POETICAL EXERCISE WRITTEN Upon Several Occasions.  
PRESENTED, and DEDICATED TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS, MARY Princess of ORANGE.  

Licenced,  
March 23. 1686/ 7. ROGER L'ESTRANGE▪   
LONDON, Printed for R. Bentley, and S. Magnes, in Russell street, in Covent-Garden, 1687.   

TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS, THE PRINCESS of ORANGE.  
Madam,  
I Should not offer Your Royal Highness a Present of so little value, had I not this to encourage me; that 'tis not the Gift it self; but the Way of giving, which finds Acceptance with Great, and Generous Minds. And in this (as in other things) they resemble the Divinity; that looks with a more favourable Eye upon Sincerity, and Truth (tho' in the plainest Dress) than upon all the Pomp, and Splendour of a Costly Worship.  
It is not as a Poet, Madam, that I address myself to Your Royal Highness. For I pretend to no Exactness in an Art, which I never professed. The Course of Life, which I have formed to myself, lies quite in another Road; and I have never conversed with the Muses, but in some dead Intervals of Time; when I have had no Company but my own self, and no Business but to think.  
So that, when I throw these Papers at Your Royal Highness' Feet, it is not that I think they deserve that Honour; but as an humble expression of Duty; which I am more particularly obliged to pay; because I have been so happy as to pass some Time in Your Royal Highness' Court; and to be a Witness of those Things, which have entered Your Character in the Books of Fame; and raised it to so high a Pitch, that it strikes Your Enemies with Silence, Your Friends with Joy, and all the World with Admiration.  
I know, Madam, to flatter Greatness is a Disease common in Courts; and those few who escape it, because they converse with an infected Multitude, are seldom looked upon as sound; but I am sure, I was never guilty of that Weakness. And indeed, not to mention the real Injustice, as well as the numerous ill Consequences, that attend it; there is something in the very Nature of Flattery too mean, and little for an Honest Mind to stoop to.  
But, at the same time that I abhor Flattery, I love Justice; and in all, that I say to Your Royal Highness, upon this Occasion, every body is obliged to declare (or with Silence give their Consent) that I only give Honour to whom Honour is due.  
It is certain, that very few are fit to hear their own Eulogies; for where there is the least Inclination to Pride, or Vanity, it turns their Heads, and exposes 'em to a fall. But a Mind elevated above all that is Light, or Trivial; when it looks upon the Shadow of its own Greatness, is excited with a generous Heat, and presses forwards in the Race of Glory.  
And therefore I will presume to show your Royal Highness, what Streams of Blessings are flowing upon you, by the Influence of Heaven, through the Channels of Nature, and Fortune.  
Tho', Madam, You have the Happiness to be lineally descended from an Ancient Race of Kings; and joined to a growing Hero, whose Courage and Conduct (like the Light) are best known by themselves; and can never have so good an Elegy, as his own Actions; yet Providence has taken such particular Care in forming You; that You have fewer Equals in Personal Advantages, than in Birth, and State.  
I could enlarge upon this in as many Particulars, as there are Ways of being distinguished from the rest of the World. And in every one of these Heaven has some Design. The various Gifts of Nature are not dispensed in vain. Beauty, and Gracefulness are no small Advantages to Great Persons; giving a certain Force to all their Words, and Actions, which is hardly to be resisted; and persuading us, with a silent Eloquence, into an awful Veneration of their Excellencies, and an Imitation of their Virtues. At the same time, a quick, and right Apprehension of Things; a clear and solid Judgement; with a Natural Tendency to all that is Just, and Good, and Charitable; are such inestimable Blessings in a high Station; that You are more beholding to God for being so qualified, than for being born a Princess. When I add to all this, that Your Soul is touched with a Spark of that Fire, which warms the Hearts of Angels, and kindles Mortality into Desires that are Immortal; it gives such a double Lustre to all the rest of Your Accomplishments; and invests You with something so Glorious, and Divine; that we can never have Eyes enough to Admire You, or Tongues enough to praise You.  
But the Greatness of my Subject carries me beyond myself; and I am lost in a Multitude of Thoughts too mighty to be uttered. I Shall therefore leave to a Historian what is so much above my Talon, and Business at this Time.  
Those, who are rash enough, to sully any part of this Character, will certainly betray a great deal of Weakness, or Malice; and the Injuries, which they invent, will fall at last upon their own Heads. Justice, and Truth are the particular Care of Heaven. They surmount every thing; and their Lustre breaks through the thickest Clouds. When any Subtlety, or Force of Argument can persuade Men to believe, that the Sun does not Shine; or that the Stars are not bright; then (and not till then) shall the Glory of an Illustrious Life be stifled, and obscured.  
As for this Little Present, Madam; which I presume to offer Your Royal Highness; 'tis composed of some Things, which have been writ at several Times, and upon several Occasions; and, as they have been thrown aside among other things of the same Nature (which I forbear to Print, because I have not had time to look 'em over) so they are most of 'em very rough, and imperfect. But, at the same time, I cannot doubt of Your Royal Highness' Protection, to any thing, that is Writ in Defence of Truth, and Virtue; at a time, when they are almost driven out of the World. And That has been the chief Design of most of these Papers. I have aimed at the truest Images of Nature, the fairest Pictures of Virtue, and the purest Ideas of Divinity. I have endeavoured to represent the Passion of Love, not as a great many modern Hands have drawn it, but (as it ought to be) in its own native Beauty, and Innocence.  
I ask Your Royal Highness Pardon, for the Liberty, I have taken. I wish You every Thing, that may contribute to make You entirely happy. And, as this little Present has been only the Employment of some Idle Hours: so if it had been the Business of all my Life; I should think myself more than doubly paid; in having an opportunity of declaring to the World; that I am (with an inviolable Zeal, and Sincerity)  
Madam, Your Royal Highnesses Most Humble, Most Faithful, and Most Devoted Servant, I. Cutts.   

TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE Princess of ORANGE.  
Upon my presenting her with some Papers of Verses.  
Blessed Princess! whilst a more auspicious Fame,  
Through different Climates, celebrates your Name,  
And tells the World, that in your Royal Blood  
There flows a Spirit not more Great, than Good:  
Maintain your Character; and done't refuse  
This little Present from a faithful Muse.  
Large Gifts have Charms for almost every Mind,  
And to the Heart an easy Passage find:  
But such as these, ho-e're sincere and true,  
Are only fit for Heaven, and such as You;  
Great Souls, who, in themselves entirely blest,  
Regard not who give most, but who give best.   

Wisdom.  
VIctorious Wisdom, whose supreme Command  
Extends beyond the Bounds of Sea, and Land!  
'Tis thou alone, that dost reward our Pains  
With Pleasures that endure, and solid Gains.  
But, oh! what are thou, and where dost thou dwell?  
Not with the Hermit in his lonely Cell;  
The sullen Fumes of whose distempered Brain  
Make the dull Wretch torment himself in vain;  
While of the World affectedly afraid,  
He shuns the End for which Mankind was made.  
Not with the Epicure in all his Pleasure;  
Nor with the Miser on his Banks of Treasure:  
The One's a Slave, bound fast in Golden Chains;  
The Other buys short Joys with lasting Pains.  
Not in the vain pursuit of partial Fame,  
The gaudy Outside of an empty Name;  
When moved by Chance, not Merit, common Breath  
Gives the false Shadow sudden Life or Death.  
Honour when meritoriously assigned  
To Noble Actions, and a Godlike Mind,  
Is then indeed a Blessing sent from Heaven,  
A bright Reward for Humane Labours given:  
But when 'tis Fame's mistaken Flattery,  
A blind Applause of Pride and Vanity,  
The worthless Idol ought to be abhorred,  
And is by none, but Knaves or Fools, adored.  
Thus, as I'm searching with the feeble Light  
Of Humane Reason, in dark Error's Night,  
For what has oft escaped the piercing Eye  
Of lofty Wit, and deep Philosophy,  
From the bright Regions of Eternal Day,  
Methinks, I see a small but glorious Ray,  
Dart swift as lightning through the yielding Air  
To an unspotted Breast, and enter there.  
Through every corner of the Heart it shines,  
Subdues the Passions, and the Soul refines;  
Leading it safe through all the dangerous Ways  
Of this alluring World's mysterious Maze.  
This is that Wisdom I so much adore;  
Grant me but this, kind Heaven; I ask no more.  
This once obtained, how happy shall I be?  
King's will be little Men, compared to me;  
They, in their own Dominions only Great,  
I, Conqueror of the World, myself and Fate.  
Thus armed, let Fortune use me as she will,  
I stand prepared to meet with Good or Ill  
If I am born for Happiness and Ease,  
And prosperous Gales salute the smiling Seas,  
Those Paths I'll choose, the blessing to repay,  
Where Virtue calls, and Honour leads the way:  
But if the Wether of my Life proves foul,  
Tho' Storms arise, that make whole Kingdoms roll,  
Yet I must on; and 'spight of all their Force  
I'll steer my Vessel her appointed Course;  
With her firm Beak the Billows she'll divide,  
And plow her Passage through the foaming Tide.  
And at what Time, or in what Place so ere  
The pale-faced Conqueror happens to appear;  
Fierce as he is, his Violence I'll tame,  
And make the King of Terrors change his Name.  
While others enter trembling at his Gate,  
I'll march up boldly in Triumphant State;  
And passing through it into World's unknown,  
Put on my Glorious Robes, and my Immortal Crown.   

To Mr. WALLER.  
Upon his commending my Verses of Wisdom.  
O Sir, no more— You know not what you do;  
Such unexpected Praises, and from You,  
(Who are installed among the Sons of Fame,  
And the best Writers take a Pride to name)  
Have set my heedless Fancy all on Fire,  
And make it to a dangerous Height aspire.  
I fain would mount the Muse's airy Horse,  
To try the utmost of his Speed and Force;  
With him (methinks) I could outstrip the Wind,  
And leave the flower Lightning far behind:  
I'd visit Worlds by Mortal Eyes unseen,  
And go where none before has ever been.  
But if, like too ambitious Phaeton,  
To seek a Glorious Ruin I rush on;  
If overheated in the rapid Course,  
My fiery Pegasus, with angry Force,  
Pressing his furious Head, should break the Reins  
And wildly fly through Thoughts unbounded Plains  
I fear I should, like that unhappy Youth,  
While with too vast Designs my Hopes I sooth,  
Instead of gaining Honour and Renown,  
From my ungoverned Flight come tumbling down.  
Yet all these threatening Dangers I shall slight,  
If you commend my Lines, and bid me Write.  
The smallest Breath, assisted by your Name,  
Exceeds the loudest Shouts of common Fame.  
So in the War, sometimes, a Volunteer  
Doubles his Vigour, when a Generals near;  
And if he hears him say, 'twas bravely done,  
Unmindful of his Fate, he hurries on,  
Till dazzling Honour courts away his Breath,  
And makes him run into the Arms of Death.  
All have a natural desire to please,  
But 'tis in some a dangerous Disease;  
When uncontrolled by Reasons juster Sway,  
It turns their Heads, and takes their Sense away.  
Fame, like a Siren, Charms the listening Ear,  
And makes us blindly credit all we hear.  
Then think upon some safe and gentle Ways,  
To stop my Fate, and moderate your Praise.  
If in my Verse you see some Thoughts Divine,  
They're to the Subject due, the Faults are mine.  
Say then, lest any, Sir, your Sense mistake,  
You praise the Author for the Subjects sake.   

The Tyranny of PHILLIS Written to a Lady.  
HEar, gentle Nymph, and by Example know'  
What those who mock Love's Power must undergo▪  
This Heart of mine, now wrecked upon despair,  
Was once as free and careless as the Air;  
In th' early Morning of my tender years,  
ere I was sensible of Hopes and Fears,  
It floated in a Sea of Mirth and Ease,  
And thought the World was only made to please;  
No adverse Wind had ever stopped its Course,  
Nor had it felt great Love's tempestuous Force,  
(That Storm that swells the Tides of Human Care,  
And makes black Waves come rolling from afar,)  
Till too much Freedom made it grow secure,  
As if the Sunshine always would endure;  
And I, with haughty and disdainful Pride,  
Mocked the blind God, and all his Force defied.  
At this enraged, the injured Deity  
Chose out the best of his Artillery,  
And in a blooming Virgin's Dovelike Eyes  
He planted his Victorious Batteries;  
(Phillis her Name, the best of Womankind,  
Could Love have gained the Empire of her Mind)  
These shot so furiously against my Heart,  
That Nature's strength, tho' much improved by Art,  
With Groans gave way to each resistless stroke,  
As when the Thunder rends some sturdy Oak.  
The winged Battalions from her lovely face  
Flew to the Breach, and, rushing in apace,  
Did quickly make her Mistress of the place.  
As Love's Vicegerent I her Laws obeyed,  
It must be so where Conquerors invade.  
But when she saw how powerful she was grown,  
Made chief Commandress of the vanquished Town,  
She would no more Love's just Decrees obey,  
But set up for an Arbitrary Sway:  
And when her Tyranny was grown so great,  
That every humble Sigh provoked her Hate,  
Reason, an active Statesman, Wise, and Stout,  
Heading the injured Native, turned her out.  
The God of Love will find some gentle Fair  
To govern in her room; but let her swear  
To hold a merciful and equal Sway,  
And all his old Imperial Laws obey.  
Till she appears, no Charms can Strephon move,  
Unless it be the gen'ral Thoughts of Love;  
That thin Camelion-Dyet of the Air,  
Fancy's Idea of an Unknown Fair.  
For where, or what she is, Heaven only knows,  
Till Time and Fate the Secret shall disclose.  
But there's so strange a Magic force in Love,  
The talking on't sometimes may fatal prove;  
And therefore, gentle Nymph, let's have a care,  
And tell no more such Stories now, for fear,  
Like Children, after talking of a Spirit,  
The fancy on't should make us dream at night.   

To a Young LADY, Who was said to be almost in Love.  
Upon her Recovery.  
I Come, bright Virgin, to congratulate  
The blessed Reverse of your unhappy Fate.  
Victorious Love, whose Violence and Rage  
No Hero e'er could vanquish or assuage;  
Victorious Love, that keeps his Slaves in awe,  
That conquers Conqueror's, and gives Monarch's Law;  
Love, that by boundless Passion, wild Desire,  
Confounds Mankind, and sets the World on Fire;  
That Haughty Tyrant, that Imperious Foe  
You have overcome, and lead in Triumph now;  
Whilst Guardian-Angels round about you fly,  
Triumphing at your Souls great Victory.  
Those glorious Servants of the Court above,  
(Whose Godlike immaterial Being's move,  
And are maintained by Harmony and Love)  
Cherish no Flames but what unspotted are,  
That upwards move, and have their Object there  
Their Divine Essence makes 'em disapprove  
Those Storms of Nature, which we take for Love.  
And you, like one of them, have scorned your Mind  
Should harbour any Flame that's not refined.  
Love, when submissive, innocent, and pure,  
You could within your gentle Breast endure;  
Within those unpolluted Walls it lay,  
As Harbinger to some more happy Day;  
But when the growing Fire began to burn  
Too fierce, and Love did to Disorder turn,  
You then, inspired by some Diviner Flame,  
It's dangerous Violence did quickly tame,  
With mighty Thoughts the raging Storm suppressed,  
And threw the Viper from your panting Breast.  
May Heaven be kind, and take a special Care  
Of one so very Good, and yet so Fair.   

To a LADY, Who desired me not to be in Love with her.  
I will obey you to my utmost power;  
You cannot ask, nor I engage for more.  
But if, when I have tried my utmost Skill,  
A Tide of Love drives back my floating Will;  
When on the naked Beach you see me lie,  
For Pity's sake you must not let me die.  
Take Pattern by the glorious God of Day,  
And raise no Storms but what you mean to lay,  
He, when the Charms of his attractive Eye  
Have stirred up Vapours, and disturbed the Sky,  
Le's Nature weep, and sigh a little while,  
And then revives her with a pleasing smile.  
If 'tis to try me, use me as you please,  
But, when that Tryal's over, give me ease;  
Don't torture, one that wishes you no harm;  
Prepare to cure me, or forbear to Charm.   

MUSARUM ORIGO; OR, The Original and Excellence of the Muses.  
I Sing the Muse's great and glorious Birth,  
Those spotless Nymphs, that blessed the Infant Earth,  
Conceived by Heavenly Dew, and born of Thought,  
ere Heathen Gods a spurious Brood begot.  
A far more lovely, and delightful Race,  
Than that of the Castalian Sisters was.  
Celestial Nymphs! assist my labouring Pen,  
And what you give shall be your own again.  
In dissolute, and undiscerning times,  
When Vice unmasks, and Virtues pass for Crimes  
The sacred Gift of charming-Poetry,  
Is looked on with a slight, and scornful Eye;  
But if we trace the steps of former Years,  
It's high Descent, and Dignity appears:  
'Twas first revealed to that 
a Moses.  illustrious Man,  
With whom Religious Rites, and Laws began;  
And can we think that God would e'er impart  
To such a one a mean or trivial Art?  
When Israel with a wonder passed the Sea,  
And saw how Fate pursued their Enemy;  
Who thought like them to have escaped the Waves,  
But soon were buried in their wat'ry Graves;  
Upon their mind to strike the blessing home,  
And make 'em fit for Dangers yet to come,  
Their Godlike Chief employed the Poet's Art,  
And blew the Fire that warmed the People's Heart.  
This Gift the valiant Hebrew 
b David.  General knew,  
Who was a Poet, and a Soldier too;  
To make him fully after Gods own Heart,  
Heaven thought it fit this Blessing to impart;  
And with such force of thought he was inspired,  
A while his Hearers lift'ned, and admired,  
And found their Blood at last to Action fired.  
He painted Sufferings with such charming Graces,  
That willing People ran to their Embraces,  
Despised a present Gain, or vain Applause,  
And chose to suffer in a glorious Cause.  
He raised the Mind above the reach of Fear,  
And armed the Soldier for approaching War;  
Instructing what was still the safest Shield,  
And who were always sure to win the Field;  
For in a Cause that's just, to live or die  
Is to the Brave an equal Victory;  
Alive in bleeding Foes their Swords they sheath,  
And, if they fall themselves, they vanquish Death:  
Religion, which hath naturally a Face  
Adorned with sweetness, and Celestial Grace,  
In his fine Thoughts, in his soft Numbers dressed,  
Has Charms too ravishing to be expressed.  
He showed the Vanity of Hopes and Fears,  
Which anxiously depend on future years;  
Since all our Destinys are formed above,  
And in a firm, unshaken Order move.  
And (that which made his Copies take with All,)  
He was Himself their great Original:  
As Prophets most successfully will teach,  
When in their Lives they practise what they Preach.  
How finely twisted is the Chain of Fate?  
When Heaven had fitted him for things so great,  
And laid the Scenes of all his future Sat;  
The Curtain drew, and (like a rising Sun,)  
The Godlike Youth his glorious Race begun;  
His Soul, which was illustrious from his Birth  
(Tho' yet concealed, and lodged in common Earth)  
Broke through the Clouds, which had its Rays oppressed,  
And showed the Hero blooming in his Breast.  
The Envious viewed him with a Jealous Eye,  
Enraged to see his Virtue soar so high;  
They knew his Rural Life, and low Descent,  
And wondered what the busy Planets meant.  
Unmoved he stood upon the brink of Fate,  
The Object of an angry Monarch's Hate;  
Banished the Court, in Troubles and Disgrace,  
Exposed to shifts, and driven from place to place;  
heavens usual way to form the greatest Minds:  
As Trees take Root, when shaken by the Winds.  
But 'tis in vain to strive with Destiny,  
What is Decreed in Heaven will surely be;  
That God, who had resolved to make him great,  
Dashed all his Foes, and laid 'em at his Feet;  
He laughed at all their Policy and Strife,  
And blessed the World with his illustrious Life.  
When wanted in the Council, or the Field,  
To fruitful pains he made his pleasure yield;  
His Wit was busied with important things,  
The Arts of War, and Policies of Kings;  
But when his business gave him leave to rest,  
With gentler Arts he mollified his Breast;  
From whence soft measures flowed, and every Line  
Was like his Actions, Generous and Divine.  
When Solomon succeeded to the Crown,  
(The Wisest Prince that ever graced a Throne,)  
Among the various Gifts that filled his Heart,  
He was inspired with this transcendent Art  
Witness his Songs of Love so finely writ,  
Where Nature puts on various forms of Wit,  
To move the secret Springs of Sympathy,  
And fire the Soul into an Ecstasy.  
To show the Pleasures of the blessed above,  
He drew the Emblem of a happy Love;  
And we may certainly conclude from this,  
That Love, when true, 's the greatest Human Bliss:  
But few on Earth are so divinely blest:  
The hardest things to find, are still the best;  
Some never have the Blessing in their Power,  
And most who have, neglect their lucky Hour;  
Pride and Ambition, Rules of Birth and State,  
And Avarice, give Impression to their Fate;  
From whence a thousand Errors have their Birth,  
And shut 'em from this Paradise-on-Earth.  
O happy Times of Virtue, Truth, and Sense!  
When in the Muse's Virgin-Innocence,  
By wicked Men and Heathens unenjoyed,  
They were in all the highest things employed.  
In the great Temple of the living God,  
(The Place of his Mysterious Abode,)  
They sung Jehova's everlasting Fame,  
And made the sacred Walls repeat his Name;  
They winged the Soul, and taught her how to fly  
Through all the glorious Regions of the Sky,  
To taste those living Streams that flow above,  
And bath in Rivers of Eternal Love;  
They sung of wonderful and mighty Things,  
The sudden Turns of War, and Fate of Kings;  
Showing the hand that moves the great Machine,  
And forms the whole Design of every Scene;  
With Strength of Thought and Fancy unconfined,  
At once they pleased, and profited the Mind;  
In every Accident a sure Relief,  
They vented Joy, and moderated Grief.  
The Heathens, lost in Ignorances' Night,  
And wandering after every glimmering Light,  
Were by seducing Spirits cheated still,  
And under Forms of Goodness practised Ill  
What ever God had taught the happier Jews,  
And made of Great Authority and Use,  
The Devil copied out with curious Art,  
The better to ensnare the Gentiles Heart.  
So Gold, that's false, too often goes for true,  
And counterfeited Jewels cheat the view.  
But, as the value of a Copy tells  
How (more or less) the Original excels;  
By what the Heathens thought of Poetry,  
We judge its real and ancient Dignity.  
Poet, and Prophet was the same with them,  
Titles of Knowledge, Honour, and Esteem;  
Whose Works the wisest Men, and greatest Kings,  
Observed as sacred, and important Things.  
The 
c St. Paul  great Apostle therefore sent to call  
The scattered Gentiles, and prevent their Fall,  
When with the best Athenian Wits he strove,  
And chose the strongest arguments to move,  
Confirming Reason with Authority,  
Thought none so fit as their own Poetry.  
Say, Divine Muse! what is this wondrous Art,  
Which breathes such Gentle Fire into the Heart?  
Is it the noblest Truths, the best expressed,  
Or Nature in Harmonious Numbers dressed?  
Is it the strongest Thoughts the most refined,  
Like Cordial Drops to fortify the Mind;  
To cherish and excite that Natural Heat,  
Which spurs us on to all that's Good and Great?  
'Tis (like the strange effects of Heat and Cold)  
Something in Nature better felt than told.   

LA MUSE CAVALIER; OR, AN APOLOGY For such Gentlemen as make Poetry their Diversion, not their Business.  
In a Letter from a Scholar of MARS, to one of APOLLO.  

DAMON, I'm told the Poets take it ill  
That I am called a Brother of the Quill;  
To end their Jealousy, I quit the Name,  
And tho' I honour a true Poet's Fame,  
Yet, since my Genius points out other Ways,  
And bids me strive for Laurels, not for Bays,  
I'll keep my Heart for great Bellona's Charms;  
If e'er she takes me to her Glorious Arms,  
She shall Command my Fortune and my Life,  
My Muse is but my Mistress, not my Wife.  
Sometimes, to pass my idle Hours away,  
Or ease at Night the Troubles of the Day,  
Her pleasing Company diverts my Mind,  
And helps my weary Temples to unbind.  
The painful tiler whistles to his Blow,  
And as the rural Virgin milks her Cow,  
Without offence to more accomplished Art,  
An untaught Melody revives her Heart:  
So I, who labour in Life's painful Field,  
With harmless Pleasure strive my Cares to gild;  
Whilst, in wild Notes, my heedless Thoughts I sing,  
And make the Neighbouring Groves and Echoes ring.  
Like those, who paint for Pastime, not for Gain,  
I sit me down upon the spacious Plain,  
And, looking here and there amongst the Throng,  
I take rough Sketches, as they pass along;  
Nor do I folllow any other Rules,  
But drawing Knaves like Knaves, and Fools like Fools.  
I grant you, 'tis a Method out of Use,  
But 'tis the best for my unpolished Muse;  
She has not learned to flatter for Applause,  
Or laugh at any Man without a Cause;  
To injure Virtuous Women for a Jest,  
That none may pass for better than the rest;  
Or do like some, who, when they are refused,  
And, for their fond Impertinence, abused,  
Vent their weak Malice in a lewd Lampoon,  
And blast the Lady's Fame to save their own;  
A Fault the Sparks are much addicted to,  
They do't themselves, or pay for those that do.  
My Muse has no Maecenas to admire  
In Raptures high as Thought, and sometimes higher  
Nor, if she had one, could she make him pass  
For witty, if his Lordship were an Ass;  
Or gilled his darnished Name with, Good and Just,  
If he lived loosely, or betrayed his Trust:  
Nor can she, to oblige a sottish Town,  
Bribe their lewd Fancies for a false Renown,  
By praising Vice, and crying Virtue down.   

This makes some little Critics fume and rage,  
And, in a League, against my Lines engage;  
They are not so concerned for Wit, or Art,  
But 'tis the Truth that stabs 'em to the Heart.  
If stripping Folly of that gay Attire,  
Which Knaves invent, and Fools so much admire,  
I show her naked to the World, that so  
Men by the Aspect, may the Daemon know;  
Some more notorious Fool, that thinks he's hit,  
Cries Z— ds, does he pretend to be a Wit?  
D— me, if e'er I heard such silly stuff,  
There he breaks off: And speaks the rest in Snuff.  
And who is this, so pithy and so short?  
A Country-Blockhead, or a Fop at Court?  
Some Heir, whose Father (snatched away by Fate)  
Left the young Spark less Judgement than Estate,  
With nothing but a modern Education,  
To Hunt, and Hawk, and Whore, for Recreation;  
And Drink, in Honour of his Prince and Nation;  
A Bubble, that has nothing in't but Air,  
Is driven, by every Blast, it knows not where:  
Just such an empty Thing is this young Sot,  
Who talks by Rote, and thinks he knows not what  
Such Critics I may possibly forgive,  
Because (poor Things) they speak as they believe  
Or is't a Milksop, that has lived at Court,  
That Glorious School, tho' ne'er the better for't  
Bred up in fruitless Luxury and Ease,  
Washed and perfumed into a foft Disease,  
Which makes him fear the Wind, the Rain, or Sun,  
As bad as some raw Captains do a Gun?  
The Censure of so visible an Ass  
Won't hurt me much: And therefore let it pass.  
It it a feeble Scribbler, that pursues  
His own Disgrace by fooling with a Muse?  
But hold— At this (methinks) he cocks his Hat,  
And smiling, says, I love you, Sir, for that;  
You laugh at Faults, which You (Your self) commit,  
Unless y'are lately set up for a Wit.  
No, Child. But what I write is Sense and True,  
And that is more than can be said of you.  
Besides, if I've a Mind to play the Fool,  
(Because, you know, 'tis Modish, and looks cool,)  
You'll own, I may; And so, you'll say, may you,  
By the same Rule. No doubt on't, Prithee do.  
Let me be quiet, and do what you will;  
Write Essays, say fine Things, and Rhyme your fill;  
Make Prologues, Epilogues, Lovesongs, and satire;  
And, at low Ebb of Fancy, turn Translator;  
Disgrace the Theatre with Senseless Farce,  
Or stately Nonsense in Heroic Verse,  
With Plays, that thwart the meaning of the Stage,  
And help not to instruct, but spoil the Age,  
In which, to turn true Virtue out o' Doors,  
The Hero's all are Sots, the Lady's Whores:  
The Times will bear it, and it is no more  
Than many such as you have done before.  
But meddle not with me; Or, if you must,  
Be sure the Faults you find are very just,  
Or if I parry ye, expect a Thrust.  
As for the rambling injudicious Wits,  
Who talk all Wethers, and speak Sense by Fits;  
If they should, in my Absence, run me down,  
And to expose my Weakness, show their own:  
Let 'em be quiet, and enjoy their Way;  
They answer to the full, what e'er they say;  
satire upon themselves; They save my Writing;  
And every Thing they say is devilish biting.  
Thus every partial Censurer is free  
To play the Fool himself, and laugh at me;  
Let him contrive to carp at what he will;  
Sense will be Sense, and he a Block head still.  
And, Damon, since I make this Declaration,  
That Poetry's my Pleasure, not Vocation,  
You, and your Brethren, ought not to refuse  
Such Pastime to an unpretending Muse.  
The War, you say, 's my Calling. And what then,  
You use a Sword; Why may not I a Pen?  
You give a Soldier leave to eat and drink;  
And, prithee, why not give hime leave to think?  
You may indulge with safety all that do,  
There are not many like to trouble you.  
Then let each Party lay their Quarrels by,  
Mind their own Trade, and live in Charity.  
We for an Iron-Harvest will prepare,  
And plow for Honour in the Fields of War:  
While you are taught more safe and gentle ways,  
To purchase an Inheritance of Praise:  
But now and then, to very for Delight,  
Fight you like Poets, we'll like Soldiers write.    

TO THE DUCHESS OF Monmouth,  
Who honoured me with her Commands to read over Monsieur Boileau's Poems, and give my Opinion of him.  
MAdam, I come a thousand thanks to pay  
To that fair hand that pointed out the way,  
And showed me where so great a Geinus lay:  
Your generous Commands have guided me  
To a good Model of true Poetry.  
Of all the Modern Writers who have tried,  
With easy Wit, men's Folly to deride,  
Boileau, to me, the most accomplished seems;  
Bold and Severe, yet free from all extremes.  
Nature to some has given an active Wit,  
But hardly Sense enough to manage it;  
Who, laughing at the Follies of the Town,  
Discover twenty greater of their own.  
Others in Judgement only do excel,  
And in Affairs of State do pretty well;  
But when their Natural Talon they abuse,  
And offer Force to an unwilling Muse,  
Their awkward Rhymes their very Truth disguise▪  
And make the World afraid of being wise.  
But Boileau's easy and unerring Wit,  
Does every Coxcomb so exactly hit,  
And sets before his eyes so true a Glass,  
That Vice no longer can for Virtue pass;  
He shows the Hypocrites affected zeal,  
That lies in talking, not in doing well;  
His high Pretences serving for a blind,  
In God-Almighty's Name to cheat Mankind.  
But does not bid us to avoid that Evil;  
Declare for downright Atheism, or the Devil:  
As the rash Libertine is wont to do,  
(Something the shallower Monster of the two)  
Who Virtue impudently ridicules,  
And swears that all Religious Men are Fools;  
Till dying as he lives, like a dull Beast,  
He's damned in earnest, and so spoils his Jest.  
He shows a Fool that reads huge Volumes o'er,  
And is no wiser than he was before;  
Who fills his Head with empty terms, and looks  
For Wisdom no where but in musty Books;  
'Tis not conversing with the Dead will do,  
Unless sometimes on reads the Living too.  
If an illiterate Sot of Quality  
Would make true Knowledge pass for Pedantry,  
Despising Letters, as Mechanic Arts,  
Too mean for Gentlemen, and Men-o'-Parts;  
While his whole Business is to Comb and Dress,  
And in a Billet-doux his Mind express;  
At every Public Meeting to appear,  
And with some Nonsense plague some Lady's Ear;  
Whate'er he finds in his own flattering Glass,  
I'm sure in Boileau's he's an arrant Ass.  
He tells us what is true Nobility,  
Not mouldy Parchments, and a Pedigree,  
Tho' drawn from Caesar's or Achilles' Blood,  
Unless a Man be Valiant, Just, and Good:  
If a gay Bauble, of high Titles Proud,  
Serves merely to be gazed at by the Crowd,  
And by his Ancestors is only known,  
Not having any Merit of his own;  
Tho' in his Father's Fame he glories so,  
How is it possible for him to know,  
But that his Mother, in a wanton Vein,  
Suffered some loose Gallant to cross the Strain?  
Sometimes our Satirist employs his Pen,  
To copy out another sort of Men;  
Those scribbling Interlopers, who without  
Commission from Apollo venture out.  
Here in a Song some Fopling of the Town,  
Who has a Mind to have his Talon known,  
In cool Blood curses Fate, and Sighs, and Cries,  
And at the end of the Fourth Stanza dies.  
There a mean tawning Fellow screws a Lie  
To such a senseless pitch of Flattery,  
As is beyond the greatest Mortals endue;  
And ridicules his Muse, and Hero too.  
But whither is't my heedless Muse would run?  
Madam, I hope you'll pardon what sh'has done:  
Before so great a Judge of Sense and Wit,  
She should not once pretend to talk of it;  
Yet when I read th' illustrious Boileau's Verse,  
Something so very charming there appears,  
And with so strange a heat inspires my Pen;  
But hold, My Muse would fain begin again,  
No, I shall teach her a far better Way,  
Since she to Boileau's Fame will Tribute pay;  
And, Madam, I shall give him full his due,  
By only saying, that he pleases You.   

IN PRAISE OF HUNTING: Leaving the Town and PHILLIS.  
TEll me no more of Venus, and her Boy,  
His flaming Darts, and her transporting Joy;  
With Dreams of Pleasure they delude our Mind,  
Which pass more swiftly than the fleeting Wind;  
The bright, the Chaste Diana I'll adore,  
She'll free my Heart from Love's insulting Power;  
Through pleasing Groves, and o'er the healthful Plain,  
She leads the innocent, and happy Swain.  
Then farewell guilty Crowds, and empty Noise;  
I leave you for more pure, and lasting Joys;  
In stately Woods, guilded with Morning Rays,  
I'll teach the Echoes great Diana's Praise.   

STREPHON and PHILLIS.  
A Dialogue set by Mr. King; Servant to his MAJESTY.  A soft Symphony of Instruments. Streph. 
HEar, Phillis, hear my humble Tale,  
And then pronounce my Destiny;  
If Truth and Honour can't prevail,  
It is my Fate, and I must die.  
But should my Death Injustice prove,  
It would offend the God of Love,  
And might on you his Vengeance move.  Phil. 
Why, Shepherd, what have I to do  
With Strephon, or his Destiny?  
No, no, dissembling Wretch, 'tis you  
That would contrive to ruin me;  
When, by a soft enchanting Art,  
You would a secret Flame impart,  
To Fire the Temple of my heart.  Stre. 
What can a wretched Swain contrive  
Against the force of matchless Charms?  
I only ask that I may live,  
Or if I die, die in your Arms:  
I languish in so warm Desire,  
And burn with such a Noble Fire;  
As can't without my life expire.  Phil. 
Could I your Sighs and Vows believe,  
I should incline to pity you,  
But 'tis your Business to deceive,  
And not your Nature to be true.  
Begun then, flattering Youth, begun,  
And leave me in these shades alone,  
For if I love, I am undone.  Another Symphony of Instruments. CHORUS. 
BUt see what Crowds of Cupids stand to hear,  
And seem to laugh at what we vainly fear;  
Let us, like them, all Dreams of Ill despise,  
And bravely on to win a noble Prize.   

Friendship.  
A SONG, set by Mr. King.  

FRiendship dwells with Secrecy,  
In discreet and faithful Hearts,  
Free from foolish Vanity,  
And Flattery's dissembling Arts.   

Others may, by Talk and show,  
Let the World their Passion know;  
Ours shall be unseen, untold,  
Safe and secure as hidden Gold.   

Fond and Idle Fops believe,  
Love delights in Noise and State;  
But the Fools themselves deceive,  
And blast the Joys they would create.   

Two serene harmonious Minds,  
Which no meaner Passion blinds,  
Make that quiet blessed Retreat,  
Where Love delights to build a Seat.   

Come, my Dearest Phillis, come,  
Let's unfold each other's Breast,  
And, in Mists no longer roam,  
But make ourselves entirely blest.   

Gently, with indulgent Sway,  
Make my yielding Heart obey,  
And, if I unfaithful prove,  
Then may I die, and lose your Love.    

A SONG.  
Made to a French Tune.  

On Racks of Love distended  
Here lies a faithful Swain,  
Wishing his Life were ended,  
Or some Respite to his pain.   

The plague of dubious Fate  
Is an Ill beyond enduring,  
If I am not worth your curing,  
Kill me quickly with your Hate.   

But why should Wit and Beauty  
Be guilty of such Crimes?  
Sure 'tis a Woman's Duty  
To be merciful sometimes.   

With Justice you may slay  
The ungrateful, and aspiring;  
But the Humble, and Admiring,  
You should treat a nobler way.    

A SONG, Set by Mr. Hart, Servant to his Majesty.  

AS gazing on that lovely charming Face,  
My Eyes survey the Enchanted Place;  
There, there, methinks, I see  
The God of Love, in all his Gallantry,  
And Troops of lesser Deities attending by.   

While from that glorious Field of mighty Love  
Cupid's in airy Forms do move,  
And subtly conspire  
To strengthen Passion, and enrage Desire;  
Still conquering every Heart, or setting it on Fire.   

Mine, by my unresisting Eyes betrayed,  
And vanquished, willingly obeyed;  
Nor do I wish to be  
Again Possessor of my Liberty;  
No, Phillis, no, I love in you even Tyranny.    

Farewell to PHILLIS, Set by Mr. King, etc.  
ONe Look, and I am gone;  
Phillis, my Part is done;  
Death, your pale Rival's come,  
And calls me home.  
Clasped in her frozen Arms,  
I shall be free from Harms,  
And only pity thee  
In misery;  
For, since your kindness is turned into Hate,  
From cruel you, I'll fly to kinder Fate:  
Then, too late,  
You'll wish me back again;  
Then, too late,  
You'll pity him your Eyes have slain.   

DESPAIR.  
A SONG, set by Mr. Abel, Servant to His MAJESTY.  

O You immortal Powers of Love,  
Why do you all my Hopes remove?  
You give me up to certain Fate,  
And force me to be desperate.   

Is it for this I've sacrificed  
My Quiet, and the World despised?  
To burn, to bleed, to sigh, to groan,  
To Love, be wretched, and undone?   

When first you did my Soul inspire,  
And I aproached your gentle Fire,  
Was I unwilling to forego  
My Ease, and be a Slave to you?   

I hastened to the Myrtle Grove,  
And there an Altar raised to Love;  
On which my Heart still burning lies,  
Inflamed, at first, by Phillis' Eyes.   

She pulled it from panting Breast,  
And in a Veil of Crimson dressed,  
'Twas on the fatal Altar laid,  
By the too rash, unthinking Maid.   

For, oh! I fear, she did profane,  
And take Love's sacred Name in vain;  
For which unhappy Error, I,  
By injured Love, am doomed to die.    

The Innocent GAZER.  
A SONG, Set by Mr. KING, etc.  

LOvely LUCINDA blame not me,  
If on your beauteous looks I gaze;  
How can I help it, when I see  
Something so charming in your Face?   

That like a bright unclowded Sky,  
When in the Air the Sunbeams play,  
It ravishes my wondering Eye,  
And warms me with a pleasing Ray.   

An Air so settled, so serene,  
And yet so gay, and easy too,  
On all our Plains I have not seen  
In any other Nymph but you.   

But Fate forbids me to design  
The mighty Conquest of your breast,  
And I had rather torture mine,  
Than Rob you of one Minutes Rest.    

A SONG, Set by Mr. KING, etc.  

ONly tell her that I love,  
Leave the rest to her and Fate,  
Some kind Planet from above,  
May, perhaps, her pity move;  
Lovers on their Stars must wait,  
Only tell her that I love.   

Why, oh why, should I despair,  
Mercy's pictured in her Eye;  
If she once vouchsafe to hear,  
Welcome Hope, and farewell Fear:  
She's too good to let me die,  
Why, oh why, should I despair.    

A Song, set by Mr. King, etc.  

THe cruel Nymph had with dissembled Hate,  
Pronounced her Strephon's wretched Fate.  
When the Swain saw a Combat in her Eye,  
Youthful and active Love,  
With daring Honour strove,  
And eagerly pursued the Victory.   

At length the Imperious Foe was forced to yield,  
And Love commanded all the Field:  
Then, on her Cheeks his Banners he displayed,  
And in Triumphant State,  
To applaud the conquerors Fate,  
Legions of Cupids graced the lovely Maid.    

On a Fine Lady's Singing.  
A Song, set by Mr. King, etc.  

HOw like Elysium is the Grove,  
When chaste Dorinda sings of Love?  
It charms the troubled Soul to rest,  
And makes a Calm in every Breast:  
With various kinds of Harmony,  
She strikes at once the Ear and Eye:  
So soft her Voice, and she so Fair,  
Gives double sweetness to the Air.   

The wretched Strephon, dumb with Pain,  
And Grief too heavy to complain:  
When soft Dorinda tunes her Voice,  
Forgets his Woe, and dreams of Joys.   

O Lovely Charmer! be so kind,  
To ease sometimes a Wretch's Mind:  
His Groans with gentler Sounds control,  
And breathe a Balm into his Soul.    

Farewell to Love.  
A SONG, set by Mr. King, etc.  

STREPHON retiring from the Town,  
Came Musing to a Neighbouring Grove,  
Where, in the Shades, he laid him down,  
And to himself thus talked of Love.   

'Twas in the Golden Age, said he,  
That Cupid held a peaceful Reign,  
He exercised no Tyranny,  
Nor could his Subjects then complain.   

The innocent, and faithful Swain,  
Not tied to Rules of Birth and State,  
With freedom rambled o'er the Plain,  
And, like the Turtle, chose his Mate.   

The Nymph complied without Constraint,  
By her own Fancy only led,  
And never any sad Complaint  
Disturbed the happy Lovers Bed.   

But, oh! The Golden Age is gone,  
And Cupid's Laws are not the same.  
Love is an empty Name alone,  
〈◊〉 Fate and Fortune play the Game.   

And must it thus for ever be?  
Will those blessed Days return no more?  
Then Thoughts of Love disturb not me,  
I'll from this Minute give your o'er.   
FINIS.