POEMS ON Several Occasions. ORIGINALS, and TRANSLATIONS.  
Scrinia da magnis; me Manus una capit.  Mart. Lib. 1. Epig. 3. 
Printed in the Year 1694. And are to be Sold by most Booksellers.   

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN APOLLO and DAPHNE.  Apollo. 

I.  
WHEN my Eye first gazed on thee,  
Daphne, Brighter far than me;  
Oh! so sure was Cupid's Dart,  
Piercing my unwary Heart;  
Blind, he Allseeing seemed, but I  
Seemed blind with my Allseeing Eye.   Daph. 

II.  
Pray, kind Phoebus, pray forbear,  
You'll obtain no Favour here.  
 Diana has my Vow,  
Which I promised long ago:  
To her I own Virginity;  
I can't thy Sister please and Thee.   [She runs away. Apollo. 

III.  
Why so swift? (I'm now I fear  
Forced to chase this timorous Deer)  
Would you like Diana seem,  
Be the Huntress, not the Game.  
Your light-feets ne'er from me shall stray,  
The World's my Circuit every day.   Daph. 

iv  
But you'll wounded halt, while I  
Winged with untouched Chastity,  
Cut through craggy Rocks and Dales,  
Proudest Hills, and humbleft Vales:  
Till like Prometheus I aspire,  
And steal thy Swiftness, not thy Fire.   Apollo. 

V  
Yet there's one Reserve in store,  
Which of Conquest is secure:  
On my well-strung Harp I'll Play  
Sweeter than the Thracian Lay,  
Which stole even Fury's Hearts away,  
To tame Thee more Unkind than They.   Daph. 

VI  
Hence to Jove's Abode repair,  
Love some beauteous Goddess there.  
Other Flames Ascend you see,  
Why should yours Descend to me?  
Or else your Physic Drugs apply,  
That you, like me, may Love defy.   Apollo. 

VII.  
Why to Heaven should I repair?  
Alas! alas! my Heaven's here.  
Why go Court some Deity?  
Thou a Goddess art to me.  
Why with my Drugs my Pains remove?  
'Tis you alone can heal my Love.   Daph. 

VIII.  
Well since then I can't be free,  
Peneus, I resign to Thee.  
Thou my Father art, 'tis you  
Gave me Life, you take it too.  
Make me a Stock, a Tree, a Grove,  
Object of any thing but Love.   Apollo. 

IX.  
Be a Tree, or what you will,  
You shall be my Mistress still;  
For the richer Laurel Crown  
I'll reject a Golden one.  
Thou shalt to Rome in Triumph ride,  
Heroes thy Bridegroom, thou their Bride.   Daph. 

X.  
I would sooner, Phoebus, be  
Wedded thus, than now to Thee:  
Such a Wedding sure will prove  
My Denial, not my Love.  
While Hero's Triumph over those,  
Who than themselves are weaker Foes;  
I'll o'er a stronger Foe than me,  
I'll ride in Triumph over Thee.   Chorus. 

XI.  
Pity all ye Powers above,  
Pity Phoebus' Sick of Love:  
Lo! his Wreath at once does tell,  
Daphne's Change, and Love's Farewell.  
From hence the Custom first arose,  
That Willow-Green balked Lovers chose;  
Who, Phoebus, catch at Love like thee,  
And find their Daphne prove a Tree,  
At least a Ribbon Green as she,  
In Black are other Mourners seen,  
The wretched Lover mourns in Green.    

SHAFALUS 's Lamentation for his Wife PROCRIS, being ignorantly Slain by him, as he was Hunting of wild Beasts.  
WRetch that I am! who (tho' I know not how)  
A Skilful Murderer from Huntsman grow.  
What Fate my too unerring Dart misled,  
To strike my better part, my Procris Dead?  
Amongst the Bushes while she lay unseen,  
A well-concealing, not descending Screen,  
I to the Hunter's Virgin-Goddess prayed,  
And little dreaming any Harm, I said,  
May'st thou, as I adore thy Sports and Thee,  
'Cause that my Darts so many Deaths may be:  
She granted strait, and by her Grant did prove,  
A Friend to Hunters, but a Foe to Love.  
Here the Effect of my Petitions see! Points to the Dead Body.  
Petitions once, now Curses are to me.  
See how the Purple Gore defiles the Ground,  
And blusheth for the Author of her Wound!  
See her pale Face, true Emblem of my Fear,  
While Death instead of Venus' Triumphs there!  
Amazing Sight, that does fresh Horrors breed!  
Oh! would she ne'er had, or had now been hid!  
Unlucky Stars! wholeInfluence Combine,  
That thus her closing Eyes should open mine.  
But why these vain Expressions of my Grief?  
These bring my Sorrows, not my Gild relief;  
I'll choose a Victim shall my Crime atone,  
ne'er spare the worst part when the best is gone.  
I'll take the lukewarm Dart, myself I'll slay,  
My cruel self that slew th'unwel come Prey.  
'Tis I alas! 'tis I myself appear  
The real Beast I so mistake in her.  
Assist me Death, by thy kind Aid I'll show,  
My love to Justice, and my Procris due:  
I can't my Gild, and her hard Fate survive,  
For since she's Dead, 'tis Death for me to Live.   

Amor Fugitivus: or, The fled Love paraphrased, out of Moschus.  
Idyllium the First.  
LEnd all ye Lovers an attentive Ear,  
Love's Goddess calling for her lost-Love hear.  
Has any found my Cupid gone astray?  
(The Blind alas! can't choose but lose his way:)  
He that discovers shall enjoy a Kiss,  
He that produces him a riper Bliss.  
So many Marks about the Boy appear,  
So many Signs, which none but he does bear;  
That if to any undiscerned he be,  
'Tis only such who are as Blind as he.  
Expect no Whiteness in his outward Skin,  
That Snow is melted by the Flames within.  
He like to Fire, tho' I from Water came,  
His Skin, for want of sparkling Eyes, darts Flame.  
His Tongue much Sweetness utters, more Deceit,  
His Mind as wicked, as his words are sweet.  
One thing he speaks, another thinks, his Mind,  
No less to others, than his Sight, is Blind.  
His Speech drops Honey, but when prone to Rage,  
In civil Broils his Love sick Thoughts engage;  
His sharp and dangerous Weapon is Deceit,  
The Use of which, discreetly is to Cheat;  
There Falsehood reigns: the Truth (if aught there be)  
As far from Nakedness, as clothing Herald  
The Crocodilish Youth himself betrays,  
(O how when angry!) Cruel when he Plays.  
His fine curled Locks adorn a saucy Face,  
His Hairs are Golden, but his Cheeks are Brass.  
His Hands, tho' short, can reach as far as Hell;  
His Darts wound even the Dead that therein dwell.  
If you examine throughly, you will find,  
His Body only Naked, not his Mind.  
Swift, as a Bird, he flutters here and there;  
In him Men sometimes, sometimes Women share:  
And when he does to each himself impart,  
The Perch, whereon he Pitches, is the Heart.  
Slender his Arrows, little is his Bow,  
The Marks they shoot at Hell and Heaven too  
Like Bitterness enclosed in Gilded Pill,  
Rank poisonous Shafts his Golden Quiver fill.  
From which even I too oft a Wound receive,  
A deeper Wound than Diomedes gave.  
All things are Cruel, all, alas! the Sun  
More by this Little borrowed Heat outdone,  
Than he exceeds his borrowed Heat, the Moon.  
If e'er you catch him, bind him Hand and Foot,  
And be as Merciless as he to boot:  
Take heed lest he thy tender Heart beguile,  
With Feigned Tears, or a more Feigned Smile.  
Avoid his Kiss, those sweetest Lips despise,  
Under that Honey hidden Poison lies.  
If he his whole Artillery produce,  
Then strait presents it freely to your use,  
No less his Weapons, than his Kiss refuse.  
Reject his Gift, which if Men once acquire,  
Like that of Greece, 'twill set a Troy on Fire.   

Upon a BEE Entombed in Amber.  

BEhold this happy Insect's Tomb,  
Not sweet, but precious Honeycomb:  
You'd think the Bee had brought it forth,  
Alike in Colour, and in Worth.  
Which to the view does represent,  
A Murderer, and Monument.  
I thought 'twas Niobe alone,  
Whom Moisture hardened into Stone:  
But now the weeping Gem I see,  
Transforms at once itself and Bee:  
Since to Beholders each does seem,  
The Gem a Bee, the Bee a Gem.   

The Pyramids in Aegypt's Land,  
Astonishment from all command:  
Yet, happy Insect, happy thou,  
A lesser, but a better Show;  
The Pyramids would envy me,  
Should I be thus Entombed like thee.  
Thou with Medusa may'st compare,  
Whose Viperous enchanted Hair,  
Turned all Spectators into Stone,  
Conquest and Trophy both in one;  
But thou excellest her in this,  
Thyself at once Medusa is,  
Thyself the Metamorphosis.   

Nature has changed her usual course,  
But for the Better not the Worse;  
While Jewels sprout from Poplar-Trees,  
These bring forth Jewels, Jewels Bees.  
Thus whilst the Bee through Amber shone,  
With borrowed Lustre, not her own,  
The Sight so dazzling did appear,  
You'd think both Bees, both Jewels were.   

The Golden Beast, like Bacchus' Crown,  
Translated to th'Aethereal Throne,  
Does, as it were, refined appear,  
Transformed from Gold into a Star:  
Congealed it lies in sparkling Gem,  
You'd swear 'twas froze to Death in Flame.  
Entangled there itself does show,  
A Labyrinth, and Monster too.  
What Freeman would not pay that Fee  
Which Prisoners give for Liberty,  
To share in this Captivity.   

The little Debtor (she, you know,  
To Amber does this Yellow own)  
Thither as to her Prison came,  
Her Debt and Prison both the same.  
A worthy, honourable Cheat!  
Whose very Fetters made her Great:  
For while she mute in Thraldom lies,  
Her buzzing Fame much swifter flies.  
Tho' she confined, to us may seem,  
Within the Limits of a Gem,  
She's in effect, by being thus,  
Extended through the Universe:  
And by her forced, yet willing stay,  
Debarred from Flying, flies away.   

Whose Hive, not long since, Thatched we saw,  
Like Rome's old Capitol, with Straw;  
She now in nobler Structure dwells,  
Which Rome's new Capitol excels.   

Thou worthy Nurse of mighty Jove,  
Supreme o'er all the Gods above;  
Tell me, thou Insect, tell me why,  
When Harlots mounted to the Sky,  
He did not thus thy Pains repay,  
Deserving Heaven more than they?  
But lo! I see thy proud Disdain  
Has rendered Deifying vain.  
So rich, so glorious thy Attire,  
A radiant, not a burning Fire;  
That all those Lamps which grace the Sky,  
Are seen Unenvied by thy Eye.  
'Twere Injury to fix thee there,  
A brighter Constellation here.  
Such is the dazzling Garb she wears,  
Such Honour from that Garb she bears,  
That tho' her Jove be clothed with Rays  
Immortal, and immortal Praise;  
'Tis doubtful which does most confer,  
The Bee on Jove, or Jove on her:  
While she herself does represent,  
As if to give the God, she meant,  
Honour, instead of Nutriment.   

Proud Animal! 'tis mere Self-love,  
Which makes thee like Narcissus prove;  
Who viewed himself in Crystal Streams,  
And, as he viewed, thence gathered Flames:  
In liquid Gum you clearer shine,  
Others to Envy you incline,  
Whilst you yourself for Love repine.   

True Looking-glass, wherein we view,  
Not only Form, but Matter too.  
The Eyes, which view this glorious Bee,  
Are held almost as fast as she:  
For while they gaze, in one, they view  
Artificer, and Image too.  
'Twas heedlessness this Artist taught,  
Exact the Figure, yet not wrought;  
Whom like Sejanus here we see,  
Too truly slain in Effigy.   

Fair Phaethusa (Stories show)  
A Poplar-tree by Weeping grew;  
Weeping (Oh! had it sooner came)  
Enough to quench her Brother's Flame.  
Hence first distilled the precious Juice,  
And Trees the Amber did produce;  
From whence a threefold Change we see,  
From humane Shape sproughts up a Tree,  
Thence came forth Gum, and thence a Bee.  
A Bee, which thus you may divide,  
Object of Pity, and of Pride:  
It Sister does, and Brother seem,  
It Weeps like her, it Shines like him;  
In both their Fates does Sympathise,  
At once bewails the Dead, and Dies.   

Virgin, too like the Crocodile!  
Whose treacherous Tears to Snares beguile,  
Thy Weepings, by Experience known,  
More Envious now than Piteous grown.  
Thy Tears, which first made thee a Tree,  
And now again transform the Bee,  
Harden themselves, and that, like Thee.  
See how from Good, ariseth Ill!  
While they bewail the Slain, they Kill.   

But why, against th' industrious Bee,  
Do Trees exert such Cruelty?  
She little thinking e'er to yield,  
Securely Plundered all the Field;  
For which she now in Chains must stay,  
Chains richer than her former Prey,  
Flowers, too weak to captive Bees,  
Assistance crave from neighbour Trees;  
Till they that were oppressed before,  
Retort the Damage once they bore:  
But Oh! 'tis thus, they add the more,  
And, to deprive, increase the Store.   

The cruel Nero, who (says Fame)  
Rome doubly Died in Blood and Flame,  
Erected no such noble Throne;  
No, tho' he built a Golden One,  
As that wherein this Tyrant shone,  
Most radiant, most illustrious Bee,  
I'll to the Phoenix liken thee,  
In Death as rare, as bright as She;  
Tho' She to Phoebus own his Night,  
Extinguished by the Beams of Light;  
Tho' thou a distant Fate dost bear,  
Drowned in the Deluge of a Tear.   

Thy waxed Wings the Fate has sought,  
Which those of Icarus once brought;  
The cause whereby (as Stories tell)  
So High he soared, so Deep he fell.  
Yet thee much Happier I esteem,  
Not overwhelmed, tho' drowned like him:  
Thou more conspicuous dost appear  
Than others above Water are,  
Thy very Covering makes thee clear.  
Thou needest not signalise thy Grave,  
With any specious Epitaph,  
Thy Corpse is so transparent seen  
In Golden Characters within.  
Thus Death, which never grants Reprieve,  
Is here made Life's Preservative.  
The dark Recesses of the Tomb,  
Become a pleasant, lightsome Room.  
Th'unnatural, but honest Grave,  
From a Devourer, changed to save;  
In Justice does its Debt repay,  
And give the Life it takes away.   

Thy Dipping Thetis has outdone,  
Who strove to Eternize her Son;  
Bathing him in the Stygian Lake,  
That he might ne'er of Styx partake▪  
Thou that effectually dost gain,  
For which she Dipped, but dipped in vain.   

The Bee with Hercules compare,  
Her lustre may with Aeta's share;  
But not consume, not wasted be,  
And so gain Immortality.  
Eternal Insect! who would grieve  
To Die like thee, like thee to Live?   

Jove is a Mortal thought by some,  
'Cause ancient Crect can show his Tomb;  
Oh! were he Buried there like thee,  
His Tomb would prove him Deity.    

On a Beggar Insulting over a RICH-MAN's Grave.  
I'll of my Rags and low Condition boast,  
Since Robes of Honour are consigned to Dust:  
The Rich in Graves beneath myself I'll scorn,  
Rejoice at that which makes all others Mourn.  
The Dunghil-Cock may well the Gem despise,  
When wrapped in Dung it undistinguished lies.  
But he's Embalmed you say, while silthy I  
Am quite consumed with Vermin  I die:  
Without Perfumes, Oh! may I ever dwell,  
Whose very sweets increase a nauseous smell;  
Conspiring sweets, in time, with double Scent  
Destroy the Odour which before they jent:  
The Grave itself can't equal all, since there  
They lie most Nasty, who lived Neatest here.  
The Light of Life, like that of Lamps we find,  
Both, when exstinguisht, leave their stink behind.  
What tho' each Royal Crown were made a Star,  
Translated hence unto the Heavenly Sphere?  
Yet if, as these, above Earth upward tend,  
Their Owners so beneath the Earth descend;  
Hereby would seem but juster cause to Grieve,  
That Animals should Death for Life receive,  
And these Inanimate thus ever live.  
That Corpse is here in silent Darkness laid,  
Whose Lustre once could chase away a Shade.  
That Head would now, as once with Nod it might,  
With grimmer Paleness all Beholder's fright;  
That ghastly Visage drive those Crowds away,  
It's awful Presence once provoked to stay.  
Farewell, ye Powers, which cannot Fate subdue!  
May Death to me, not Fortune, Kindness show!  
I scout her Darlings, I defy the Great;  
All that's Above, I count below my State.  
Thus Moses, scorning to be Pharaoh's Son,  
Trod undersoot the rich Egyptian Crown;  
A Footstool meet for such as can despise a Throne.  
Thanks to the Gods, who granted me no more,  
Since Life's the Pawn they take for giving Store.  
This wealthy Fop, who undervalued Me,  
When clad in Gold and Tyrian Bravery,  
Beneath my Feet shall undervalued lie;  
Not more the Worms, than viler Beggar's Prey.  
The World at length turned upside-down I see,  
He's Trampled, Dead; who Living, Trampled me.   

On the Excellent Translation of the First Book of Virgil's Aeneis, By Mr. THOMAS FLETCHER, Fellow of New-College.  

LET Greece the Fabric of the God's Invade,  
Destroy with Mortal Hands, what first Immortal made.  
The God of Wit can't hear the World complain,  
That what Apollo did was done in vain:  
Tho' he to Ruin ancient Troy designed,  
By Virgil first, by Fletcher now we find,  
Troy, and a newborn Troy, he left behind.  
That for sacked Troy he might his Sorrows show,  
For One destroyed, he has rebuilt us Two:  
Whose Structure he with firmer Verse does rear,  
Which ne'er shall ruined Troy's Destruction fear,  
These as Immortal as her Builders are.  
So that the Fire, which wasted Troy, became  
Not a consuming, but resining Flame;  
Like that which round Ascanius' Temples rolled,  
Not more her Fall than future Grandeur told.  
Even Fate itself does almost Doubting stand,  
Which is the Ruined, which the Rescued Land.  
For (not to mention Rome's proud Turrets, where  
The Conquered is for ever Conqueror)  
You may behold a nobler Fabric here;  
Since our Oxonian, with the Mantuan Swan,  
More than the vulgar sort of Swans have done,  
Have sung the Fate of Others, not their Own:  
While lo! those Notes which Asian Kings deplore,  
That Life, the loss of which they grieve, restore.  
'Tis they Aeneas make a Goddess Son,  
'Tis they make him a Deity alone,  
Not by his Happiness, but Troubles shown.  
That Hero's Acts by these Ennobled show,  
He does to Venus' less than Phoebus own:  
His Priestess led him to the Shades below,  
His Priests, the Poets, are his Leaders now:  
And by th'Immortal State their Lines have given,  
One showed the way to Hell, but Two to Heaven.    

Lent's Meditation.  

IN pious Days, when Christian's infant Zeal,  
Did Spiritual, with Carnal force repel;  
Before Correction to Offenders due,  
Like Moses' Rod a tempting Serpent grew;  
 Stripes did Lust's for Anger's Passion frame,  
The Lictors Fasces Fuel to its Flame,  
And Sin's Reward itself a Sin became:  
When pure Religion's newborn Infants were  
More Innocent than those of Nature are;  
Even them our Saviour's Passion taught to pray,  
Peter himself once less concerned than they.  
Course Sackcloth then instead of Silk was worn,  
Dishevelled Hair did more than Curls adorn:  
As louthsome all, as Sin itself, became,  
Nor was A●wensday then an empty Name.  
Both Kings and Subjects did alike appear,  
These humbled Ninevites, those Ahab's were:  
They could, with Torture, innate Vice expel,  
Preventing, by their own, the Pains of Hell.  
Few wilful Errors did their Souls defile,  
'Twas Ignorance that only could beguile.  
Yet even for many stripes did that request,  
Repentance greatest was, when Crimes were least.  
Each perty Vice required its purging Showers,  
Which were a Virtue if compared to ours.  
Sin then (as far as by their Stripes appears,)  
Was oftener washed in Blood, than now in Tears.  
Such were the Faults they were addicted to,  
Such the rewards that did those Faults ensue.  
So great the Punishment, so light th' Offence,  
That Crimes themselves declared their Innocence:  
Thus were Men Purged most, when most Purified.  
Like Holy Children in the Furnace tried.   

But now the Yoke is shaken off, and we  
Are grown to years of such Maturity,  
That we no Terror in those Rods espy,  
Which harmless Babes in Christ durst not defy.  
Frail Man alone these tender twigs could bend,  
'Tis Thunder-strokes the stubborn Oaks must rend.  
They then that hope to shun this fiery Doom,  
Its Heat by fervent Prayers overcome:  
And when their Grief by outward Signs appears,  
Alloy its force in Penitential Tears.  
These are the means by which Men Heaven scale,  
Mountainous Bulks can less than these prevail.  
The Soul (a Paradox it seems to be)  
Is most exalted by Humility:  
Humble Contrition sends her to the Sky,  
Her Wings, when wet with Tears, can highest fly:  
For when such Floods overwhelm our Earthly part,  
Amidst the watery Eyes, and bleeding Heart;  
She Dov'like (finding none in humane Breast)  
Returns to Heaven, from whence she came, for Rest   

Scourge amongst the Romans still prevail,  
Which the Priest's Wants, not People's Errors heal.  
The wounded Body suffers all in vain,  
The wounded Spirit feels the greatest Pain,  
And which may bring to Priests, and People, gain.  
The Romish Priests with Pilate may devise,  
To mingle humane Blood with Sacrifice;  
As he with Galilaean's blood had done,  
Defile the sacred Temple with their own:  
They, like the Priests of Baal, may cry and roar,  
Painting their Sins in their own putrid Gore;  
Whereby each Supplicant does seem to be,  
A Victim rather than a Votary;  
If we transcribe Elijah's righteous ways,  
Like him, fast Forty Nights, and Forty Days;  
As for slain Prophets he was grieved sore,  
We our great Prophet's shameful Death deplore;  
As he in Flames ascended to the Sky,  
By fervent Prayers we ascend as high;  
This would alone those hideous Cries excel,  
And merit Heaven without the Pains of Hell:  
Such ardent Zeal requires no bloody means,  
This Fire will more than Purgatory cleanse.  
This since 'tis heavenly, as his Chariot's fire,  
We need not doubt but 'twill like that aspire.   

But carnal Man Egyptian Meat requires,  
And more her Flesh than Bread from Heaven desires.  
Sure if such Manna we could still receive,  
We by this Bread sustained alone might live:  
Live in the Flesh, th●●gh to the Flesh we die,  
Showing in Mortal, Immortality.  
And thus most literally we may speak,  
The Spirit's willing when the Flesh is weak.  
'Tis true, a strange, but efficacious course,  
By which the violent take Heaven by force;  
Where those who Conquer are obliged to serve,  
Where the Besiegers not Besieged starve.  
Blind Scribes! who did St. John for Fasting blame,  
As if that Virtue from the Devil came:  
Whereas that cursed Spirit ne'er resorts  
To empty Stomaches, but to empty Hearts.  
Abstinence was our Saviour's potent Arms,  
By which he quelled the force of Satan's Charms:  
While we each day with costly Dainties dine,  
And please our Gust with Bowls of sparkling Wine.  
Our craving Appetites we ne'er control,  
ne'er pinch the Belly to relieve the Soul.  
When from the Body any Pains arise,  
'Tis from their pamp'ring, not expelling Vice.  
These are the Baits by which we taken are,  
Our Tables often thus become a Snare.  
Judas had scarce his Master's Traitor been,  
Had not the Sop made Satan ent●r in.  
Thus Meat, which should our humane Life sustain,  
Proves oft the foretaste of Eternal Pain.  
While we like Damocles are richly fed,  
Worse Judgements than his Sword hang o'er our Head.  
What Fury Israel once attended thee,  
Falling from Murmuring to Gluttony?  
When at thy great Deliverer's command,  
Numberless Multitudes did crowd the Land;  
Flesh as the Dust, and Fishes as the Sand.  
Swift, as the Quails, Death's winged Arrows fall,  
Theirs were the Feathers, these were fledged withal.   

But if God's Wrath a too light Motive prove,  
Exchange the Scene, contemplate on his Love.  
His Dearest Son leaves Heavens sweet repose,  
Forsakes his Father, dwells among his Foes.  
Behold him in the lonely Deserts, where  
He worse than his Forerunners Fate doth bear,  
He eats no Locusts, no wild-Honey there.  
Here no Disciples bring him aught to eat;  
To do his Father's Will is all his Meat.  
Hence to a Garden he does now repair,  
(A second Paradise while he was there.)  
Where, whilst God walked, the Garden seemed to be,  
More like to Eden than Gethsemane.  
Lo! how he prays that Man's original Sin  
Might have its Exit, where it entered in!  
That there the second Adam might atone  
For what the first had in a Garden done!  
Flat on the Ground, besmeared with Gore, he lies,  
And truly seems a Living Sacrifice.  
Anticipating what his Side must show,  
His Tears, and Sweat, like Blood and Water flow.  
Then Hell's bold Tyrant does his Charms employ,  
This Adam like the former to destroy:  
Audacious Fiend! who would not yet forbear,  
Nor God and Man together joined, would fear,  
In Heaven Vanquished, Eve he Conquered here.  
Hoping he may his lost Estate regain,  
Or else at least from hence lost Man retain:  
He counsels him, whose Aid he should implore,  
And tempts the Deity he should adore.  
If thou be Christ, the Son of God, (said he)  
Show me some sign of thy Divinity;  
He who made fiery Flints forth Water shed,  
Can sure with ease transform these Stones to Bread.  
But Christ his Miracles did then decline,  
Such precious Jewels were not meet for Swine.  
Did faithful Ab'ram beg him, I believe,  
From Stones themselves he would an Offspring give;  
And thence (to propagate his Father's Praise)  
The Staff of Life, as well as Life could raise.  
But when the tempting Pharisees desire,  
When Herod or the Devil a Sign require,  
(Who not the Doer but the Deed admire;)  
He will not then exert his force Divine;  
At evil Sights the Sun desists to shine:  
The greatest proof the God of Truth could give,  
Was thus the great Deceiver to deceive:  
Resistance was the only Prodigy,  
Whereby he showed himself a Deity.  
Great Potentate! this Miracle alone,  
Was more than wrought, by being left undone.   

But lo! The Airy Prince with speedy care,  
Hurries our Saviour through the yielding Air.  
But what did Satan then, take Wings and fly?  
His Fall so great made him rebound so high.  
Strait at Jerusalem they both arrived,  
(For her One joyed, for her the Other grieved)  
When pitching on the highest Pinnacle  
Of that high House, where the Most High doth dwell;  
Christ more than mystically thither led,  
There o'er the Church, his Body, stood the Head.  
There Satan does his subtle Arts peruse,  
From one Repulse a bolder suit renews:  
If thou art Christ cast thyself down from hence,  
The Powers of Heaven will be thy defence;  
Spirits Divine will aid thee from Above,  
Each will to thee a Guardian Angel prove;  
But being Balked, he now at last prepares,  
To catch with gilded Baits and painted Snares:  
He does the World as his last Stake propose,  
Strait all its Glory to his View disclose,  
Thinking to Captivate the Deity,  
With so much Fruit so pleasant to the Eye.  
Before me Kneel, and Worship, be thou Mine,  
And all the Glories of the world are thine.  
But how canst thou (bold Villain!)  deserve  
Worship from him, whom thou thyself shouldst serve?  
How stained would those his Milk-white Robes appear,  
Which on the holy Mount he once did wear,  
Had he and thou been thus Transfigured here?  
This blacker than th' Egyptian part would shroud  
That brighter far than Israel's fiery Cloud.  
But here resisted too away he goes,  
Adds this as Fuel to his former Woes;  
Whose smooth Assaults prevailed on Earth no more,  
Than his more rough Ones did in Heaven before.  
This Innocence unspotted he must leave;  
Not so the Son of Man as Man deceive.   

Reflect vain Man! Reflect on this, and see  
If God be Tempted, what awaits on Thee.  
Happy, were bare Temptation all thy Doom,  
Thou scarce art oftener Tempted than overcome.  
Man is become the great Devourer's Prey;  
The best of Men too oft are drawn away,  
This Roaring Lion will a Prophet slay.  
Man is the Food to which the Serpent's Cursed;  
Dust he must Eat, and what is Man but Dust?  
Rouse sluggish Wretch! Examine every part,  
Pierce through the close Recesses of thy Heart;  
And when thou dost the lurking Monster find,  
The surest way to drive him from thy Mind,  
Is to debar thyself of costly Fare,  
Let him have no kind Entertainment there.  
Plenty of Vice with Victual plenty shares,  
'Twas a fat Soil which Satan sowed with Tares.  
If thou art Wicked, 'tis no more than Just  
To mortify those Members prone to Lust;  
And mingle Water with thy Saviour's Blood;  
To purge the greatest Gild, there needs a greater Flood  
If thou art Righteous be not too Remiss:  
Praise God the more; not Fast, or Pray the less.  
When thou hast almost won the Blessed Race,  
Thou mayst not then stand still, but mend thy pace,  
Since not Improvement is abuse of Grace.  
Satan we find (as Day springs up from Night)  
Is changed from Devil to a Saint of Light:  
The Terms are too Reciprocal, and we  
Some Saints of Light may changed to Devils see.   

But stay my Muse, return from this Extreme,  
And through each Passage tract thy sacred Theme.  
Behold him at the Mount of Olives, where  
Viewing the Deity that's seated there,  
You'd think Mount Olivet Mount Horeb were.  
O how agreeable a Sight it shows!  
The harmless Dove among the Olive Boughs!  
There he the Eight Beatitudes expressed,  
Which being thus delivered were increased.  
Here Moses' Law more fully did repeat,  
But not so much Abolish as Complete.  
Whilst this bright Sun with healing Wings doth rise,  
The Vale is rend, the Cloud of Darkness flies.  
Here are no mighty Thundrings as of Old,  
When these same Precepts were to Moses told.  
When from Mount Sinai great Jehovah speak,  
And made fixed Hills with reverend Horror quake.  
No harsh loud Clamours grate the People's Ears,  
Th'Almighty here in still small Voice appears.  
From Olivet to Tabor he removes,  
One Mountain left, he to another goes.  
Lo Hor! Lo Carmel! Pisgah, Horeb; where  
Aaron, Elisha, Moses, God appear.  
Thus Hills by God, and Godlike Men are sought,  
Which high the Body, higher raise the Thought;  
Where we behold with Contemplation's Eye,  
And view more clearly Heaven by being nigh.  
Here he was strait o'reshadowed with a Cloud,  
Here with him Moses, here Elias stood.  
He Glorious now, as once from God he came;  
The Dazzling now as in his Chariot's Flame.  
While thus the Harbinger of Christ was known,  
Not in John Baptist's Person, but his own.  
Let's then like Peter, while we stand and gaze,  
This humble Temple to their Honour raise.  
But Oh! can this that radiant Sight repay?  
Sure, sure like him, I know not what I say.   

What sudden Change! Lo! strait the same I see  
Descended hence, Ascending Calvary;  
There Glory ends in shame. The People's Cry,  
Is from Hosanna, turned to Crucify.  
There's no Attendants, his Companions there,  
For Two bright Saints, two Malefactors were.  
The Purple Robe, which others might Adorn,  
As Badge of Reverence, here's a Badge of Scorn;  
The King of Jews a Wooden Head-piece wore,  
A Reed instead of Golden Sceptre bore.  
Not him the Crown, but He the Crown Adorns,  
The Deity again in Bush of Thorns.  
When he a Sacrifice for Sin was made,  
The only Son again on Wood was laid;  
By which Reed, Crown, and Cross is understood,  
He paid for Sin proceeding first from Wood  
Who can relate this Love of God, who can  
Rather forsake himself, than Sinful Man?  
Rather than Man Eternally should Die,  
Death once for All seized even Eternity.  
Who can express the Sorrow he did show,  
Exchanged from greatest Bliss to greatest Woe?  
Full exquisite that Torture must appear,  
When besides Cross, sharp Nails, and sharper Spear,  
To fill the Cup, increase the bitter Draught,  
Myrrh, Hyssop, Gall and Vinegar are brought.  
My God why hast forsaken me, that Cry  
Made Heaven and Earth have Fellow-sympathy.  
Black Clouds of Night in Mourning clad the Sky,  
Bewailing its departed Deity.  
The Earth she moves, each lofty Mountain shakes,  
The Universe with trembling Palsy quakes:  
The Rocky Heaps disperse themselves about,  
And while Man ceaseth, Stones themselves cry out.  
The Temple quite throughout is rend in twain;  
The Body suffers when the Head's in Pain.  
And now let's Trace him to the Shades below,  
(This setting Sun under the Earth must go)  
Where once again we may repeated see  
Not long since Earth's, long since Heaven's Victory.  
Where once for All the Son of Man shall quell  
Hell's Bloody Tyrant, conquered even in Hell.   

Here pause a while, here mute, and silent gaze;  
I know so much, I know not what to Praise.  
He whom the Heaven of Heavens could not contain,  
Does in a low and narrow Tomb remain;  
That we no longer Dead in Sin might lie:  
That we might Live, the Living God must Die.  
The Ever-Blessed is a Curse become,  
To expiate our ever-cursed Doom.  
In our behalf he Sorrow underwent,  
And was to Hell as well as Heaven sent.  
Not there for us new Mansions to prepare,  
But destroy those prepared already there.   

Ascend once more the Top of Calvary,  
Thy Blessed Saviour there Expiring see.  
There the mixed Rabble wag their Heads in vain,  
To addle their before unsettled Brain.  
Ah! Thou the Temple that destroy'st (they Cry)  
(Speaking the Truth by way of Irony)  
Recover thy almost exhausted Breath,  
And Save thyself, who Savest all from Death.  
The cruel Soldiers (as may well declare)  
The parted Raiment, and the Bloody Spear,  
At once his Body and his Garment tear.  
Here two Extremes together met I see,  
The Pride of Man and God's Humility.  
Lo! him Reviled by Man, whom did before  
Angels, by some Adored themselves, Adore!  
Lo! Him from thence to Heart of Earth conveyed,  
In whom true Hearts, as he in here's, are laid!  
That without Sin we, born in Sin, might die,  
He that without Sin lived, for Sin does Buried lie.   

Shall we indulge in Riot, Lust, and Pride?  
And live in that for which our Saviour Died?  
Shall we too much in comely Dresses trust,  
While he lies void of Beauty, Clothed with Dust?  
Is this a Season sit for Feasting grown?  
Fasting is proper when the Bridegroom's gone.  
They who refuse to Crucify the Flesh,  
Oft Crucify the Son of God afresh.  
Their savoury Meat does bitter Gall appear,  
Their Wine his Vinegar, their Knife his Spear.  
Thrice happy they who can from Meats abstain,  
And share a little in their Saviour's Pain;  
That Pain is Pleasure, and these Losses Gain.  
Thrice happy they, who do what Mary did,  
(Affording Spring and Towel from her Head,)  
She before Death his Funeral prepares,  
Anoints with Ointment, and Embalms with Tears.  
Whilst that their Grief more proper will appear,  
If after Death they in his Burial share.  
Thus whilst with her they Weep, Lament and Howl,  
To wash his Corpse, they cleanse their filthy Soul.  
May we our Master's Pattern thus maintain,  
(This Cup the Sons of Zebedee must drain,)  
With him thus Suffer, e'er with him we Reign.  
'twill add some Lustre to that Glorious Day,  
To have had Tears that must be 
* Rev. 1: 17.  wiped away.  
Then Spring's Green Mantle covers Paradise,  
When from our 
† Gen. 2.6.  Earthy part these watery Mists arise.    

The RESURRECTION of CHRIST.  

INvoke thy Saviour, Dead and Torpid Muse,  
That his new Life in thee may Life infuse.  
Run to the Sepulchre in haste to view,  
Outrun both Peter and the Other too.  
How does his Grave unlike itself appear!  
Spirits instead of Flesh inhabit there.  
His Winding-sheet is all you there can find:  
(Elijah thus his Mantle left behind.)  
An Angel rolled away the heavy Stone,  
And sat himself in Triumph thereupon.  
The moving which its Greatness served to prove,  
Since moving it made Earth's vast Fabric move.  
Hither Enquirers early Journeys make;  
From hence the Angel to Enquirers spoke:  
He who just now lay Buried in this Cell,  
Unsealed this Stone, but faster sealed up Hell.  
What Abram represented, God hath done,  
He took the Knife and would have slain his Son.  
And when by Works he thought his Faith to show,  
That Friend of God was to himself a Foe.  
There's no Reluctance, no Paternal care  
(Both Great) so great as to discover Fear.  
And had not God withheld the fatal Stroke,  
Making his Angel his Command revoke,  
You than had Isaac a Burnt-offering seen,  
A Death as wondrous as his Birth had been.   

But though God thus refused his Son to spare,  
He has not left us wholly in Despair;  
Obtaining Conquest o'er the Conquering Grave,  
More mighty by Destroying, seems to Save.  
Great was the Power, great the Love Divine,  
Which all preceding Miracles outshine.  
A meaner Prophet's Bones could once before,  
When Dead themselves, the Dead to Life Restore  
'Twas the Great Prophet's high Prerogative,  
To make himself, as well as others Live.  
No Trumpet's sound that body need revive,  
Which is the Resurrection and the Life.  
The Captain of Salvation needs no Call,  
Nor Summoned be himself that Summons all.  
With him dead Saints forsake their ancient Urn;  
With the Redeemer the Redeemed return;  
And by experience teach us to believe,  
All dye in Adam, all in Adam live.   

Fix then my Soul, confide in this Belief,  
And to thy Faith conform thy future Life;  
Since that from Death thy Saviour raised has been,  
Rise from the Death, Eternal Death of Sin.  
Let not the Living Death, as Life the Dead surprise,  
Like wicked Soldiers sleep while holy Saints arise.   

For tho' even these are Destined once to die,  
Death seems to them not Death, but Ecstasy.    

To the Late BISHOP of BATH and WELLS, on his Departure from that See.  

To You, Great Sir, my humble Muse is come,  
To Pity, since she can't reverse your Doom;  
My Magdalene Converted first by You,  
Stands afar off, and does your Sorrows view.  
Your Sorrows? No. Your Temper I forget,  
You kindly welcome even the hardest Fate:  
You quit your Diocese, your Office leave,  
With less Reluctance than you did Receive.  
Contentment such a Blessing is, as may,  
By teaching to sustain the Loss, repay.  
Your Virtues all like Starry Orbs appear,  
Brightest and largest in their lowest Sphere.  
Ingrateful Wretch, and cruel should I be,  
To bear thy Loss as patiently as thee.  
Ye Men of Bath, for him let Tears be shed,  
Who clothed the Naked, who the Hungry fed;  
Who nought for Private or Self-ends would save,  
But, like th'Apostles, all in Common gave.  
Thus he his Talon too of Knowledge used,  
No less his Doctrines, than his Goods, diffused.  
Ye Baths, who oft turn others Pains to Ease,  
Weep for your own, as well as their Disease:  
You who might once Bethesda's-Pool excel,  
His Blessing made the Healing-Waters Heal.  
No need of a Celestial Angel's Care,  
When he, Angelick-Man, resided there.  
But now your Efficacy will decrease,  
Make Desolate the once frequented Place;  
No Naham sure had bathed his Body here,  
Had not the Great Ei●ha dwelled so near.   

At his Removal from that happy See,  
None so Indifferent, so Calm as he.  
With the same Patience he his Wander bore,  
As he had his 
* When with 6 other Bishops imprisoned in the Tower.  Confinement done before;  
Tho we in him his Master's hardships read,  
Who scarce knew where to lay his weary Head.  
Adam my Pity shall no more engross,  
Who bought an Apple with a Garden's loss;  
His Gild deprived him of that blessed Coast;  
Here Innocence its Paradise has lost.    


Upon the Monthly FAST.  
WHile Heathen Monarches on themselves rely,  
While they, Mezentius-like, the Gods defy;  
Banquets and War are fit Companions thought,  
As if they enjoyed the Prey, for which they fought.  
These make the Pigmy soon Gigantic grow,  
These make him Plump, these Tall, these Lusty too.  
Yet even these Feasts have changed to bloody War,  
And made a Captive of a Conqueror;  
While foul Excess thwarting their prime intent,  
Impairs that Strength their moderate Diet leut.  
But Christian Kings, when they are Warlike seen,  
Display a meaner, yet a nobler Scene.  
No costly Dainties crown the modest Board,  
Each has a Stomach sharper than his Sword.  
Till by their rigorous Abstinence they grow  
As much their own, as Adversaries Foe.  
These are the means which pious Kings advance  
Above the reach of Conduct or of Chance.  
Their Tears become the only Drink they taste,  
Groan their Music, Penitence their Feast.  
When mortified with Hunger they repine,  
They swallow Foes who plentifully Dine,  
Foes clogged with Gluttony, immersed in Wine.  
Unlikely these should bear the Spoils away,  
Pharaoh's Fat Kine became the lean ones Prey.  
He most secure from mortal Wounds is grown,  
Who does not what Achilles once had done,  
Baths not in Stygian Waters, but his own;  
Not such as those to Cowardice we own,  
Not such as parting Friends may challenge, no.  
The Guilty Conscience makes the watery Eye,  
That troubling Moon does raise the Tide so high,  
So Good Cornelius Fasting mixed with Tears;  
Not for himself but for his Sins he fears  
And were his deeds by every Soldier shown,  
The Red-coat almost would excel the Gown.  
Nay those who cannot in the Field appear,  
(Tho' not in Person) may be useful there:  
Might we their lifted Hands, like Moses, see,  
Reach up to Heaven, and thence pluck Victory:  
Then would their potent Prayers make us grant  
The Church Emphatically Militant,  
And even the Sacred Temple not in vain  
Reduced to Tabernacle once again.  
What  now done't Royal Dainties cloy,  
Which cannot them with naked Swords enjoy.  
Those Swords make even a Feast become a Fast,  
Whose very Sight can serve to wound the Taste.  
'Tis Abstinence the healing Medicine proves,  
Abstinence Food at once and War removes.  
Juno was forced to taste a Flower,  she  
Conceived bold Mars, War's bloody Deity.  
Then pleasant Food, as you would him, eschew;  
What first created War, will War renew.  
Would you have Tumults and Sedition cease?  
By Fasting first within yourself make Peace.  
This will make furious Passions gentle grow,  
Reduce the private, and the common Foe;  
This will compose Divisions, this at length,  
By Aiding thus, extract from Weakness, Strength.    

The Final DISSOLUTION.  

A Wake, I cried, awake my Tuneful Lyre,  
Thou, by thy various Notes, thyself a Choir!  
I struck, she Groaned, I struck again, but she  
Gave only Shrieks instead of Harmony.  
When lo! The loudest last Sound grates my Ear;  
The Trumpet, Nature's Passing-Bell, I hear.  
The Sun, ashamed to see his Doom, does shroud  
His radiant Beams behind Night's darkest Cloud.  
The Moon too Blusheth at her Fate in Blood,  
And weeps herself into a Crimson Flood.  
The falling Stars, which falsely we so call,  
Turn Lies to Truth, and actually Fall.  
The Heavens with more than usual Thunder shake.  
And with their own, not Earthly Substance, crack;  
The Lightning now from East to West does shine,  
And all into one mighty Bonfire join.  
The Elements dissolve with servant Sweat.  
Even Fire and Water now agree in Heat.  
The finged Air, not long since Liquid, dries;  
The breath of Life, like those it leaveth, Dies.  
The parched Earth burns next, and Cedars tall,  
With Nether-woods, are Fuel  they shall.  
The lofty Mountains with Convulsions tear;  
As many Aeana's, as are Hills, appear.  
Their Tops are kindled first, which most aspire,  
And Pyramids are more than like to Fire.  
Through Stones, through Clay the Flame its passage breaks;  
To its Assistance it all Matter takes.  
No more in Lime or Flints its presence cloaks;  
These unstruck sparkle, that untempered smokes:  
Beneath the Surface of the Earth does stray,  
While hidden Metals melt themselves away.  
Gold in Earth's Bowels cannot lie secure,  
Even in its Mines the Furnace does endure,  
But to consume it, not to make it pure.  
The Sea permitted by the Wind to smile,  
With rolling Waves for very Heat does boil.  
The Ambient Flame alike all places burns,  
And the whole Globe into a Fireball turns.  
The fiery Plague does Animals pursue;  
Destroys Inanimate and Living too.  
The unblemished Heifer to the Altar led,  
Prev●●● its Fire, and frys before she's Dead.  
The Pigeon 
* Gen. 15.9.  undivided does expire,  
Nor by 
* v. 17.  Aethereal but Terrestrial Fire.  
Nor are Mankind exempted from the same,  
But go alive into their Funeral-flame.  
Even Death herself, grown weary with the toil  
Of slaying, and o'er glutted with her Spoil?  
Must follow after her devoured Prey;  
The Oil once spent, the Lamp will soon decay.  
Thus she who hitherto looked Pale and Wan,  
When Tyrannising o'er poor Vanquished Man;  
Wondering to find herself become a Prize,  
Yields to this Fire, and blusheth as she Dies.   

But hold presumptuous Muse! No farther go;  
Lest thou, surviving Death, Immortal grow.  
Since Phoenixlike the World expires, shall I  
Make it Swanlike to sing its Elegy?  
Cease then my Muse; do thou with Nature Die.    

The New-JERUSALEM.  

WEll may the Phoenix world in Flames consume;  
Since, Phoenixlike 'tis a prolific Doom,  
Bearing a Richer in its pregnant Tomb.  
A glorious World, refined from drossy Earth;  
Far brighter than those Flames that gave it Birth:  
Flames which at once their double Office show,  
The Old World's Hesper, Phosper to the New.  
Surprising sight! Gems which once Precious were;  
Lose all their Worth, are vile and common here.  
The Onyx, Topaz, Saphire, Diamond,  
Serve now, like Flints, to pitch the radiant Ground:  
The Pride of Crowns is here a Footstool found.  
The Sea in clearness Crystal does surpass,  
As far as Crystal might, compared with Glass.  
Whose Waves themselves within their Limits keep,  
Nor scared by Moon with overflowings weep.  
Which having been 
* The supposed Date of the World.  6000 Years oppressed  
Now on the Seventh, as their Sabbath, Rest.   

The meanest Structure which God's word commands,  
Exceeds the noblest Buildings raised by Hands.  
The noblest Architects are here outgone,  
Nimrod in Height, in Glory Solomon.  
Alas! His Fabric was but lined with Gold,  
While here the outside we Embossed behold.  
And if the Case be such, the Jewel sure,  
Which it contains, must needs be far more pure.  
Jacob's Twelve Sons, Twelve several Gates command,  
And there as Sentinels to Guard them stand,  

* Who destroyed Sechem. Gen. 34.25.  Simeon and Levi Expiate what they own,  
For rasing Walls, and their Defenders grow.  
Never was Joseph yet so gaudy Dressed,  
In Pharaoh's Signet, or his Father's Vest.  
Never the Patriarches so Bright and Gay,  
Tho' they enroled in Aaron's Breastplate lay.  
Where Starry Gems, while they their Names revive,  
And, tho' False Stars, yet surest Omens give;  
At once make past and future Ages live.  
For those which such a Lustre cast before,  
Respecting these, less Light than Shadow bore.  
And we th' Aaronick Priesthood now may call,  
In Robes, as well as Office, Typical.   

But as the Walls and City dazzle near,  
So do the Woods and Country shine afar.  
The very Groves as Rich as Kings are Crowned;  
And Golden Boughs on every Tree are found.  
Which free from Autumn's spite, themselves ne'er fade,  
Nor other Objects make so with their Shade:  
And which broke off, to Pious Saints are given,  
Not Tickets for to enter Hell, but Heaven,  
A Thousand Years first spent; their Dated stay:  
A Thousand Years, which will but seem a Day;  
While they enjoy continued Bliss and Ease,  
Charmed and Protected by the Prince of Peace.  
Nor can these Thousand Years by Time be known;  
Since Sun and Moon; since Sky and Stars are gone.  
Time is involved in Nature's common Doom,  
And, as it all things, does itself consume.  
For why should those bright Bodies still remain?  
Nature makes nothing, nor preserves in vain.  
Which yet she had, had she preserved the Sun,  
And made the Stars their wont Courses run.  
What Lustre could from distant Stars appear,  
While Saints, who were to shine like them, so near.  
The Sun of Righteousness imparts below,  
More dazzling Rays than could from Phoebus' flow;  
Which would o'ercast his Light: he no more now  
His Light, than Stars, he shining, theirs could show.  
For Light the more Obscures, the more 'tis Bright,  
And that by which we see deprives of Sight.  
But yet this Light is rendered more complete,  
In that it proves as Constant, as 'tis Great.  
Nothing obstructs th'uninterrupted Light;  
One duskish Cloud would here be thought a Night.  
No Zodiac Points out his Measured way;  
Eternity within no Bounds can stay.  
Such is the Majesty which does dispense,  
Such are they who enjoy his Influence.  
And tho' one Star another may excel  
In Glory, all in Union equal dwell.  
Some more, some less; yet still all Happy be,  
Such different Notes conspire in Harmony;  
And Grace Jerusalem, which may be ta'en,  
Or for aspiring Earth, or for descending Heaven.    

A Lamentation for MOSES.  
WHat News is this? What sudden Change I hear?  
Meekness itself is grown a Murmurer.  
Must I fetch Water, Moses cries; his Hand  
Seconds his Words, words potent as his Wand.  
Which to the striker Wounds more Mortal gave,  
Than the struck Rock could from his Rod receive.  
Dull Rock! hadst thou their meaning understood;  
No need of Rod, those words had spoke a Flood:  
And pitying Tears from Stones had trickled so,  
As might thereby prevent the lifted Blow,  
Whilst Speech became the speaker's vocal Rod;  
When it dishonoured him that gave it, God.  
Happy had he ne'er stiffnecked Israel knew!  
Been slain himself when he the Egyptian slew.  
Why was he spared by the Erythraean Sea?  
Only that he might want of Water see?  
Why by the Beasts that in the Desert stray?  
To govern Men less Civilised than they.  
How has the Lustre of his radiant Face  
Proved to himself a threatening Comets Blaze!  
Clad with the Wedding-Robe of Heavens bright Quire.  
Why was the Chariot wanting to the Fire?  
In vain unarmed he Amalek subdued,  
In vain the Conquest sent from Heaven he showed.  
When destitute of Men and Arms defence,  
His lifted Hand reached Victory from thence.  
For, tho' the Obstacle removed, he run  
The Race, alas! he can't enjoy the Crown,  
Moses without the Holy-land must stay;  
Nor march in Triumph through that Sacred way.  
To Nebo, nature's Pyramid, he's sent:  
Nebo, if not his Grave, his Monument.  
There viewing Canaan Heaven's Type, that Scene  
Closed with his Eyes, and Heaven itself is seen.  
Go pious Prince to thy eternal Home,  
Blest with thy Punishment enjoy thy Doom.  
To enter Canaan would less Happy be;  
Canaan is now a Wilderness to Thee.   

JONATHAN'S Complaint against SAUL, Occasioned by his Enjoining an unseasonable Fast.  

WHat has my Conquest over Armies won!  
I vanquished Thousands to submit to One.  
Food, Life's preservative, for Death does call;  
My Mouth tastes Honey, but my Belly Gall.  
Behold my Father! did I Father say,  
Alas! That Title he has cast away;  
Behold my King! my fatal Judge! less loath  
To lose his Nature, than to break his Oath.  
See, he denies my guiltless Life to save,  
Mine Eyes are opened, but to see my Grave.  
Yet I'll be Dutiful, tho' sure of Death;  
And beg his Pardon with my Dying Breath.   

Forgive what never was a Fault in me,  
Nor in itself, made such by your Decree.  
Think me not Faulty, but yourself Severe;  
Can Hands be Guilty, when the Heart is clear?  
Yet grant they could; sure tears y● Heart might move,  
A captived Victor, and a filial Love.  
O more than Stoney! If like Stones you were,  
You'd be dissolved, as they by Water are.  
When I the joyful Laurel should receive,  
Can you in Justice mournful Cypress give?  
You Swore, you say; but yet you rashly Swore:  
Warned by one rash Act, rashly Act no more.  
Some hidden Impulse bushes on my Fate;  
You with false Colours varnish o'er your Hate.  
Conscience will check you, if my Life you spare:  
But did not check you, when you threw your Spear.  
Why did my Guardian-Angel ward the Blow,  
And save my Life to need a Second throw?   

Ye Men of Gibeah, our dear Gibeah, say,  
Will ye Relentless see me Die to day?  
To save the Wicked once your Arms you lent:  
Redeem that Crime, and save the Innocent.  
Shall Saul deal worse with me than with his Foe?  
He would not serve his Conquered Agag so.   

Admire the Miracle by Samson done,  
Extracting Honey from a Lion's bone.  
Admire, and grieve for Saul, of whom 'tis said,  
Lo! One whom Honey has a Lion made.    

A DIALOGUE between DIVES and LAZARUS.  
WHy do I in those gloomy Regions see  
Dives his Grandeur stoop to Slavery?  Diu. 
The cause of this my Station would you know?  
The weight of Riches press me down so low.  Laz. 
Thrice happy by my Poverty am I,  
The want of these has made me soar so high.  D. 
But how came you so well to know me here?  
Neither are you, nor I what once we were.  L. 
Whether you are the same, you best can tell;  
I see you wear your Purple still in Hell.  D. 
'Tis true indeed, but not more true than strange;  
I would my Purple for thy Rags exchange.  
Thus Pharaoh Gorgeously arrayed like me,  
Drunk his last deadly Potion in that Sea  
Whose red-curled Waves, that were a Wall before,  
Fresh died his Garments with their Crimson gore;  
While he and his Retinue downward pass,  
Unknown Companions to the Finny race.  
Hardhearted both; both Rich; we both expire  
In Blushing Tides; but mine are Tides of Fire:  
Where Doomed to wretched Immortality,  
I'm ever Dying, yet must never Die.  
Joy, as Immortal, does thy Grief repay:  
Each putrid Scar becomes a golden Ray.  
Thy Visage like the newborn Sun appears,  
Rising more Glorious from a Sea of Tears.  
But like the Setting-sun in Flames I shine;  
To Tears, a Sea of Tears I must decline.  L. 
Your Usage answers your too cruel Mind.  
Those who are Pitiless, no Pity find.  D. 
One Drop of Water; pray, One drop bestow!  
One minutes Pleasure in an endless Woe.  
I can't obtain even common Nature's due;  
What Beggars scorn to crave, I beg from you,  
Tho' I deserve, Reward not ill with ill:  
One Crystal Drop will make me Dives still.  L. 
I cannot, would not quit this Blessed State:  
A Gulf divides us, the sure Hempskirke of Fate.  
Left unconfined, I scarce should thither go;  
Sure Hell's a grievous Place, since Earth was so.  
Then in like Terms I answer you, I fear  
I shall be Lazarus, if I'm not here.   

ORPHEUS 's Complaint.  

AM I not Orpheus? If I be,  
Where is my dear Eurydice.  
Poor Soul returned from Styx in vain!  
No sooner Found but Lost again!  
Is this the Prize my Music won,  
Thus to be Twice bereaved of One?  
Scarce had my Lyre its last words spoke,  
My String unloosed, her Thread was broke.  
But why do I of Fate complain?  
'Tis I am Fate; 'tis I have slain.  
'Tis I, my dear Eurydice,  
A Second Adder am to thee.  
Fond Love, alas! Too fond to bless!  
Thy Joys are more, when Thou art less;  
My Eyes no longer could forbear,  
Tho' they viewed Death in viewing her.  
Eyes, which as Basilisks are said  
T'have done with theirs, have looked her Dead.  
At the first Glance she backward fell;  
When I my Heaven, she saw her Hell.   

Thrice welcome now ye Thracian Crew,  
(Poets ye know are Prophets too.)  
When by your cruel Kindness, I  
Shall glad, as you to have me, Die.  
When I to Hell shall Piece-meal go;  
Proud to enjoy my Love, even so.  
While Pain from every other part  
Is Balm, to heal my broken Heart.    

The Day of PENTECOST.  

GO too ye Pegaseian Streams! and thou  
(Once Sacred) Mountain with thy cloven Brow!  
My vestal Muse attends the Fiery Tongue:  
This double-toped Parnassus guides her Song.  
No sooner was the grateful Season come,  
When Jews Devoutly sing their Harvest home  
While for their Plenty, Solemn Praise they yield:  
And load the Altar, for the Store-bouse filled;  
But Gifts Divine in greater Measure given,  
By their kind Influence tipen Men for Heaven.   

Lo! Distant Nations crowd the narrow Room,  
Both Jews and Proselytes together come.  
Persians and Medes, and Elamites appear,  
As many Languages, as Men are there.  
Then the Fire kindling. Peter Silence broke,  
And Man himself speaks as ne'er Man yet spoke.  
But e'er Elisha heard what pleased his Ear,  
A Fire and Earthquake he must see, and hear.  
Here mighty Winds rush in with whistling Noise;  
Here lambent Flames precede the Heavenly Voice:  
A Voice as strange, as easy to be known,  
Differing from each, yet to each Tongue its own.  
A Glorious Voice, which if at Babel heard,  
Amidst Confusion, had the Building reared.  
Since for this purpose to the Church 'twas given,  
To make that Fabric reach its Top to Heaven.  
Behold, and Wonder, ye promiscuous Throng!  
While Truth itself assumes a Double-Tongue.  
Athens must now give Place to Galilee,  
The Seat of Learning to Stupidity;  
While Inspiration natural Learning more  
Excels, than that did Ignorance before.  
Words hover round th'Apostles Lips unsought,  
Brought forth without the labour of a Thought.  
Revealing, they become a Mystery,  
Making, to spoke with Tongues, to Prophecy.  
See how the Flame, which round their Temples plays,  
Different Effects from the same Cause betrays!  
For that which is a Mitre sent to some,  
To others is a Crown of Martyrdom!  
Yet neither Javelin, Cross, or Club; not all  
Those liquid Flames, Rivers of burning Oil,  
Shall ever quench the Holy Spirit's Zeal;  
Whose Light the Prince of Darkness can't expel.  
For as the Body moulders into Earth,  
Buried in that First Womb that gave it Birth;  
So does the Heavenborn Soul to Heaven repair,  
Which Fanned by, as it passeth through the Air;  
Renews its Flame, and grows a radiant Star:  
Till large infusions of the Spirit show  
'Twas but his Earnest it received Below.    

A Copy of Verses, Entitled In Libellum Clarissimi Viri THOMAE HOBBII, De Natura Hominis. And Composed by Rad. Bathurst, M. D. Made English.  

THat which o'er Wonder's Riddles had prevailed,  
Fathomed the Ocean, and the Heaven scaled.  
That which both Indies had together brought,  
Justling each other at a turn of Thought;  
That Mind which could all this, and more command;  
That great Container is itself Contained.  
Which having through the Maze of Knowledge traced '  
Found out the way to know itself at last.   

Learn, Man, thy Inward, once thy hidden Part,  
Thou, who the Reader, thou the Lecture art.  
Discern the Alien lodged within thy Breast,  
Thy greatest Stranger, though thy constant Guest.   

Here's no insipid School-men's empty Toys,  
Whose Words consist of little else but Noise;  
Who Seven long Years for their Degrees must wait,  
 Blub-cheeks speak them Masters of Debate:  
While the poor Ware that's hardly worth a Groat;  
Is vainly boasted, as 'tis dearly bought!  
But profound Sense that weighty Matters dressed.  
Sense fit by such as Hobbs to be expressed,  
Backed with the Reason be designed to show,  
Reason the Painter, and the Picture too.   

See here thy secret Labyrinth displayed;  
See here thyself a living Engine made;  
See what Spring moves, what Trigger stops the Wheel,  
Thy very Soul so clearly Drawn, so well,  
That should even Momus' Window intervene,  
'Twould through that Glass be now but Darkly seen.   

Lo! an Idea of the Affections here!  
See a Description of the Senses there!  
What parted Flames our eager Passions move,  
Which, or our Anger kindle, or our Love.  
Here is the Seat of Grief and Pleasure, here  
Fear itself Dares, yet Trembles to appear;  
Let Politicians first be ruled by thee;  
Would they o'er vulgar Tempers Rulers be.  
Thy Arts are foaming Bits, that kerb with ease,  
And ply the Stubborn to the Bonds of Peace.  
Here Archimedes may surefooting find,  
(To Know-worth is almost to subdue the Mind)  
When he wrists Sceptres from the Hands of Kings,  
And fierce Barbarians to Compliance brings;  
Makes Trembling Palsy seize the Royal Throne,  
And even the World itself turns upside-down.  
There's nothing can his Government withstand,  
Who can the Mind, that Governs all, command.   

Audacious Soul! who dost as high aspire  
For Knowledge; as Prometheus did for Fire;  
Tell me what Deity to thee has shown  
These noble Arts, to Ages past unknown?  
What Saint, sent hither by the Lord of Light,  
Said, Brother Hobbs, receive Immortal Sight.  
Claim this as thy peculiar Gift, alone  
Unknown to all, as all to thee are known.  
What by Creation was the Work Divine,  
Is made, Great Soul, by Revelation Thine.    

THE Seventh ELEGY OF THE SECOND BOOK OF TIBULLUS.  
WHen Thoughts are mutinous 'twixt Death and Life,  
Hope steps between, and parts the fatal Strife:  
Many had slept in Death's eternal Night,  
Had Hopes bright Sun withdrawn his pleasant Light.  
'Tis Hope prolongs the wretched Lovers stay,  
Which if it fly, Life with it flies away.  
Prophetic Hope can only Grief destroy,  
Disarming present ills with future Joy.  
The Ploughman trusts his Seed to Mother Earth,  
In full Assurance of a better Birth:  
But should his Hopes as long Retirement have,  
Furrows for Corn would prove the tilers Grave.  
By Hope the Fowler's Nets for Birds are wrought,  
Hope the true Bait whereby all Fish are caught.  
Hope makes Confinement perfect Liberty;  
Hope makes the Slave amidst his Fetters free;  
Naught can divert him from his merry Tone;  
Hope calls for Songs, when they require a Groan  
Hope, like my Mistress, does my Heart beguile:  
Hope makes her Frowns the dimples of a Smile.  
Forbear, Fair Nymph, forbear thy haughty Scorn;  
Teach not the Goddess Hope to Die forlorn.  
Let it suffice in Beauty to outvie;  
Submit in Power to her Deity.  
If you your Sister's Ghost, or Love, or Fear;  
By loving me, evince your Love to her.  
So mayst thou Earth on her young Members lay,  
A Turf as slender, and as soft as they.  
She shall my Prayers, she shall my Offerings have;  
Sweet Garland shall perfume her putrid Grave.  
And least like her, the fairest Flower, they die;  
I'll with my Tears the absent Dew supply.  
There secure Refuge, there Redress I'll seek,  
And (since you will not) move her Dust to speak;  
She'll never let the living Sister have  
Those Tears, due only to the Dead one's Grave,  
Let me no longer than Denial find;  
On her Account, if not on mine, be Kind●  
Left she to Horror turn your sweet Repose;  
Making you view her, tho' your ●yes you close  
View her besmeared with such a bloody Gore,  
As once her deadly ●all had caused before:  
When from aloft stained into Styx she f●●,  
Thus making almost a Red-Sea in Hell.  
While in such dreadful Colours Ghosts appear.  
Spectators grow as Pale, as those they fear.  
But hold, my Mistress does her Grief renew;  
And I myself a Fiend, not Lover, show.  
If this dire method must my Woes relieve,  
I'd grieve for ever, might she never Grieve.  
May those consenting Eyes ne'er shed a Tear!  
Showers are unseasonable when Stars appear.  
Not she, but Phryne ought to bear the blame;  
Phryne as void of Pity, as of Shame;  
Who others Letters (by her cruel Art  
Hid in her Bosom) slyly does impart,  
And joins them nearer to my Mistresses' Heart.  
When I inquire, she's not at Home, she'll cry:  
Although my Mistresses' Voice does speak her nigh  
And when I come my Promise to obtain,  
She says she's in a Fright, or else in Pain.  
Till by her Lies 'tis I the Anguish hear,  
Making her Feigned become my real Fear.  
Then like some sullen Ghost I sigh and groan,  
To see my Treasure stolen away, and gone.  
My Fancy's wracked, my Thoughts in spite of Fate  
Her Lover's pleasures, but my Pains create.  
Then I to Phryne in her kind Reply,  
And every Curse is Echo to a Lye.  
Whatever part off all my Curses fail,  
That you may live Distressed, let that prevail!  
'Tis Just, ye Gods, 'tis just at length, that she  
Who caused my Grief, should live in Grief, like me   


On the DEATH of the late Renowned, Learned and Honourable Mr. ROBERT boil.  
FOr boil, the Learned Boil, is this Complaint,  
Who lived Philosopher, who died a Saint:  
And intermixed with the Angelic Crew,  
Augments their Company, and Knowledge too,  
Such was his Learning, such his Piety,  
That even his Physics taught Divinity,  
Never such Gifts from Heaven, to Man were given,  
Never such Gratitude repaid to Heaven.   

Farewell ye ancient Bards, a doting Crew:  
Who no more Nature, than its Author, knew;  
Even thee, great Stagirite, we bid Adieu!  
Whom greater Boil precedes, in our Esteem,  
Far more in Worth, than thou dost him in Time.  
Compare both Physics, and to use thy Term,  
Thine the first Matter, his appears the Form.  
Thus Boil reacts thy part; Excelled, we see,  
By thee, Thy Master; by thy Scholar, Thee.  
Nor was he perfect in this Art alone,  
Philosophy (alas too rarely known!)  
Went hand in hand with his Religion.  

* Mr. Hobbs &  Others think fit to load the teeming Press,  
With studious Effects of Wickedness;  
And while mysterious Nature they unfold,  
Deny the Providence they there behold;  
But Boil as Pious, as Experienced grown,  
Their Wisdom knew, their Folly left unknown.  
As oft to Church, as Library, he went;  
His Time in Prayer, as well as Study spent.  
His Practice did their Arguments deny,  
Too proud to own a Sovereign Deity;  
And taught that Truth was true Philosophy.  
So Godlike Wise, so Godlike Good was he,  
Himself seemed what they'd not allow to be:  
So prudently did he his Notions frame,  
That his like Gospel-writings may reclaim.  
The Temple-walls, like Prisons, ne'er confined  
His in-exhausted, his all-pious Mind.  
When Flames he viewed, he did like them aspire;  
Thinking on him who is Consuming Fire.  
When he for Air the second Station lay,  
He thought of him whom Air and Winds obey:  
When he the Water's Nature did survey,  
He thought of him whose Path is in the Sea.  
When he of weighty Earth the Nature viewed,  
He showing that, him whose the Earth was, showed.  
His Touchstone Judgement Metal's Nature tried,  
(Nature in them, as they in Earth, lay hid)  
Each in his Eye exceeds an Indian Mine;  
There lies his sought for Pearl, the Work Divine,  
What others gazing towards the Heavenly Throne  
Beheld, he oft beheld by looking down.   

But now he's Summoned to the Heavenly Choir,  
With refined Knowledge, with enlarged Desire.  
Where ravished with the Beatific show,  
Scorns Nature's Glass, through which he viewed below.  
He clearly now does Nature's God adore,  
Whom in his Works he darkly saw before.  
Tho' if compared to our less skilful view,  
That Sight was clear, that Beatific too.  
While he throughout the Maze of Nature traced,  
No Footsteps moved so sure, none moved so fast:  
Till all the Labyrinth at length Displayed,  
He found the Monster, Death, within it laid.  
Thus having in his Life all other tried,  
Death one Experiment remained; he Died.  

* He lived to a great Age.  Even Nature who before he Lived, lay Dead,  
In Gratitude his vital Spirits fed;  
And Crowned with hoary Diadem his Head:  
Who to his care extending her Relief,  
Made him End all Experiments with Life.    

On the Death of Admiral CARTER.  


† 〈…〉  NOT He who did the 
* Because Troy was Conquered by revealing the Arrows wh●●● therein were hid.  Fatal Grave betray,  
Wherein obscure, once famed, Alcides lay,  
Felt such a Wound, by poisonous Arrows stung,  
(Just Arrow that revenged their Master's 
† Breach of Promise.  wrong)  
As that which now torments my troubled Breast,  
By something worse than poisonous Darts oppressed;  
While I the Death of that Great Hero tell,  
Which more did him, than others he excel.  
Oh! that for thee I could a Column rear,  
More noble than Alcides' Pillars were!  
(For thou with him in both his Acts dost share,  
Renowned alike for Travels, and for War)  
It should at once a double Honour show,  
Thy Ne-plus-ultra, and thy Trophy too.  
If Tears and Sighs could with the Fates prevail,  
With Tears and Sighs I would thy Fate repel:  
Thy Corpse I'd animate with lasting Sighs,  
Thy withered Plant with showers from mine Eyes.  
But watery Eyes in common Burials share,  
Many for thee shall drop a Crimson Tear.  
Till they, who dared Immortal Blood to spill,  
Make with their Own the neighbouring Channels swell:  
And b●ush for this their Crime in Scarlet Gore,  
Whom mod●st Awe ne'er painted Red before.  
When first the News of thy Decease was known,  
They who bewailed thy Fate, bewailed their Own.  
What Horror scared them? Death to Carter sent,  
The Living more than Dying did Torment,  
Each Visage gathered Paleness at thy Fall:  
Death seizing thee, Death's Image seized on All.  
Oh! Dismal shout! altho' no Mother's Cries,  
No Widow's Groans there present rend the Skies;  
Although no doleful Passing-Bell they hear,  
Lo! worse than Passing-Bell renewed their Fear.  
Canon's too truly thy Departure spoke,  
Thy Lamp extinct thus left behind a Smoke:  
The Winds and Waves Emphatically Roar,  
They both thy End, and England's Loss deplore.   

When Fame, thy Harbinger, to Portsmouth came,  
And changed thy Great into a Greater Name;  
Showing how thy Heroic Soul alone,  
Proof against Force, and Fraud alike could shun  
The Leaden Arrow, and the Golden One;  
Desire takes Wings, ascends the City-wall,  
Expecting Triumphs, not a Funeral;  
With greedy Eyes each seek to view thee thence,  
A Place as fit for Prospect as Defense.  
All waiting thy Return cry, Come away,  
The Monster's Conquered, why does Theseus stay?  
Till they the Fate of Aegeus undergo,  
(Oh! that at least they were mistaken so!)  
No sooner Carter's Mourning-Flag they found,  
But, were in Tears, the Sea of Sorrow, drowned.  
Strait in the Church, with solemn Prayers conveyed,  
His Corpse Interred, almost Adored, they laid.  
While Links and Torches graced the Mourning Night;  
Adding more Horror, than they added Light.  
Methinks the Screech-owl-Trumpets pierce my Ear,  
The Death-watch beats, the untuned Drum I hear.  
A numerous Train demurely March along;  
Alike were Drums, alike all Hearts, Unstrung.  
Th' Officious Guns, as if they would repay  
For all those Lives they oft had ta'en away;  
In vain a rousing Conclamatum gave;  
Still lies Great Carter in his humble Grave,  
Where describe this as humble Epitaph:  
He, Faithful He, who Underneath does Lie,  
Died, by Refusing to Deserve to Die.  
The rest I leave to be by them made Good  
Whose Pens are Daggers, and whose Ink is Blood.  
May Grief be Valour's Spur! for want of thee,  
May each Courageous, Stout, nay Carter be!  
May hostile Crowds at Pluto's Court appear,  
Not to Resist, but to Attend thee there!  
Whose Skulls on Earth, may raise an Heap so high,  
That Slaughter's Mount shall nature's Hills outvie,  
Till they a fatal Pyramid present,  
And their Disgrace become thy Monument.    

LOVE Reigns .  

MErcury once by Jove was sent  
Through Heaven, to call a Parliament;  
All to the House of Lords repair;  
(For sure there were no Commons there)  
The reason was, each God might know,  
And knowing to his Province go:  
That so great Jove might be released;  
While Throngs of Gods and Cares decreased.   

First let each Element (said he)  
Have its peculiar Deity.  
Next o'er whole Nations, then o'er Towns,  
Let all have their Respective Crowns.  
Lastly appoint a King o'er Hell:  
Unhappy God who there must dwell!  
Unhappy he● 'tis he alone  
Who must go downwards to a Throne.  
The Lot's drawn out decide the Case,  
Assigning each his proper Place.  
Supremacy was given to none,  
None but might somewhat call his Own  
Cupid, a beardless Boy, was left  
Of Power and Manhood too bereft.  
Who in a Passion railed at Jove,  
(Passion the usual Guest of Love.)  
Why must not I have something too?  
I am a God as well as You.  
To whom Jove tartly thus; Fond Fool,  
Thou to be Ruled art, not to Rule.  
I cannot thy Petition grant,  
Who more dost Rod than Sceptre want.  
No; if need be, I'll in thy stead,  
Sooner intrust even Ganymede.   

The Youth, enraged at this Reply,  
Resolved his utmost Power to try.  
His furious Heat wracks every Breast,  
Nor Gods, nor Men, nor Fiends have rest.  
Pluto, and his infernal Crew  
With Cupid's Fire their Flames renew:  
Whose Legions are by this increased,  
In that they are with Love possessed.  
Departed Ghosts own him their Head;  
Love dies not even among the Dead.  
Earth yields her Might, as weak, to his;  
And Man, her Lord, his Vassal is:  
Captived by his own Ear, or Eye;  
From Beauty, or from Harmony.  
For comely Features (as we view)  
Pierce deeper than his Arrows do:  
And Musick-strings as fatal grow,  
As those wherewith he bends his Bow.  
The Fowls perceive his Tyranny,  
Who shoots more swift than they can fly  
The little Flocks become his Prize,  
By Love a Burning Sacrifice.  
All undergo the Victims doom,  
Who, tho' they die not, they consume:  
And in short Pant pine away;  
Less grievous are Death's Pangs than they.  
The vaster Herd have this desire,  
Living, like Brazen-Bulls, breath Fire,  
No Infect from this Plague is free:  
Love, naught's too great, too small for Thee,  
Nor dost to Land confine thy stay;  
Thou too dost Neptune's Trident sway.  
For thy Amphibious Deity,  
Plungeth itself into the Sea.  
Through frothy Waves its Power it shows:  
The Son dives where the Mother rose.  
There Sea-Nymphs, Fishes there, in scorn  
Of all the mighty Ocean, burn:  
No longer watery Tides admire,  
Feeling within them Tides of Fire.  
Nor does he only Reign below;  
The Gods to him Obeisance owe.  
Vulcan, and's Servant Polypheme,  
Proof against Aetna's hottest Flame,  
Can't sustain his; by which they prove,  
That Fire itself Burns less than Love.  
Even Mars his Armour is not found  
Secure enough against this Wound.  
Who, bound by Mulciber, remains  
A Captive Lover fit for Chains.  
Phoebus, whose glorious Rays bestow  
Both Light and Warmth to all below;  
Although he burns not with the same,  
He burns with Love's much fiercer Flame.  
Even Jove (such Feats can Cupid do)  
Submits his Thunder to his Bow:  
And, bowing towards Acrisiu's Tower,  
Pays him a Tributary Shower.  
Nay that he may his Duty show,  
He leaves his Heaven, his Godhead too.  
He's Bull, or Swan, what not? to prove,  
Jove rules the World, and Cupid Jove.  
Thus all things are within his Sphere,  
His Royal-seat is every where;  
While all Below, and all Above,  
Become one Empire, Ruled by Love.    

On the Barbarous Execution of Dr. WILLIAM LAUD, sometime Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.  

IT was the time, when Days passed dimly on,  
Not to be measured by the gazing Sun,  
Who drew a Cloudy Curtain o'er his Head,  
While Crown and Mitre were to Scaffold led.  
Heaven, cleft with Lightning, cast a ghastly Look,  
And claps of Thunder our Distractions spoke.  
Clouds gushed out drops for those our Martyrs shed;  
More numerous, less precious than the Red:  
When the best Argument for being Good,  
Was to seek Canaan through Red Sea, of Blood.  
Lambeth perhaps had never spent a Tear,  
Had no Archbishop built his Palace there.  
The Pious LAUD must impious Rage appease,  
Because Unblemished, He's a Sacrifice.  
For Crimes unknown he was by those Arraigned,  
Who merited the Death for him designed.  
And were their inward dark Recesses seen,  
Bradshaw the Prisoner, LAUD the Judge had been,  
Undaunted LAUD knew no Assaults of Fear;  
Those are the Fearful, who the Guilty are,  
His quiet Conscience still possesses Rest,  
As being still with Innocence possessed.  
The Waves may roar; the threatening Billows swell,  
Wild Rage may fathom the Abyss of Hell;  
Yet he, whom present Death removes to Bliss,  
Laughs at their Frowns, whose wish conspires with his.  
His steadfast Soul was resolutely Good;  
Then most Courageous, when by most withstood.  
And after all that Malice could afford;  
The Arm of Flesh was weaker than the Spirit's Sword.  
For 'tis to him true Valour does belong,  
Who Dies sustaining, not redressing Wrong.  
Down on the Block his sacred Head he lay,  
Praying for those who scarce would let him pray,  
And kneeling there, perhaps was Cursed by them,  
Who had craved Blessings on their Knees from him.  
The factious Rout that wicked Hand applaud,  
Which with one stroke Beheads the Church and Laud.  
But Angels look, and tremble at his Doom;  
Tremble, and Look; yet wish his Soul were come.  
As they descend the welcome Prize to bear,  
They stay themselves upon more solid Air:  
And while Just Men the Pride of England Mourn,  
Increase their Company as they Return.  
Thus Died the Pious, the Courageous Saint;  
Chief of the Church, the Church that's Militant.   

Why does his Day, his fatal Day appear,  
As undistinguished from the vulgar Year!  
Let Heaven regard what Time has made unknown;  
And when we lost our Glory, hid its own.  
Let gloomy Shades our base Neglect betray,  
And by Concealing, thus Reveal the Day;  
A day as Black as was his Judge's Crime,  
Black as the Crime they falsely laid on him.    

On the Power of Music.  

WHat Muse, tho' Songstress, can reveal  
The Charms that in blessed Music dwell?  
First to Great WILLIAM's Camp repair,  
And view its Magic Power there.  
Trumpets the Soldiers strength renew;  
These are the Arms that most subdue.  
These animate the Meek, the Tame;  
These blow the Dead Coals into Flame.  
These cure a Wound; these heal a Scar;  
These breath the very Soul of War.  
Let Joshua speak in Trumpets sound,  
The Walls obey, and Tumble down.   

Go to a Feast, or Funeral;  
Music adapts itself to all.  
This does the drooping Spirit cheer,  
This is the Language of Despair;  
This raises Laughter, draws a Tear.   

Are you in peril on the Main?  
Let but Arion's Harp complain  
The Dolphins to your Rescue haste,  
And by their Aid you are Released.   

What Man need dread the Shades below,  
Did he with this Companion go?  
Theseus, for want of this, remains,  
And there beholds his Friend in Chains,  
Assistance brought from Harmony,  
Had made Pritithous as free,  
As once it made Eurydice.  
The place no Groans, no Howling fills;  
This Noise all other Noises stills.  
The wretched Ghosts attentive are,  
And Snakes unfold themselves to hear.  
Fiends to Good Nature it beguiles;  
Cerberus fawns; each Fury smiles.   

Credit Pythagoras his Ear,  
Soft Music tunes the Studded Sphere:  
Ravished with which the Planets rove,  
And fixed Stars (falsely called so) move.  
Such is its Virtue, so sublime;  
They dance, while Sun and Moon keep Time.  
Thus things Inanimate obey,  
And shall Man less be moved than they?  
Shall Wood upbraid us, or shall Stone?  
Both by Harmonious Artists drawn.  
Sure that which could a Passion make,  
Should Passions Lulled asleep, awake.  
Our very Heartstrings ought to suit,  
And tremble with the stringed Lute.   

Those, whom Broad ways to Heaven lead,  
While they through stately Temples tread;  
By the sweet Symphony that's there,  
Do make of One an Hymn and Prayer:  
Such Solemn Pleasure is conferred,  
That Duty seems its own Reward.   

But Music, tho' a present Bliss,  
Of future an Idea is.  
When we at Things above us guests,  
And what's unspeakable Express,  
We say the heavens with Anthems Ring,  
And Angels Hallelujahs sing.  
Tho' Golden Cherubims were made,  
(Like Solomon's) with Wings displayed,  
Tho' Objects pleasing most the sight,  
Were all improved to th'utmost height;  
This would more clearly Heaven descry,  
This sets the Ear above the Eye.   

But Verse alone can never show  
The praise to music's Power due.  
Joined in Apollo both we see,  
The God of It, and Poetry.  
You that can imitate the God,  
And tread the Path that he has trod;  
Add merry Harp, and mournful Flute,  
Take well-strung Violin, and Lute:  
Tho' you Heroic Actions sing,  
Adore some God; Extol some King:  
If at the Signal given by Time,  
Their Notes strike in, and sweeten Rhyme;  
Whoever hears them, hearing says,  
They speak their own in others praise.    

TROAS. Act the First. Where Hecuba complains of her Misfortunes.  
Hecuba Sola.  

A Crown is but a Gilded, Fickle Toy  
To One who first reflects on Me, and Troy;  
Troy, now no more, a Sooty Ruin stands,  
Built by Immortal, Razed by mortal Hands.  
Her mighty Troops, in foreign Countries bred,  
Are either bravely Slain, or basely Fled.  
Immersed she lay in shining Waves of Flame;  
Flame that first caused, and then disclosed her shame.  
But Oh! too weak to snatch the wealthy Prey,  
Which fiercer Greecians bore through Flames away.  
Thick smoky Clouds, (as knowing what was done)  
Ascend apace to stop the flying Sun;  
In vain they Veil his Face; he posts away,  
And Troy's black Night bereaves the World of Day.  
The bloody Greek our spacious Ruin views;  
And takes for Vision what too true it shows.   

He senseless Wretch, his Senses dares not trust:  
How feared he Troy, who trembles at her Dust?  
He owns her worthy of a Ten Years Siege,  
Of Ten times Ten Years; worthy of an Age.  
The tottering Relics of her shapeless Wall,  
Give their last Nod, and threaten as they fall.   

I swear by all the angry Powers above,  
By Priam's Ghost; by all I fear, or love;  
The Loss we suffer was forewarned by me;  
I even foretold Cassandra's Prophecy;  
I spoke as True, was thought as False as She.  
Forgive Ulysses, Pardon Sinon; I  
Wrought this Destruction; I deserve to die.  
The fatal Torch was lighted in my Womb;  
Wretch that I am, it did not me consume,  
When I grew Pregnant with the Trojan Doom.   

But why do I stolen Grievances relate,  
Omitting Greater of a fresher Date?  
I saw the King before the Altar lie,  
The prostrate King adore the Gods, and die.  
Bold Pyrrhus caught, Bold Pyrrhus slew him there,  
Held by the Cords of his own twisted Hair.  
Yet he with less Regret did Death receive,  
Than any could (but he who gave it) give.  
No Reverence (due to Temples) checked his Rage,  
Nor present Gods; nor Priam's sacred Age;  
No, nor his Death: He does his Corpse abuse,  
And the Grave's Quarters to his Foe refuse.  
Troy's Funeral Flames none to her King allow,  
The only Good Misfortune could bestow.  
Nor is this all; his Royal Family  
(Once served by Lords) to Lords must Servants be.   

Lo! they cast Lots. One Dreams of Hector's Bed,  
Another Helenus' his Spouse would wed.  
A Third is kindled with Antenor's Fires.  
Cassandra too is sought. These each requires:  
My Lot is thought a Blank; me none desires.  
Me all Men dread. Is none concerned but I?  
Help me, my Mates, who suffer silently,  
Help me to show your, and my Misery.  
Pay Troy your last Respects. Weep, sigh, and tear  
Your Garments; after these, your Breast and Hair.  
Let Ida Echo forth our mournful Song;  
That fatal Soil whence our Misfortune sprung.    

Upon the Unseasonable Heat and Drought in April, Anno Domini 1694.  

VENUS, Unkind, as thou art Fair!  
To leave thy Month at Random here.  
April from Thee derives its Name;  
From thee it does Protection claim.  
But thou a Foe to open Wars;  
A Friend to Lovers secret Jars,  
Perhaps art fled with winged pace  
To make thy Mars his Fury cease;  
His Bloody Passions disapprove,  
And mould them into those of Love.  
The stubborn God at first denies,  
At last he's smitten, and complies.  
Thus little Dreaming any ill,  
Endeavouring to Save, you Kill.  
Thy Absence here caused greater Rage,  
Then t●●re thy Presence can assuage  
While fiery Vulcan sent by You  
(Your Husband and your Vassal too)  
Does with regret your Place supply;  
Then such destructive Flames let fly,  
As Aetna yield, and Jealousy.  
And by the Heat they did produce,  
You'd almost think 'twere Hell broke lose.  
No welcome Clouds o'ercast the Sky,  
Too long Serene to please the Eye.  
No particoloured Iris seen  
To die the Trees, and Meadows Green.  
The thirsty Earth asunder cleaves,  
And gapes for Drink, but none receives.  
Rivers their Aid no longer lent,  
Rivers no more; their Waters spent,  
The Island grows a Continent.  
Deep Waters into shallows shrink;  
The Sea itself has need of Drink.  
Phoebus' with his Red jolly Face,  
In vain expects a Cooling-Glass.  
He reaches out his Beams in vain.  
Still empty they return again.  
Unusual paleness shows the Moon,  
For want of Moisture sickly grown.  
The Heavenly Torches hovering stand,  
Like parting Flames above a Brand;  
And wanting Fuel to their Fire,  
Twinkle, as if they would Expire.  
Yet loath to perish all alone,  
And see no Ruin but their own;  
Downwards their hidden Poisons flow,  
And scatter Death where  they go:  
While burning Fevers they create,  
Forerunners of poor Mortals Fate:  
Whose restless Torture is confined  
To Beds, for quiet Ease designed.  
Not she, whom once in Nero's Bed  
Fore-boding Dreams with Flames o'erspread,  
And sleep, Death's Image, painted Dead;  
Endured such Anguish in her Rest,  
As these by wakeful Fires oppressed:  
Who seized with this Tyrannic ill,  
More than her Dreams could fancy, feel:  
Their Heat admits of no allay;  
And only will with Life decay.  
The drops of Sweat distil in vain;  
Their liquid Heat increased the Pain.  
Nor would their Shirts afflict them more;  
Had Nessus dipped them in his Gore.  
Thus tortured they resign their Breath,  
Proof against any Cold, but Death.  
No shivering Ague dares appear:  
That lesser Ill we used to fear;  
Companion of the Springing Year:  
Expelled by greater Miseries,  
With fear it trembles, as it flies.  
The scorched Air still breathes out Woes,  
And the short Hell grants no Repose.  
No Zephyr's gentle whispers say,  
Come forth ye tender Buds! for they  
Within the Bark had rather lie,  
Than at their very Birth to die.  
If any Scorning to lie hid,  
Stepped out in haste; their Morning Pride  
Before the wished for Evening died.  
Their Beauty set before the Sun,  
Before the Day, their Life was gone.  
Too soon the parched Leaves did fade,  
And of the Spring an Autumn made.  
The Field a Yellow Offspring bears;  
The Corn is Straw before it Ears.  
Yet these but too faint Emblems are,  
Of those Diseases Mortals share.  
The Conqueror, the Stout, the Brave  
Is the more potent Fever's Slave.  
Blood free from all impure Desires,  
Boils faster than with Youthful Fires.  
Nor are decrepit Limbs secure:  
The i'll of Fourscore must endure,  
And wax warm with another's Rage;  
This Heat will thaw that frozen Age.  
As Clock-wheels, which too slow have gone.  
Aided by Oil, outstrip the Sun;  
With too much hast their Sloth repay,  
And wear the Time too fast away:  
So this Disease where  it Reigns,  
Tho seated in exhausted Veins;  
Driving with too impetuous strife,  
overthrows the Vehicle of Life.  
And those whom lingering Sloth might save,  
Are thus set forward to their Grave.  
The Stripling, that has just begun  
The Race of Life; like Phaeton,  
O'repowered by Heat, comes tumbling down,  
And finds it Evening,  'tis Noon.  
Scarce any Town or City free  
From this destroying Enemy.  
The Plow-share's beat into a Spade.  
Graves are as thick, as Furrows made.  
Where e'er you pass, a Corpse you meet,  
And Coffins crowd through every Street.  
There's scarce a Household in a Town,  
But grieves at least the loss of One.  
The Winding-sheet about the Dead  
Grows as familiar with the Bed,  
As those wherewith 'tis over-laid.  
While all our April Showers arise  
From Widows, or from Orphan's Eyes.  
All Cheeks besmeared with Pearly dew,  
Instruct the Clouds how they should do.   

But now the angry Powers relent,  
Away our Grief with April went.  
The Mountains laugh, the Valleys sing;  
And every Bird salutes the Spring.  
A cooling Wind does first appease,  
Then blows away the hot Disease.  
Even Heaven conscious of our woe  
(As altered Looks do plainly show)  
Dissolves with Pity into Showers,  
And so removes what it deplores.    

A Speech of SCAEVA, who Commanded under Caesar, To his Flying Soldiers. Lucan. Book VI.  
WHat Fear your narrow Souls from Fight withdrew;  
A Fear unknown to all that Caesar knew?  
Mean Slaves to spare their Blood from whom you fly;  
Theirs, who seek Yours. Dare ye not turn, and Dye?  
For shame, the fleshy Hills of Heroes view!  
Die to revenge their Death, who Died for You.  
But yet, suppose you could Ungrateful prove;  
Let Anger move the Mind unmoved by Love.  
The Foe takes us alone for Cowards, they,  
Who by Retreating would enlarge his way.  
Sure, sure his Passport shall be dearly bought,  
Pompey shall wade through Blood to cut my Throat.  
I could with greater Joy were Caesar by,  
I will not say, with greater Courage Dye:  
But since he cannot see me, Pompey shall;  
Pompey, who feels me, shall approve my Fall.  
Rush on, my Mates! and meeting, break his Darts;  
Make blunt their Iron with your harder Hearts.  
The dusty Clouds we setting Suns, do raise.  
The Shouts that tell our Ruin, and our Praise;  
Swift, as the Sound, shall bring Great Caesar here;  
When those have reached his Eye, and these his Ear.  
Let's die Victorious! He, when we are gone,  
Will reap the Conquest which our Valour won.   

On the DEATH of a Skilful, but Unhappy Organist.  

THoughtful and Sad, the sweet Musician lay;  
No Healing Melody drove Care away;  
Which to Hell-Torments might have brought Relief;  
Physic to any, but its Owner's Grief.  
No pleasant Pastime those fierce Pains assuage,  
Which make a Moment swell into an Age.  
Grief clipped Time's Wing, and so, beyond the sleight  
Of Nature, lengthened at once Day and Night.  
Sleep, as affrighted, left his troubled Breast,  
And nothing less than Death can give him Rest.  
A Rest more certain, had it not been sought;  
Had any but himself the Present brought.  
But he, impatient of a longer Life,  
Resolves to be beholding to his Knife;  
Which half fulfils the too severe Command,  
Unwilling to Obey, unable to Withstand.  
The Blood a free and easy Passage found;  
But grosser Entrails crowd about the Wound:  
As at some narrow Gate the hasty Rout,  
Where none are Gone, though all are Going out.  
He unconcerned for what he saw, and felt,  
(Either of which fewer Heart would melt)  
Does with a surer Gash his Fate command;  
No Pain can stop, when Frenzy guides the hand.  
This darted Death; 'twas this made wider Room,  
While reeking Bowels leave their native home.  
The sight of which made all Spectators mourn,  
Till viewing his, their Own within them turn.   

The fatal Sisters start to see their Loom,  
Cut by a foreign Hand, untimely come,  
By Rashness to prevent a riper Doom.  
Sure the Infernal Furies pricked him on  
To seek the Danger which he ought to shun.  
'Twas they the Thracian Orpheus tore before;  
'Twas they alas! our Second Orpheus tore.  
Hold Muse! thy maimed, and worthless Verse forbear,  
Lest thou a Fury, not a Muse appear;  
And they another Torture suffer here.    

Martial Book I. Epigram IX. The Poet asserts that Honour too be truly Valuable which is Consistent with Life.  
IN that you so far Cato's Acts allow,  
So far the Footsteps Thraseas trod pursue,  
As not their Pattern, but their Fate to shun;  
My Decianus, You and I, are One.  
That Wreath is but a Let to future Good,  
Which fades, unless refreshed with Showers of Blood.  
Give me the Man whose Life and Fame keep pace,  
While both his Trophies and his Years increase.  

Epigram XIV. The Words of a Dying Wife to her Husband.  
ARRIA the Sword, drawn from her Bowels, took;  
And giving it to her Dear Poetus, spoke:  
Trust me, I can this Stroke with ease sustain;  
This gives the Wound, 'tis Yours will cause the Pain.   

Epigram XXII. On Porsenna, and Mucius Scaevola.  
WHen Mucius the deceitful Weapon drew,  
Which not Porsenna, but his Noble slew;  
Enraged he thrust his hand into the Flame,  
That erring ●and which so mistook his Aim.  
The milder Tyrant bid him strait retire,  
And snatched the living Firebrand from the Fire.  
Here hostile Pity does Self-love excel,  
Grieving to see what he Rejoiced to feel.  
Thave killed Porsenna had less Glory brought,  
This has a Triumph o'er a Triumph wrought.   

Epigram XXVI. To Faustinus, A Modest Writer.  
YOUR Thoughts, correctly in your Papers dressed,  
Lie hid, as when imperfect in your Breast.  
How would your Writings please the Grecians! how  
Unknit our Critics, tho' an aged Brow!  
Why will you shut out Fame that knocks at Door?  
Why will you when you may be Rich, be Poor?  
You are too tedious, if you wait for Death,  
Who will take Yours, to give your Poem's breath.  
No, let them rather with their Author thrive;  
Of Life both worthy, both together Live.   

Epigram XXXIV. On a Deceitful Mourner.  
GEllia, alone, her Father's Death forbears  
To Mourn; yet entertains her Guests with tears;  
Who takes a pride in Grief, without it Lives  
Who Grieves sincerely, he in Secret Grieves  
Retired, as is the Grave, his Sorrow keeps;  
Mute, as the Body therein Buried, weeps.   

Epigram XXXVII. To Lucanus and Tullus, Two Loving Brothers.  
DID You, so like the Starry Pair Above,  
Share in their Fate, as you surpassed their Love;  
Your Pious Contest had their Fame outgone;  
Obscured their Lustre with a brighter Sun.  
While each would with unwilling Glory rise;  
Each with ambitious Hast forsake the Skies,  
And he who first did to the Shades descend;  
Would thus bespoke his Brother, and his Friend;  
Live out your Date; and when my Turn is due,  
Supply his Life, who only lives in You.   

Book iv Epigram XVI. On a Boy Killed by the Dropping of an Iceickle.  
THere is a Place they call Capena's Gate;  
Sweeting beneath the constant Water's weight.  
A Beardless Youth as he was passing by,  
Here unawares sucked in his Destiny.  
The liquid Weapon by the Heat it found,  
Destroyed itself, and him that felt the Wound.  
Who ever could like cruel Fortune dare?  
Who ever daring could succeed like Her?  
At whose Command a pointed Drop does prove  
As fatal, as a Deluge sent by Jove.   

Epigram XLIV. A Description of the Mountain Vesuvius.  
HEre pleasant Vines once cast a gloomy Shade,  
Fit to conceal those Crimes their Juice had made.  
Here once the Fat or'e-flowed with Wine: this Grove,  
Bacchus did far beyond his Nysa love.  
Here Satyrs, when they could not Walk, by chance  
Staggered and Reeled themselves into a Dance.  
Here Hercules, Here Venus chose to dwell,  
Their Heaven in respect of this was Hell.  
Now all to Flames, from Flames to Ashes turn;  
And poor Alcides once again must Burn.  
While the too late repenting Gods confess  
They wish this Ruin, and their Power less.   

Epigram LXXVIII. On Varus Derided for his Poor Entertainment.  
When Varus made me his Unhappy Guest,  
Rich Preparations shamed the scanty Feast.  
The Table so encumbered was with Gold,  
As if he meant it should no Victuals hold.  
While all things thus in ample Order lie,  
They starve the Belly; only glut the Eye.  
Kind Varus, I designed with thee to Night  
To gratify my Palate, not my Sight.  
Prithee, or Feed me with substantial Meat;  
Or Feed me not with Hopes of any Treat.   

Book V Epigram VII. To Vulcan, that he would Spare Rome, having already suffered by Fire.  

THe Aged Phoenix finds in Death relief,  
Destroyed by Fire, that kindles into Life;  
So Rome in Flames refined her ancient Rust,  
So found prolific Virtue in her Dust.  
Her Newborn looks all Glorious and Severe;  
Proud, and Imperious as Domitian's are.   

Vulcan forgive! forgive our Founder's wrong.  
Tho' we from Mars; we too from Venus sprung.  
Then may thy Wife so  and Gentle prove,  
As to forget all Bonds but those of Love.    

Epigram LXXV. On Pompey, and his Sons.  
BOth Asia, Europe, and the Libyan Coast  
Declare how Pompey, and his Sons are lost.  
Learn to admire their Greatness by their Doom,  
Whose very Ashes made the World their Tomb.   

Book VI Epigram XXVIII. An Epitaph.  
HEre underneath this Marble Tomb  
Lies, once the Pride, now Grief of Rome.  
His Morals ; Severe his Mien;  
For Virtue's Ripe; for Vices Green.  
Beauty was on his Body writ;  
His Soul the Image bore of Wit.  
Which, like the God of it, Deceased  
After Twelve Years, its Twelve Signs passed.  
May he, whose Tears lament this Boy,  
Or never Weep, or weep for Joy.   

Book VII. Epigram iv To Caesar, desiring his speedy Return to Rome, having Overthrown his Enemies.  
IF you regard the joint Request of Rome,  
Answer their Prayers, excite their Joy, and come.  
We envy our more happy Conquered Foe;  
And think it Conquest to be Vanquished so.  
None sure can their Captivity deplore,  
Who see the God, whom we unseen Adore.  
For while they with delight your awful Presence view,  
Your Arms their Hands, and You their Hearts subdue.   

Epigram XXI. A Petition to the Morningstar, that by an Early Appearance it would hasten Domitian in his Journey towards Rome.  
NO longer, Phosphorus, our Joys delay!  
Caesar expects when you will lead the way,  
And Usher in One Brighter than the Day.  
So expects Rome. I fear the Northern Bear  
Has sucked you up into its Vortex there!  
You move as Heavily as that, as Slow;  
And in so doing seem as Savage too.  
If you are Tired; that you may make more Speed,  
Castor (for Caesar's sake) will lend his Fiery Steed.  
Officious Phoebus does your Leisure wait,  
His Horses wonder they set out so late.  
Aurora lies awake, and fain would rise;  
Yet still the Stars refuse to close their Eyes.  
The chequered Sky with its fixed Eyes does view,  
Too many to be told; to look, too few.  
The Moon, which hitherto had seen but One,  
Stays longing to behold another Sun.  
Well, since 'tis so; come Caesar, come in spite  
Of Moon, and Stars; of Nature's Screen, the Night.  
Command your Coachman to drive swiftly on;  
Yours is to us the Chariot of the Sun.   

Epigram XXXVI. On Domitian 's Stately Building.  

CEase Egypt, cease thy Wonders to declare;  
Thy Pyramids must yield to Larger here.  
Memphis, struck Dumb with shame, in silence dwell;  
Nor proudly with thy artificial Mountains swell.  
How mean were these, were Caesar's House in view!  
That greatest Miracle the World can show.  
seven Turrets, high as Rome's Seven Hills, appear:  
Pelion would seem a Valley, were it near.   

The Bank the Giants cast against the Skies  
Beneath the Nod of Caesar's Palace lies.  
Whose Spires serene, as Heaven they enter, show;  
And look with Scorn on Thunder-Clouds below.  
The Sun, Domitian, takes it as his due,  
To see his Daughter Circe after you.  
Yet tho' these Buildings may with Heaven compare  
For Bulk and Beauty; they, like Heaven, appear  
Too mean, too little for the God that's there.    

Epigram LIV. To CAESAR.  
THo' large and frequent Blessings you bestow,  
Conquering yourself with Kindness, as with Arms your Foe;  
'Tis not your Gifts your Person make approved,  
But 'tis the Love of This makes those Beloved.   

Epigram LIX. On a Thief, who had lost One of His Eyes.  
A Bold Faceed Thief had One Eye left alone;  
Nor wept that One Eye for the other gone.  
Venture him not, bereaved of half his Light;  
A Polypheme for Rapine, as in Sight.  
Eye him at Dinner, He'll at Dinner steal;  
At once his Belly, and his Pockets fill.  
He ne'er a Spoon or Plate behind him leaves,  
Close as his Shirt, his Napkin to him cleaves.  
He scruples not to take a Cloak, or so;  
And tho' he brought but One, departs with Two.  
If Sleep a Servant at his Labour seize,  
His Candle's Light secures it not from Thiefs.  
But lest he should (when Foreign Thefts are done)  
Be soon, for want of Practice, useless grown  
To steal his Neighbour's Goods; he steals his Own.   

MARTIAL Lib. Spec. Epig. XIII.  
KInd, Cruel Dart, that pierced a Teeming Sow,  
Giving a Fertile, tho' a Fatal Blow;  
Was it Diana's Hand miss-led thee right?  
Diana Kills, Lucina brings to Light.  
The Huntress does the Midwife's Office do;  
Poor Brute! she saw her One; she felt her Two:  
While gaping Wounds, that speak her parting Breath,  
At once let out her Young, and let in Death.   

MARTIAL Lib. Spec. Epig. XXV.  

THE Reason why these Waters don't destroy  
The Mimic, as those did the 
* Leander.  real Boy,  
Is plain, they're Caesar's; and the Streams that flow  
Can't but be gentle, when the Spring is so.   

When bold Leander sought his lovely Dame,  
And Waves opposed, but could not quench his Flame;  
Thus trembling he bespoke the boisterous Sea,  
May I my Hero first,  you have me!  
As I return; Rage, Swell, and Foam again!  
What now Obstructs me, will Oblige me then.     

DAVID 's Unreasonable Grief for the Death of Absalon.  

A Youth of sweet Deportment, lovely Mien,  
All Beautiful without, all Foul within,  
His Body being thus by Nature Dressed  
To shame that Pair which She Created best)  
A Youth, too Delicate you'd think for War,  
Careless of David, David's chiefest Care,  
Conspired against the Peace of Israel's Crown,  
Against that Life to which he owed his Own;  
His Sword made Drunken in his Brother's Gore,  
Grows Thirsty now again, and seeks for more:  
A nobler Potion, and a richer Flood,  
Than was the Second-run of Amnon's Blood.  
Villainy, not by slow Degrees increased,  
From the mixed Stream the purer Fountain traced.  
A tender Kid at first the Lion gnaws;  
The stronger Beast is for Experienced Paws.  
And now bold Isr'el follows Absalon  
Resolved to lose his Life, or win a Throne.   

But David scorning to be thus Withstood,  
Yet without Mercy to subdue, too Good,  
Thus speaks to Joab, and in him, to All:  
Pray spare my Son, but let his Army fall.  
You may discern, (nor have I slightly shown)  
The ardent Love I bear to Absalon.  
At Amnon's Death with less Regret I bore  
His than the Absence of his Murderer.  
Whom then against my Will, I made Retire,  
And with just Anger quelled unjust Desire.  
'Twas you our Reconcilement first begun,  
The Favour you have sought, may still be won.  
You my good Nature to Compliance wrought;  
You to Jerusalem the Exile brought.  
When Two long Years within my City spent,  
He had endured a Second Banishment;  
As being still debarred from seeing Me,  
Me, who thereby was punished worse than He;  
How was I pleased to see thy Harvest burn;  
And heaps of Ashes stand for Cocks of Corn?  
Fit Emblem, as I thought, at once to prove  
To thee the Heat of Rage; to Me, of Love.  
Conquer, then secure the afflicted Prince:  
Preserve his Life, suppress his Insolence;  
And when in him my Youthful Self you see,  
Think him my Son, and not mine Enemy.   

He spoke; and Joab with a flattering Bow  
Seemed ready to Obey, but meant not so.   

While Absalon among the Thickets rod,  
And in the Woods appeared a Sylvan God:  
Subduing Men with glittering Sword and Spear;  
Nymphs with the Tresses of his flowing Hair:  
Even Oaks which stubborn against Thunder stood,  
Paid their Respects, and, as he passed, they Bow'à.  
But One that was more Humble than the rest,  
Stooping too low, its Duty o're-expressed.  
For now the Prince its rising Branches held,  
A mark for Joab's Dart: but David's Shield  
Had soon prevented it, had he been there;  
As King he'd punish; as a Father, spare.  
Witness his Tears which at the News appeared,  
And looks more Pale than his, whose Death he heard:  
Witness his trembling Limbs; the words he spoke;  
When thus at last his troubled Silence broke.  
O Absalon, my Son, my Dearest Son,  
My Son, my Son; O Dearest Absalon!  
Why was thy blooming Age like Flowers made!  
To Spring so Beautiful, so soon to Fade.  
As scared by Death, thy Lily-white is fled;  
Thy Rosy Crimson turns to Fading-Red,  
Thy Hair which so beguiled the Female Kind,  
Has Thee deceived. The Curled Fetters bind  
My Living Image to the Royal Oak,  
Unable to Resist, or ward the Stroke.  
The Shafts that pierce thy Body, wound my Soul;  
My Grief gins where thine has reached the Goal.  
If Joab would a real Kindness show,  
He'd slay the Father, as the Son he slew.  
What is my Kingdom, Life, and Victory?  
'Tis all but Loss, when gained by losing Thee.  
For thee I wish thy Destiny my Own,  
For thee my worst, my best beloved Son.  
Oh might I but Capitulate with Death!  
Might I but reinfuse thy absent Breath,  
I'd think no Ransom for thy Life too dear;  
I'd be thy Slave, if thou couldst Domineer.  
Let Fate henceforth the Edge of Battle turn;  
Let Israel rejoice; let Judah mourn;  
I would resign my Laurel to thy Brow,  
Wishing thou wert the same, that I am now:  
Deposed I'd Triumph in my low Degree,  
And think my Chain a badge of Liberty.  
Vain is my Wish! I here am left alone,  
My Life for ever, and thy End to moan.  
Some hidden Rancour lurked in Joab's Breast,  
The late Affront was not as yet suppressed.  
Thus being overswayed by some Disgust,  
He, mindful of Revenge, forgets his Trust.  
But I'll forget Revenge. Base Joab, know  
I spare the Life which you to Vengeance owe.  
You Killed a Rebel; yet, at my Command,  
You from a Rebel should withdraw your Hand.  
The Gild you punished then returned on you;  
By Disobedience you a Rebel grew.  
Think not they cannot Err, who Conquest bring;  
Conquest destroying the Victorious King.  
A Traitor could but do as you have done;  
You stabbed my Person, when you slew my Son.  
If other Sorrows, Time allays the smart;  
But this is too far rooted in my Heart.  
The only Balm to heal this Malady  
Is the Dark entrance of Eternity.  
Till than Farewell my Son, my Dearest Son!  
Farewell till then my Dearest Absalon.  
Thus he continued; till of Means bereft,  
He left not speaking, but of Speech was left.  
Sighs for a time expressed his doleful Cares;  
And then Ensued an Epilogue of Tears.   

Unhappy David, who Success jaments;  
And where Repentance is a Crime, Reputes.  
Instead of Thanks to Heaven for Ills removed,  
He grieves that Prayers so effectual proved,  
As to remove them. Were it not too late,  
He'd seek his Own, and not his Foes Defeat.  
No Mimic Frenzy, no disguised Wit,  
Its Power shows to feign the want of it;  
In seeing David, now Men truly see,  
What before Achish he but seemed to be.   
FINIS.   

The TABLE.  

A Dialogue between Apollo and Daphne. pag. 1  
Caphalus 's Lamentation for his Wife Procris, being ignorantly slain by him, as he was Hunting of Wild Beasts. pag. 5  
Amor Fugitivus, or, The fled Love paraphrased, out of Moschus. Idyllium the First. pag. 7  
Upon a Bee Entombed in Amber. pag. 9  
On a Beggar Insulting over a Rich-Man's Grave. pag. 18  
On the Excellent translation of the First Book of Virgis's-Aeneis, By Mr. Thomas Fletcher, Fellow of New-College. pag. 20  
Lent's Meditation. pag. 22  
The Resurrection of Christ. pag. 38  
To the late Bishop of Bath and Wells, on his Departure from that See. pag. 40  
Upon the Monthly Fast. pag. 42  
The Final Dissolution. pag. 45  
The New-Jerusalem. pag. 48  
A Lamentation for Moses. pag. 52  
Jonathan 's Complaint against Saul, Occasioned by his Enjoining an Unseasonable Fast. pag. 54  
A Dialogue between Dives and Lazarus. pag. 56  
Orpheus 's Complaint. pag. 58  
The Day of Pentecost. pag. 59  
A Copy of Verses, Entitled, In Libellum Clarissimi Viri Thomae Hobbii, De Natura Hominis. And Composed by Rad. Bathurst, M. D. Made English? pag. 62  
The Seventh Elegy of the Second Book of Tibullus. pag. 65  
On the Death of the late Renowned, Learned and Honourable Mr. Robert boil. pag. 69  
On the Death of Almiral Carter. pag. 72  
Love Reigns . pag. 76  
On the Barbarous Execution of Dr. William Land, sometime Lord Archbishop of Canterbury. pag. 80  
On the Power of Music. pag. 83  
Troas. Act the First. Where Hecuba complains of her Misfortunes. pag. 87  
Upon the unseasonable Heat and Drought in April, An. Dom. 1694. pag. 90  
A Speech of Scaeva, who Commanded under Caesar, etc. pag. 96  
On the Death of a Skilful, but Unhappy Organist. pag. 97  
Martial Book I. Epig. 9 The Poet asserts That Honour to be truly Valuable, which is Consistent with Life. pag. 99  
Epig. 14. The words of a Dying Wife to her Husband. pag. 100  
Epig. 22. On Porsenna, and Mucius Scaevola. Ib.  
Epig. 26. To Faustinus, a Modest Writer. pag. 101  
Epig. 34. On a Deceitful Mourner. Ib.  
Epig. 37. To Lucanus and Tullus, etc. 102  
Book IV. Epig. 16. On a Boy Killed, etc. Ib.  
Epig. 44. A Description of the Mountain Vesuvius. pag. 103  
Epig. 68 On Varus derided for his Poor Entertainment. pag. 104  
Book V Epig. 7. To Vulcan, that he would spare Rome, having already suffered by Fire. Ib.  
Epig. 75. On Pompey, and his Sons. pag. 105  
Book VI Epig. 28. An Epitaph. Ib.  
Book VII. Epig 4. To Caesar, etc. pag. 106  
Epig. 21. A Petition to the Morning Star, etc. pag. 107  
Epig. 36. On Domitian 's stately Building. pag. 108  
Epig. 54. To Caesar. pag. 109  
Epig. 59 On a Thief, who had lost one of his Eyes. Ib.  
Martial Lib. Spec. Epig. 13. pag. 110  
Martial Lib. Spec. Epig. 25. pag. 111  
David 's unreasonable Grief for the Death of Absalon. Ib.