets, or in the Eye.  
Each Tunicle●ull ●ull deep was sunk,  
You'd thought all to be Maudlin drunk.   

Yet, amongst all this noise and weeping,  
Some (though their Sorrows were full deep in)  
Made shift to muster Bowl or twain,  
For to attend the Funeral train;  
Which they had got from gorged Canal,  
Lest some to fainting Fits should fall.  
For why should Gutter swallow all up,  
When many a dry Soul wished a gullup?   

Dam's being made, the Good wife brings out  
Her Churn and Kettle; Damsel springs out  
With Pipkin, Chamber-pot and Ladle.  
And Sucking-Bottle (fetched from Cradle.)  
Treys brought by Butcher, Trough by Mason,  
And forth the Barber brings his Basin.  
The Tinker (wisely as I judge it)  
Makes Leathern-Bottle of his Budget.  
O'th' broken Ribs, full many a piece  
They got, and sucked like Liquorish;  
And to their Children Splinters good,  
Of the ruby-tinctured Wood,  
Instead of Coral, they bestow,  
To rub their Gums, aloft and low;  
Whilst others o'er the Dams lie lolling,  
(As ready the Red Sea to fall in)  
With frequent Laps, their Thirst allaying,  
Pronouncing many a rueful saying,  
Concerning loss of Champaign, Bordeaux,  
And what a grinning ugly Cur 'twas,  
That dashed out brain of Hogshead awful,  
E'er Thirsty Mortal had his Maw full:  
Giving out many words (half raving)  
Against Hammers, Knocks, and Blows, and Staving.  
Continuing such a dismal pother,  
They'd like at last t'ave staved each other.  
All going handy-dandy to't,  
Till Constable does drive the Rout  
To their own home, from Claret Bank,  
There to weep out the Wine they'ave drank.   

DICK.  
Troth, jack, thy News in manner woeful,  
My Heart has seized, and filled up so full,  
It through mine Eyes must take some vent,  
Or I shall miserably faint.  
There never was more dismal Tale  
Repeated o'er Spiced Cup of Ale,  
By deep Cabal, and nodding Choir,  
Of Matrons old, near Winter's fire.   

Weep, Mortals, weep, until your Eyes  
Be red as th' Wine they sacrifice.  
How will you now your Passions vent,  
To her you long your Heart have lent?  
Phillis without regard may go,  
And lovely Amarillis too,  
May often see her charming Name,  
Without Attendant Anagram.  
Gone is the Wine that did inspire  
The Poet with his Amorous fire;  
That did assist him to invoke,  
And gave his Pen the happy stroke.  
Fool's may go on, and Scribbling write,  
Yet fear no satire that shall bite;  
Its sting is dulled by every blow  
The wronged Vessels undergo:  
For all the Salt, and all the Flame,  
Whence Wounds, and Plagues, and Vengeance came,  
Is melted, quenched, sunk, lost, and drowned,  
And never, never to be found,  
Without the leave of pulling down,  
The Dams of Prohibition;  
And drawing up the Sluices all,  
That ruby Floods again may fall,  
And freely fill the Mass●e Bowl:  
Then thou and I, and every Soul  
That has a Muse or Mistress there,  
Shall in one hand a Goblet bear,  
And with the other charm the Ear.  
Shall briskly each his brimmer drink,  
And live and love, and laugh and think  
Of something fit to entertain  
The peaceful hours once again.  
Till then adieu; with Lips a-dry,  
For once we'll part; and so Good-buy.  
For who with base juice would ●ully  
His servile Lips, is much a Cully.  
And though full thirsty, fit no more  
To have his Body varnished over;  
Or ever to be tinged again,  
With its Rosy-coloured grain.  
Once more farewell, till kindly Seas  
Rowl Claret Casks upon our Keys.  
Then (Haec) we'll say, and laugh and kiss ye,  
juvabit olim meminisse.     

These Ten following POEMS done by a Concealed Author for his private Recreation.  

To CLARINDA on her Incomparable Painting and Wax-work. Written Septemb. 1686.  
SOar now, my Muse, to an unusual flight,  
Whilst fair Clarinda's Skill my Pen excite,  
The Wonders of her Pencil to indite.  
A modest Poet can't be silent here,  
Where so much Art and Excellence appear.  
Your active Pencil scorns a constant dress,  
It's seen each day in Novelties afresh;  
Sometimes you curious Landscapes represent,  
And arch 'em over with gilded Firmament:  
Then in JAPAN some Rural Cottage Paint,  
You can with equal Skill draw Fiend and Saint.  
A genuine sweetness through your Pencil flows,  
And charming Pictures to the Life it shows.  
Next Wax-work, Cupid's by your Art made fair,  
And sparkling Stars seem hovering in the Air,  
Supported only by a single Hair.  
But your enflaming Eyes show Stars more bright;  
Stars, which may serve those lesser ones to light;  
And pretty Cupid's dancing there, do dart  
More piercing Beams, than those you've made by Art  
A Female Pencil now such Art hath shown,  
As neither Sex before could ever own:  
For none could yet your matchless Paintings view,  
But the same Passions moved 'em, which you drew;  
And from your Self you copy every Grace,  
For you have all that can adorn each Face:  
So like your Pieces to live Objects are,  
That if together we should them compare,  
Nature herself amazed would doubting stand,  
To know her own from the Skilled Painter's hand;  
For she the like with less success attempts,  
When her own Work in Twins she represents.  
Well then may Birds, for real Grapes, mistake  
Those pendent Clusters which thy Pencil make.  
Perhaps thy living 
(a) Trees of the Ladies own setting in her Garden.  Plants too they'll neglect,  
And fly to these thy Pencil doth project;  
For though disrobed is 
(b) Being at the Fall of th' Leaf.  Nature of her Pride,  
Fresh as the Spring thy Painting doth abide:  
Thus your Victorious Painting, and your Eyes,  
Make Birds, Beasts, Fishes, also Men your prize.   

A Young Man to an Old Woman, Courting him. In Imitation of a Modern Author.  

PEace, doting Wretch, for ever cease thy suit,  
Tempt me no more henceforth with musty fruit;  
For rotten Meddlers please not, whilst there be  
Orchards and Gardens in Virginity.  
Thy crabbed Stock is too much out of date,  
For young and tender Plants t' inoculate.  
Can Wedlock e'er endure so great a Curse,  
As putting Husbands out to th' Wife to Nurse?  
How pleasantly Poor Robin then would crack,  
T' insert our Names within his Almanac;  
And think that time had wheeled about this Year,  
So soon December meeting janiveer.  
So the Egyptian Serpent figures Time;  
And being stripped, returns unto its prime.  
If my affection thou rain'st to win,  
Then cast of● first thy Hieroglyphic Skin.  
My tender years will not endure (alack)  
The fulsome breathe which attend thy smack,  
Proceeding ●●om some former loathsome Clap.  
Could you a Virgin's Beauty but regain,  
And change your state from Age to Youth again:  
Your o'er-blown Face more charming might appear,  
And with delight we might embrace each Year.  
Perhaps no strife or discord than might be,  
Betwixt my pretty Skeleton and Me:  
But Metamorphoses are seldom known  
In this our Age, since Miracles are gone.  
Cease then your Suit, and for the future try,  
To heal your Tenant's Leg, or his sore Eye.  
So may you purchase credit, fame and thank,  
Beyond the foppish Name of Mountebank;  
Or chew thy Cud on some forlorn delight,  
Which thou revivest in thy Eighty-eight;  
Or be but Bedrid once, and surely then  
Thou'lt dream once more thy youthful Sins again.  
But if that still you needs will be my Spouse,  
First harken, and attend upon my Vows.   

" When th' Needle his dear North shall quite forsake,  
" And Stones a journey to the Sky shall make.  
" When AEtna's fires shall mildly undergo,  
" The wondrous penance of the Alps in Snow.  
" When Sol shall by a single blast of's Horn,  
" From Crab be posted unto Capricorn.  
" When th' heavens confusedly shuffle all in one,  
" And join the Torrid with the Frozen Zone.  
" Be sure, when all these Contradictions meet,  
" Than (Sibyl) thou and I will kindly greet.  
For all these Similes are understood,  
'Twixt youthful Heat, and thy dull frigid Blood.  
So, Madam, Time continue ever Bald,  
For I will not thy Periwig be called:  
Nor be a Crutch to prop thy tottering frame,  
Lest th' Fabric fallen, from th' Ruins spring my shame.    

TO CLARINDA. A SONG.  

I.  
TEmpt me not with your Face that's fair,  
Nor Lips and Cheeks, though red;  
I neither prise them, nor your Hair,  
Which in its Curls is laid.  
Nor value I your Pencils fame,  
For Nature it exceeds;  
And Lilies do your Beauty's stain,  
Roses your Lips and Cheeks.   

II.  
Nor prise I your Seraphic Voice,  
That like an Angel sings;  
Though if I were to take my choice,  
I would have all these things.  
But if that you would have me love,  
You must be true as Steel;  
Or else in vain my Heart you move,  
Your Charms I cannot feel.   

III.  
But since, fair Nymph, you're fickle grown,  
I'll change too with the Wind;  
Sometimes in Storms of Love I'll frown,  
Sometimes be calm and kind.  
My Proteus Love shall frown and play,  
As subtle Foxes do;  
Till they have seized th' unwary Prey,  
But then shall kill like you.   

IV.  
A Courtier's Tongue for Flattery,  
A Poet's Brain for Wit;  
A Woman's Breast for Treachery,  
For my designs I'll get.  
Then through the silly Female flock,  
I cunningly will rove;  
Thus, thus for once I'll try my luck,  
To get their Hate or Love.    

ON HIS SECRET PASSION FOR COSMELIA.  

BY no Discovery have I e'er revealed  
My secret Love, so closely yet concealed;  
But rather, oft with Hypocritick Art,  
In a dissembled look belied my Heart.  
Yet could Discovery gratify my Wish,  
Concealment should not long defer the bliss.  
For strait my Passion than I would reveal,  
And whisper in her Ear the Amorous Tale.  
But no Relation can my wants relieve,  
Or Limits to my boundless Wishes give.   

Should my Beloved, whose Art hath given new breath  
To dying Heroes, at the point of Death:  
She who no Cure scarce ever undertaken,  
But the disease her Patient soon forsaken:  
She who each Simple's sovereign Virtue knows,  
And to their proper use can them dispose:  
Should She her utmost Skill in Physic try,  
All, All would fail to ease my misery:  
All her Prescriptions, without Love, are vain;  
Love only suits the Nature of my pain.   

Thrice hath the Sun his Annual progress made,  
Since first my Heart was by my Eyes betrayed;  
With various Scenes of suitable delight,  
Cosmelia's Beauty entertained my sight.  
Th' Idea of which doth still salute my Eye,  
Nor can her Absence this delight deny.  
Whilst Wit and Learning also charmed each sense,  
Her Poetry had no less influence;  
For flights of fancy in her lines abound,  
As Wine in Conduits, when a King is Crowned.  
Thus Art, Wit, Beauty, Learning, all conspire  
T' ensnare my Heart, and set my Soul on fire:  
Her Words, her Looks my waking thoughts employ;  
And when I sleep, I see her with more joy.  
But ah! too soon the silent Shades of Night,  
Do leave their Empire to the rising Light.  
When, lo, I find my Pleasures but a Dream,  
Thus chiefest joys glide with the swiftest stream.  
A sleep or wake, still Love creeps through my Veins,  
And in my Mind the fierce infection reigns.  
Sometimes with Books I would divert my Mind,  
But that increases but the pain, I find:  
Sometimes I court enjoyment ●rom my Muse,  
Till by distraction I my fancy lose.  
So wretched Men, that sundry Medicines try,  
As oft increase, as cure the Malady.  
In vain I strive these phantoms to remove,  
Or shun those Aerial Images of Love:  
Her bright Idea makes Affections yield,  
Like Ears of Corn, when Wind salutes the Field.   

Each rising Sun views her more bright and fair,  
Her Virtues more conspicuous appear.  
Gentle's her Nature, Modest is her Mien;  
Her Conversation's Mild, Her Looks Screen.  
No Tyrant Passion rages in her Breast,  
But the meek Dove builds there her Halcyon Nest.  
More Native Wealth doth that fair Breast contain,  
Than all the Treasures of the boundless Main.  
Not so delightful was the Sacred Tree,  
Nor Godlike knowledge could more tempting be.  
For the fair Tree could not such Fruit impart,  
As this fair Virgin, would she yield her Heart.   

Happy, false Strephon then, whose powerful Charms  
Alone might win this Lady to his Arms:  
His graceful Mien, resistless Charms impart,  
And glide (unfelt) into her tender Heart;  
Whilst on his Lips such smooth discourse is hung,  
His Person's less attractive than his Tongue.  
No Storms in Love need Strephon then maintain,  
Without a Siege he may the Conquest gain:  
For where the Fort by Love's betrayed within,  
It needs must yield to let the Hero in.  
But for th' Squire, and the young hopeful Cit,  
With the Gay Spark, that would be thought a Wit;  
Their hopes are blasted, and each strives in vain,  
By Nuptial Ties the lovely prize to gain.  
The Squire she slights, lest he unkind should prove,  
And to his Horse or Dogs prefer her Love.  
Covetous and unbred she styles the Citt,  
Debauched the vain pretender to lewd Wit.  
Thus bravely she doth these kind Heroes slight,  
Thinking they all intrude on Strephon's right;  
Whilst unconcerned Triumphant Strephon stood,  
Like some dull Image carved of Stone or Wood;  
Insensible of all Love's powerful Charms,  
Nor moved by Wit's or Beauty's loud Alarms.  
But oh, my Soul! unlike Effects I find,  
Her Virgin charms produceth in thy mind.   

As nought that's dead and barren can excite  
Vital affections, or the sense delight;  
So nought inanimate could e'er improve  
My Generous thoughts to any fruits of Love:  
Or as Clarinda's painted Shadows fed  
Only my fancy with their White and Red.  
So bright Cosmelia's Pen it does impart,  
Vigour and Motion to my Lovesick Heart:  
Her sacred Presence all my Parts do render  
Vocal, except my Tongue, that stupid Member.  
Her Wit my Soul inspires with thoughts too great,  
For words to comprehend, should silence break.  
If in kind glances, by a swift surprise,  
I do behold the Aspect of her Eyes;  
Alternate Paroxysms of Cold and Heat,  
My Vital Spirits strangely do defeat.  
Thus various Passions in my Breast do rove,  
Yet all do meet and terminate in Love.   

Oh would kind Heaven but be so much my friend,  
To make my Fate upon my choice depend:  
All my Ambition here I would confine,  
And only this fair Virgin should be mine;  
Locked in her Arms in Love and Peace I'd lie,  
And whilst I breathe, my Flames should never die:  
For should that Beauty which she does possess,  
Fade into Autumn, I could love no less.    

TO CLARINDA, ON HIS Deserting her, and loving Cosmelia.  
'TIS true, Clarinda, once I did resign  
To your frail Beauty this kind Heart of mine●  
Yet the Resignment but in thought was signed,  
For words ne'er sealed the impress of my Mind.  
Too well my Heart was sensible you gained,  
By treacherous Wiles, the Conquest you obtained:  
And that by Art ye assumed deluding Looks;  
Looks unrecorded in kind Nature's Books:  
Therefore I've justly banished you my Breast,  
No more your Beauty shall invade my rest,  
I've entertained a more deserving Guest:  
Not One whose Heart's inconstant as the Wind,  
But One, whose Love to One can be confined:  
One, whose true Love with Friendship ever flows,  
And whom kind Fate has for my Lover chose;  
To her my enamoured Heart doth panting move,  
By fervent Efforts of Ecstatick Love:  
With modest Blushes I inform her Eyes,  
Her virtuous Love has made my Heart her prize.  
And whilst my Blushes do confess I burn,  
By Sighs and Looks she makes as kind return.  
Know then, kind Nymph, my Love to you's expired,  
And fled to her, who thus my Breast has fired.  
Without her 
(a) The Lady having Skill in Physic.  Art, your Beauty will decay,  
A fit of Sickness makes it fade away:  
Whilst in her sight no bold Disease durst stand,  
But, trembling, vanishes at her command.  
What though your Pencil Nature oft supplies,  
With Charms as piercing as your Azure Eyes:  
Yet know, 'tis noble Verse sets off your Paint;  
Her Poetry alone can dub a Saint.   

TO COSMELIA, ON HER Departure into the COUNTRY.  
FArewell, fair Mistress of my chief desire's,  
Whose charming Beauties kindleth pleasing fires;  
Whilst I (sad Fate!) must here forlorn remain,  
Since you, fair Conqu'ress, do my Heart retain.  
To you, the Centre of my Love, it flies,  
And ne'er can rest till it enjoys or dies.  
Farewell dear Eyes, it will be tedious Night  
With me, as long as I do want your light.  
Farewell those ruby Lips which seem to me,  
Of Nature's Glory an Epitome.  
The Nectar and Ambrosia I shall want,  
That hang on them, and fast an irksome Lent.  
Farewell best Tongue, now Thee I shall not hear,  
I would not care if all things silent were.  
Farewell all fair, Beauty I shall not view,  
Until again I do behold 't in You.  
Farewell Physician of my lovesick Soul,  
Your sight alone can make your Patient whole.   

On a ROSE sticking on a Lady's Breast.  
SWeet fading Flower, that with the Sun's uprise  
Unfold'st thy Bud, and in the Evening dies.  
Swell now with beauteous pride, and let thy bright  
And blushing Leaves joy and refresh our sight.  
Incorporate thy sweet and fragrant smell,  
With those refreshing Odours there do dwell.  
Blessed, ah for ever blest be that fair Hand,  
That did transplant thee to that Sacred Land.  
Oh happy Rose, that in that Garden rests,  
That Paradise betwixt that Lady's Breasts:  
There's an Eternal Spring, where thou shalt lie,  
Betwixt two Lily Mounts, and never die:  
There thou shalt spring among the fertile Valleys,  
By buds, like thee, that grow in midst of Allies;  
There none dare pluck thee from that sacred place,  
Nor yet attempt thy Beauty to deface.  
If any, but approach, straight doth arise  
A most surprising light, which blasts his Eyes;  
There, 'stead of Ruin, shall living Fountains flow,  
For Wind her fragrant Breath for ever blow:  
Nor now, as wont, shall one bright Sun thee cheer,  
But two conjoined, which from her Eyes appear.  
Oh then, what Monarch would not think't a Grace,  
To leave his Regal Throne to have thy place.  
Myself to gain thy blessed seat, do Vow,  
Would be transformed into a Rose, as thou.   

ON THE Most Charming GALECIA's PICTURE. 
(a) The Lady being Painted wi●h a Bough o● Bays in her Hand.   
HAppy the Hand, which to our longing sight,  
Presents that Beauty, which the dazzling light  
Of your bright Charms, does hide from weaker Eyes,  
And all access (save by this Art) denies.  
'Tis only here our Sight hath strength to view  
Those Beauties, which do terminate in you.  
By this your great Perfections we conceive,  
The Gracious Image seeming to give leave;  
Which daily by your Votaries is seen,  
And by the Muses has saluted been.  
Who, whilst an Infant, placed in your Hand  
The Bays so many strove for in this Land.  
Wisely foreseeing your Poetic Pen,  
Might claim the primacy of th'wittiest Men.  
〈◊〉 you th' extremes of Power and Beauty move,  
●ho are the Quintessence and Soul of Love.  
●s the bright Sun (whose distant Beams delight)  
●f equal Glory to your Beauty's light;  
●s wisely placed in so sublime a seat,  
●'extend his light, and moderate his heat.  
●o happy 'tis you move in such a Sphere,  
Which does not overcome our sense, but cheer:  
And in our Breasts does qualify that fire,  
Which kindled by those Eyes, h●d flamed higher,  
Than when the scorched World like hazard run,  
By the approach of the ill-guided Sun.  
Such Eyes as yours on jove himself have thrown,  
As bright and fierce a lightning as his own.   

THE YOUNG LOVER's ADVOCATE: BEING An Answer to a Copy of Verses.  Written by Galaecia to her Young Lover on his Vow. 

TOo rigid, too censorious and severe,  
Your unjust scruples plainly do appear.  
Why should you question that most sacred Vow,  
Which in sincerity I made but now?  
Did I not Vow by all the Powers above,  
None but Galaecia should but obtain my Love?  
I did, and made a Covenant with my Eyes,  
No other Beauties should my Heart surprise.  
And may those Powers their vengeance from above,  
Shower on my head, when e'er I perjured prove:  
A thousand Deaths I'd rather choose to die,  
Than once my Faith to break or falsify.  
Not all your Sex's charms shall tempt me more,  
No other Object shall my Soul adore.  
Thy Sex, alas! is but a Lottery,  
Where thousand Blanks for one true Prize we see.  
And since kind Fate has given me such a Lott,  
Think you I'll hazard what's so hardly got?  
No, rather think me constant as the Sun,  
Who never s●ts, till he his race hath run:  
Firm as the Centre, as the Poles unmoved,  
Faithful as honest Swains to their Beloved.   

But you allege for Love I am too green,  
Though two years turned, and upwards of Eighteen.  
Alas, too long I think I've been debarred,  
And five years since Love's pleasures should have shared:  
Lovers as young as me I can produce,  
As Precedents to warrant my Excuse.  
The Famous Sapph summed up all her joy  
In the Embrace of a Sicilian Boy.  
The Queen of Greece loved Theseus but a Lad,  
And Cytharea her Adonis had:  
Nay Love himself, that God, is but a Child;  
Shall I for want of Years than be Exiled?  
Yea, I have heard fair Virgins say, in truth,  
Of all that love, give me the smooth-chinned Youth:  
My tender years my innocence may prove,  
And non-acquaintance with the Wiles of Love.    

To my Ingenious Friend, Mrs. JANE BARKER, ON MY Publishing her Romance of SCIPINA.  

Could I the Censure of each Critic dread,  
Before your Book my Lines should not be read;  
For 'twill be thought, should I attempt your Praise,  
Trophies of Interest to myself I'd raise.  
Since the same Pen that would applaud my Friend,  
At once my Copy, and her Lines, commend:  
Nor could my Silence escape from Censure free,  
Then other Hands, they'd say, I bribed for the●.  
Yet could Applause your learned Piece set forth,  
To make your Fame as endless as your Worth;  
I would invoke some gentle Muse t' inspire  
My active Pen with a Poetic fire;  
That it might blazon forth your Matchless Wit,  
And your due Merits to the World transmit.  
But since this Subject doth require the Skill,  
Or of a Maro, or a Waller's Quill,  
I must desist, and quit the brave design,  
And the great task to better hands resign.  
Only as th' empty Coach is wont t' attend,  
To Mourn the Obsequies of some dear Friend:  
So shall my Worthless lines even now appear,  
For want of better, to bring up the Rear  
Of those that welcome th' Issue of your Wit,  
Which in so soft and smooth a Style you've writ.   

You fair Scipina's Name do here advance  
Unto the Title of a famed Romance:  
Then in smooth Lines you celebrate her Praise,  
And crown her Temples with immortal Bays.  
Her Heroes Fights you bravely have expressed,  
Till blest with Peace, he in her Arms finds rest.  
How would it please the gallant Scipio's Ghost,  
(The bravest Gen'ral th' Elyzian Fields can boast,)  
To see his Battles acted over again,  
By thy victorious and triumphant Pen.   

Thy Virgin Muse soars upwards still on high,  
Outstrips the Dedalean Scuddery,  
With swifter flights of Fancy wings each line,  
And harshest Thoughts to gentle Love refine.  
Each Stoick's Heart, and softer Females Breast,  
With the same Passion that you writes possessed.  
Let carping Critics than complain of Fate,  
And envy what they cannot imitate.  
Since 'tis beyond their Art or Power to blast  
Your Virgin Laurels, which do spread so fast.    

A Batchelor's Life, in pursuit of Mrs. BARKER's Verses in Praise of a Single Life.  By the Author of the Ten preceding Copies. 

SInce, O ye Powers, it is by your decree,  
For Women I've so great indiff'rencie:  
Suffer me not by Love to be misled;  
Let nought induce me to the Nuptial Bed.  
Let no frail Beauties to my Eyes resort,  
Lest those false Sentinels betray the Fort.  
But if blind Cupid with a poisonous Dart,  
Should chance to penetrate my Marble Heart;  
Then let an Icy chillness freeze my blood,  
And stop the active motion of its 'slud:  
So may I in this happy state abide,  
And laugh at those a Single Life deride:  
Whilst they (b'ing caught in wretched Wedlock's Noose  
Do both their freedom and their pleasures loose;  
For cursed Avarice and jealousy,  
Attends on him th' unlucky Knot doth tie;  
His Soul to Mirth can never be inclined,  
For Cares and Fears ever distract his Mind.  
Would he be merry, strait his Consorts Noise,  
E'er he can think th' Abortive thought, destroys.  
And if his Spouse proves Barren, than he prays  
To Heaven for Children, or to end her days:  
But if o'er-stocked, the Husband than repines  
At the too fruitful Issue of his Loins.  
Then are his thoughts employed to get and spare,  
And make provision for a wanton Heir.   

How happy is he then, who's free to choose;  
And when he will, accept, when not, refuse.  
No Cares in Love can discompose his Breast,  
Nor Anxious Fears e'er rob him of his Rest:  
But unconcerned he is in things to come;  
If London please not, Paris is his home.  
Yet a Fond Wife, or Wanton prattling Boy,  
Perhaps might all his generous thoughts destroy.    

The Exchange of HEARTS. A SONG. By the same. Being an Answer to a SONG in the 81st Page of the First Part.  

I.  
HAppy the Man, thrice happy he,  
Who had the high Desert;  
To lose to you his Liberty,  
And change a Lover's Heart.   

II.  
If his does your Repose invade,  
And rob you of your Rest;  
Believe as much Disorders made  
By yours within his Breast.   

III.  
Reason with him has no more power  
Than you, to stop the Course  
Of an enraged and fierce Amour,  
Drove by its own wild force.    

Upon a FLOCK of GOLDFINCHES Seen in the MORNING.  
SCarce had the prancing Coursers of the World,  
With their fresh steaming breath the Morning curled;  
When a gilt flock of Winged Stars did play,  
And with strange light increase the newborn day:  
Sure they were sent from some Celestial Nest,  
To teach Aurora how she should go dressed.  
Gay Nature's lively Pencil never drew  
Its own Perfection in a brighter hue.  
Now in light hoverings they their Body's poise,  
And hang in AEquilibriums without noise.  
The Amorous Wind in gentle Whispers sings,  
And coily kisses their Enameled Wings.  
In curling Waves it pleats their silken Plumes,  
And from their spicy Breasts doth suck Perfumes;  
Then softly swells, and heaves its rising Weight,  
The mounting Birds enjoy a noble height:  
There in a spangled Crescent they appear,  
And with a flying Rainbow gild the Air.  
And now Sol's Rays dart from their Eastern seat,  
And with a golden Blush these Rivals meet;  
And then recoil, more sumptuous to behold,  
Ten thousand Colours mixing with their Gold.  
Thus they which make the watery Fleeces proud,  
Themselves draw Lustre from a living Cloud.  
Oft through the Air their active Course they change,  
And in quick windings their brisk Squadrons range.  
The Impressive Atmosphere, where they had flown,  
With a long train of painted Lightning shone.  
Downward at length they fell, sure wanton jove  
In such a splendid Storm enjoyed his Love.  
When doubtful Swains behold with wondering sight,  
Keen Exhalations with their pointed Light,  
Shoot through the yielding darkness of the Night.  
They think it was some guilty Star that fell,  
And trembling pray, that all in Heaven be well.  
Oh, had they seen with what a radiant pride,  
These feathered Meteors from above did glide;  
They would have pitied the deserted Sky,  
Thinking they did a Constellation spy:  
Which, that it might indulge blest Mortals Ears,  
Had brought with it the Music of the Spheres.  
With such soft Airs did all the Birds descend,  
And their bright Course to the next Bush they bend.  
With purling Noise their fluttering Wings they clapped,  
As if they had for Entertainment rapt.  
The Thorns themselves shrunk in to make them room,  
And sheathed their prickles in their barky Womb.  
New buds from their Potential beds did leap,  
And peep't to see who 'twas disturbed their sleep●  
Spying such Guests, their fragrant Laps they spread;  
Such Tapestry none but fragrant Feet must tread.  
Each awful twig gave an obsequious nod;  
And bowing, stooped unto its welcome load.  
And now the glittering Bush on high displays  
Its streaming Branches, decked with chirping Rays.  
It's Golden back's clad with a breathing Fleece,  
Richer than that bold jason brought ●rom Greece.  
The wavering boughs under their weight did leap,  
And with their blithfull chantings time did keep.  
The Neighbouring Brook stopped its attentive stream,  
And the hushed Winds hung lulled into a dream.  
Ne'er did the Perriwiged Hesperian Grove,  
On its bright Head so rich an Autumn move.  
Hail, happy Shrub, wrapped in a Golden shade,  
Whom Nature hath her living Wardrobe made;  
Hail, Queen of Plants, crowned with a Diadem,  
Where every jewel is a Vocal Gem:  
A warm soft Gem, whose splendour does excel  
Th' obdurate offspring of the Indian shell.  
May still such Phoenixes shine on thy Crest,  
But never burn their odoriferous Nest;  
But may each Morn thy glorious twigs recruit,  
With a new brood of such Melodious fruit.   

THE POET's Answer to One, Complaining of their NEGLIGENCE, In not Writing the DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM's ELEGY.  

NOR needs he slender Verse, his Mighty Fame,  
Raised above us, does all our Praise disclaim;  
Poets have lived by him, he cannot live by them.  
So great his Bounty, we as well might show  
The secret Head, whence fertile Nile does flow.  
Like Nilus he, for with a willing Hand  
He gave to all, his stream o'er-flowed the Land.   

But still the Muse was his peculiar Care;  
Now could I ought in Verse! A subject's here  
Might— But the Mind's ill served by Faculties,  
And something still we know, we can't express.  
The Trojan Shield, which Maro once did frame,  
With an intent to raise Augustus' Name,  
Should not do more, if (as my Theme's as great)  
I could assume his Majesty and State.  
But nothing ●an rehearse his wondrous Praise,  
Unless kind Heaven from his dust should raise  
Another matchless mighty Buckingham,  
Who, like himself, could gloss the glorious Theme.  
Two great effects we had from's noble Mind,  
The State and Theatre at once refined.   

When e'er he pleased to lash the nauseous Times,  
And with just Rules corre●t the Poet's Crimes:  
Nonsense, and Bays, and Bombast took their flight,  
Like frighted Phantoms from the hated Light.  
As by the order of this World we guess,  
A God, not Chance, first moved the mighty Mass:  
So whilst we saw, when we made War, Success,  
Advantage, when we pleased to grant a Peace:  
We, by the Beauty, knew, Villers was there,  
And Godlike Charles was eased of half his care:  
So in the Realms above 'tis Jove's too will,  
Whilst lesser Powers his Commands fulfil.   

Nor was his Body inferior to his Mind;  
For when he was created, Fate designed  
That he should be the wonder of Mankind.  
Goodness and Grace did always with him move;  
From Men he Honour claimed, from Women Love  
Some slighted Swain, whom Celia's scorn oppressed,  
May raise a Flame in some less guarded Breast:  
But there the Curse does not entirely fall,  
He formed the Race of Women to enthrall,  
Revenged upon their Sex the quarrels of us all.  
Ten thousand ways soft thoughts he could inspire,  
And kindled in all hearts a generous fire,  
His Bounty wealth, his Beauty gave desire.  
His judgement gave us Laws, a Play his Wit;  
By him we lived, we loved, we ruled, we writ.     

These Thirteen following COPIES done by Mr. HOVENDEN WALKER, sometime of Trinity-college in Dublin.  

PSALM the CXXXIX. paraphrased from Verse the 7. to Verse the 13.  

WHere shall I ●ind a close concealed Abode?  
Or how avoid an God  
Whither, O whither, can a Sinner flee,  
Almighty Lord, from thy Ubiquity!  
How from thy Omnipresence can he hide,  
Since ev'ry-where thy Spirit does reside?   

Would I ascend to Heaven, even there  
Does thy Refulgent Glory most appear;  
Thy Light does there ●ill the unbounded space,  
And there dost thou thy bright Pavilion place;  
At thy right hand, thy dear, thy darling Son  
Sits, and thy Spirit hovers o'er the Throne;  
While Hallelujahs to their God, and King,  
Myriad of Blessed Saints and Angels sing.  
Would I, to shun thee, dive to deepest Hell,  
Even there thy Horrors, and thy judgements dwell;  
Thy Terrors there the wretched Damned invade,  
No Bed of Rest or Refuge there is made;  
For ever there thy Triumphs do remain,  
(Which, Satan to forget, still strives in vain)  
E'er since for Man thou didst Redemption gain,  
And by thy Death both Death and Hell were slain.   

Could I with wings fly to the utmost Sea,  
Swift as the Light, which brings approaching day;  
Swift as the Dawn, which does itself disperse,  
In half a Day, through half the Universe.  
Even this a vain and fond Design would prove,  
Nor from thy just Protection could I move;  
For the wide World's most large circumference,  
Is circumscribed by thy vast Providence.  
Thy Goodness me from dangerous Ills would save,  
And lead me safely o'er each angry Wave.  
Thy right hand would conduct me through all harms,  
Thou wouldst protect me in thy mighty Arms.  
Under thy Wings I should in quiet sleep,  
Though tossed and threatened by the dreadful Deep.   

Would I propose to hide me from thy sight,  
In an Egyptian Darkness, and thick Night?  
A glorious Splendour, and a Light divine,  
From out of that thou wouldst command to shine;  
Thou wouldst that blackest Covering make as bright  
As the gay Beams of the Sun's dazzling Light;  
From thee the Night can no concealment be,  
For Night and Day are still the same to thee:  
Therefore in vain fond Men attempt to run  
From thee, and thy Eternal Presence shun.  
Thou unconfined thyself, dost all confine;  
For all is full of thee, and all is thine.    

A PASTORAL, In Imitation of VIRGIL's Second ECLOGUE.  

A Lowly Swain loved a proud Nymph in vain,  
Who did the Country and the Fields disdain,  
Because the fairest of the City Train.  
The haughty She despised his humble Flame,  
And, soaring, flew at a more noble Game.  
Unheard, unseen, he daily came to mourn  
Near lonesome streams, and shades, her cruel scorn:  
And, while alone, he moaned his luckless Love,  
His griefs even senseless Trees and Rocks did move.  
The neighbouring Hills with horror seemed to shake,  
While to himself ●hese raving words he spoke:   

Shall I, as others, to my Flocks complain,  
That I a cruel Beauty love in vain?  
Shall I, with fruitless cries, disturb my Lambs,  
Or, with my quer'lous groans, a●●right their Dams?  
Their Dams, that strangers are to Lover's cares,  
And can enjoy their Loves without their Fears!  
No, let me here in secret pine away,  
And in sad objects read my Doom each day.  
Lo, through these Cliffs a trav'lling Current glides,  
And little Rocks the purling streams divides.  
Ah! how well this resembles my sad Fate!  
My fruitless tears, and her unsoft'ning hate:  
For as these Rocks hard and unmoved remain,  
And the clear stream but washes 'em in vain;  
So fall my Tears as unsuccessfully,  
Nor her hard stony Heart can mollify:  
For still they run, unheeded as this Brook,  
Nor will she stop 'em by one pleasing look.  
Oh, cruel Nymph! why dost thou thus delight  
To torture me? why thus my sufferings ●light?  
My mournful Songs neglected are by thee,  
Thou art regardless of my Verse, and me.  
Thou canst behold, with an unpitying Eye,  
My sorrows, and art pleased to see me die.  
Lo, now each Creature either rests, or feeds,  
And spotted Lyzards dance in shady weeds;  
All are employed, and bonny Mall takes care,  
Dinners for weary Reapers to prepare:  
But I, by sa● complaints, at noon am found,  
Making, with Grasshoppers, the Shrubs resound.  
And while I trace thy wandering steps all day,  
Oppressed wi●h heat of Love, my spirits decay,  
And by the Sun scorched up I faint away.  
Had I not better far, contented, born  
Brown Amaryllis little peevish scorn,  
Whose lofty Soul, high Parents, and Descent,  
Against my Love had been no Argument?  
Or I had better far have loved black Bess,  
What though her Wealth and Beauty had been less;  
What though her Skin was of a tawny hue,  
And though as fair as whitest Lilies you.  
With her so long in vain I had not striven,  
But she would have rewarded Love with Love.  
Oh, beauteous Nymph, do not so much delight,  
Nor pride thyself that thou art fair and white;  
For whitest Blossoms most neglected fall,  
While the ripe Blackberry is plucked by all:  
But I am so despised, so scorned by thee,  
Thou dost not even so much as ask of me,  
What stock I do of larger cattle keep,  
How stored with Milk, or how enriched with Sheep.  
My thousand Lambs wander on yonder Hills,  
'Tis my large Flock th' adjacent Valley fills;  
Summer nor Winter my Kine ne'er are dry,  
But with new Milk my little House supply.  
If or my Verse or Music could but prove,  
Of force enough to make my fair one love;  
I would oblige her with such Songs, such lays,  
As those with which Amphion in pristine days,  
Himself of old the Theban Walls did raise.  
Nor am I so deformed to be despised,  
For I but lately with the Sea advised.  
When the still Winds did undisturbed sleep,  
Nor with their Rage wrinkled the smooth-faced Deep.  
And if that Image did not flatter me,  
I need not fear, though to be judged by thee,  
That I less handsome to your sight should prove,  
Then happy Citizens whom you so lov●.  
Oh that it necessary were for thee,  
To live in humble Cottages with me;  
To hunt swift Deer, and with a verdant twig,  
To drive my Ewes, which with their young are big.  
And while my pretty Lambs in Pastures feed,  
To imitate our Pan upon a Reed:  
Nor let it grieve you that you wear away  
Your tender Lips upon my Pipes to play.  
This, if he were but half so blest to know,  
What would not the obliged Amyntas do?  
I have that Pipe which was bestowed on me,  
By Swain Dametas; when he died, said he,  
Accept this Pipe as the best Legacy.  
Dametas said it, but Amyntas grieved,  
That I so great a present had received.  
But in an unsafe Vale I found besides  
Two tender Kids with pretty speckled Hides;  
They twice a day dreign a full Uddered Sheep,  
And these for you with so much care I keep.  
Mall would long since have begged 'em both ●rom me,  
And she shall have 'em, since contemned by thee.   

Come here, bright Maid, come hither charming fair,  
See what for thy reception Nymphs prepare;  
See how they do adorn the shady Bowers;  
See how they gather all the sweetest Flowers.  
To make thee pleasant Garlands, see how they  
Prepare to crown thee, the bright Queen of May.  
Lo I myself have searched the Orchard round,  
To see where the best Apples may be found:  
Chestnuts and yellow Plums I've gathered, such  
As once my Amaryllis loved so much.  
But here's an Apple that can all outdo,  
Which I particularly plucked for you.  
Some twigs of Laurel from yond Tree I'll take,  
And Myrtle mix, the better scents to make;  
Which artsully into a Garland wove,  
With Flowers sweet shall crown my sweeter Love.   

But all thy clownish Gifts unheeded are,  
Nor does the Nymph for such a Bumpkin care.  
What Gifts of thine canst thou believe will take,  
Since City-Youths can so much richer make?  
Thy humble Presents fading are, and poor,  
Not lasting as their bright and shining Ore.   

Alas, what shall I do? where find out Rest?  
Where ease the Burdens of my labouring Breast?  
I leave exposed (distracted in my mind)  
My choicest Gardens to the Southern Wind.  
My clearest Fountains I preserve no more,  
From the unruly, and the nasty Boar.  
My tender Flocks by me neglected are,  
And are no more as once my only care.  
While I to Passion am, unguarded they  
To the devouring Wolf become a prey.  
Each day the Sun rises upon my Love;  
And still as that ascends, this does improve.  
But when to Thetis Lap he goes to rest,  
I feel no quiet in my Tortured Breast.  
Unhappy Nymph, whom wouldst thou coyl● shun?  
Ah, whither from a wretched Lover run?  
The greatest Heroes did of old, nay Gods  
Have chose to dwell in Sylvan Shades and Woods.  
Dardanian Paris loved the Verdant Plains,  
And lived most happy, while amongst the Swains.  
Pallas herself did Fields and Forests love,  
And was delighted with the pleasant Grove;  
And there, for her abode, built shady Bowers,  
And stately Palaces, and lofty towers.  
And therefore I so much prefer above  
The smoky City, the delightful Grove;  
And in these Shades how happy could I be,  
Disdainful Nymph, were't not for Love of thee:  
'Tis that, 'tis that which thus my Rest destroys,  
'Tis that that ruins all my rural joys;  
To thee I am so prone, so bend to thee,  
I cannot taste the least felicity.  
Not ●lying Wolves by the fierce Lioness,  
Are hotlier pursued; nor are Kids less  
Followed by chase Wolves, nor can Kids be  
More fond of Cytisus than I of thee.  
All follow that in which they most delight,  
But you alone can my Desires invite.   

Ah, foolish Swain, what frenzy haunts thy mind?  
Canst thou no ease, no moderation ●ind?  
Will not thy Love one minutes rest allow?  
Behold the labouring Ox has left the Plow●  
And now the Sun hasts to his Evening bed,  
By low degrees still doubling every shade.  
All Creatures now, with the expiring Light,  
Cease from their Toil, to sleep away the Night.  
Does Love alone a cruel Master prove?  
Is there no end of the hard Tasks of Love?  
See how yond Vine untrimed neglected lies;  
What wilt thou ne'er repent? wilt ne'er be wise?  
Apply thyself to some more useful thing,  
Which may a much more certain profit bring.  
Shake off for shame at last this fruitless Love,  
And wasting Time to better ends improve:  
Or if you needs must love, hereafter choose  
Some gentler Nymph, who'll not your Love refuse.    

The Fourth ELEGY OF CORNELIUS GALLUS, OF THE Miseries of Old Age. Made English.  
The Poet gives an account of his loving a Young Maid very privately in his Youth, but at last how in his sleep he discovered what so carefully he hid waking; and concludes the Elegy with the consideration of the inconveniences he lies under by being Old.  

YET let me one more Youthful Tale rehearse,  
And please myself with my own empty Verse;  
For idle Stories very well agree  
With antic Dotage, and stupidity.  
And as in changing years, Mankind is found  
With various Chances always turning round:  
Even so those times which most inverted be,  
Seem most obliging to the Memory.   

A Virgin once there was, whom Heaven designed,  
Both by the Graces of her Face and Mind,  
To be adapted, so, that she became  
By Nature Candid, as she was by Name.  
Her pure white Hair around her shoulders spread,  
Fell decently in Ringlets●rom ●rom her Head:  
But every Part of her was bright, and fair,  
And full as charming as her Flaxen Hair.  
The tuneful Lyre s●e touched with such a grace,  
That it confirmed the Conquests of her Face;  
While from the trembling strings soft Tunes did flow,  
With Love and joy my Heart did tremble too.  
But when she joined thereto some witty Song,  
How many Cupids sat upon her Tongue!  
Each moving word, each accent sent a Dart,  
And every Note did wound my melting Heart.  
But then she Danced with such a charming Air,  
As made each Part appear more killing fair.  
No stratagems of Love by her e'er missed,  
Nor had I power my Ruin to resist:  
But did with secret Pleasure entertain  
The silent and the smooth delightful pain.   

Thus one bright Maid, but yet assisted well  
With such Auxiliaries, as nought could quell,  
In various ways stormed my defenceless Mind;  
Nor did one Charm the least resistance find.  
And when by downright ●orce she was possessed,  
She ne'er forsook my entertaining Breast.  
Once seen, her beauteous form still stayed with me,  
And day and night dwelled in my Memory.  
How o●t has my Imagination brought  
Her absent Image present to my Thought.  
Fixed, and intent, how oft (though far removed)  
Have I supposed I talked with her I loved.  
How oft with Pleasure would my Fancy bring  
Those Songs to mind which she was wont to sing;  
And how I strove my Voice, like hers, to frame,  
And been delighted as it were the same.  
Thus I myself, against myself took part,  
And, like a cheat, played booty with my Heart.  
How oft, alas, have my own Friends believed,  
That I of Sense and Reason was deprived,  
Nor can I think that they were much deceived.  
For neither was I perfectly composed,  
Nor altogether with my Frenzy dozed.   

But 'tis a mighty trying hardship sure,  
A stifled secret Passion to endure;  
The furious Rage no mortal Breast can bear,  
But in the Countenance it will appear,  
Though never so reserved, though never so severe.  
By the alternate change of White and Red,  
A true Discovery is quickly made.  
Th' affected Face does the hid thoughts declare,  
Blushing bespeaks a shame, and Paleness fear:  
But even my Dreams betrayed my Privacy,  
My Treacherous Dreams did faithless prove to me:  
They did my sad Anxieties reveal,  
Nor could even Death like sleep, my Cares conceal:  
For when my Senses all inclined to Rest,  
And by oblivious slumbers were possessed,  
Even than my conscious Tongue my Gild con●est.   

As on the Grass, sleeping I once was laid,  
Close by the Father of my lovely Maid;  
And while He thoughtless slumbered by my side,  
Thus, in my Dreams disturbed, aloud I cried,  
Hast, hast, my Candida, make no delay,  
Our secret Love is ruined if you stay:  
For see, already peeps the prying Sun,  
If weare discovered we are both undone;  
The envious Light will our stolen Loves betray,  
Hast, hast, my Candida, make haste away.   

Awaked at this, and in a strange surprise,  
He started up, and scarce believed his Eyes:  
And for his Daughter, searched the place around,  
But only I was sleeping on the ground;  
Gasping and panting there he saw me lie,  
Transported from myself with Ecstasy.  
With what vain Dreams, said he, art thou possessed?  
Or has a real Love usurped thy Breast?  
And so thy sleep discovers a true jest.  
Some waking Objects, I indeed conclude,  
Upon thy gentler slumbers may intrude,  
And fleeting Forms thy Wishes do delude.  
Astonished! he my broken Murmurs watched,  
And each imperfect dropping Sentence catched:  
Gently his right hand on my Heart he laid,  
And, in soft Whispers, more inquiries made:  
For so applied, the sly Inquirers Hand  
From sleeping Breasts can any thing command;  
And the loosed Tongue does by that Charm impart  
The very choicest secrets of the Heart.   

Thus I, who did so long myself behave  
So well, and seemed to all so good, so grave;  
And had a sober Reputation kept,  
Myself, at last, discovered, as I slept.   

And now has my whole wretched Life been free  
From imipous actions, and impurity.  
Nor can I say I did these Crimes prevent,  
So much by Virtue, as by Accident.  
But now I'm Old, and want the strength to sin,  
It pleases me my Youth hath guiltless been.  
Yet what just Praise deservedly due can be  
To Aged Men, that they from Vice are free,  
Since 'tis not choice, but mere necessity?  
Strength only sleeps, but Inclinations wake,  
And not they Vice, but Vice does them forsake:  
Pleasure deserts their unperforming Years,  
And leaves them filled with painful toils, and cares:  
They are but glad they do no evil fact,  
Only because they want the Power to act.   

'Tis worth our while, if we consider too,  
What penalties in Age we undergo;  
How that, with it, a slow repentance brings●  
For all our youthful faults, and riotings;  
How many sighs, and groans it pays, and tears,  
For dear-bought Luxury of younger years.  
But though Mankind will sometimes strive in vain,  
Youth's boiling Heats to curb, and to restrain;  
Yet ofttimes knowingly, and with much skill,  
We cunningly persist in doing iii.  
weare oft industrious, studious, wise, and nice,  
In the performance of some witty Vice:  
But Vice sometimes bears us by force away,  
Yet oft its call more easily we obey.  
Oft, though we cannot compass what we will,  
We are Wellwishers to some pleasing Ill    

To my MISTRESS.  
Translated out of Tibullus.  Nulla tuum nobis subducet foemina lectum, Hoc primum, etc. 

MY Love to thee no Beauty shall betray,  
For it is firmly ●ix't, and cannot stray.  
None, none seems fair methinks in all the Town,  
But thee; thou pleasest, and delight'st alone.  
I wish indeed that none thy Charms could see,  
And they were undiscerned by all, but me;  
So might I love with some security.  
I wish not to be envied, nor desire  
That any should my blessed state admire.  
The Wiseman loves a secret Happiness;  
For to be public, makes it but the less.  
" With thee for ever I in Woods would rest,  
" Where never humane Foot the ground has pressed.  
Thou who forbid'st Disquiets to intrude,  
" Who from Nights-shades the Darkness canst exclude,  
" And from a Desert banish Solitude.   

Should Heaven itself conspire to change my Love,  
And send me down a Mistress from above,  
Adorned with all the Beauties of the Skies,  
In vain she would attempt to charm my Eyes,  
Even Venus' self I would for thee despise.  
This I most solemnly by juno swear,  
Whom you to all the other Gods prefer.  
Hold, Madman, hold! what do I do? what say?  
But I have sworn, confessed, and must obey.  
Fool that I was, my Fear has led me on  
To this grand senseless indiscretion.  
Now thou hast conquered, and may'st tyrannize,  
With all the Powers of thy resistless Eyes;  
While I but dote the more: Yes, brainless Sot,  
This by thy foolish babbling tongue thoust got.  
But I submit, command me what you will,  
I am your most obedient Servant still.  
Thy hardest Mandates I will ne'er refuse,  
But the delightful well-known Bondage choose.  
Only to Venus' Altars I'll repair,  
And there my Love, and there my Faith declare;  
She punishes the false, the just does spare.    

The Agreement.  

I.  
CLose by a Silver Rivulet,  
Graced with rich Willows, mournful Daphne sat,  
Leaning her melancholy Head  
On the sad Banks o● an Enameled Mead,  
O'er-charged with Griefs her Heart,  
Her Eyes o'er-charged with Tears,  
For an intolerable smart,  
For daily pains, and nightly fears,  
For most uncertain hopes, and sure despairs,  
Against Tyrant Love a long complaint she made,  
Whilst each sad Object did her sorrows aid.   

II.  
Then Three-heart rending sighs she drew,  
Deeper than ever Poet's Fiction knew;  
And cruel, cruel Thyrsis said,  
Why thus unkind to an enamoured Maid?  
A Maid whose Breast abounds  
With kindness, that can move  
By dire, and miserable sounds,  
Compliance from the very Grove,  
Whilst my Heart labours to conceal its Love:  
But oh in cursed Despair first let me die,  
E'er he, by loving me, ●inds misery.   

III.  
Then three more dismal Groans she took,  
Whose cruel noise, like a great Earthquake, shook  
The neighbouring Plebeian Wood,  
Which to commiserate her sorrows stood,  
I'll tortured be no more,  
No more I'll grieve in vain;  
Enraged with furious Heat, she swore,  
These silent streams shall ease my pain,  
And I'll no more against him, and Love complain:  
Witness these lonely Fields, how I have loved,  
And for his sake this fatal Medicine proved.   

IV.  
Just with thick trouble in her face,  
Descending from the miserable place,  
Thyrsis, to save the Nymph appears,  
His Eyes half drowned with overflowing Tears.  
Thyrsis (alas) had heard  
The Maid repeat her Woe:  
Thyrsis the consequence too feared;  
Ah, why dost thou my Passion know?  
(Sad Daphne said) lose me, and let me go,  
Where at some rest, for ever I may be,  
And not despised by a Triumphing Herald   

V.  
Ah, Cruel Nymph (grieved Thyrsis cries  
With doleful Face, and lamentable Eyes)  
Could you, O could you thus undo  
A Swain, who secretly has burnt for you?  
With joy she stops him here,  
Brighter her Eyes became,  
And her all-clouded Face grew clear,  
Then (blushing said) I am to blame,  
Since you for Daphne had a private flame:  
Pleased with this blessed discovery, both agree  
Their Mutual Love no more concealed should be.    

SONG.  

I.  
DAmon to Sylvia, when alone,  
Did thus express his Love;  
Fair Nymph, I must a Passion own,  
Which, else would fatal prove.  
Can you a faithful Shepherd see,  
Who languishes in pain,  
And yet so cruel-hearted be,  
To let him sue in vain?   

II.  
Then with his Eyes all full of fire,  
And winning phrases, he  
Entreated her to ease Desire,  
And grant some Remedy.  
Allured with Amorous looks, the Maid,  
Fearing he might prevail,  
Begged that he would no more persuade  
A Virgin that was frail.   

III.  
Fear not, dear Nymph, replies the Swain,  
There's none can know our bliss;  
None can relate our Loves again,  
While this place silent is.  
Then Damon, with a loved surprise,  
Leapt close into her Arms,  
With Ravishing delights he dies,  
And melts with thousand charms.    

The Innocent Discovery.  

The Air was calm, the Sky serene and clear,  
Kindly the Lamps of Heaven did appear.  
Faintly their Light some weak Reflexes made  
On the closed Casements, which to Eyes betrayed,  
Nought, but a dying Tapers glimmering light,  
Befitting well that season of the night.  
Sleep having welcomed every wearied limb●  
And gentle silence waiting upon him.  
Under Olinda's blessed Apartment, I  
(To ease my never-ceasing Malady)  
Took up my well-strung Lute, some Airs to play;  
Airs soft as sleep, and pleasing as the day.   

On silence I no sooner made a Breach,  
Than the joyed Sound her sacred Ears did reach;  
Willing to know who had disturbed her Rest,  
Came to the Window like Aurora dressed,  
In splendour; only let this difference be,  
That fair Olinda brighter was than she.  
Lest I should see her (Ah, dear Innocence)  
Puts out the Candle, but th' Impertinence  
Of the vain plot did make me wonder more,  
For I beheld her plainer than before:  
She only had removed the Moon away,  
That hindered me of a more perfect day:  
Th' Eclipse, when gone, discovered to my sight  
A better prospect of the Sun's strong light.    

THE PETITION. A SONG.  

I.  
OH use me gently, since I am your slave,  
To Tyrannise o'er Wretches is not brave;  
In torturing me, what Glory can be found,  
Who am defenceless, and securely bound?   

II.  
Tempt not your Conquests, & your Strength too far,  
But use your Captive with a wiser care;  
Such influence will your kindness have on me,  
That I shall never wish for liberty.   

III.  
The wary Shipwright can't by force reduce  
The sturdy Oak to his more pliant use;  
But gently warms it by an easy fire,  
And then it yields to what he will desire.   

IV.  
For Love is more commanding far than Hate,  
And Cruelty Rebellion will create.  
That King sits always safest on his Throne,  
Who rules his Subjects by his Love alone.    

FATE. A SONG.  

I.  
THou knowst (my Fair) how much I love,  
And that my flames do still improve;  
That they still burn, and still appear,  
As bright as thy dear Eyes are clear:  
Still they are pure as the first Cause,  
Nor swerve they from the very Laws;  
That women's practices impose,  
Which ●irst their Humours, since their Pride has chose.   

II.  
No fault in all my Love is found,  
And yet you will not heal my Wound;  
In vain I tell you how I burn,  
You will vouchsafe me no return.  
In vain your pity I implore,  
You smile to see my bleeding sore;  
No, though a Kiss would do the Cure,  
Unkind Graciana lets me still endure.   

III.  
For this what reason can there be,  
Why so averse to Love and Me:  
Alas, too late, I know too late  
The strong necessity of Fate.  
No Woman yet was ever made  
To Love aright, but be betrayed:  
The Men, who dote on them, they eat,  
And to the Arms of the indifferent run.    

MY RELIGION.  

I.  
ME in the Church, 'tis true, you often see,  
But there I come not with intent  
To hear a thick-sculled Parson vent  
His phlegmatic Divinity:  
No, my Graciana, 'tis to look on thee;  
On thee I gaze, and in thy Eyes find sense,  
Beyond the Gown-man's holy Eloquence;  
For what has his dull tale of Doom,  
And horrid things to come,  
To do with Love, and Thee, which I alone  
For my Established Religion own?   

II.  
The Crowd, nay the more Learned, and Wise, for this  
Perhaps will me an Atheist call,  
And say that I believe no God at all:  
But oh they judge, they judge amiss,  
And wondrously themselves deceive;  
For I a mighty Deity believe,  
To whom ten thousand Sighs, as many Tears,  
With painful Groans, and with incessant Prayers,  
As a due Sacrifice each day I give,  
Which, sometimes, she disdains not to receive;  
And one kind thing from her weighs more with me,  
Than all their Bodies of Divinity.   

III.  
With much more sense, indeed they may,  
Accuse me of Idolatry;  
That I to you that Worship pay,  
Which only Heaven should have from me:  
But let the wisest of them all,  
The most precise, and Pharisaical,  
Tell me, if my Graciana would be kind;  
What holy indignation could they find;  
What pious zeal, what sanctity of mind,  
To guard them from a sin so charming sweet,  
But would fall down, and worship at thy feet;  
Striving, like me, in lasting Verse, to raise  
Eternal Trophies to thy praise.   

IV.  
For, if to me she once her Love would give,  
Graciana's Name should then for ever live,  
And in each proud, and swelling line,  
Graciana's Name should like rich jewels shine:  
Nor would it less avail, to make  
My Verse immortal, as her Fame:  
For consecrated with her Name,  
All Men would read them for Graciana's sake.    

The KISS.  

I.  
OH, take not this sweet Kiss so soon away,  
But on these Lips let me for ever stay,  
This Food, Love's Appetite, can ne'er destroy,  
'Tis too AEtherial to cloy:  
The Manna, from Indulgent Heaven,  
Which to the murmuring jews was given,  
Did not so many Delicates afford,  
As in one Kiss of thine are stored:  
But it resembles something more Divine,  
Like that above, on which bright Angels Dine;  
Where, an Eternal Meal by them's enjoyed,  
And yet, with glutted fullness, never cloyed.   

II.  
Me therefore do not you deprive  
Of my Life's chief preservative;  
Though I confess that it affords to me  
More than a bare subsistency:  
For thy dear Kiss, a kind of taste does give,  
How all the blest above do live;  
And I methinks, when e'er I join  
My happy Lips to sacred thine;  
Am with the joy transported so,  
That perfectly I do not know,  
Whether my ravished Soul be fled, or no:  
But this I certainly can say, I feel  
Pleasures that are unspeakable.  
Tell me, Graciana, prithee do,  
For only you the truth can know.  
If on thy Lips dwell such prevailing Charms,  
And in thy Kisses such delights abound;  
What Ecstasies, what Raptures will be ●ound,  
Within the Magic Circle of thy Arms.    

The WRACK.  Set by Mr. G. Hart. 

I.  
IN vain I strive, with Buis'ness, to remove  
The pleasing Tormen●s of encroaching Love;  
Dressed in such beauteous Forms, still He appears,  
With sweet Delusions, charming all my Fears;  
So strongly he allures, and does invite  
To follow distant Pleasures, scarce in sight;  
That his dear Witchcraft I want strength to shun,  
But yield, with vast delight, to be undone.   

II.  
Such strange Enchantments the sly Boy does use,  
His Chains, before my Liberty, I choose.  
And though my Ruin, I before me spy,  
I'd perish, rather than turn back to fly:  
So wretched Sailors, in an open Sea,  
By Treacherous Sirens, led an unknown way,  
See the ensuing Storms, their Songs create,  
Yet want the Power t' avoid their certain Fate.    

TO Mr P. Berault UPON HIS FRENCH GRAMMAR.  

WHat equal Thanks? what Gratitude is due,  
Industrious Friend from all this Isle to you?  
For all your Labour, all your Toil, and Care,  
In bringing us, from France, their Language here:  
Their Language, which is sure their richest store,  
And each Wise man does prize, and value more,  
Than all the Goods that came from thence before.  
Their Language, which does more the Wit re●ine,  
Than all their Modes, than all their sparkling Wine  
And this thou dost in such a Method teach,  
As even the least Capacity may reach.  
By such plain rules, and axioms thou dost show  
The Pronunciation, none could better know,  
Did they to France for their Instruction go.  
To us, thou mak'st, by this, their Learning known,  
And in th' Original 'tis all our own:  
Translators oft unfaithful, and unjust,  
At second-hand we need no longer trust;  
But in their primitive Beauty we may see  
The famous Boileau, and Sieur Scudery;  
Now those two mighty Wits we may caress  
In their own Elegant, and Native Dress,  
And learn from them, bright Ladies how to praise,  
In softest Language, and in smoothest Phrase:  
For French alone so easy is, and free;  
So sweetly gentle, that it seems to be  
At ●irst designed for, and contrived by Love,  
As th' only Charm, a scornful Nymph to move.   

Now sur● our rambling Youth will stay at home,  
Nor wantonly so oft to Paris roam,  
Under pretext to learn the Language there,  
Since you instruct them so much better here.  
They need no more tempt the unfaithful Seas,  
For what your Grammar teaches (if they please)  
With much less charge at home, & much more ease.  
This, therefore, from thy care we hope to gain,  
That thy Endeavours may those Sparks detain,  
Whose roving Minds lead them to France from hence,  
Merely (forsooth, under the slight pretence  
Of Courtly Breeding, Carriage, Wit, and Sense,)  
To learn the Affectation of the Proud,  
The noise, and nonsense of the Vain, and Loud;  
Foisting upon some easy Coxcombs here,  
Those cast of Vices which they picked up there.    

SONG.  

I.  
EVadne, I must tell you so,  
You are too cruel grown;  
No smiles nor pity you bestow,  
But Death in every frown.  
My Love, though chaste and constant too,  
Yet no relief can ●ind;  
Cursed be the slave that's false to you,  
Though you are still unkind.   

II.  
Were you as merciful as fair,  
My wishes would obtain;  
But love I must, though I despair,  
And perish in the pain.  
If in an Age I can prevail,  
I happy then shall be;  
And could I live, I would not fail  
To wait Eternally.    

The same SONG Inverted.  By Mr. Walker. 

EVadne, I must let you know,  
Your Cruelty is vain;  
For if you will no smiles bestow,  
I scorn your proud disdain.  
And since my Love, though pure and true,  
No just relief can find;  
Cursed be that Fool shall dote on you,  
When you are still unkind.   

II.  
Were you as gentle as you're fair,  
I'd strive your Love to gain;  
But I can n●ver court Despair,  
Nor cherish needless pain.  
If in a Week I could prevail,  
Then I might happy be;  
But Love and Patience, both will fail,  
To wait Eternally.     

The Five following Copies done by Mr. C. G. of AEton-Colledge.  

A Paraphrase on the 23d idyl. of Theocritus, from the beginning, to 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, etc.  

I.  
AN Amorous little Swain  
Was set to keep  
His Father's goodly Flock of Sheep,  
(Fed in a Common that belonged to Pan,  
About the middle of th' Arcadian Plain.)  
By chance a noble Youth came by,  
Whom when his sparkling Eyes did spy  
His watchful Eyes,  
That there stood Centinel,  
And did perform their office well;  
Stoutly prepared for every quick surprise.  
Marking the Beauty of his Angel's Face,  
Mixed with sweet carriage, and a heavenly grace,  
Well satisfied, they let him pass;  
Who having got admittance, did impart  
The fatal secret to his wounded heart.  
Charmed with the Youth he was that Fate had thither brought,  
Whose Beauty did surpass desire or thought:  
In making whom,  
Nature for once did thus presume,  
To go beyond her Last, to place  
On a Man's shoulders a fair Woman's face;  
Or rather to adorn,  
With more than heavenly beauty a Terrestrial Form.   

II.  
But ah! his Mind,  
Not like his Angel Face, proud, scornful, & unkind,  
Despising those whom Passion,  
Whom unresisted Passion moved  
To highest admiration;  
Those who disdained him most, he greatly loved:  
He knew not, nor did he desire to know  
What Cupid meant, his Arrows, or his Bow,  
How oft, how usually he throws  
A Golden Dart,  
To wound the Heart  
Of those  
Who most unconquerable seem,  
jeer at his Godship, and his Power contemn.  
Cruel in deed and word,  
Who never the least comfort would discover,  
Or one cool drop of ease afford  
To a despairing, burning, dying Lover.  
Choler and anger in his Entrails boils,  
No pleasant smiles,  
No rosy Lips, nor blushing Cheeks,  
Nor languished Eyes that might betray  
An inward fondness, and might seem to say,  
I will thy mutual love repay.  
No comfortable words he speaks;  
Nor suffers me to ravish one kind kiss,  
That entrance to a future, and more perfect bliss:  
But as a Chased Boar  
With Vengeance looks upon his Hunter's Spear;  
Sets up his Bristles on his back,  
And roaring makes  
The Forest all around, and every Creature quake;  
So he beholds the Swain  
With desperate fury and disdain,  
Adding more fuel to his never-dying flame.   

III.  
Disdain did make his Countenance turn pale,  
And all his other Charms begin to fail;  
Anger did banish every Grace  
From the dominions of his lovely Face,  
Whilst cruel Eyes, and harder Heart took place.  
Yet still the Shepherd finds no Arms  
Fit to resist these languishing, these fainting Charms,  
His Angel sweetness he must still adore,  
Troubled that he could manifest his Love no more.  
Alas! how vain and useless all things prove,  
When entered in Damned Cupid's School,  
We learn his Precepts, and his Rules,  
When shackled in the chains of Love,  
Turn fashionable fools;  
We scarce can call ourselves our own,  
And our affections pay obeisance to another's Crown.   

IV.  
No longer able to contain,  
Though all was needless, all in vain;  
Tears, like a mighty Flood,  
Did overflow their Banks, and drowned  
Th' adjacent Barren, fruitless, famished Ground.  
Trembling with fear,  
At last he ventured to draw near,  
Where all in Glory stood,  
The object of his Love, the cause of his Despair.  
First he presumes to kiss  
The sacred ground whereon he trod,  
In hopes of ●uture happiness,  
But all would do no good.  
Then strove to speak,  
But ah! Disdain and Fear his forwardness did check,  
And made his half-out lisping words draw back.  
Forcing himself at last, stutters such words as these:   

V.  
O cruel, inexorable, stony Saint,  
Blind to my Tears, and Dea● to my Complaint;  
Sure of some Lioness, or Tiger born,  
Unworthy of my Love, as I unworthy of your scorn.  
A grateful Gift to you I bring,  
The welcomest the only thing  
That now at present does remain,  
To ease me of my pain;  
To ease me of my Love, and you of your Disdain.  
And lo,  
How willingly I go;  
How willingly I go, where you  
By your unkindness, destin me unto;  
I go where every Lovesick Mind  
Is used, an universal Remedy to find;  
The place is called Oblivion's Land,  
A Lake called Lethe in th' midst does stand:  
Which were it possible that I could dry,  
In flames unquenchable I still should fry;  
Nor could I yet forget thy Name,  
So oft have I repeated o'er the same,  
But find, alas! no liquor that can quench my flame.   

V.  
Adieu! loved Youth, eternally adieu!  
But scornful fair first know what doom,  
Undoubtedly shall on your Beauty come,  
And from my dying mouth believe it true.  
The pleasant Day, alas! is quickly gone,  
Flowers in th' Morning fresh cut down by Noon;  
The blushing Rose does fade, and wither soon,  
White Snow does melt before the scorching Sun;  
So youthful Beauty's full of charms, but all are quickly gone,  
The time will come when you yourself will prove  
How great a Deity is Love.  
Charmed by some beauteous she,  
You'll offer up your sacrifice of Tears,  
And weary her with your continual Prayers;  
By Night you'll sigh, and pine, by Day you'll woe,  
But all's in vain that you can do,  
No greater pity will you find, than I from you.  
Then will your Conscience bring Me into mind,  
Not to delight, but serve you in your kind;  
My restless Ghost shall come,  
Not to cry Ah! but Io! at your doom.   

VI  
However grant me this, even this at least;  
I'll ask no more, but grant me this request:  
That when thou passest by,  
Thou woul'st not let me unregarded lie,  
Seeing the fatal Dagger in my Breast.  
But come, and grieve, and weep a while,  
I ask not (what I once so much desired) one smile;  
But pull the Dagger from the Wound,  
And close, and close embrace me round;  
Thy Mantle o'er my liveless Body spread,  
Give me one kiss, one kiss, when I am dead:  
I ask no more, O grant me this,  
That thou may'st join  
Thy Lips to mine,  
And seal them with a meeting, parting kiss.  
When forced by thy unkindness I am fled,  
Thou needest not fear that I can then revive,  
Though such a kiss could almost raise to life.  
Hue me a stately Tomb to be my Bed,  
Where Love and I may lay our head.  
Then leave me, after thou hast three times said,  
My Friend, my dearest Friend on Earth is dead;  
O cruel Death, that canst us two divide;  
My friend, my friend, would God that I ●or thee had died.  
Write this Inscription (since they are in fashion)  
To show how base your scorn, how excellent my passion.  
Here lies a Lover, killed by Deep Despair;  
Stay, Reader, stay,  
And only be so kind to say,  
Alas, He loved; Alas, He loved a Cruel Fair.    

CHORUS I. Of Seneca's Agamemnon.  

FOrtune, thou setter up of Kings,  
Upon whose smiles or frowns  
Depends the standing, or the fall of Crowns.  
What various Chances Fortune brings?  
Mounting on deceitful Wings,  
She lifteth Kings on high,  
On Wings of Dignity.  
Then leaves them all alone,  
Tells them she must be gone;  
So let them stand, or ●all, or rise,  
With Wings spread out, away she flies.  
Fortune, how canst thou cheat us so  
With naughty Goods, yet make a show  
Of honest Ware; thou dost desire  
Thy Goods should rich, and gay appear,  
Though they be truly little worth, and truly very dear.   

II.  
'Tis not the Sceptre, or the bearing sway,  
Can cares and troubles drive away:  
One trouble on another's neck does come;  
The first retreats, another takes his room.  
The raging Sea contends  
For passage through the Sands;  
The skipping Waves do beat and roar,  
Falling from a lofty shore;  
So Fortune headlong throws,  
Chances of Kings, and those  
That are exalted unto dignity.  
King's would be feared, yet we see,  
They fear, lest they that fear them should use treachery.   

III.  
'Tis not the Night can give them rest,  
Whose Hearts with slavish fear are pressed;  
Nor can sweet sleep expel the care  
Of them, whose Minds unquiet are.  
What Palace is not quickly brought,  
By Prince's Wickedness, to nought?  
What Tower does not impious Arms  
Weary, with continual harms?  
All Law and Modesty is fled the Court,  
No ties of sacred Wedlock there resort.   

IV.  
But desperate Bellona stands  
With quavering Spear, and bloody hands:  
There stands Erinnys too, beside,  
The Punisher of Courtly Pride;  
Who always waiteth at the door  
Of such as swell in Wealth and Power,  
To lay them levelly every hour:  
And yet suppose there should be peace,  
And th' ills pre-mentioned all should cease.   

V.  
Still things that are so high, and great,  
Are overturned by their own weight.  
If Sails be blown by prosperous Wind,  
We fear those Gales should prove unkind:  
And Auster smites the Tower that shrouds  
His lofty top among the Clouds.  
The little Shrubs, in shades that spread,  
Do see the tall and ancient Oak,  
Which blasting Boreas oft has shaken,  
Lie fallen on th' Ground, withered and dead.  
Flashes of Lightning smite the Mountains high,  
Great Bodies open to diseases lie.   

Among the Herd's, Kine that are fat, and best,  
Are chose for slaughter out from all the rest;  
What ever tottering Fortune does exalt,  
Has only Crutches lent to learn to halt.  
Low, mean, and moderate things bear longest date,  
That Man is ●ruly, and is only Great,  
Who lives contented with a mean Estate.  
Thrice happy is the Man, whose Means do lie  
Above, or else below cursed Fortune's eye;  
Too low for Envy, for Contempt too high.   C. G.  

THE PENITENT.  

I.  
BY Heaven! 'tis scarce ten days ago,  
Since to myself I made a Vow,  
That I would never have to do  
With Duserastes more;  
Till Wine, and Love, and Ease complying,  
Bore down before 'em all denying,  
For having his Perfections, told me,  
Made me break the Oath I swore;  
Threw me headlong to his Arms,  
Where tasting of his usual charms,  
No Resolution can withhold me.  
Now, who but Duserastes in my eye;  
'Tis by his smiles I live, and by his frowns I die.   

II.  
Your Sunny Face, through Cloudy Frowns, in vain  
Would make my Gazing Eyes abstain,  
For I as soon can cease to be,  
As cease to Love, and gaze on thee;  
Here could I take up mine Eternity.  
As well one may  
Touch flaming Coals, or with a Serpent play,  
And yet receive no harm;  
As look on you unmoved by your Charms.  
For my part, I am forced to lay down Arms;  
Although I'm fain  
To be content with nothing but disdain.  
And since those things are cheap, we easily obtain,  
I am content a while to live upon despair,  
Just as Chameleons do on Air.   

III.  
I play and dally on Hell's brink,  
Till I perceive myself begin to sink,  
Or scorch myself too near so great a fire,  
And so am forced to retire.  
Anon forgetful of my former bourn,  
I must again, I must again return:  
So does the little Gnat, by Night,  
Fly round, and round, the Candle's light,  
Until its busy daring Wing  
Too near such heat begins to sing;  
Yet still unmindful of the smart,  
She must, she will repeat her former sport.   

IV.  
Hence, hence, Heroic Muse, adieu,  
For I must take my leave of you;  
Love, that usurps the Rule of my Poetic Vein,  
Forbids Calliopes Heroic strain;  
Charges me nothing to indite,  
Concerning this or t'other fight,  
Nor of the Scythian, or the Parthian War to write,  
Unless to beautify my Poetry,  
Those stories to my Love I fitly would apply.  
And now methinks I feign  
Myself an honest faithful Scythian,  
And he a perfidious flying Parthian,  
Whose turned Dart  
Strikes his Pursuer swiftly to the Heart:  
So the more eager Phoebus followed on,  
The swifter Daphne did his Presence shun;  
So much the more increased his Passion higher,  
As the chaste little Virgin, she grew shire.  
I ask not mutual Love in equal weight,  
But only give me leave to love thee free from hate.    

To DUSERASTES.  
O Cruel, Proud, and Fair,  
Cause of my Love, and cause of my Despair.  
When first a little sprouting Beard,  
Those lovely Lips, and Cheeks shall guard,  
Not soft as Down, but rugged, long, and hard.  
When lovely Locks, that on your shoulders play,  
Shall turn to the cold hoary Grey,  
Or, wasting Time shall eat 'em quite away;  
As when too much of working spoils  
The very heart of fruitful Soils,  
And makes 'em, without moisture, hard and dry,  
All Plants and Herbs do wither, fall, and die.  
And when that lovely Red and White,  
That in your charming Cheeks do meet,  
That make the Lily, and the Rose,  
Their sweetness, and their colour lose,  
Shall turn to Wrinkles, wan, and pale,  
And all your other Charms shall fail.  
Then as you go to gaze  
Upon you former Angel's face,  
In your too much frequented Looking-glass;  
Then your own Presence will you strive to shun,  
And thus complain in a forsaken Lover's tone.  
Why was I ever Young?  
Why was not Beauty long?  
Why had I ever Charms, or why are they so quickly gone?   

The VOW. To the same.  

I.  
WHy do you vex me with continual fears,  
And force out needless Tears?  
Why do you tell me I shall surely die,  
Since Courteous Heaven, and I,  
Both in one resolution do comply?  
That whensoever you are fled, unkind;  
I will not stay, I cannot stay behind.  
If envious Fate must strike the Heart,  
My better part,  
Why should this liveless lump of Clay  
Delay  
To mount the Skies to follow thee away?  
Propitious Fate has spun  
Both threads of Life in one;  
I've made a Vow, yea I have sworn,  
Nor will I fail (by Heaven) to perform;  
We'll travel both together to our long, long home.   

II.  
In spite of Hell, to Heaven we will glide,  
And all the heavy World below deride,  
Attended by Jove's Messengers on either side:  
Not Charon's shabby Barge,  
Shall have so great, so glorious a charge:  
Apollo's Chariot shall us both transport,  
With Mercury our Guide,  
Above Moon, Stars, and Sun, we'll glide,  
Till we arrive to Jove's Eternal Court,  
There in Immortal State  
Shall I on yours, and you on Jove's left hand be set.  
Nay, further still our Glories shall extend,  
You shall be worshipped as the God of Beauty,  
To you shall Mortals pay all sacred Duty,  
My Name shall signify a Faithful Friend;  
Here shall our love no quarrels know, our joys no end.     

The Six following COPIES done by Mr. T. B. of Cambridge.  

An ELEGY on King CHARLES the Second, who died of an Apoplexy.  

NO more, he's gone, with Angel's Wings he fled,  
What Mortal Art could keep him from the Dead?  
The Miracles of Art were shown in vain,  
Such as could give a meaner Life again;  
But Miracles were common in his Reign.  
A Diet in distress no comfort brings,  
Thus are we sure to lose the best of Kings.   

Great Charles, or loved or feared too much by Death!  
Our Bribes could get us but a parting breath.  
Unusual Fate destroyed our chief design,  
And every Sister cut the Royal Twine;  
Direful Solemnities they used below,  
And thrice they gave the irrevocable Blow.  
Thrice on the Monarch (for each Nation) seize,  
And to his Empire suited the Disease.  
So did Geryon take his long farewell,  
And saw two Heads expire before he fell;  
So put Alcides victory to a stand,  
And piece-meal fell by an all-conquering hand.   

Say, envious Stars, did he deserve your spite;  
Say, all ye grand Caballers of the Night,  
Did you remember with regret the Day,  
When his new Star drove all your Beams away,  
When the glad Sky did wondrous smiles dispense,  
Feared you to lose your ancient Influence?   

The same good Omen gave our Charles his Birth,  
As ushered in Salvation to the Earth.  
Under one Planet grisly Death was slain,  
But the same bade him live, and slay again.  
O ye, just Powers! That Death (by Faith overcome)  
Should lead the Faith's Defender to his Tomb.   

Britain's lament, inspired by sorrow, sing,  
Embalm with Tears and Verse your Gracious King;  
wherever Death can come, let it be said,  
In mournful Elegies, our Gracious King is Dead.  
A Soul so large, so generous a Mind,  
As Heaven all knowing, and as Heaven all kind.  
Let the sad News be born through every Sea,  
And the Winds groan whilst they the News convey.  
Our Peaceful Ships will need no Cannon roar,  
And with the Tidings terrify the Shoar.   

What Grief in Neighbouring States shall not be known,  
Now the soft link of Amity is gone?  
Love has the Natural World to Peace confined,  
But the Political by Charles was joined.  
What Grief shall not the Foreign Reg●ons show?  
For they have lost their joy, and ●onder too.  
Libian shall slash their Bre●●●s, and so ●eclare  
Their outward Grief to Ch●rl●● 〈…〉 there.  
One, o'er her Gold, corroding Drops shall shed,  
The other Ind. weep Gems for James' head;  
No Quarter but shall Sighs and Blessings send,  
And to a thousand Gods our King shall recommend.   

Pardon, Great Ghost, your sinful People spare,  
And be our Genius with your Princely care.  
Smiling, the Story of your Troubles tell,  
And pity the mean Souls who could Rebel.  
With joy recount the Changes you have known,  
And all the shapes attend the British Crown.  
How faithless, as encircling Waves, were We;  
How you became the Proteus of our Sea:  
How on the Wing you'd now deceive the Foe,  
Then vanished into Air unseen you'd go:  
How like a stately Oak you'd sometimes Reign,  
And with long Sceptres awe the shrubby Plain.   

Such were the forms, Alive, you used to have,  
Immutable and stiff now in the Grave;  
Variously pressed, and moulded up and down,  
You were reserved for an Eternal Crown.    

A DITHYRAMBIQUE, Made just before the KING and QUEEN Went to Their CORONATION.  

I.  
KEep now, my Muse, the great Pindaric road,  
And fly as if to meet a God,  
For james and Mary are the same;  
Ascend my Muse, mount in your Flame,  
For oh my Soul's in haste to be abroad;  
Our Souls of old were stolen from on high,  
And since, as if they feared Discovery,  
Sneak here below with dull Mortality,  
Let mine be open, and confess her Mother-Sky;  
Visit the Plains above, and sing  
Some worthy Transports of a Godlike King:  
What Muse cannot our james inspire;  
What cannot Royal Mary do,  
They give us Themes and Genius too,  
Fuel at once, and Fire.  
Leander stretched along, & buffeted the saucy Waves,  
That, when he thought of Life, and joy,  
Dared the kind Thoughts annoy,  
And threaten him with Graves:  
The Taper did not only show his Pathless Way,  
But made him bold, and strong,  
Leander stretched along;  
Not only on his Eye it played,  
But followed Love through all the Pores he there had made,  
It glittered in his Mind as well as in the Sea.   

II.  
Heroes, by Nature, still dispense  
Vigour and Sense,  
To the most Thoughtless subject-Clay,  
Upon the Machines' still they shine:  
The Machines' feel a warmeth Divine,  
And briskly move, and sweetly play.  
Their Royal sparkling Virtues are  
The only Stars that have an Influence,  
And du' isle as the Gold they wear.  
This happy England knows;  
England is happy in her Sons at last,  
The Days of Prodigality are past;  
For Arms and Arts her Sons grow fit,  
They gather Courage, and they gather Wit;  
In vain their Temper, and their Clime oppose,  
And once-insulting Neighbours fear,  
Those Lyons●url ●url their Mains no more,  
No longer tear the ground, and roar,  
They see our james his England's shape restore,  
And break the Charms that made her Beast before;  
Those Lions tremble, and reveer,  
For England once again a Royal Matron does appear.   

III.  
How much indebted must the Coronation be,  
Heroick james, to very Thee,  
Thy Person would, unrobed, add to th' Solemnity,  
Luster to Thee thy Diadem will owe,  
And Flaming jewels round thy Head,  
Like a good Omen spread,  
Thou dost on all a noble Stamp bestow,  
Thy subtle Beams through thy People go,  
And make each Vulgar look to show,  
Indulgent Planets to their Friends, and Comets to the Foe:  
Thou, with Illustrious Graces, round Thee hurled  
From Thy own self, dost Animate the British World;  
Poetic Plato, when he made his Deity,  
But fancied what in james we see,  
The Infinite was placed alone,  
Amidst his wondrous Creation;  
The Indivisible the Centre did possess,  
And with Extended Spirit, bless  
The living Circles that his Breath had formed about his Throne,  
His Spirit penetrated everywhere,  
And left no point void of the searching Care,  
Large streams of Inspiration flowed,  
And taught the Being's, that they gave, to praise their God.   

IV.  
Io, my Muse, the Triumphs just begin,  
Over our Nations vanquished sin,  
Our Animosities and Feuds are done,  
All those unhealthy Clouds are gone;  
Fixed is our Delos now, nor can th' embracing Sea  
Flatter her to her old Inconstancy.  
Awake, my Muse,  
The comfortable news  
Rehearse,  

* Most of this Fourth Stanza is an Allusion to an Old Poetical Fa●le, and parallels the King and Queen, in some respects, to the Heathen Deities, Apollo and Diana.  And tell it to the Precedent of Verse,  
If such a Precedent of Verse there be,  
And any way akin to Memory;  
How will it work on his Harmonious Mind?  
How soft will be his strain,  
When he shall find  
His own strange Story acted over again?  
He'll smile when e'er You wondering tell,  
Our Delos did become unmoveable;  
He'll strike his Lyre, when You shall praise  
Our crowned Phoebus, and describe his Rays.  
Diana too you must recite,  
The Three-named Goddess naturally bright,  
Whose Native Glories than were seen,  
When a vast Tract of Earth was placed between,  
When she deserved alone to be a Queen,  
Tho', like his Sister, say she now but borrows Light.   

V.  
Lo, where Apollo smiling stands,  
And strikes his Lyre with his Melodious hands,  
Possessed with mighty Pleasure; Lo  
Where he has left his Quiver and his Bow;  
There are his Arrows laid aside,  
And by the milder Lyre supplied;  
The cheerful sound, the cheerful sound methinks I hear;  
And lo, how every Year  
Dances in decent order here,  
By the smooth Motion all their poison's spent,  
And th' Hieroglyphic Snake grows innocent;  
At th' cheerful Sound ill-boding Spirits fly,  
Charmed from their best-beloved Cruelty,  
And vanish, like sad Ghosts, that eat the Morning's Eye.  
Ill-boding Spirits on happy Minutes wait,  
And boldly vex the Fortunate,  
And Politicly seize a glad unwary State;  
A Coronation pomp gone by,  
Behind the greedy Vultures fly,  
The rear's brought up with judgements, Plagues, Mortality,  
And all the poor Spectators die;  
Instead of Medals to be thrown about,  
Malicious Powers  
Scatter their Ulcers, and their Sores,  
And shower their Tokens on th'Infected Rout,  
This former times have known, avert it Heaven from ours.   

VI  
Close up, my Muse, the dismal Scene,  
Leave the Destroying Angels, or Destroying Men;  
Our Monarch shall your Music make,  
Of honourable Actions speak,  
Sing of our Present joys, and Miseries forsake;  
Speak of the Prince that awed the Main,  
And in the Ocean wide began his Reign,  
Whose Prowess heavy Flemings understood;  
Whose Valour everywhere  
Escaped the Rocks and Shallows of Despair,  
Who Noah's lawful Heir  
Succeeded in the boundless Empire of the Flood.  
Show the undaunted Champion on the shore,  
Dying his future Robes in Hostile Gore;  
Show him in Peace how easy, and how free,  
And yet beyond the Reach of Mutiny,  
Eternal Conqueror! in Peace he gets a Victory.  
He stops not there where other Warriors do,  
He does not always force pursue,  
He can both Soul and Body too,  
Mankind in all Capacities subdue:  
He does not only use the kill Art,  
With harmless Skill sometimes he wounds the Heart,  
And there plants Loyal Veins to quell the traitorous part;  
The Vital Flame he does not always damp,  
But pours a precious Oil into the gloomy Lamp;  
His former victories are in this overcome,  
And he's the greatest Conqueror at home.   

VII.  
Illustrious Prince, humble and brave,  
Head of his Country, and his Country's slave;  
A Soldiers hardships oft he endured,  
And in bold Deeds the Prince obscured;  
As jove to the Egyptian Beasts was known,  
Oft he retired to our Condition,  
And thence took Rise to leap into a Throne.  
He ran through every Task that Subjects bear,  
Accomplished, by degrees, for Royal Care;  
With Toil he climbed the Pinnacle of State,  
His Fortune oft was used before 'twas great,  

* The Motto of the King's Medal.  And Laurels did his Head for the Imperial Crown prepare.  
Theseus and Bacchus thus Ambrosia gain,  
And with the Healing Nectar calm their former Pain:  
Thus Hercules upon twelve Trophies rose,  
He laboured for, and merited a long Repose.  
Thus sacred Charles ascends,  
And visits his Celestial Friends;  
Safely he cuts the thundering Skies,  
Adorned with new imperious joys;  
Young Angels kiss each tender Limb,  
And fond call him Cherubin,  
His Saviour and his Sire embrace him as he flies.   

VIII.  
james, thou hast won 'em, & our Lives are thine,  
Thousands of ours vouchsafe receive,  
For that Great One thou wouldst so often give;  
That Life which weathered Storms, & a more damned Design,  
Which can the Devils various shapes decline,  
In Patience Second Brother of the Stuart's Line.  
Patience, the stay of angry Fate,  
That pleases Heaven when it's inclined to Hate:  
Patience, that Patience purchases above,  
By sacred Sympathy,  
The Bar at which the heavens and We  
Meet and Agree,  
Patience the Alchemy,  
That turns to Gold the Leaden Darts of Love;  
By Touchstone Patience, the creating Counsels know  
If they have framed a Masterpiece, or no.  
In Patience Thetis dipped her Boy,  
And sent him to defy the Force of Troy;  
Patience the Shield which Cyclops beat,  
Composed of Cold and Heat,  
Struck by the Sword of Envy, or of Spite,  
The more it sparkles, and confounds the fight.  
The Icy Sword snaps on the Shield,  
Spite falls unarmed, and Envy quits the Field.  
Thus far th' inconstant style betrays my mind,  
Wavering, as needless, till the Pole they find.  
But here 'tis fixed, since to the Queen 'tis brought,  
The Queen is the Perfection of our Thought:  
Her Beauty, which can fire the Solid james,  
With ease must put our ●inder Breasts in flames.  
Such Beauty heavens in Modena misplace,  
We lay the justest claim to such a Face.  
Such radiant Eyes our Nation's loss repay,  
For the rich Pearls that Caesar bore away;  
As in some Vital, where the Scarlet Blood  
Glides smoothly on, and keeps an equal ●lood;  
The brisker Soul rides high, and knows no bound,  
Expands itself, and slashes round:  
S● must our Queen, when she shall pass along,  
So be distinguished ●rom the Crimson Throng.  
Hail, Gracious Queen of Beauty, and of Wit,  
In whom the two best Characters are writ,  
From the blessed Hills; Oh, Aiding Goddess! You  
Both warm our Climate, and our Fancies too.  
What Offerings for such Presents could we bring,  
If we had not been happy in a King.    

To Their GRACES, THE DUKE and DUCHESS OF ALBEMARLE, Upon Their Voyage for JAMAICA.  

Great Sir,  
YOur Presence still we would implore,  
Did not the Indies court You to their shore;  
Thence rising Glory drives our Grief away,  
And only Envy can desire your stay.  
Tremble we might, and dread Another's Doom,  
But Your strange Blessings promise more to come.  
We that beheld how Riches slowed to Thee,  
Need not suspect a Tributary Sea;  
Nor can we fear that Danger's there designed,  
Where Providence has made the Rocks so kind:  
Prodigious Fortune must on him attend,  
To whom the Waves such pleasing Monsters send;  
Your Father's Spirit, sure on th' Water moved,  
Want to restore the Gallant Men he loved.   

Go then, loved Prince, Success your Actions crown,  
Guarded with virtuous Honours there unknown:  
How shall your Star shine on the newfound Coast,  
And please the Pride of the third Edward's Ghost,  
So far outdoing his Prophetic Boast.  
The George by him penned up in Lands he knew,  
Will make the utmost Conquest under You.  
How shall the slaves to Labour born, and Toil,  
When Your kind Person shall refresh the Isle,  
Wonder with joy to see each other smile?  
The Spirits which, to them, You shall dispense,  
So much their once-vexed Souls will influence,  
That they shall banish all sad sorrows thence.  
What ease shall Natives, what delight possess,  
Who from blest You derive their Happiness?  
New Kings at home have Acts of Grace bestowed,  
And Albemarle gives jubilees abroad.   

Madam,  
'Twas no desert in us, we own,  
So long detained You to ourselves alone;  
No Worth of ours, but Charity in You,  
Gave more to Us than was by Nature due.  
Your Grace for Universal Comfort made,  
As the Day-Beams are round the Globe displayed,  
Should equally distribute Light and Shade.  
And Beauties still of Alexander's mind,  
In one poor World too narrowly confined:  
But these two Conqueror's do this Difference keep,  
Fate will not let the charming Victress weep.   

When Thundering Spaniard's Mexico did seize,  
Indians surprised, thought 'em Deities.  
By suffering since, taught what the Furious are,  
Now wisely will adore the soft and fair;  
Even from their Sun to gentler warmth they'll ●ly,  
And at Your Rays their smothered Souls supply;  
They'll thank the heavens that made their Herbs for smoke,  
And sacrifice Plantations, You t'invoke.  
Their teeming Soil vast Treasures needs must give,  
For You can ripen where the Planets leave:  
Your cheerful Eyes all sorrow shall destroy,  
And fill their Hearts with Plenty, and with joy.  
What cannot Greatness, Wit, and Beauty do,  
Such constant Bliss is to Your Presence due,  
As if their Spring but Prophesied of You?    

Ovid. Amor. lib. 2. Eleg. 15. A Ring Presented to his Mistress.  
GO, sparkling Ring, my Fair one's finger bind,  

Shine there, and tell what Flames you le●t behind.  
Leap on the tender joint with eager Zeal,  
And may she smile, and entertain thee well.  
Close may her Finger be to Thee embraced,  
As Fate has made my Arms to clasp her Was●.  
Thou little Ring, how happy must thou be,  
Handled by Her, and Envied even by Me.  
Raised to my Heaven, a Comet thou wilt prove,  
And vex the quiet Government of Love.  
Now for a Spell, that I my Gift might grow,  
To rifle all the Charms my Fair can show.   

Then as her naked Skin she ever pressed,  
Or hid her hand within her heaving Breast;  
With joy grown big I'd quit my former hold,  
And send to better Mines th' enlivened Gold.   

Then when she seals her Letters with my Gem,  
(Let not my Ruin be contrived in them)  
Lest the soft Wax refuse to let me go,  
What balmy Kisses will her Lips bestow?   

Then, if hence Betty with this Ring she cries,  
And throw it where my other Plunder lies.  
Shrunk with the fright, I'll lengthen a Delay,  
I'll gently squeeze her, and my Love betray.  
Disgrace from me, my sweetest, never fear,  
I am a pretty Woman's Ring, my Dear.  
Let You and I go to the Bath's alone,  
And let the fruitful Waters change my Stone.  
O, Madam, then, Madam, the Blessing then,  
Passion shall teach your Ring the Crimes of Men.   

But these are Dreams, my little Gift, adieu,  
Say I adore Her, and have offered You.    

TO AFER. MARTIAL. Epig. 31. lib 4.  

THis for an hundred Pound's engaged to me,  
That Merchant owes me two, that Banker three.  
The Chamberlain runs deeper in my score,  
And the Exchequer keeps a thousand more.  
The new Plantations raise my Treasure much;  
Beside a Trade with Spaniards, and the Dutch.   

The same dull Tale Afer so oft you tell,  
I scarce remember my own Name so well.  
Afer, I faint, my Patience quite is lost,  
I cannot hear your Gains, but to your Cost.  
Without reward, such Torture who will bear,  
Poundage is due for every Sum, I hear.    

An Excuse for not Rhyming in the Time of the Rebellion.  

'TIS true, my Friend, my Style is mean and low;  
But if you like it, 'tis no longer so.  
What to the unkind World does Humble seem,  
Lovers and Friends may raise by their Esteem;  
E'er since the Image of Immortal Love,  
Made Dust and Ashes fit for joys above.   

Yet though I had as clear and smooth a Vain,  
And Sung as well as any jovial Swain.  
Though I could force the Dulness of our Clime,  
And aid the Labouring Fancy with my Rhyme;  
Heighten my thoughts, expel the Clouds from thence,  
Or strike from them Flashes of Wit and Sense.  
War would disorder my soft Spirits quite,  
And, like a Plague infect, and make them fight.  
Rebellious War all Melody destroys,  
From Plow-men's Whistle, to the laureate's Voice.  
Swords fright the Muses●rom ●rom their peaceful seat,  
And Poets are the first they captivate.  
Minerva's easy, while her Garment flows,  
Dress her in Armour, and how stiff she goes?  
The Harps that drew wild Mortals from the Wood,  
And taught the Harmony of Common good,  
By just proportion of their tuneful strings,  
Ranked People, Gentry, Nobles, and their Kings.  
Hence is it when State-Unisons expire,  
They barbarously slay their Parent Lyre.   
FINIS.    

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FINIS.