Miscellany Poems.  
Containing a New TRANSLATION OF 

VIRGIL'S Eclogues,  
OVID'S Love Elegies,  
Odes of HORACE,  
And OTHER AUTHORS;   WITH SEVERAL ORIGINAL POEMS.  
By the most Eminent Hands.  Et Vos, O Lauri, carpam, & Te, proxima Myrte: Sic positae quoniam suaveis miscetis odores. Virg. Ecl. 2. 
LONDON, Printed for jacob Tonson, at the judges-head in Chancery-Lane near Fleetstreet, 1684.   

A TABLE OF THE POEMS  

In the following Miscellanea.  
MAc Flecknoe. page 1.  
Absolom and Achitophel. p. 25.  
The Medal. p. 89.   

Several of Ovid's Elegies Book the First.  
Elegy the first. By Mr. Cooper, 105.  
The second Elegy, By Mr. Creech. 107.  
The fourth Elegy, By Sir Car. Scrope. 110.  
The fifth, By Mr. Duke. 114.  
The eighth Elegy, By Sir Ch. Sedley. 116.   

Out of the Second Book.  
Elegy the first. By Mr. Adam's. 165.  
Elegy the fifth. By Sir Ch. Sedley. 122.  
Elegy the sixth. By Mr. Creech. 125.  
Elegy the seventh. By Mr. Creech. 129.  
Elegy the eighth. By Mr. Creech. 132.  
The same by another Hand. 134.  
Elegy the ninth by the late Earl of Rochester. 135.  
Elegy the twelfth. By Mr. Creech. 138.  
Elegy the fifteenth. By Mr. Adam's. 167.  
Elegy the ninteenth. By Mr. Dryden. 140.   

Out of the Third Book.  
Elegy the fourth. By Sir Ch. Sedly. 144.  
Elegy the fifth. 147.  
Elegy the sixth. By Mr. Rhymer. 150.  
Elegy the ninth. By Mr. Stepny. 154.  
Elegy the thirteenth. By Mr. Tate. 159.  
The same Elegy. By another Hand. 162.  
Part of Virgil's fourth Georgick, Englished by the E. of M. 169.  
The parting of Sireno and Diana. By Sir Car. Scrope. 173.  
Lucretia out of Ovid de Fastis. 180.  
On Mr. Drydens' Religio Laici, By the Earl of Roscomon. 190.  
Upon Mr. Drydens' Religio Laici. 194.   

Odes of Horace.  
The twenty second Ode of the first Book. By the Earl of Roscomon. 197.  
The sixth Ode of the third Book. By the Earl of Roscomon. 199.  
The sixth Ode of the first Book. 203.  
The fourth Ode of the second Book. By Mr. Duke. 207.  
The eighth Ode of the second Book. By Mr. Duke. 209.  
The ninth Ode of the third Book. By Mr. Duke. 211.  
The same by another Hand. 213.  
The ninth Ode of the fourth Book. By Mr. Stepny. 314.  
The fifteenth Ode of the second Book. 318.  
The sixteenth Ode of the second Book. By Mr. Otway. 321.  
The first Epode of Horace. 324.  
The third Elegy of the first Book of Porpertius. By Mr. Adam's. 215.  
Faeda est in Coitu, etc. out of Petronius. 217.  
Epistle from T. O. To R. D. 218.  
A Letter to a friend. 225  
An Elegy; out of the Latin of Francis Remo●d. 228.  
Amarillis, or the third Idyllium of Theo●ritus, paraphrased. By Mr. Dryden. 235.  
Pharmaceutra, out of Theocritus, By Mr. Bowles. 242.  
The Cyclops, the eleventh Idyllium of Theocritus Englished by Mr. Duke: To Dr. Short. 253.  
To absent Caelia. 260.  
Prologue to the University of Oxford. By Mr. Dryden. 263.  
Epilogue to the same. By Mr. Dryden. 265.  
Prologue at Oxford in 1674. By Mr. Dryden. 266.  
The Epilogue. 269.  
Prologue at Oxford. 271.  
Prologue at Oxford. By Mr. Dryden 273.  
Epilogue. By Mr. Dryden. 275.  
Prologue at Oxford, 1680. By Mr. Dryden. 277.  
Prologue to Albumazar revived. By Mr. Dryden. 279.  
Prologue to Arviragus. By Mr. Dryden. 281.  
Prologue Spoken the first day of the King's House acting after the fire. By Mr. Dryden. 283.  
Prologue for the Women at the Old Theatre. 285.  
Prologue at the opening the New House. By Mr. Dryden. 286.  
Epilogue. By the same Author. 289.  
An Epilogue. By Mr. Dryden. 291.  
An Epilogue Spoken at the King's House. 293.  
Prologue to the Princess of Cleves. 295.  
Epilogue to the same. Written by Mr. Dryden. 297.  
Epilogue for Calisto, when acted at Court. 327.  
A Poem Spoken to the Queen at Trinity College in Cambridge. 299.  
Floriana, a Pastoral, upon the Death of the Duchess of Southampton. By Mr. Duke. 301.  
The Tears of Amynta for the Death of Damon. By Mr. Dryden. 308.  
The praises of Italy, out of Virgil's Second Georgick. By Mr. Chetwood. 310.   

Virgil's Eclogues, Translated by several Hands.  
The first Eclogue. By John Caril, Esq page 1.  
The second. By Mr. Tate. 9  
The same. By Mr. Creech. 15.  
The third Eclogue. By Mr. Creech. 20.  
The fourth. By Mr. Dryden. 30.  
The fifth. By Mr. Duke. 35.  
The sixth. By the Earl of Roscomon. 44.  
The seventh. By Mr. Adam's. 55.  
The eighth. By Mr. Stafford. 61.  
The same. By Mr. Chetwood. 68  
The ninth Eclogue. 74.  
The tenth Eclogue. By Mr. Stafford. 80.  
The last Eclogue, Translated or rather imitated in the year, 1666. 86.    

Mac Flecknoe.  
ALL humane things are subject to decay,  
And, when Fate summons, Monarches must obey▪  
This Fleckno found, who, like Augustus, young  
Was called to Empire, and had governed long:  
In Prose and Verse, was owned, without dispute  
Through all the Realms of Nonsense, absolute.  
This aged Prince now flourishing in Peace,  
And blest with issue of a large increase,  
Worn out with business, did at length debate  
To settle the succession of the State:  
And pondering which of all his Sons was fit  
To Reign, and wage immortal War with Wit;  
Cried, 'tis resolved; for Nature pleads that He  
Should only rule, who most resembles me:  
Sh— alone my perfect image bears,  
Mature in dullness from his tender years.  
Sh— alone, of all my Sons, is he  
Who stands confirmed in full stupidity.  
The rest to some faint meaning make pretence,  
But Sh— never deviates into sense.  
Some Beams of Wit on other souls may fall,  
Strike through and make a lucid interval;  
But Sh—'s genuine night admits no ray,  
His rising Fogs prevail upon the Day:  
Besides his goodly Fabric fills the eye,  
And seems designed for thoughtless Majesty:  
Thoughtless as Monarch Oakes, that shade the plain,  
And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign.  
Heywood and Shirley were but Types of thee,  
Thou last great Prophet of Tautology:  
Even I, a dunce of more renown than they,  
Was sent before but to prepare thy way;  
And coarsely clad in Norwich Drugget came  
To teach the Nations in thy greater name.  
My warbling Lute, the Lute I whilom strung  
When to King john of Portugal I sung,  
Was but the prelude to that glorious day,  
When thou on silver Thames didst cut thy way,  
With well timed Oars before the Royal Barge,  
Swelled with the Pride of thy Celestial charge;  
And big with Hymn, Commander of an Host,  
The like was ne'er in Epsom Blankets tossed.  
Methinks I see the new Arion Sail,  
The Lute still trembling underneath thy nail.  
At thy well sharpened thumb from Shore to Shore  
The Treble squeaks for fear, the Bases roar:  
Echoes from Pissing-Ally, should— call,  
And Sh— they resound from A— Hall.  
About thy boat the little Fish's throng,  
As at the Morning Toast, that Floats along.  
Sometimes as Prince of thy Harmonious band  
Thou weild'st thy Papers in thy threshing hand.  
St. Andre's feet ne'er kept more equal time,  
Not even the feet of thy own Psyche's rhyme:  
Though they in number as in sense excel;  
So just, so like tautology they fell,  
That, pale with envy, Singleton forswore  
The Lute and Sword which he in Triumph bore,  
And vowed he ne'er would act Villerius more.  
Here stopped the good old Sire; and wept for joy  
In silent raptures of the hopeful boy.  
All arguments, but most his Plays, persuade,  
That for anointed dullness he was made.  
Close to the Walls which fair Augusta bind,  
(The fair Augusta much to fears inclined)  
An ancient fabric, raised t' inform the sight,  
There stood of yore, and Barbican it height:  
A watch Tower once; but now, so Fate ordains,  
Of all the Pile an empty name remains.  
From its old Ruins Brothel-houses rise,  
Scenes of lewd loves, and of polluted joys.  
Where their vast Courts the Mother-Strumpets keep,  
And, undisturbed by Watch, in silence sleep.  
Near these a Nursery erects its head,  
Where Queens are formed, and future Hero's bred;  
Where unfledged Actors learn to laugh and cry,  
Where infant Punks their tender Voices try,  
And little Maximins the Gods defy.  
Great Fletcher never treads in Buskins here,  
Nor greater johnson dares in Socks appear.  
But gentle Simkin just reception finds  
Amidst this Monument of vanished minds:  
Pure Clinches, the suburban Muse affords;  
And Panton waging harmless War with words.  
Here Fleckno, as a place to Fame well known,  
Ambitiously designed his Sh—'s Throne.  
For ancient Decker prophesied long since,  
That in this Pile should Reign a mighty Prince,  
Born for a scourge of Wit, and flail of Sense:  
To whom true dulness should some Psyche's owe,  
But Worlds of Misers from his pen should flow;  
Humorists and Hypocrites it should produce,  
Whole Raymond families, and Tribes of Bruce.  
Now Empress Fame had published the renown,  
Of Sh—'s Coronation through the Town.  
Roused by report of Fame, the Nations meet,  
From near Bunhill, and distant Watling-street.  
No Persian Carpets spread th' Imperial way,  
But scattered Limbs of mangled Poets lay:  
From dusty shops neglected Authors come,  
Martyrs of Pies, and Relics of the Bum.  
Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby there lay,  
But loads of Sh— almost choked the way.  
Bilked Stationers for Yeomen stood prepared,  
And H— was Captain of the Guard.  
The hoary Prince in Majesty appeared,  
High on a Throne of his own Labours reared.  
At his right hand our young Ascanius sat  
Rome's other hope, and pillar of the State.  
His Brows thick fogs, instead of glories, grace,  
And lambent dullness played arround his face.  
As Hannibal did to the Altars come,  
Sworn by his Sire a mortal Foe to Rome;  
So Sh— swore, nor should his Vow be vain,  
That he till Death true dullness would maintain;  
And in his father's Right, and Realms defence,  
Ne'er to have peace with Wit, nor truce with Sense,  
The King himself the sacred Unction made,  
As King by Office, and as Priest by Trade:  
In his sinister hand, instead of Ball,  
He placed a mighty Mug of potent Ale;  
Love's Kingdom to his right he did convey,  
At once his Sceptre and his rule of Sway;  
Whose righteous Lore the Prince had practised young,  
And from whose Loins recorded Psyche sprung.  
His Temples last with Poppies were overspread,  
That nodding seemed to consecrate his head:  
Just at that point of time, if Fame not lie,  
On his left hand twelve reverend Owls did fly.  
So Romulus, 'tis sung, by Tyber's Brook,  
Presage of Sway from twice six Vultures took.  
Th' admiring throng loud acclamations make,  
And Omens of his future Empire take.  
The Sire then shook the honours of his head,  
And from his brows damps of oblivion shed  
Full on the filial dullness: long he stood,  
Repelling from his Breast the raging God;  
At length burst out in this prophetic mood:  
Heavens bless my Son, from Ireland let him reign  
To far Barbadoes on the Western main;  
Of his Dominion may no end be known,  
And greater than his Father's be his Throne.  
Beyond love's Kingdom let him stretch his Pen;  
He paused, and all the people cried Amen.  
Then thus, continued he, my Son advance  
Still in new Impudence, new Ignorance.  
Success let others teach, learn thou from me  
Pangs without birth, and fruitless Industry.  
Let Virtuoso's in five years be Writ;  
Yet not one thought accuse thy toil of wit.  
Let gentle George in triumph tread the Stage,  
Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage;  
Let Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the Pit,  
And in their folly show the Writers wit.  
Yet still thy fools shall stand in thy defence,  
And justify their Author's want of sense.  
Let 'em be all by thy own model made  
Of dullness, and desire no foreign aid:  
That they to future ages may be known,  
Not Copies drawn, but Issue of thy own.  
Nay let thy men of wit too be the same,  
All full of thee, and differing but in name;  
But let no alien S—dl—y interpose  
To lard with wit thy hungry Epsom prose.  
And when false flowers of Rhetoric thou wouldst cull,  
Trust Nature, do not labour to be dull;  
But write thy best, and top; and in each line,  
Sir Formal's oratory will be thine.  
Sir Formal, though unsought, attends thy quill,  
And does thy Northern Dedications fill.  
Nor let false friends seduce thy mind to fame,  
By arrogating Johnson's Hostile name.  
Let Father Fleckno fire thy mind with praise,  
And Uncle Ogleby thy envy raise.  
Thou art my blood, where johnson has no part;  
What share have we in Nature or in Art?  
Where did his wit on learning fix a brand,  
And rail at Arts he did not understand?  
Where made he love in Prince Nicander's vein,  
Or swept the dust in Psyche's humble strain?  
Where sold he Bargains, Whip-stitch, kiss my Arse,  
Promised a Play and dwindled to a Farce?  
When did his Muse from Fletcher scenes purloin,  
As thou whole Eth'ridg dost tranfuse to thine?  
But so transfused as Oylon Waters flow,  
His always floats above, thine sinks below.  
This is thy Province, this thy wondrous way,  
New Humours to invent for each new Play:  
This is that boasted Bias of thy mind,  
By which one way, to dullness, 'tis inclined.  
Which makes thy writings lean on oneside still,  
And in all changes that way bends thy will.  
Nor let thy mountain belly make pretence  
Of likeness; thine's a tympany of sense.  
A Tun of Man in thy Large bulk is writ,  
But sure thou'rt but a Kilderkin of wit.  
Like mine thy gentle numbers feebly creep,  
Thy Tragic Muse gives smiles, thy Comic sleep.  
With whate'er gall thou sett'st thyself to write,  
Thy inoffensive Satyrs never bite.  
In thy felonious heart, though Venom lies,  
It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dies.  
Thy Genius calls thee not to purchase fame  
In keen iambics, but mild Anagram:  
Leave writing Plays, and choose for thy command  
Some peaceful Province in Acrostic Land.  
There thou mayst wings display and Altars raise,  
And torture one poor word Ten thousand ways.  
Or if thou wouldst thy different talents suit,  
Set thy own Songs, and sing them to thy lute.  
He said, but his last words were scarcely heard,  
For Bruce and Longvil had a Trap prepared,  
And down they sent the yet declaiming Bard.  
Sinking he left his Drugget robe behind,  
Born upwards by A subterranean wind.  
The Mantle fell to the young Prophet's part,  
With double portion of his Father's Art.  
FINIS.   

ABSALON AND ACHITOPHEL.  
A POEM.  
Si Propiùs stes  
Te Capiet Magis  
The Sixth Edition; Augmented and Revised.  
LONDON, Printed for jacob Tonson, at the judges-head, in Chancery-lane, near Fleetstreet. 1683.   

TO THE READER.  
'TIS not my intention to make an Apology for my Poem: Some will think it needs no Excuse; and others will receive none. The Design, I am sure, is honest: but he who draws his Pen for one Party, must expect to make Enemies of the other. For, Wit and Fool, are Consequents of Whig and Tory: And every man is a Knave or an Ass to the contrary side. There's a Treasury of Merits in the Fanatic Church, as well as in the Papist; and a Pennyworth to be had of Saintship, Honesty and Poetry, for the Lewd, the Factious, and the Blockheads: But the longest Chapter in Deuteronomy, has not Curses enough for an Anti- Bromingham. My Comfort is, their manifest Prejudice to my Cause, will render their judgement of less Authority against me. Yet if a Poem have a Genius, it will force its own reception in the World. For there's a sweetness in good Verse, which Tickles even while it Hurts: And no man can be heartily angry with him, who pleases him against his will. The Commendation of Adversaries, is the greatest Triumph of a Writer; because it never comes unless Extorted. But I can be satisfied on more easy terms: If I happen to please the more Moderate sort I shall be sure of an honest Party; and, in all probability, of the best judges: for, the least Concerned, are commonly the least Corrupt. And, I confess, I have laid in for those, by rebating the satire (where justice would allow it) from carrying too sharp an Edge. They, who can Criticise so weakly, as to imagine I have done my Worst, may be convinced, at their own Cost, that I can write Severely, with more ease, than I can Gently. I have but laughed at some men's Follies, when I could have declaimed against their Vices: and, other men's Virtues I have commended, as freely as I have taxed their Crimes. And now, if you are a Malicious Reader, I expect you should return upon me, that I affect to be thought more Impartial than I am. But, if men are not to be judged by their Professions, God forgive you Commonwealths men, for Professing so plausibly for the Government. You cannot be so Unconscionable, as to charge me for not Subscribing of my Name; for that would reflect too grossly upon your own Party, who never dare; though they have the advantage of a jury to secure them. If you like not my Poem, the fault may, possibly, be in my Writing: (though 'tis hard for an Author to judge against himself;) But more probably 'tis in your Morals, which cannot bear the truth of it. The Violent, on both sides, will condemn the Character of Absalon, as either too favourably, or too hardly drawn. But they are not the Violent, whom I desire to please. The fault, on the right hand, is to Extenuate, Palliate and Indulge; and, to confess freely, I have endeavoured to commit it. Besides the respect which I owe his Birth, I have a greater for his Heroic Virtues: and, David himself, could not be more tender of the Youngman's Life, than I would be of his Reputation. But, since the most excellent natures are always the most easy; and, as being such, are the soon perverted by ill Counsels, especially when baited with Fame and Glory; 'tis no more a wonder that he withstood not the temptations of Achitophel, than it was for Adam, not to have resisted the two Devils, the Serpent and the Woman. The conclusion of the Story, I purposely forbore to prosecute: because, I could not obtain from myself, to show Absalon Unfortunate. The Frame of it, was cut out, but for a Picture to the Waste; and, if the Draught be so far true, 'tis as much as I designed.  
Were I the Inventor, who am only the Historian, I should certainly conclude the Piece, with the Reconcilement of Absalon to David. And, who knows but this may come to pass? Things were not brought to an Extremity where I left the Story; There seems, yet, to be room left for a Composure; hereafter, there may only be for Pity. I have not so much as an uncharitable wish against Achitophel; but, am content to be Accused of a good natured Error; and to hope with Origen, that the Devil himself may, at last, be saved. For which reason, in this Poem, he is neither brought to set his House in order, nor to dispose of his Person afterwards, as he in Wisdom shall think fit. God is infinitely merciful; and his Vicegerent is only not so, because he is not Infinite.  
The true end of satire, is the amendment of Vices by correction. And he who writes Honestly, is no more an Enemy to the Offender, than the Physician to the Patient, when he prescribes harsh Remedies to an inveterate Disease: for those, are only in order to prevent the Surgeon's work of an Ense rescindendum, which I wish not to my very Enemies. To conclude all; If the Body Politic have any Analogy to the Natural in my weak judgement, an Act of Oblivion were as necessary in a Hot, Distempered State, as an Opiate would be in a Raging Fever.   

TO THE UNKNOWN AUTHOR Of this EXCELLENT POEM.  

TAke it as Earnest of a Faith renewed,  
Your Theme is vast, your Verse divinely good:  
Where, though the Nine their beauteous strokes repeat,  
And the turned Lines on Golden Anvils beat,  
It looks as if they strook'em at a heat.  
So all Serenely Great, so Just, refined,  
Like Angels love to Humane Seed inclined,  
It starts a Giant, and exalts the Kind.  
'Tis Spirit seen, whose fiery Atoms roll,  
So brightly fierce, each Syllable's a Soul.  
'Tis minuture of Man, but he's all heart;  
'Tis what the World would be, but wants the Art:  
To whom even the fanatics Altars raise,  
Bow in their own despite, and grin your praise.  
As if a Milton from the dead arose,  
Filled off the Rust, and the right Party chose.  
Nor, Sir, be shocked at what the Gloomy say,  
Turn not your feet too inward, nor too splay.  
'Tis Gracious all, and Great: Push on your Theme,  
Lean your grieved head on David's Diadem.  
David that rebel Israel's envy moved,  
David by God and all Good Men beloved.   

The beauties of your Absalon excel:  
But more the Charms of Charming Annabel;  
Of Annabel, than May's first Morn more bright,  
Cheerful as Summer's Noon, and chaste as Winter's Night.  
Of Annabel the Muse's dearest Theme,  
Of Annabel the Angel of my dream.  
Thus let a broken Eloquence attend,  
And to your Master piece these Shadows send.    

TO THE UNKNOWN AUTHOR Of this ADMIRABLE POEM.  

I Thought, forgive my Sin, the boasted fire  
Of Poet's Souls did long ago expire;  
Of Folly or of Madness did accuse  
The wretch that thought himself possessed with Muse;  
Laughed at the God within, that did inspire  
With more than humane thoughts the tuneful Choir;  
But sure 'tis more than Fancy, or the Dream  
Of Rhimers slumbering by the Muse's stream.  
Some livelier Spark of Heaven, and more refined  
From Earthly dross, fills the great Poet's Mind.  
Witness these mighty and immortal Lines,  
Through each of which th'informing Genius shines.  
Scarce a diviner Flame inspired the King,  
Of whom thy Muse does so sublimely sing.  
Not David's self could in a nobler Verse  
His gloriously offending Son rehearse,  
Tho' in his Breast the Prophet's Fury met.  
The Father's Fondness, and the Poet's Wit.   

Here all consent in Wonder and in Praise,  
And to the Unknown Poet Altars raise.  
Which thou must needs accept with equal joy,  
As when Aenaeas heard the Wars of Troy,  
Wrapped up himself in darkness and unseen,  
Extolled with Wonder by the Tyrian Queen.  
Sure thou already art secure of Fame,  
Nor want'st new Glories to exalt thy Name:  
What Father else would have refused to own  
So great a Son as Godlike Absalon?   
R. D.   

TO THE CONCEALED AUTHOR Of this INCOMPARABLE POEM.  

HAil heaven-born Muse! hail every Sacred page!  
The Glory of our I'll and of our Age.  
Th' inspiring Sun to Albion draws more nigh,  
The North at length teems with a Work to vie  
With Homer's Flame and Virgil's Majesty.  
While Pindus' lofty Heights our Poet sought,  
(His ravished Mind with vast Ideas fraught)  
Our Language failed beneath his rising Thought;  
This checks not his Attempt, for Maro's Mines,  
He dreins of all their Gold t'adorn his Lines;  
Through each of which the Mantuan Genius shines.  
The Rock obeyed the powerful Hebrew Guide,  
Her flinty Breast dissolved into a Tide:  
Thus on our stubborn Language he prevails,  
And makes the Helicon in which he sails.  
The Dialect, as well as sense, invents,  
And, with his Poem, a new speech presents.  
Hail than thou matchless Bard, thou great Unknown,  
That give your Country Fame, yet eat your own!  
In vain— for every where your Praise you find,  
And not to meet it, you must shun Mankind.  
Your Loyal Theme each Loyal Reader draws,  
And even the Factious give your Verse applause,  
Whose Lightning strikes to ground their Idol Cause.  
The Cause for whose dear sake they drank a Flood  
Of Civil Gore, nor spared the Royal-bloud:  
The Cause whose growth to crush, our Prelates wrote  
In vain, almost in vain our Hero's fought.  
Yet by one Stab of your keen satire dies:  
Before your Sacred Lines their Shattered Dagon lies.   

Oh! If unworthy we appear to know  
The Sire, to whom this Lovely Birth we owe:  
(Denied our ready Homage to express,  
And can at best but thankful be by guess:)  
This hope remains,— May David's Godlike Mind,  
(For him 'twas wrote) the Unknown Author find:  
And, having found, shower equal Favours down  
On Wit so vast as could oblige a Crown.   
N. T.   

ABSALON AND ACHITOPHEL.  
A POEM.  

IN pious Times, e'er Priest-Craft did begin,  
Before Polygamy was made a Sin;  
When Man on many, multiplied his kind,  
E'er one to one was, cursedly, confined:  
When Nature prompted, and no Law denied  
Promiscuous use of Concubine and Bride;  
Then, Israel's Monarch, after Heavens own heart,  
His vigorous warmth did variously, impart.  
To Wives and Slaves: and, wide as his Command,  
Scattered his Maker's Image through the Land.  
Michal, of Royal Blood, the Crown did wear;  
A Soil ungrateful to the Tiller's care:  
Not so the rest; for several Mothers bore  
To Godlike David, several Sons before.  
But, since like Slaves his Bed they did ascend,  
No true Succession could their Seed attend.  
Of all the Numerous Progeny was none  
So Beautiful, so Brave as Absalon:  
Whether, inspired by some diviner Lust,  
His Father got him with a greater Gust;  
Or that his Conscious Destiny made way,  
By manly Beauty to Imperial Sway.  
Early in Foreign Fields he won Renown,  
With Kings and States allied to Israel's Crown:  
In Peace the thoughts of War he could remove,  
And seemed as he were only born for Love.  
What e'er he did, was done with so much ease,  
In him alone, 'twas Natural to please:  
His motions all accompanied with grace;  
And Paradise was opened in his face.  
With secret Joy, indulgent David viewed  
His Youthful Image in his Son renewed:  
To all his wishes nothing he denied;  
And made the Charming Annabel his Bride.  
What faults he had (for who from faults is free?)  
His Father could not, or he would not see.  
Some warm excesses, which the Law forbore,  
Where construed Youth that purged by boiling over:  
And Amnon's Murder, by a specious Name,  
Was called a Just Revenge for injured Fame.  
Thus Praised, and Loved, the Noble Youth remained,  
While David, undisturbed in Zion reigned.  
But Life can never be sincerely blest:  
Heaven punishes the bad, and proves the best.  
The jews, a Headstrong, Moody, Murmuring race,  
As ever tried th' extent and stretch of grace;  
God's pampered People whom, debauched with ease,  
No King could govern, nor no God could please;  
(Gods they had tried of every shape and size,  
That God-smiths could produce, or Priests devise:)  
These Adam-wits, too fortunately free,  
Began to dream they wanted Liberty,  
And when no rule, no precedent was found,  
Of men, by Laws less circumscribed and bound;  
They led their wild desires to Woods and Caves;  
And thought that all but Savages were Slaves.  
They who, when Saul was dead, without a blow,  
Made foolish Ishbosheth the Crown forego;  
Who banished David did from Hebron bring,  
And, with a General shout, proclaimed him King:  
Those very jews, who, at their very best,  
Their Humour more than Loyalty expressed,  
Now, wondered why, so long, they had obeyed  
An Idol-Monarch which their hands had made:  
Thought they might ruin him they could create;  
Or melt him to that Golden Calf, a State.  
But these were random Bolts: No formed Design,  
Nor Interest made the Factious Crowd to join:  
The sober part of Israel, free from stain,  
Well knew the value of a peaceful Reign;  
And, looking backward with a wise affright,  
Saw Seams of wounds, dishonest to the sight:  
In contemplation of whose ugly Scars,  
They cursed the memory of Civil Wars.  
The moderate sort of Men, thus qualified,  
Inclined the Balance to the better side:  
And, David's mildness managed it so well,  
The bad found no occasion to Rebel.  
But, when to Sin our biased Nature leans,  
The careful Devil is still at hand with means;  
And providently Pimps for ill desires;  
The Good Old Cause revived, a Plot requires.  
Plots, true or false, are necessary things,  
To raise up Commonwealths, and ruin Kings.   

Th' Inhabitants of old jerusalem  
Were jebusites: the Town so called from them;  
And their's the Native right—  
But when the chosen People grew more strong,  
The rightful cause at length became the wrong:  
And every loss the men of jebus bore,  
They still were thought God's enemy's the more.  
Thus, worn and weakened, well or ill content,  
Submit they must to David's Government:  
Impoverished and deprived of all Command,  
Their Taxes doubled as they lost their Land;  
And, what was harder yet to flesh and blood,  
Their Gods disgraced, and burnt like Common Wood  
This set the Heathen Priesthood in a flame;  
For Priests of all Religions are the same:  
Of whatsoe'er descent their Godhead be,  
Stock, Stone, or other homely Pedigree,  
In his Defence his Servants are as bold,  
As if he had been born of beaten Gold.  
The jewish Rabbins, though their Enemies,  
In this conclude them honest Men and wise:  
For 'twas their Duty, all the Learned think,  
T' espouse his Cause by whom they eat and drink.  
From hence began that Plot, the Nations Curse,  
Bad in itself, but represented worse.  
Raised in extremes, and in extremes decried;  
With Oaths affirmed, with dying Vows denied.  
Not weighed, or winnowed by the Multitude;  
But swallowed in the Mass, unchewed and crude.  
Some Truth there was, but dashed and brewed with Lies,  
To please the Fools, and puzzle all the Wise.  
Succeeding Times did equal Folly call,  
Believing nothing, or believing all.  
Th' Egyptian Rites the jebusites embraced;  
Where Gods were recommended by their taste.  
Such savoury Deities must needs be good,  
As served at once for Worship and for Food.  
By ●orce they could not Introduce these Gods;  
For Ten to One, in former days was odds.  
So Fraud was used, (the Sacrificers Trade,)  
Fools are more hard to conquer than Persuade.  
Their busy Teachers mingled with the jews;  
And raked for Converts, even the Court and Stews:  
Which Hebrew Priests the more unkindly took,  
Because the Fleece accompanies the Flock.  
Some thought they God's Anointed meant to slay  
By Guns, invented since full many a day:  
Our Author swears it not; but who can know  
How far the Devil and jebusites may go?  
This Plot, which failed for want of common Sense,  
Had yet a deep and dangerous Consequence:  
For as when raging Fevers boil the Blood,  
The standing Lake soon floats into a Flood;  
And every hostile Humour, which before  
Slept quiet in its Channels, bubbles over:  
So, several factions from this first Ferment,  
Work up to Foam, and threat the Government.  
Some by their Friends, more by themselves thought wise,  
Opposed the Power, to which they could not rise.  
Some had in Courts been Great, & thrown from thence,  
Like Fiends, were hardened in Impenitence.  
Some, by their Monarch's fatal mercy grown  
From Pardoned Rebels, Kinsmen to the Throne;  
Were raised in Power and public Office high:  
Strong Bands, if Bands ungrateful men could tie.  
Of these the false Achitophel was first:  
A Name to all succeeding Ages cursed.  
For close Designs, and crooked Counsels fit;  
Sagacious, Bold, and Turbulent of wit:  
Restless, unfixt in Principles and Place;  
In Power runpleased, impatient of Disgrace.  
A fiery Soul, which working out its way,  
Fretted the Pigmy-Body to decay;  
And over informed the Tenement of Clay.  
A daring Pilot in extremity;  
Pleased with the Danger, when the Waves went high▪  
He sought the Storms; but for a Calm unfit,  
Would Steer to nigh the Sands, to boast his Wit▪  
Great Wits are sure to Madness near allied;  
And thin Partitions do their Bounds divide;  
Else, why should he, with Wealth and Honour blest,  
Refuse his Age the needful hours of Rest?  
Punish a Body which he could not please;  
Bankrupt of Life, yet Prodigal of Ease?  
And all to leave, what with his Toil he won,  
To that unfeathered, two legged thing, a Son:  
God, while his Soul did huddled Notions try;  
And born a shapeless Lump, like Anarchy.  
In Friendship false, implacable in Hate:  
Resolved to Ruin or to Rule the State.  
To Compass this, the Triple Bond he broke;  
The Pillars of the Public Safety shook:  
And fitted Israel for a Foreign Yoke.  
Then, seized with Fear, yet still affecting Fame,  
Usurped a Patriot's All-attoning Name.  
So easy still it proves in Factious Times,  
With public Zeal to cancel private Crimes:  
How safe is Treason, and how sacred Ill,  
Where none can sin against the People's Will?  
Where Crowds can wink; and no offence be known,  
Since in another's guilt they find their own.  
Yet, Fame deserved, no Enemy can grudge;  
The Statseman we abhor, but praise the Judge.  
In Israel's Courts ne'er sat an Abbethdin  
With more discerning Eyes, or Hands more clean;  
Unbribed, unsought, the Wretched to redress;  
Swift of Dispatch, and easy of Access.  
Oh, had he been content to serve the Crown,  
With Virtues only proper to the Gown;  
Or, had the rankness of the Soil been freed  
From Cockle, that oppressed the Noble Seed:  
David, for him his tuneful Harp had strung,  
And Heaven had wanted one Immortal Song.  
But wild Ambition loves to slide, not stand;  
And Fortune's Ice prefers to Virtue's Land:  
Achitophel, grown weary to possess  
A lawful Fame, and lazy Happiness;  
Disdained the Golden Fruit to gather free,  
And lent the Crowd his Arm to shake the Tree.  
Now, manifest of Crimes, contrived long since,  
He stood at bold Defiance with his Prince:  
Held up the Buckler of the People's Cause,  
Against the Crown; and skulked behind the Laws▪  
The wished occasion of the Plot he takes;  
Some Circumstances finds, but more he makes.  
By buzzing Emissaries, fills the ears  
Of listening Crowds, with Jealousies and Fears  
Of Arbitrary Counsels brought to light,  
And proves the King himself a jebusite.  
Weak Arguments! which yet he knew full well,  
Were strong with People easy to Rebel.  
For, governed by the Moon, the giddy jews  
Tread the same Track when she the Prime renews:  
And once in twenty Years, their Scribes Record,  
By natural Instinct they change their Lord▪  
Achitophel still wants a Chief, and none  
Was found so fit as Warlike Absalon:  
Not, that he wished his Greatness to create,  
(For Politicians neither love nor hate:)  
But, for he knew, his Title not allowed,  
Would keep him still depending on the Crowd:  
That Kingly power, thus ebbing out, might be  
Drawn to the Dregs of a Democracy.  
Him he attempts, with studied Arts to please,  
And sheds his Venom, in such words as these.   

Auspicious Prince, at whose Nativity  
Some Royal Planet ruled the Southern Sky;  
Thy longing Country's Darling and Desire;  
Their cloudy Pillar, and their guardian Fire:  
Their second Moses, whose extended Wand  
Divides the Seas, and shows the promised Land:  
Whose dawning Day, in every distant Age,  
Has exercised the Sacred Prophet's rage:  
The People's Prayer, the glad Diviner's Theme,  
The Young men's Vision, and the Old men's Dream!  
Thee, Saviour, Thee, the Nations Vows confess;  
And, never satisfied with seeing, bless:  
Swift, unbespoken Pomps, thy steps proclaim,  
And stammering Babes are taught to lisp thy Name.  
How long wilt thou the general Joy detain;  
Starve, and defraud the People of thy Reign?  
Content ingloriously to pass thy days  
Like one of Virtues Fools that feeds on Praise;  
Till thy fresh Glories, which now shine so bright,  
Grow Stale and Tarnish with our daily sight.  
Believe me, Royal Youth, thy Fruit must be,  
Or gathered Ripe, or rot upon the Tree.  
Heaven, has to all allotted, soon or late,  
Some lucky Revolution of their Fate:  
Whose Motions, if we watch and guide with Skill,  
(For humane Good depends on humane Will,)  
Our Fortune rolls as from a smooth Descent,  
And, from the first Impression, take the Bend:  
But, if unseized, she glides away like wind;  
And leaves repenting Folly far behind.  
Now, now she meets you with a glorious prize,  
And spreads her Locks before her as she flies.  
Had thus Old David, from whose Loins you Spring  
Not dared, when Fortune called him, to be King,  
At Gath an Exile he might still remain;  
And Heaven's Anointing Oil had been in vain.  
Let his successful Youth your hopes engage;  
But eat th' example of Declining Age:  
Behold him setting in his Western Skies,  
The shadows lengthening as the Vapours rise.  
He is not now, as when on Iordan's Sand  
The joyful People thronged to see him Land,  
Covering the Beech, and blackening all the Strand:  
But, like the Prince of Angels from his height,  
Comes tumbling downward with diminished light:  
Betrayed by one poor Plot to public Scorn:  
(Our only blessing since his cursed Return:)  
Those heaps of People which one Sheaf did bind,  
Blown off, and scattered by a puff of Wind.  
What strength can he to your Designs oppose,  
Naked of Friends, and round beset with Foes?  
If Pharaoh's doubtful Succour he should use,  
A Foreign Aid would more incense the jews:  
Proudly Egypt would dissembled Friendship bring;  
Foment the War, but not support the King:  
Nor would the Royal party e'er unite  
With Pharaoh's Arms, t' assist the jebusite;  
Or if they should, their Interest soon would break,  
And, with such odious Aid, make David weak.  
All sorts of men, by my successful Arts,  
Abhorring Kings, estrange their altered Hearts  
From David's Rule: And 'tis their general Cry,  
Religion, Commonwealth, and Liberty.  
If you, as Champion of the Public Good,  
Add to their Arms a Chief of Royal Blood;  
What may not Israel hope, and what Applause  
Might such a General gain by such a Cause?  
Not barren Praise alone, that Gaudy Flower,  
Fair only to the sight, but solid Power:  
And Nobler is a limited Command,  
Given by the Love of all your Native Land,  
Than a successive Title, Long and Dark,  
Drawn from the Mouldy Rolls of Noah's Ark.   

What cannot Praise effect in Mighty Minds,  
When Flattery Soothes, and when Ambition Blinds!  
Desire of Power, on Earth a Vicious Weed,  
Yet, sprung from High, is of Celestial Seed:  
In God 'tis Glory: And when Men Aspire,  
'Tis but a Spark too much of Heavenly Fire.  
Th' Ambitious Youth, too Covetous of Fame,  
Too full of Angels-Metal in his Frame;  
Unwarily was led from Virtues ways;  
Made Drunk with Honour, and debauched with Praise.  
Half loath, and half consenting to the Ill,  
(For Royal Blood within him struggled still)  
He thus Replied.— And what Pretence have I  
To take up Arms for Public Liberty?  
My Father Governs with unquestioned Right:  
The Faith's Defender, and Mankind's Delight:  
Good, Gracious, Just, Observant of the Laws;  
And Heaven by Wonders has espoused his Cause.  
Whom has he Wronged in all his Peaceful Reign?  
Who sues for Justice to his Throne in Vain?  
What Millions has he pardoned of his Foes,  
Whom Just Revenge did to his Wrath expose?  
Mild, Easie, Humble, Studious of our Good;  
Inclined to Mercy, and averse from Blood.  
If Mildness ill with Stubborn Israel Suit,  
His Crime is God's beloved Attribute.  
What could he gain, his People to Betray,  
Or change his Right, for Arbitrary Sway?  
Let Haughty Pharaoh Curse with such a Reign,  
His Fruitful Nile, and Yoke a Servile Train.  
If David's Rule jerusalem Displease,  
The Dog star heats their Brains to this Disease.  
Why then should I, encouraging the Bad,  
Turn Rebel, and run Popularly Mad?  
Were he a Tyrant who, by Lawless Might,  
Oppressed the jews, and raised the jebusite,  
Well might I Mourn; but Nature's holy Bands  
Would Curb my Spirits, and restrain my Hands:  
The People might assert their Liberty;  
But what was Right in them, were Crime in me.  
His Favour leaves me nothing to require;  
Prevents my Wishes, and outruns Desire;  
What more can I expect while David lives?  
All but his Kingly Diadem he gives:  
And that: But there he paused; then Sighing, said,  
Is Justly destined for a Worthier Head.  
For when my Father from his Toils shall Rest,  
And late Augment the Number of the Blessed:  
His Lawful Issue shall the Throne ascend;  
Or the Collat'ral Line where that shall end.  
His Brother, though Oppressed with Vulgar Spite,  
Yet Dauntless and Secure of Native Right,  
Of every Royal Virtue stands possessed;  
Still dear to all the Bravest, and the Best.  
His Courage Foes, his Friends his Truth Proclaim;  
His Loyalty the King, the World his Fame.  
His Mercy even th' Offending Crowd will find;  
For sure he comes of a Forgiving Kind.  
Why should I then Repine at Heaven's Decree;  
Which gives me no Pretence to Royalty?  
Yet oh that Fate, Propitiously Inclined,  
Had raised my Birth, or had debased my Mind;  
To my large Soul, not all her Treasure lent,  
And then betrayed it to a mean Descent.  
I find, I find my mounting Spirits Bold,  
And David's Part disdains my Mother's Mould.  
Why am I scanted by a Niggard Birth?  
My Soul disclaims the Kindred of her Earth;  
And, made for Empire, Whispers me within;  
Desire of Greatness is a Godlike Sin.   

Him Staggering so when Hells dire Agent found,  
While fainting Virtue scarce maintained her Ground,  
He pours fresh Forces in, and thus Replies:   

Th' Eternal God, Supremely Good and Wise,  
Imparts not these Prodigious Gifts in vain;  
What Wonders are Reserved to bless your Reign?  
Against your will your Arguments have shown,  
Such Virtue's only given to guide a Throne.  
Not that your Father's Mildness I contemn;  
But manly Force becomes the Diadem.  
'Tis true he grants the People all they crave;  
And more perhaps than Subjects ought to have:  
For Lavish Grants suppose a Monarch tame,  
And more his goodness than his Wit proclaim.  
But when should People strive their Bonds to break,  
If not when Kings are Negligent or Weak?  
Let him give on till he can give no more,  
The Thrifty Sanhedrin shall keep him poor:  
And every Sheckle which he can receive,  
Shall cost a Limb of his Prerogative.  
To ply him with new Plots, shall be my care;  
Or plunge him deep in some Expensive War;  
Which when his Treasure can no more supply,  
He must, with the Remains of Kingship, buy  
His faithful Friends, our Jealousies and Fears,  
Call jebusites; and Pharaoh's Pensioners:  
Whom, when our Fury from his Aid has torn,  
He shall be naked left to public Scorn.  
The next Successor, whom I fear and hate,  
My Arts have made obnoxious to the State;  
Turned all his Virtues to his Overthrow,  
And gained our Elders to pronounce a Foe.  
His Right, for Sums of necessary Gold,  
Shall first be Pawned, and afterwards be Sold:  
Till time shall Ever-wanting David draw,  
To pass your doubtful Title into Law:  
If not; the People have a Right Supreme  
To make their Kings; for Kings are made for them.  
All Empire is no more than Power in Trust:  
Which when resumed, can be no longer Just.  
Succession, for the general Good designed,  
In its own wrong a Nation cannot bind:  
If altering that, the People can relieve,  
Better one suffer than a Nation grieve.  
The jews well know their power: e'er Saul they chose,  
God was their King, and God they durst Depose.  
Urge now your Piety, your Filial Name,  
A Father's Right, and Fear of future Fame;  
The Public Good, that Universal Call,  
To which even Heaven submitted, answers all.  
Nor let his Love Enchant your generous Mind;  
'Tis Nature's trick to propagate her Kind.  
Our fond Begetters, who would never die,  
Love but themselves in their Posterity.  
Or let his Kindness by th' Effects be tried,  
Or let him lay his vain Pretence aside.  
God said he loved your Father; could he bring  
A better Proof, than to Anoint him King?  
It surely showed he loved the Shepherd well,  
Who gave so fair a Flock as Israel.  
Would David have you thought his Darling Son?  
What means he then, to Alienate the Crown?  
The name of Godly he may blush to bear:  
'Tis after God's own heart to Cheat his Heir.  
He to his Brother gives Supreme Command;  
To you a Legacy of Barren Land:  
Perhaps th' old Harp on which he thrums his Lays:  
Or some dull Hebrew Ballad in your Praise.  
Then the next Heir, a Prince, Severe and Wise,  
Already looks on you with Jealous Eyes;  
Sees through the thin Disguises of your Arts,  
And marks your Progress in the People's Hearts.  
Though now his mighty Soul its Grief contains;  
He meditates Revenge who least complains.  
And like a Lion, Slumbering in the way,  
Or Sleep dissembling, while he waits his Prey,  
His fearless Foes within his Distance draws;  
Constrains his Roaring, and Contracts his Paws:  
Till at the last, his time for Fury found,  
He shoots with sudden Vengeance from the Ground:  
The Prostrate Vulgar, passes over, and Spares,  
But with a Lordly Rage, his●Hunters tears.  
Your Case no tame Expedients will afford:  
Resolve on Death, or Conquest by the Sword,  
Which for no less a Stake than Life, you Draw;  
And Self-defence is Nature's Eldest Law.  
Leave the warm People no Considering time:  
For then Rebellion may be thought a Crime.  
Prevail yourself of what Occasion gives,  
But try your Title while your Father lives:  
And, that your Arms may have a fair Pretence,  
Proclaim, you take them in the King's Defence:  
Whose Sacred Life each minute would Expose,  
To Plots, from seeming Friends, and secret Foes.  
And who can sound the death of David's Soul?  
Perhaps his fear, his kindness may Control.  
He fears his Brother, though he loves his Son,  
For plighted Vows too late to be undone.  
If so, by Force he wishes to be gained:  
Like women's Lechery, to seem Constrained:  
Doubt not: but, when he most affects the Frown,  
Commit a pleasing Rape upon the Crown.  
Secure his Person to secure your Cause;  
They who possess the Prince, possess the Laws.   

He said, And this Advice above the rest,  
With Absalom's Mild Nature suited best;  
Unblamed of Life, (Ambition set aside,)  
Not stained with Cruelty, nor puffed with Pride.  
How happy had he been, if Destiny  
Had higher placed his Birth, or not so high!  
His Kingly Virtues might have claimed a Throne;  
And blest all other Countries but his own.  
But charming Greatness, since so few refuse;  
'Tis Juster to Lament him, than Accuse.  
Strong were his hopes a Rival to remove,  
With Blandishments to gain the public Love;  
To head the Faction while their Zeal was hot,  
And Popularly prosecute the Plot.  
To further this Achitophel Unites  
The Malcontents of all the Israelites:  
Whose differing Parties he could wisely Join,  
For several Ends, to serve the same Design.  
The Best, and of the Princes some were such,  
Who thought the power of Monarchy too much:  
Mistaken Men, and Patriots in their Hearts;  
Not Wicked, but seduced by Impious Arts.  
By these the Springs of Property were bend,  
And wound so high, they Cracked the Government.  
The next for Interest sought t' embroil the State,  
To sell their Duty at a dearer rate;  
And make their jewish Markets of the Throne;  
Pretending Public Good, to serve their own.  
Others thought Kings an useless heavy Load,  
Who Cost too much, and did too little Good.  
These were for laying Honest David by,  
On Principles of pure good Husbandry.  
With them joined all th' Haranguers of the Throng,  
That thought to get Preferment by the Tongue.  
Who follow next, a double danger bring,  
Not only hating David, but the King;  
The Solymaean Rout; well Versed of old,  
In Godly Faction, and in Treason bold;  
Cowering and Quaking at a Conqu'ror's Sword,  
But Lofty to a Lawful Prince Restored;  
Saw with Disdain an Ethnic Plot begun,  
And Scorned by jebusites to be Outdone.  
Hot Levites Headed these; who pulled before  
From th' Ark, which in the Judge's days they bore,  
Resumed their Cant, and with a Zealous Cry,  
Pursued their old belov'd Theocracie.  
Where Sanhedrin and Priest enslaved the Nation,  
And justified their Spoils by Inspiration:  
For who so fit for Reign as Aaron's Race,  
If once Dominion they could found in Grace?  
These led the Pack; though not of surest scent,  
Yet deepest mouthed against the Government.  
A numerous Host of dreaming Saints succeed;  
Of the true old Enthusiastic Breed:  
Against Form and Order they their Power employ;  
Nothing to Build, and all things to Destroy.  
But far more numerous was the Herd of such,  
Who think too little, and who talk too much.  
These out of mere instinct, they knew not why,  
Adored their Father's God, and Property:  
And, by the same blind Benefit of Fate,  
The Devil and the jebusite did hate:  
Born to be saved, even in their own despite;  
Because they could not help believing right.  
Such were the Tools; but a whole Hydra more  
Remains, of sprouting heads too long to score.  
Some of their chiefs were Princes of the Land:  
In the first Rank of these did Zimri stand:  
A man so various, that he seemed to be  
Not one, but all Mankind's Epitome.  
Stiff in Opinions, always in the wrong;  
Was Every thing by starts, and Nothing long;  
But, in the course of one revolving Moon,  
Was Chemist, Fidler, Statesman and Buffoon:  
Then all for Women, Painting, Rhyming, Drinking▪  
Besides ten thousand Freaks that died in thinking.  
Blessed Madman, who could every hour employ,  
With something New to wish, or to enjoy!  
Railing and praising were his usual Themes;  
And both (to show his Judgement) in Extremes:  
So over Violent, or over Civil,  
That every Man, with him, was God or Devil.  
In squandring Wealth was his peculiar Art:  
Nothing went unrewarded, but Desert.  
Beggared by Fools, whom still he found too late:  
He had his Jest, and they had his Estate.  
He laughed himself from Court; then sought Relief  
By forming Parties, but could ne'er be Chief:  
For, spite of him, the weight of Business fell  
On Absalon, and wise Achitophel:  
Thus, wicked but in Will, of Means bereft,  
He left not Faction, but of that was left.  
Titles and Names 'twere tedious to rehearse  
Of Lords, below the dignity of Verse.  
Wits, Warriors, Common wealths-men, were the best:  
Kind Husbands, and mere Nobles all the rest.  
And therefore, in the name of Dulness, be  
The well-hung Balaam and cold Caleb free.  
And Canting Nadab let Oblivion damn,  
Who made new Porridge for the Paschal Lamb.  
Let Friendships holy Band some Names assure:  
Some their own Worth, and some let Scorn secure.  
Nor shall the Rascal Rabble here have Place,  
Whom Kings no Titles gave, and God no Grace:  
Not Bull-faced jonas, who could Statutes draw  
To mean Rebellion, and make Treason Law.  
But he, though bad, is followed by a worse,  
The Wretch, who heavens Anointed dared to Curse:  
Shimei, whose Youth did early Promise bring  
Of Zeal to God, and Hatred to his King;  
Did wisely from Expensive Sins refrain,  
And never broke the Sabbath, but for Gain:  
Nor ever was he known an Oath to vent,  
Or Curse, unless against the Government.  
Thus, heaping Wealth, by the most ready way  
Among the jews, which was to Cheat and Pray;  
The City, to reward his pious Hate  
Against his Master, chose him Magistrate:  
His Hand a Vare of Justice did uphold;  
His Neck was loaded with a Chain of Gold.  
During his Office, Treason was no Crime.  
The Sons of Belial had a Glorious Time:  
For Shimei, though not prodigal of Pelf,  
Yet loved his wicked Neighbour as himself:  
When two or three were gathered to Declaim  
Against the Monarch of jerusalem,  
Shimei was always in the midst of them.  
And, if they Cursed the King when he was by,  
Would rather Curse, than break good Company.  
If any durst his Factious Friends accuse,  
He pact a Jury of dissenting jews:  
Whose fellow-feeling in the godly Cause,  
Would free the suffering Saint from Humane Laws.  
For Laws are only made to punish those  
Who serve the King, and to protect his Foes.  
If any leisure time he had from Power,  
(Because 'tis Sin to mis-employ an hour:)  
His Business was, by Writing to persuade,  
That Kings were Useless, and a Clog to Trade:  
And, that his noble Style he might refine,  
No Rechabite more shunned the fumes of Wine.  
Chaste were his Cellars; and his Shrieval Board  
The Grossness of a City Feast abhorred:  
His Cooks, with long disuse, their Trade forgot;  
Cool was his Kitchen, though his Brains were hot.  
Such frugal Virtue Malice may accuse;  
But sure 'twas necessary to the jews:  
For Towns once burnt, such Magistrates require  
As dare not tempt God's Providence by Fire.  
With Spiritual Food he fed is Servants well,  
But free from Flesh, that made the jews rebel:  
And Moses' Laws he held in more account,  
For forty days of fasting in the Mount.  
To speak the rest, who better are forgot,  
Would tyre a well breathed Witness of the Plot:  
Yet, Corah, thou shalt from Oblivion pass;  
Erect thyself thou Monumental Brass:  
High as the Serpent of thy Metal made,  
While Nations stand secure beneath thy shade.  
What though his birth were base, yet Comets rise  
From Earthy Vapours e'er they shine in Skies.  
Prodigious Actions may as well be done  
By Weaver's Issue, as by Princes Son.  
This Arch-Attestor for the Public Good,  
By that one Deed Ennobles all his Blood.  
Who ever asked the Witnesses high Race,  
Whose Oath with Martyrdom did Stephen grace?  
Ours was a Levite, and as times went then,  
His Tribe were God almighty's Gentlemen.  
Sunk were his Eyes, his Voice was harsh and loud,  
Sure signs he neither Choleric was, nor Proud:  
His long Chin proved his Wit; his Saintlike Grace  
A Church vermilion and a Moses's Face.  
His Memory miraculously great,  
Could Plots, exceeding man's belief, repeat;  
Which therefore cannot be accounted Lies,  
For humane Wit could never such devise.  
Some future Truths are mingled in his Book;  
But where the Witness failed, the Prophet spoke:  
Some things like Visionary flights appear;  
The spirit caught him up the Lord knows where:  
And gave him his Rabinical Degree,  
Unknown to Foreign University.  
His Judgement yet his Memory did excel;  
Which pieced his wondrous Evidence so well:  
And suited to the temper of the Times;  
Then groaning under jebusitick Crimes.  
Let Israel's Foes suspect his Heavenly call,  
And rashly judge his Writ Apocryphal:  
Our Laws for such affronts have Forfeits made:  
He takes his Life, who takes away his Trade.  
Were I myself in Witness Corah's place,  
The Wretch who did me such a dire disgrace,  
Should whet my memory, though once forgot,  
To make him an Appendix of my Plot.  
His Zeal to Heaven, made him his Prince despise,  
And load his Person with indignities:  
But Zeal peculiar privilege affords;  
Indulging latitude to Deeds and Words.  
And Corah might for Agag's Murder call:  
In terms as course as Samuel used to Saul.  
What others in his Evidence did join,  
(The best that could be had for love or coin,)  
In Corah's own predicament will fall:  
For Witness is a Common Name to all.   

Surrounded thus with Friends of every sort,  
Deluded Absalon, forsakes the Court:  
Impatient of high hopes, urged with Renown,  
And Fired with near possession of a Crown:  
Th'admiring Crowd are dazzled with surprise,  
And on his Goodly Person feed their Eyes:  
His joy concealed, he sets himself to show;  
On each side bowing popularly low:  
His looks, his gestures, and his words he frames,  
And with familiar ease repeats their Names.  
Thus formed by Nature, furnished out with Arts,  
He glides unfelt into their secret hearts.  
Then, with a kind compassionating look,  
And sighs, bespeaking pity e'er he spoke,  
Few words he said; but easy those and fit,  
More slow than Hybla drops, and far more sweet.  
I mourn, my Countrymen, your lost Estate;  
Though far unable to prevent your Fate:  
Behold a banished man, for your dear Cause  
Exposed a Prey to Arbitrary Laws!  
Yet oh! that I alone could be undone,  
Cut off from Empire, and no more a Son!  
Now all your Liberties a Spoil are made;  
Egypt and Tyrus intercept your Trade,  
And jebusites your Sacred Rites invade.   

My Father, whom with Reverence yet I name,  
Charmed into ease, is careless of his Fame:  
And bribed with petty sums of Foreign Gold,  
Is grown in Bathsheba's Embraces old:  
Exalts his Enemies, his Friends destroys:  
And all his power against himself employs.  
He gives, and let him give my Right away:  
But why should he his own, and yours betray?  
He only, he can make the Nation bleed,  
And he alone from my revenge is freed.  
Take then my Tears (with that he wiped his Eyes)  
'Tis all the Aid my present power supplies:  
No Court-Informer can these Arms accuse;  
These Arms may Sons against their Father's use;  
And 'tis my wish the next Successor's Reign  
May make no other Israelite complain.   

Youth, Beauty, Graceful Action, seldom fail:  
But Common Interest always will prevail:  
And Pity never ceases to be shown,  
To him, who makes the People's wrongs his own.  
The Crowd, (that still believe their Kings oppress,)  
With lifted hands their young Messiah bless:  
Who now begins his progress to ordain;  
With Chariots, Horsemen, and a numerous Train:  
From East to West his Glories he displays:  
And, like the Sun, the Promised Land surveys.  
Fame runs before him, as the Morningstar;  
And shouts of Joy salute him from afar:  
Each house receives him as a Guardian God;  
And Consecrates the Place of his abode:  
But hospitable Treats did most commend  
Wise Issachar, his wealthy Western Friend.  
This moving Court, that caught the People's Eyes,  
And seemed but Pomp, did other Ends disguise:  
Achitophel had formed it, with intent  
To sound the depths, and fathom where it went,  
The People's hearts; distinguish Friends from Foes;  
And try their strength, before they came to Blows.  
Yet all was coloured with a smooth pretence  
Of specious Love, and Duty to their Prince.  
Religion, and Redress of Grievances,  
Two names, that always cheat, and always please,  
Are often urged; and good King David's life  
Endangered by a Brother and a Wife.  
Thus in a Pageant Show, a Plot is made;  
And Peace itself is War in Masquerade.  
Oh foolish Israel! never warned by Ill!  
Still the same bait, and circumvented still!  
Did ever men forsake their present ease,  
In midst of Health Imagine a Disease;  
Take pains Contingent mischiefs to foresee,  
Make heirs for Monarches, and for God decree?  
What shall we think! Can People give away,  
Both for themselves and Sons, their native Sway?  
Then they are left defenceless to the Sword  
Of each unbounded arbitrary Lord:  
And Laws are vain, by which we Right enjoy,  
If Kings unquestioned can those Laws destroy,  
Yet if the Crowd be Judge of Fit and Just,  
And Kings are only Officers in Trust,  
Then this resuming Covenant was declared  
When Kings were made, or is for ever barred:  
If those who gave the Sceptre could not tie  
By their own deed their own Posterity,  
How then could Adam bind his future Race?  
How could his forfeit on Mankind take place?  
Or how could Heavenly Justice damn us all,  
Who ne'er consented to our Father's Fall?  
Then Kings are slaves to those whom they command,  
And Tenants to their People's pleasure stand.  
Add, that the Power for Property allowed,  
Is mischievously seated in the Crowd:  
For who can be secure of private Right,  
If Sovereign Sway may be dissolved by Might?  
Nor is the People's Judgement always true:  
The Most may err, as grossly as the Few.  
And faultless Kings run down, by Common Cry,  
For Vice, Oppression and for Tyranny.  
What Standard is there in a fickle Rout,  
Which flowing to the Mark, runs faster out?  
Nor only Crowds, but Sanhedrins may be  
Infected with this Public Lunacy:  
And Share the madness of Rebellious Times,  
To Murder Monarches for Imagined Crimes.  
If they may give and take when e'er they please,  
Not Kings alone, (the Godheads Images,)  
But Government itself at length must fall  
To Nature's State, where all have Right to all.  
Yet, grant our Lords the People Kings can make,  
What prudent men a settled Throne would shake?  
For whatsoe'er their Sufferings were before,  
That Change they Covet makes them suffer more.  
All others Errors but disturb a Sat;  
But Innovation is the Blow of Fate.  
If ancient Fabrics nod, and threat to fall,  
To Patch the Flaws, and Buttress up the Wall,  
Thus far 'tis Duty; but here fix the Mark;  
For all beyond it is to touch our Ark.  
To change Foundations, cast the Frame anew,  
Is work for Rebels who base Ends pursue:  
At once Divine and Humane Laws control;  
And mend the Parts by ruin of the Whole.  
The tampr'ing world is subject to this Curse,  
To Physic their Disease into a Worse.   

Now what Relief can Righteous David bring?  
How Fatal 'tis to be too good a King!  
Friends he has few, so high the madness grows;  
Who dare be such, must be the People's Foes:  
Yet some there were, even in the worst of days;  
Some let me Name, and Naming is to Praise.   

In this short File Barzillai first appears;  
Barzillai crowned with Honour and with Years:  
Long since, the rising Rebels he withstood  
In regions Waste beyond the Iordan's Flood:  
Unfortunately Brave to buoy the State;  
But sinking underneath his Master's Fate:  
In Exile with his Godlike Prince he mourned:  
For him he Suffered, and with him Returned.  
The Court he practised, not the Courtier's Art:  
Large was his Wealth, but larger was his Heart:  
Which, well the Noblest Objects knew to choose,  
The Fight Warrior, and Recording Muse.  
His Bed could once a Fruitful Issue boast;  
Now more than half a Father's Name is lost.  
His Eldest Hope, with every Grace adorned,  
By me (so Heaven will have it) always Mourned,  
And always honoured, snatched in Manhood's prime  
B'unequal Fates, and Providences crime:  
Yet not before the Goal of Honour won,  
All Parts fulfilled of Subject and of Son;  
Swift was the Race, but short the Time to run.  
Oh Narrow Circle, but of Power Divine,  
Scanted in Space, but perfect in thy Line!  
By Sea, by Land, thy matchless Worth was known;  
Arms thy Delight, and War was all thy Own:  
Thy force, infused, the fainting Tyrians propped:  
And haughty Pharaoh found his Fortune stopped.  
Oh Ancient Honour, Oh unconquered Hand,  
Whom Foes unpunished never could withstand!  
But Israel was unworthy of his Name:  
Short is the date of all Immoderate Fame.  
It looks as Heaven our Ruin had designed,  
And durst not trust thy Fortune and thy Mind.  
Now, free from Earth, thy di●encumbred Soul  
Mounts up, and leaves behind the Clouds and Starry Pole:  
From thence thy kindred Legions mayst thou bring,  
To aid the Guardian Angel of thy King.  
Here stop, my Muse, here cease thy painful slight;  
No Pinions can pursue Immortal height:  
Tell good Barzillai thou canst sing no more,  
And tell thy Soul she should have fled before;  
Or fled she with his life, and left this Verse  
To hang on her departed Patron's Hearse?  
Now take thy steepy flight from Heaven, and see  
If thou canst find on Earth another He;  
Another He would be too hard to find,  
See then whom thou canst see not far behind.  
Zadoc the Priest, whom, shunning Power and Place,  
His lowly mind advanced to David's Grace:  
With him the Sagan of jerusalem,  
Of hospitable Soul, and noble Stem;  
Him of the Western doom, whose weighty sense  
Flows in fit words and heavenly eloquence.  
The Prophet's Sons by such Example led,  
To Learning and to Lyalty were bred:  
For Colleges on bounteous Kings depend,  
And never Rebel was to Arts a Friend.  
To these succeed the Pillars of the Laws:  
Who best could plead, and best can judge a Cause.  
Next them a train of Loyal Peers ascend,  
Sharp judging Adriel, the Muse's Friend,  
Himself a Muse:— In Sanhedrins' debate  
True to his Prince; but not a Slave of State.  
Whom David's Love with Honours did adorn,  
That from his disobedient Son were torn.  
jotham of piercing Wit, and pregnant Thought:  
Endued by Nature, and by Learning taught  
To move Assemblies, who but only tried  
The worse a while, then chose the better side:  
Nor chose alone, but turned the Balance too;  
So much the weight of one Brave man can do.  
Hushai the Friend of David in distress,  
In public storms of manly steadfastness;  
By Foreign Treaties he informed his Youth;  
And joined Experience to his Native Truth.  
His frugal care supplied the wanting Throne;  
Frugal for that, but bounteous of his own:  
'Tis easy Conduct when Exchequers slow;  
But hard the task to manage well the low:  
For Sovereign Power is too depressed or high,  
When Kings are forced to sell or Crowds to buy.  
Indulge one labour more, my weary Muse,  
For Amiel; who can Amiel's praise refuse?  
Of ancient Race by birth, but nobler yet  
In his own worth, and without Title Great:  
The Sanhedrin long time as Chief he ruled,  
Their Reason Guided, and their Passion cooled;  
So dextrous was he in the Crown's defence,  
So formed to speak a Loyal Nations Sense,  
That as their Band was Israel's Tribes in small,  
So fit was he to represent them all.  
Now rasher Charioteirs the Seat ascend,  
Whose loose Careirs his steady Skill commend:  
They, like th' unequal Ruler of the Day,  
Misguide the Seasons, and mistake the Way;  
While he withdrawn at their mad Labour smiles,  
And safe enjoys the Sabbath of his Toils.   

These were the chief; a small but faithful Band  
Of Worthies, in the Breach who dared to stand,  
And tempt th' united Fury of the Land.  
With grief they viewed such powerful Engines bend,  
To batter down the Lawful Government.  
A numerous Faction with pretended frights,  
In Sanhedrins to plume the Regal Rights.  
The true Successor from the Court removed:  
The Plot, by hireling Witnesses, improved.  
These Ills they saw, and as their Duty bound,  
They showed the King the danger of the Wound;  
That no Concessions from the Throne would please;  
But Lenitives fomented the Disease:  
That Absalon, ambitious of the Crown,  
Was made the Lure to draw the People down:  
That false Achitophel's pernicious Hate,  
Had turned the Plot to ruin Church and State:  
The Council violent, the Rabble worse:  
That S●imei taught jerusalem to Curse.  
With all these loads of Injuries oppressed,  
And long revolving in his careful Breast  
Th' event of things; at last, his Patience tired,  
Thus, from his Royal Throne, by Heaven inspired,  
The Godlike David spoke; with awful fear  
His Train their Maker in their Master hear.   

Thus long have I by Native Mercy swayed.  
My wrongs dissembled, my Revenge delayed:  
So willing to forgive th' Offending Age;  
So much the Father did the King assuage.  
But now so far my Clemency they slight,  
Th' Offenders question my Forgiving Right.  
That one was made for many, they contend;  
But 'tis to Rule, for that's a Monarch's End.  
They call my tenderness of Blood, my Fear:  
Though Manly tempers can the Longest bear.  
Yet, since they will divert my Native course,  
'Tis time to show I am not good by Force.  
Those heaped Affronts that haughty Subjects bring,  
Are Burdens for a Camel, not a King:  
Kings are the public Pillars of the State,  
Born to sustain and prop the Nations weight:  
If my young Samson will pretend a Call  
To shake the Column, let him share the Fall:  
But, oh, that yet he would repent and live!  
How easy 'tis for Parents to forgive!  
With how few Tears a Pardon might be won  
From Nature, pleading for a Darling Son!  
Poor, pitied Youth, by my Paternal care,  
Raised up to all the height his Frame could bear:  
Had God ordained his Fate for Empire Born,  
He would have given his Soul another turn:  
Gulled with a Patriot's name, whose Modern sense  
Is one that would by Law supplant his Prince:  
The People's Brave, the Politicians Tool;  
Never was Patriot yet, but was a Fool.  
Whence comes it that Religion and the Laws,  
Should more be Absaloms than David's Cause?  
His old Instructor, e'er he lost his Place,  
Was never thought endued with so much Grace.  
Good heavens, how Faction can a Patriot Paint!  
My Rebel ever proves my People's Saint:  
Would They impose an Heir upon the Throne?  
Let Sanhedrins be taught to give their Own.  
A King's at least a part of Government;  
And mine as requisite as their Consent:  
Without my leave a future King to choose,  
Infers a Right the Present to Depose:  
True, they petition me t'approve their Choice:  
But Esau's Hands suit ill with Iacob's Voice.  
My Pious Subjects for my Safety pray,  
Which to secure, they take my Power away.  
From Plots and Treasons Heaven preserve my Years,  
But save me most from my Petitioners.  
Unsatiate as the barren Womb or Grave;  
God cannot Grant so much as they can Crave.  
What then is left, but with a Jealous Eye  
To guard the Small Remains of Royalty?  
The Law shall still direct my peaceful Sway,  
And the Same Law teach Rebels to obey:  
Votes shall no more Established Power control,  
Such Votes as make a Part exceed the Whole:  
No groundless Clamours shall my Friends remove,  
Nor Crowds have Power to punish e'er they Prove:  
For Gods, and Godlike Kings their Care express,  
Still to defend their Servants in distress.  
Oh, that my Power to Saving were confined!  
Why am I forced, like Heaven, against my mind,  
To make Examples of another Kind?  
Must I at length the Sword of Justice draw?  
Oh, cursed Effects of necessary Law!  
How ill my Fear they by my Mercy scan,  
Beware the Fury of a Patient Man.  
Law they require, let Law then show her Face;  
They could not be content to look on Grace  
Her Hinder Parts, but with a daring Eye  
To tempt the terror of her Front, and Die.  
By their own Arts, 'tis Righteously Decreed,  
Those dire Artificers of Death shall bleed.  
Against themselves their Witnesses will Swear,  
Till, Viperlike, their Mother Plot they tear:  
And suck for Nutriment that bloody gore  
Which was their Principle of Life before.  
Their Belial with their Beelzebub will fight;  
Thus on my Foes, my Foes shall do me Right:  
Nor doubt th' event: for Factious Crowds engage  
In their first Onset, all their Brutal Rage.  
Then let 'em take an unresisted Course:  
Retire and Traverse, and Delude their Force:  
But when they stand all Breathless, urge the Fight,  
And rise upon 'em with redoubled might:  
For Lawful Power is still Superior found,  
When long driven back, at length it stands the ground.   

He said. Th' Almighty nodding gave consent;  
And Peals of Thunder shook the Firmament.  
Henceforth a Series of new time began,  
The mighty Years in long Procession ran:  
Once more the Godlike David was Restored,  
And willing Nations knew their Lawful Lord.   
FINIS.   

The Medal. A SATYR AGAINST SEDITION.  
By the Author of Absalon and Achitophel.  

Per Graiûm populos, mediaeque per Elidis Vrbem  
Ibat ovans; Diuúmque sibi poscebat Honours.   
The Second Edition.  
LONDON, Printed for jacob Tonson, at the Judge's- Head in Chancery-lane, near Fleetstreet. 1683.   

EPISTLE To the WHIGS.  
FOR to whom can I dedicate this Poem, with so much justice, as to you? 'Tis the representation of your own Hero: 'tis the Picture drawn at length, which you admire and prise so much in little. None of your Ornaments are wanting; neither the Landscap of the Tower, nor the Rising Sun; nor the Anno Domini of your New Sovereign's Coronation. This must needs be a grateful undertaking to your whole Party: especially to those who have not been so happy as to purchase the Original. I hear the Graver has made a good Market of it: all his Kings are bought up already; or the value of the remainder so enhanced, that many a poor Polander, who would be glad to worship the Image, is not able to go to the cost of him: But must be content to see him here. I must confess I am no great Artist; but Signpost painting will serve the turn to remember a Friend by; especially when better is not to be had. Yet for your comfort the lineaments are true: and though he sat not five times to me, as he did to B. yet I have consulted History; as the Italian Painters do, when they would draw a Nero or a Caligula; though they have not seen the Man, they can help their Imagination by a Statue of him, and find out the Colouring from Suetonius and Tacitus. Truth is, you might have spared one side of your Medal: the Head would be seen to more advantage, if it were placed on a Spike of the Tower; a little nearer to the Sun. Which would then break out to better purpose. You tell us in your Preface to the No-protestant Plot, that you shall be forced hereafter to leave off your Modesty: I suppose you mean that little which is left you: for it was worn to wrags when you put out this Medal. Never was there practised such a piece of notorious Impudence in the face of an Established Government. I believe, when he is dead, you will wear him in Thumb-Rings, as the Turks did Scanderbag; as if there were virtue in his Bones to preserve you against Monarchy. Yet all this while you pretend not only zeal for the Public good, but a due veneration for the person of the King. But all men, who can see an inch before them, may easily detect those gross fallacies. That it is necessary for men in your circumstances to pretend both, is granted you; for without them there could be no ground to raise a Faction. But I would ask you one civil question, what right has any man among you, or any Association of men, (to come nearer to you,) who out of Parliament, cannot be considered in a public Capacity, to meet, as you daily do, in Factious Clubs, to vilify the Government, in your Discourses, and to libel it in all your Writings? who made you judges in Israel? or how is it consistent with your Zeal of the public Welfare, to promote Sedition? Does your definition of loyal, which is to serve the King according to the Laws, allow you the licence of traducing the Executive Power, with which you own he is invested? You complain that his Majesty has lost the love and confidence of his People; and by your very urging it, you endeavour what in you lies, to make him lose them. All good Subjects abhor the thought of Arbitrary Power, whether it be in one or many: if you were the Patriots you would seem, you would not at this rate incense the Multitudè to assume it; for no sober man can fear it, either from the King's Disposition, or his Practice; or even, where you would odiously lay it, from his Ministers. Give us leave to enjoy the Government and the benefit of Laws under which we were born, and which we desire to transmit to our Posterity. You are not the trusties of the public Liberty: and if you have not right to petition in a Crdoud, much less have you to intermeddle in the management of Affairs; or to arraign what you do not like: which in effect is every thing that is done by the King and Council. Can you imagine that any reasonable man will believe you respect the person of his Majesty, when 'tis apparent that you Seditious Pamphlets are stuffed with particular Reflections on him? If you have the confidence to deny this, 'tis easy to be evinced from a thousand Passages, which I only forbear to quote, because I desire they should die and be forgotten. I have perused many of your Papers; and to show you that I have, the third part of your No-protestant Plot is much of it stolen from your dead Author's Pamphlet called, the Growth of Popery; as manifestly as Milton's defence of the English People, is from Buchanan, de jure regni apud Scotos: or your first Covenant, and new Association, from the holy League of the French Guisards. Any one who reads Davila, may trace your Practices all along. There were the same pretences for Reformation, and Loyalty, the same Aspersions of the King, and the same grounds of a Rebellion. I know not whether you will take the Historian's word, who says it was reported, that Poltrot a Huguenot, murdered Francis Duke of Guise by the instigations of Theodore Beza: or that it was a Huguenot Minister, otherwise called a Presbyterian, (for our Church abhors so devilish a Tenet) who first writ a Treatise of the lawfulness of deposing and murdering Kings, of a different Persuasion in Religion: But I am able to prove from the Doctrine of Calvin, and Principles of Buchanan, that they set the People above the Magistrate; which if I mistake not, is your own Fundamental; and which carries your Loyalty no farther than your liking. When a Vote of the House of Commons goes on your side, you are as ready to observe it, as if it were passed into a Law: But when you are pinched with any former, and yet unrepealed Act of Parliament, you declare that in same cases, you will not be obliged by it. The Passage is in the same third part of the No-protestant Plot; and is too plain to be denied. The late Copy of your intended Association▪ you neither wholly justify nor condemn; But, as the Papists, when they are unopposed, fly out into all the Pageantries of Worship; but in times of War, when they are hard pressed by Arguments, lie close entrenched behind the Council of Trent: So, now, when your Affairs are in a low condition, you dare not pretend that to be a legal Combination, but whensoever you are afloat, I doubt not but it will be maintained and justified to purpose. For indeed there is nothing to defend it but the Sword: 'tis the proper time to say any thing, when men have all things in their power.  
In the mean time you would fain be nibbling at a parallel betwixt this Association, and that in the time of Queen Elizabeth. But there is this small difference betwixt them, that the ends of one are directly opposite to the other: one with the Queen's approbation, and conjunction, as head of it; the other without either the consent, or knowledge of the King, against whose Authority it is manifestly designed. Therefore you do well to have recourse to your last Evasion, that it was contrived by your Enemies, and shuffled into the Papers that were seized: which yet you see the Nation is not so easy to believe as your own jury; But the matter is not difficult, to find twelve men in Newgate, who would acquit a Malefactor.  
I have one only favour to desire of you at parting, that when you think of answering this Poem, you would employ the same Pens against it, who have combated with so much success against Absalon and Achitophel: for than you may assure yourselves of a clear Victory, without the least reply. Rail at me abundantly; and, not to break a Custom, do it without wit: By this method you will gain a considerable point, which is wholly to wave the answer of my Arguments. Never own the bottom of your Principles, for fear they should be Treason. Fall severely on the miscarriages of Government; for if scandal be not allowed, you are no freeborn subjects. If God has not blessed you with the Talon of Rhyming, make use of my poor Stock and welcome: let your Verses run upon my feet: and for the utmost refuge of notorious Blockheads, reduced to the last extremity of sense, turn my own lines upon me, and in utter despair of your own Satire, make me Satyrize myself. Some of you have been driven to this Bay already; But above all the rest commend me to the Nonconformist Parson, who writ the Whip and Key. I am afraid it is not read so much as the Piece deserves, because the Bookseller is every week crying help at the end of his Gazette, to get it off. You see I am charitable enough to do him a kindness, that it may be published as well as printed; and that so much skill in Hebrew Derivations, may not lie for Wast-paper in the Shop. Yet I half suspect he went no farther for his learning, than the Index of Hebrew Names and Etymologies, which are printed at the end of some English Bibles. If Achitophel signify the Brother of a Fool, the Author of that Poem will pass with his Readers for the next of kin. And perhaps 'tis the Relation that makes the kindness. Whatever the Verses are; buy 'em up I beseech you out of pity; for I hear the Conventicle is shut up, and the Brother of Achitophel out of service.  
Now Footmen, you know, have the generosity to make a Purse, for a Member of their Society, who has had his Livery pulled over his Ears: and even Protestant Socks are bought up among you, out of veneration to the name. A Dissenter in Poetry from Sense and English, will make as good a Protestant Rhymer, as a Dissenter from the Church of England a Protestant Parson. Besides, if you encourage a young Beginner, who knows but he may elevate his style a little, above the vulgar Epithets of profane, and saucy jack, and Atheistick Scribbler, with which he treats me, when the fit of Enthusiasm is strong upon him: by which well-mannered and charitable Expressions, I was certain of his Sect, before I knew his name. What would you have more of a man? he has damned me in your Cause from Genesis to the Revelations: And has half the Texts of both the Testaments against me, if you will be so civil to yourselves as to take him for your Interpreter; and not to take them for Irish Witnesses. After all, perhaps you will tell me, that you retained him only for the opening of your Cause, and that your main Lawyer is yet behind. Now if it so happen he meet with no more reply than his Predecessors, you may either conclude, that I trust to the goodness of my Cause, or fear my Adversary, or disdain him, or what you please, for the short on't is, 'tis indifferent to your humble servant, whatever your Party says or thinks of him.   

UPON THE AUTHOR Of the Following POEM.  
ONCE more our awful Poet Arms, t' engage  
The threatening Hydra-Faction of the Age:  
Once more prepares his dreadful Pen to wield,  
And every Muse attends him to the Field:  
By Art and Nature for this Task designed,  
Yet modestly the Fight He long declined;  
Forbore the Torrent of his Verse to pour,  
Nor loosed his Satire till the needful Hour:  
His sovereign's Right by Patience half betrayed,  
Waked his Avenging Genius to its Aid.  
Blessed Muse, whose Wit with such a Cause was Crowned,  
And blest the Cause that such a Champion found.  
With chosen Verse upon the Foe he falls,  
And black Sedition in each Quarter galls;  
Yet, like a Prince with Subjects forced t' engage,  
Secure of Conquest He rebates his Rage;  
His Fury not without Distinction sheds,  
Hurls mortal Bolts but on devoted Heads:  
To less infected Members gentle found,  
Or spares, or else pours Balm into the Wound.  
Such Generous Grace th' ingrateful Tribe abuse,  
And trespass on the Mercy of his Muse;  
Their wretched doggerel Rhimers forth they bring  
To Snarl and Bark against the Poet's King;  
A Crew, that scandalise the Nation more  
Than all their Treason-canting Priests before!  
On these He scarce vouchsafes a scornful smile,  
But on their Powerful Patrons turns his Style.  
A Style so keen, as even from Faction draws  
The vital Poison, stabs to th' Heart their Cause.  
Take then, great Bard, what Tribute we can raise;  
Accept our Thanks, for you transcend our Praise.   

TO THE UNKNOWN AUTHOR Of the Following POEM, And that of ABSALON and ACHITOPHEL.  
THUS pious ignorance, with dubious praise,  
Altars of old to God's unknown did raise;  
They knew not the loved Deity, they knew  
Divine effects a cause Divine bid show;  
Nor can we doubt, when such these Numbers are,  
Such is their cause, though the worst Muse shall dare  
Their sacred worth in humble Verse declare.  
As gentle Thames charmed with thy tuneful Song  
Glides in a peaceful Majesty along;  
No rebel Stone, no lofty Bank does brave  
The easy passage of his silent wave,  
So, sacred Poet, so thy Numbers flow,  
Sinewy, yet mild as happy Lovers woe;  
Strong, yet harmonious too as Planets move,  
Yet soft as Down upon the Wings of Love;  
How sweet does Virtue in your dress appear?  
How much more charming, when much less severe?  
Whilst you our senses harmlessly beguile,  
With all th' allurements of your happy Style;  
YE insinuate Loyalty with kind deceit,  
And into sense th' unthinking Many cheat:  
So the sweet Thracian with his charming lyre  
Into rude Nature virtue did inspire;  
So he the savage herd to reason drew,  
Yet scarce so sweet, so charmingly as you:  
Oh, that you would with some such powerful Charm,  
Enervate Albion to just valour warm!  
Whether much suffering Charles shall Theme afford,  
Or the great Deeds of Godlike James' Sword;  
Again fair Gallia might be ours, again  
Another Fleet might pass the subject Main;  
Another Edward lead the Britain's on,  
Or such an Ossory as you did moan;  
While in such Numbers you, in such a strain,  
Inflame their courage, and reward their pain.  
Let false Achitophel the rout engage,  
Talk easy Absalon to rebel rage;  
Let frugal Shimei curse in holy Zeal,  
Or modest Corah more new Plots reveal;  
Whilst constant to himself, secure of fate,  
Good David still maintains the Royal State;  
Tho' each in vain such various ills employs,  
Firmly he stands, and even those ills enjoys;  
Firm as fair Albion midst the raging Main  
Surveys encircling danger with disdain.  
In vain the Waves assault the unmoved shore,  
In vain the Winds with mingled fury roar,  
Fair Albion's beauteous Cliffs shine whiter than before.  
Nor shalt thou move, though Hell thy fall conspire,  
Tho' the worse rage of Zeal's Fanatic Fire;  
Thou best, thou greatest of the British race,  
Thou only fit to fill Great Charles his place.  
Ah wretched Britain's! ah too stubborn Isle!  
Ah stiffnecked Israel on blessed Canaan's soil!  
Are those dear proofs of Heaven's Indulgence vain,  
Restoring David and his gentle Reign?  
Is it in vain thou all the Goods dost know  
Auspicious Stars on Mortals shed below,  
While all thy streams with Milk, thy Lands with Honey flow?  
No more, fond Isle! no more thyself engage,  
In civil fury, and intestine rage;  
No rebel Zeal thy duteous Land molest,  
But a smooth Calm sooth every peaceful breast,  
While in such Charming notes Divinely sings,  
The best of Poets, of the best of Kings.   

The Medal.  
A SATYR AGAINST SEDITION.  

OF all our Antic Sights, and Pageantry  
Which English Idiots run in crowds to see,  
The Polish Medal bears the prize alone:  
A Monster more the Favourite of the Town  
Than either Fairs or Theatres have shown.  
Never did Art so well with Nature strive;  
Nor ever Idol seemed so much alive:  
So like the Man; so golden to the sight,  
So base within, so counterfeit and light.  
One side is filled with Title and with Face;  
And, lest the King should want a regal Place,  
On the reverse, a Tower the Town surveys;  
O'er which our mounting Sun his beams displays.  
The Word, pronounced aloud by Shrieval voice,  
Loetamur, which, in Polish, is rejoice.  
The Day, Month, Year, to the great Act are joined:  
And a new Canting Holiday designed.  
Five days he sat, for every cast and look;  
Four more than God to finish Adam took.  
But who can tell what Essence Angels are,  
Or how long Heaven was making Lucifer?  
Oh, could the Style that copied every grace,  
And ploughed such furrows for an Eunuch face,  
Could it have formed his ever-changing Will,  
The various Piece had tired the Graver's Skill!  
A Martial Hero first, with early care,  
Blown, like a Pigmy by the Winds, to war.  
A beardless Chief, a Rebel, e'er a Man:  
(So young his hatred to his Prince began.)  
Next this, (How wildly will Ambition steer!)  
A Vermin, wriggling in th' Usurper's Ear.  
Bart'ring his venal wit for sums of gold  
He cast himself into the Saintlike mould;  
Groaned, sighed and prayed, while Godliness was gain;  
The loudest Bagpipe of the Squeaking Train.  
But, as 'tis hard to cheat a Juggler's Eyes,  
His open lewdness he could ne'er disguise.  
There split the Saint: for Hypocritique Zeal  
Allows no Sins but those it can conceal.  
Whoring to Scandal gives too large a scope:  
Saints must not trade; but they may interlope.  
Th' ungodly Principle was all the same;  
But a gross Cheat betrays his Partner's Game.  
Besides, their pace was formal, grave and slack:  
His nimble Wit outran the heavy Pack.  
Yet still he found his Fortune at a stay;  
Whole droves of Blockheads choking up his way;  
They took, but not rewarded, his advice;  
Villain and Wit exact a double price.  
Power was his aim: but, thrown from that pretence,  
The Wretch turned loyal in his own defence;  
And Malice reconciled him to his Prince.  
Him, in the anguish of his Soul he served;  
Rewarded faster still than he deserved.  
Behold him now exalted into trust;  
His Counsels oft convenient, seldom just.  
Even in the most sincere advice he gave  
He had a grudging still to be a Knave.  
The Frauds he learned in his Fanatique years  
Made him uneasy in his lawful gears.  
At best as little honest as he could:  
And, like white Witches, mischievously good.  
To his first bias, longingly he leans;  
And rather would be great by wicked means.  
Thus, framed for ill, he loosed our Triple hold;  
(Advice unsafe, precipitous, and bold.)  
From hence those tears! that Ilium of our woe!  
Who helps a powerful Friend, fore-arms a Foe.  
What wonder if the Waves prevail so far  
When He cut down the Banks that made the bar?  
Seas follow but their Nature to invade;  
But he by Art our native Strength betrayed.  
So Samson to his Foe his force confessed;  
And, to be shorn, lay slumbering on her breast.  
But, when this fatal Counsel, found too late,  
Exposed its Author to the public hate;  
When his just Sovereign, by no impious way,  
Could be seduced to Arbitrary sway;  
Forsaken of that hope, he shifts the sail;  
Drives down the Current with a popular gale;  
And shows the Fiend confessed without a veil.  
He preaches to the Crowd, that Power is lent,  
But not conveyed to Kingly Government;  
That Claims successive bear no binding force;  
That Coronation Oaths are things of course;  
Maintains the Multitude can never err;  
And sets the People in the Papal Chair.  
The reason's obvious; Interest never lies;  
The most have still their Interest in their eyes;  
The power is always theirs, and power is ever wise.  
Almighty Crowd, thou shorten'st all dispute;  
Power is thy Essence; Wit thy Attribute!  
Nor Faith nor Reason make thee at a stay,  
Thou leap'st o'er all eternal truths, in thy Pindaric way!)  
Athens, no doubt, did righteously decide,  
When Photion and when Socrates were tried:  
As righteously they did those dooms repent,  
Still they were wise, what ever way they went.  
Crowds err not, though to both extremes they run;  
To kill the Father, and recall the Son.  
Some think the Fools were most, as times went then;  
But now the World's o'er stocked with prudent men.  
The common Cry is even Religion's Test;  
The Turk's is, at Constantinople, best;  
Idols in India, Popery at Rome;  
And our own Worship only true at home.  
And true, but for the time, 'tis hard to know  
How long we please it shall continue so.  
This side to day, and that to morrow burns;  
So all are God a'mighties in their turns.  
A Tempting Doctrine, plausible and new:  
What Fools our Fathers were, if this be true!  
Who, to destroy the seeds of Civil War,  
Inherent right in Monarches did declare:  
And, that a lawful Power might never cease,  
Secured Succession, to secure our Peace.  
Thus Property and Sovereign Sway, at last  
In equal Balances were justly cast:  
But this new jehu spurs the hot mouthed horse;  
Instructs the Beast to know his native force;  
To take the Bit between his teeth and fly  
To the next headlong Steep of Anarchy.  
Too happy England, if our good we knew;  
Would we possess the freedom we pursue!  
The lavish Government can give no more:  
Yet we repine; and plenty makes us poor.  
God tried us once; our Rebel-fathers' fought;  
He glutted 'em with all the power they sought:  
Till, mastered by their own usurping Brave,  
The free born Subject sunk into a Slave.  
We loathe our Manna, and we long for Quails;  
Ah, what is man, when his own wish prevails!  
How rash, how swift to plunge himself in ill;  
Proud of his Power, and boundless in his Will!  
That Kings can do no wrong we must believe:  
None can they do, and must they all receive?  
Help Heaven! or sadly we shall see an hour,  
When neither wrong nor right are in their power!  
Already they have lost their best defence,  
The benefit of Laws, which they dispense.  
No justice to their righteous Cause allowed;  
But baffled by an Arbitrary Crowd.  
And Medals graved, their Conquest to record,  
The Stamp and Coin of their adopted Lord.   

The Man who laughed but once, to see an Ass  
Mumbling to make the cross-grained Thistles pass;  
Might laugh again, to see a Jury chaw  
The prickles of unpalatable Law.  
The witnesses, that, Leech-like, lived on blood,  
Sucking for them were med'cinally good;  
But, when they fastened on their festered Sore,  
Then, Justice and Religion they forswore;  
Their Maiden Oaths debauched into a Whore.  
Thus Men are raised by Factions, and decried;  
And Rogue and Saint distinguished by their Side.  
They rack even Scripture to confess their Cause;  
And plead a Call to preach, in spite of Laws.  
But that's no news to the poor injured Page,  
It has been used as ill in every Age;  
And is constrained, with patience, all to take;  
For what defence can Greek and Hebrew make?  
Happy who can this talking Trumpet seize;  
They make it speak whatever Sense they please!  
'twas framed, at first, our Oracle t'enquire;  
But, since our Sects in prophecy grow higher,  
The Text inspires not them; but they the Text inspire.   

London, thou great Emporium of our Isle,  
O, thou too bounteous, thou too fruitful Nile,  
How shall I praise or cure to thy desert!  
Or separate thy sound, from thy corrupted part!  
I called thee Nile; the parallel will stand:  
Thy tides of Wealth overflow the fattened Land;  
Yet Monsters from thy large increase we find,  
Engendered on the Slyme thou leav'st behind.  
Sedition has not wholly seized on thee;  
Thy nobler Parts are from infection free.  
Of Israel's Tribes thou hast a numerous band;  
But still the Canaanite is in the Land.  
Thy military Chiefs are brave and true;  
Nor are thy disinchanted Burghers few.  
The Head is loyal which thy Heart commands;  
But what's a Head with two such gouty Hands?  
The wise and wealthy love the surest way;  
And are content to thrive and to obey.  
But Wisdom is to Sloth too great a Slave;  
None are so busy as the Fool and Knave.  
Those let me curse; what vengeance will they urge,  
Whose Ordures neither Plague nor Fire can purge;  
Nor sharp experience can to duty bring,  
Nor angry Heaven, nor a forgiving King!  
In Gospel phrase their Chapmen they betray:  
Their Shops are Dens, the Buyer is their Prey.  
The Knack of Trades is living on the Spoil;  
They boast even when each other they beguile.  
Customs to steal is such a trivial thing,  
That 'tis their Charter to defraud their King.  
All hands unite of every jarring Sect;  
They cheat the Country first, and then infect.  
They, for God's Cause their Monarches dare dethrone;  
And they'll be sure to make his Cause their own.  
Whether the plotting Jesuit laid the plan  
Of murdering Kings, or the French Puritan,  
Our Sacrilegious Sects their Guides outgo;  
And Kings and Kingly Power would murder too.   

What means their Traitorous Combination less,  
Too plain t' evade, too shameful to confess.  
But Treason is not owned when 'tis descried;  
Successful Crimes alone are justified.  
The Men, who no Conspiracy would find,  
Who doubts, but had it taken, they had joined.  
Joined, in a mutual Covenant of defence;  
At first without, at last against their Prince.  
If Sovereign Right by Sovereign Power they scan,  
The same bold Maxim holds in God and Man:  
God were not safe, his Thunder could they shun  
He should be forced to crown another Son.  
Thus, when the Heir was from the Vineyard thrown,  
The rich Possession was the murderers own.  
In vain to Sophistry they have recourse:  
By proving theirs no Plot, they prove 'tis worse;  
Unmasked Rebellion, and audacious Force.  
Which, though not Actual, yet all Eyes may see  
'tis working, in th' immediate Power to be;  
For, from pretended Grievances they rise,  
First to dislike, and after to despise.  
Then, Cyclop-like in humane Flesh to deal;  
Chop up a Minister, at every meal;  
Perhaps not wholly to melt down the King;  
But clip his regal rights within the Ring.  
From thence, t'assume the power of Peace and War;  
And ease him by degrees of public Care.  
Yet, to consult his Dignity and Fame,  
He should have leave to exercise the Name;  
And hold the Cards, while Commons played the game.  
For what can Power give more than Food and Drink,  
To live at ease, and not be bound to think?  
These are the cooler methods of the Crime;  
But their hot Zealots think 'tis loss of time:  
On utmost bounds of Loyalty they stand,  
And grinn and whet like a Croatian Band;  
That waits impatient for the last Command.  
Thus Outlaws open Villainy maintain;  
They steal not, but in Squadrons scour the Plain:  
And, if their Power the Passengers subdue;  
The Most have right, the wrong is in the Few.  
Such impious Axioms foolishly they show;  
For, in some Soils Republics will not grow:  
Our Temperate Isle will no extremes sustain,  
Of popular Sway, or Arbitrary Reign:  
But slides between them both into the best;  
Secure in freedom, in a Monarch blest.  
And though the Climate, vexed with various Winds,  
Works through our yielding Bodies, on our Minds,  
The wholesome Tempest purges what it breeds;  
To recommend the Calmness that succeeds.   

But thou, the Pander of the People's hearts,  
(O Crooked Soul, and Serpentine in Arts,)  
Whose blandishments a Loyal Land have whored,  
And broke the Bonds she plighted to her Lord;  
What Curses on thy blasted Name will fall!  
Which Age to Age their Legacy shall call;  
For all must curse the Woes that must descend on all.  
Religion thou hast none: thy Mercury  
Has passed through every Sect, or theirs through Thee.  
But what thou giv'st, that Venom still remains;  
And the poxed Nation feels Thee in their Brains.  
What else inspires the Tongues, and swells the Breasts  
Of all thy bellowing Renegado Priests,  
That preach up Thee for God; dispense thy Laws;  
And with thy Stumm serment their fainting Cause?  
Fresh Fumes of Madness raise; and toil and sweat  
To make the formidable Cripple great.  
Yet, should thy Crimes succeed, should lawless Power  
Compass those Ends thy greedy Hopes devour,  
Thy Canting Friends thy Mortal Foes would be;  
Thy God and Theirs will never long agree.  
For thine, (if thou hast any,) must be one  
That lets the World and Humane-Kind alone:  
A jolly God, that passes hours too well  
To promise Heaven, or threaten us with Hell.  
That unconcerned can at Rebellion sit;  
And Wink at Crimes he did himself commit.  
A Tyrant theirs; the Heaven their Priesthood paints  
A Conventicle of gloomy sullen Saints;  
A Heaven, like Bedlam, slovenly and sad;  
Foredoomed for Souls, with false Religion mad.  
Without a Vision Poets can fore-shew  
What all but Fools, by common Sense may know:  
If true Succession from our Isle should fail,  
And Crowds profane, with impious Arms prevail,  
Not thou, nor those thy Factious Arts engage  
Shall reap that Harvest of Rebellious Rage,  
With which thou flatterest thy decrepit Age.  
The swelling Poison of the several Sects,  
Which wanting vent, the Nations Health infects  
Shall burst its Bag; and fight out their way  
The various Venom's on each other prey.  
The Presbyter, puffed up with spiritual Pride,  
Shall on the Necks of the lewd Nobles ride:  
His Brethren damn, the Civil Power defy;  
And parcel out Republic Prelacy.  
But short shall be his Reign: his rigid Yoke  
And Tyrant Power will puny Sects provoke;  
And Frogs and Toads, and all the Tadpole Train Crane.  
Will croak to Heaven for help, from this devouring  
The Cutthroat Sword and clamorous Gown shall jar,  
In sharing their ill-gotten Spoils of War:  
Chiefs shall be grudged the part which they pretend,  
Lords envy Lords, and Friends with every Friend  
About their impious Merit shall contend.  
The surly Commons shall respect deny;  
And justle Peerage out with Property.  
Their Gen'ral either shall his Trust betray,  
And force the Crowd to Arbitrary sway;  
Or they suspecting his ambitious Aim,  
In hate of Kings shall cast anew the Frame;  
And thrust out Collatine that bore their Name.   

Thus inborn Broils the Factions would engage;  
Or Wars of Exiled Heirs, or Foreign Rage,  
Till halting Vengeance overtook our Age:  
And our wild Labours, wearied into Rest,  
Reclined us on a rightful Monarch's Breast.   
— Pudet haec opprobria, vobis  
Et dici potuisse, & non potuisse refelli.  
THE END   

SEVERAL OF Ovid's Elegies, BOOK I.  

ELEGY the FIRST.  Englished By Mr. Cooper. 
IN lofty Strains, said I, some mighty thing,  
Of Arms and War I mean to Sing;  
In equal Numbers, let the Verses meet,  
Like the Action, brave and great.  
But Love untoward still, and still perverse  
Was seen to laugh and maim my Verse;  
And th' latter line, though near of that same Kind,  
Is forced to limp and halt behind.  
Poets the Muses should obey, not thee;  
Who gave thee then this Tyranny?  
Who did to th' cruel Boy the power permit  
Both to Command us, and our Wit?  
The pointed Spear soft Venus should not move;  
Nor warlike Pallas deal in Love;  
Upon the Mountains Ceres should not reign;  
Nor should Diana Till the plain;  
Nor should Apollo come to the bloody fray;  
Or Mars upon the Harp to play:  
Too large thy Empire, and too great thy power;  
Does thy Ambition aim at more?  
Wouldst thou the Muses too Control, vain Boy;  
Nor let their King his Harp Enjoy?  
To loftier things, said I, my thoughts I raise  
Than Boy's or viler Woman's praise:  
In vain I strove to Sing of lofty things,  
He Lured me down and Clipped my Wings;  
Yet froward I, and Stubborn still remained,  
And struggled much and much Complained;  
With that his Stout and well-strong Bow he bend,  
From thence a mighty Arrow sent.  
Strong was the fatal Bow, the Arrow fleet,  
And now (vain Man!) said he now write.  
Ah me! the Bow was strong, the Arrow sure,  
Witness the torments I endure.  
Against such force what Man can keep the Field?  
I yield, Great God, cried I, I yield:  
At thy Command, dread Conqueror, to Sing  
Or any way, or any thing.   

ELEGY the SECOND.  Englished By Mr. Creech. 
AH me! why am I so uneasy grown?  
Ah why so restless on my Bed of down?  
Why do I wish to sleep, but wish in vain?  
Why am I all the tedious night in pain?  
What cause is this that ease that rest denies?  
And why my words break forth in gentle sighs?  
Sure I should know if Love had fixed his Dart,  
Or creeps he softly in with treacherous Art,  
And then grows Tyrant there and wounds the Heart?  
'tis so, the shaft sticks deep and galls my Breast,  
'tis Tyrant Love, that robs my thoughts of rest!  
Well, shall I tamely yield, or must I fight?  
I'll yield, 'tis patience makes a burden light:  
A shaken Torch grows fierce, and Sparks arise,  
But, if unmoved, the fire looks pale and dies.  
The hard mouthed Horse smarts for his fierce disdain,  
The Gentle's ridden with a loser rain.  
Love smooths the Gentle, but the fierce reclaims;  
He fires their Breasts, and fills their Souls with flames.  
I yield, Great Love, my former Crimes forgive,  
Forget my Rebel thoughts, and let me live:  
No need of force, I willingly obey,  
And now unarmed, shall prove no glorious Prey.  
Go take thy Mother's Doves, thy myrtle Crown,  
And, for thy Chariot, Mars shall lend his Own;  
There thou shalt sit in thy triumphant pride,  
And, whilst glad shouts resound on every side,  
Thy gentle hands thy Mother's Doves shall Guide.  
And there, to make thy Glorious Pomp and State,  
A Train of sighing Youths and Maids shall wait,  
Yet none Complains of an unhappy fate.  
There newly conquered I, still fresh my wound,  
Will march along, my hands with Myrtle bound;  
There modestly with Vails thrown o'er her Face,  
Now doubly blushing at her own disgrace;  
There sober thoughts, and whatsoe'er disdains  
Love's rule, shall feel his power and bear his chains:  
Then all shall fear, all bow, yet all rejoice,  
Io Triumph be the public Voice.  
Thy constant Guards, soft fancy, hope, and fear,  
Anger and soft Caresses shall be there:  
By these strong Guards are Men and Gods o'erthrown,  
These Conquer for thee, Love, and these alone:  
Thy Mother from the Sky, thy Pomp shall grace,  
And scatter sweetest Roses in thy Face:  
There glorious Love shall ride, profusely dressed  
With all the richest Jewels of the East:  
Rich Gems thy Quiver and thy Wheels enfold,  
And hide the poorness of the base Gold.  
Then thou shalt conquer many, than thy Darts  
Shall scatter thousand wounds on tender Hearts:  
Thy shafts themselves will fly, thy neighbouring fire  
Will catch men's breasts and kindle warm desire.  
Thus conquering Bacchus looks in Indian Groves,  
He drawn by Tigers, Thou by murmuring Doves.  
Well then, since I too can increase thy train,  
Spend not thy force on me and rage in vain;  
Look on thy Kinsman Caesar's happy slaves,  
The same victorious Arm that conquers saves.   

ELEGY the FOURTH.  
Instructions to his Mrs. how to behave herself at Supper before her Husband.  Englished By Sir Ch. Scrope. 
SInce to constrain our Joys, that illbred, rude,  
Familiar thing your Husband will intrude;  
For a Just Judgement may th' unwelcome Guest  
At this Night's lucky Supper eat his last.  
How shall I then with patience stand by,  
While my Corinna gives another Joy?  
His wanton hands in her soft bosom warms,  
And feels about her Neck his clasping Arms?  
Oh torturing Sight! but since it must be so,  
Be kind and learn what 'tis I'd have you do.  
Come first, be sure, for though the place may prove  
Unfit for all we wish, 'twill show your Love.  
When called to Table you demurely go,  
Gently in passing touch my hand or toe.  
Mark all my Actions well, observe my Eye,  
My speaking Signs, and to each Sign reply.  
If I do aught of which you would complain,  
Upon your Elbow languishingly lean.  
But if your pleased with what I do or say,  
Steal me a smile and snatch your Eyes away.  
When you reflect on our past secret Joys,  
Hold modestly your Fannio before your Eyes:  
And when your nauseous Husband tedious grows,  
Your lifted hands with scornful anger close;  
As if you called for vengeance from above  
Upon that dull Impediment to Love.  
A thousand skilful ways we'll find to show  
Our mutual Love, which none but we shall know.  
I'll watch the parting Glass, when e'er you drink,  
And where your Lips have touched it kiss the brink.  
Like still the Dish that in your reach does stand,  
Taking the Plate I so may feel your hand.  
But what he recomends to you to eat  
Coily refuse, as if you loathed the meat;  
Nor let his Matrimonial right appear  
By any ill-timed household Freedom there.  
Let not his fulsome Arms embrace your waste,  
Nor lolling head upon your bosom rest.  
One kiss would straight make all my passion known,  
And my fierce Eyes with rage would claim their own.  
Yet what thus passes will be done i'th' light,  
But Oh! the Joys that may be kept from sight;  
Legs locked in Legs, thighs pressing thighs, and all  
The wanton Spells that up Loves fury call.  
These cunning Arts which I so oft have used  
Make me now fear to be myself abused.  
To clear my doubts, so far your chair remove  
As may prevent th' Intelligence of Love.  
Put him in mind of pledging every health,  
And let the tutored Page add wine by stealth;  
The Sot grown drunk we easier may retire,  
And do as the Occasion shall inspire.  
But after all, how small (alas) the gains,  
Will be, for which we take such mighty pains!  
Torn from my Arms, you must go home to bed,  
And leave your poor forsaken Lover dead;  
Cruel divorce! Enough to break my heart,  
Without you promise this, before you part.  
When my blessed Rival, goes to reap his Joy,  
Receive him so as may the bliss destroy:  
Let not the least kind mark of Love escape,  
But all be duly and a lawful Rape;  
So deadly cold and void of all desire,  
That like a Charm, it may put out his fire.  
But if compelled, you should at last comply,  
When we meet next, besure you all deny.   

ELEGY the FIFTH.  Englished By Mr. Duke. 
'TWas Noon, when I scorched with the double fire  
Of the hot Sun, and my more hot desire,  
Stretched on my downy Couch at ease was laid,  
Big with Expectance of the lovely Maid.  
The Curtains but half drawn, a light let in,  
Such as in Shades of thickest Groves is seen;  
Such as remains, when the Sun flies away,  
Or when Night's gone, and yet it is not day.  
This light to modest Maids must be allowed,  
Where shame may hope its guilty head to shroud.  
And now my Love Corinna, did appear,  
Lose on her Neck fell her divided hair;  
Lose as her flowing Gown, that wantoned in the air.  
In such a Garb, with such a grace and mein,  
To her Rich bed came the Asyrian Queen.  
So Lais looked, when all the Youth of Greece  
With adoration did her charms confess.  
Her envious Gown to pull away, I tried,  
But she resisted still, and still denied;  
But so resisted, that she seemed to be  
Unwilling to obtain the Victory.  
So I at last, an easy Conquest had,  
Whilst my fair Combatant herself betrayed:  
But when she naked stood before my Eyes,  
Gods! with what charms did she my Soul surprise?  
What Snowy Arms did I both see and ●eel?  
With what rich globes did her soft bosom swell?  
Plump, as ripe Clusters, rose each glowing breast,  
Courting the hand, and suing to be pressed!  
What a smooth plain, was on her Belly spread?  
Where thousand little Loves, and Graces played!  
What Thighs! What Legs! But why strive I in vain,  
Each Limb, each grace, each feature to explain?  
One beauty did through her whole Body shine,  
I saw, admired, and pressed it close to mine.  
The rest, who knows not? Thus intranc'd we lay,  
Till in each others Arms we died away;  
O give me such a Noon (y● Gods) to every day.   

ELEGY the EIGHTH.  
He Curses a Bawd, for going about to debauch his Mistress.  Englished By Sir Ch. Sidly. 
THere is a Bawd renowned in Venus' Wars,  
And dreadful still with honourable scars:  
Her youth and beauty, craft and guile supply  
Sworn Foe to all degrees of Chastity.  
Dypsas, who first taught Lovesick Maids the way  
To cheat the Bridegroom on the Wedding day.  
And then a hundred subtle tricks devised,  
Wherewith the Amorous Theft might be disguised.  
Of Pigeons-blood, squeezed from the panting heart,  
With Surfeit-water, to contract the part,  
She knows the Use: whilst the good man betrayed,  
With eager Arms hugs the false bleeding Maid.  
Of herbs and Spells she tries the Guilty Force,  
The poison of a Mare that goes to Horse.  
Cleaving the Midnight Air upon a Switches,  
Some for a Bawd, most take her for a Witch.  
Each Morning sees her reeling to her Bed,  
Her native Blue o'ercome with drunken red.  
Her ready tongue ne'er wants an useful lie,  
Soft moving words, nor Charming flattery.  
Thus I overheard her to my Lucia speak,  
Young Damon's heart wilt thou for ever break?  
He long has loved thee, and by me he sends  
To learn thy motions, which he still attends.  
If to the Park thou go, the Plays are ill;  
If to the Plays, he thinks the Air would kill.  
The other day he gazed upon thy Face,  
As he would grow a Statue in the place;  
And who indeed does not? like a new Star,  
Beauty like thine strikes Wonders from afar.  
Alas, methinks thou art ill-drest to night,  
This Points too poor; thy Necklace is not right.  
This Gown was by some botching Tailor made,  
It spoils thy Shape; this Fucus is ill laid.  
Hear me, and be as happy as thou'rt fair,  
Damon is rich, and what thou want'st can spare.  
Like thine his Face, like thine his Eyes are thought,  
Would he not buy, he might himself be bought.  
Fair Lucia blushed; It is a sign of Grace,  
Dypsas replied, that Red becomes thy Face.  
All Lovers now by what they give are weighed,  
And she is best beloved that is best paid.  
The Sunburnt Latins, in old Tatius Reign,  
Did to one man perhaps their Love restrain.  
Venus in her Aeneas City rules,  
And all adore her Deity, but Fools.  
Go on, ye Fair, Chaste only let such live,  
As none will ask, and know not how to give.  
How prettily you frown? But I'll speak on,  
Hear me, another day 'twill be your own.  
Virtuous Penelope is said t' have tried,  
With a strong Bow, each lusty Lover's side.  
Nor did Lucretia kill herself for rage,  
But Love of Tarquin, in that colder Age.  
To the young Prince she vowed, ne'er more to join  
In dull Embraces with her Collatine.  
To keep her word she died—  
Life steals away, and our best hours are gone,  
E'er the true Use, or worth of them, be known.  
Things long neglected of themselves decay,  
What we forbear time rudely makes his prey.  
Beauty is best preserved by Exercise,  
Nor for that Task can one or few suffice.  
Wouldst thou grow rich, thou must from many take  
From one 'twere hard continually to rake.  
Without new Gowns, and Coaches, who can live?  
What does thy Poet, but new Verses give?  
A Poet, the last thing that Earth does breed,  
Whose Wit, for Sixpence, any one may read.  
Him that will give, to Homer I prefer,  
To give is an ingenious thing I swear.  
Despise not any can a present make,  
It matters not from whom, but what we take.  
Nor with the sound of Titles be thou caught,  
For nothing can with empty Names be bought.  
Hang the poor Lover, and his Pedigree,  
The thriving Merchant, or fat Judge give me.  
If any beardless Stripling ask a Night,  
And think thee paid with mutual delight;  
Bid him go earn thy price among the men,  
And when he has it, come to thee again.  
Love truly none, but seem in Love with all,  
And at old friends to thy new Lover rail.  
Sometimes deny, 'twill Appetite procure;  
The sharpset Hawks will stoop to any Lure.  
Then grant again, lest he a habit get  
Of living from thee, but be sure thou let  
No empty Lover in: murmur sometimes,  
And as first hurt, reproach him with thy Crimes.  
Seem jealous, when thou'st been thyself to blame,  
'Twill stop his mouth, if thou the first complain.  
All thou hast done be ready to forswear,  
For Lovers Oaths fair Venus has no Ear.  
Whilst he is with thee, let some Woman bring  
Some Indian Stuff, or Foreign precious thing;  
Which thou must say thou want'st, and he must buy,  
Though for it Six months hence in Gaol he lie.  
Thy Mother, Sister, Brother, and thy Nurse,  
Must have a pull each at thy Lover's Purse.  
Let him from Rivals never be secure,  
That hope once gone, Love will not long endure.  
Show him the presents by those Rivals sent,  
So shall his bounty thy request prevent.  
When he will give no more, ask him to lend,  
If he want money, find a trusting Friend.  
Get Hangings, Cabinets, a Looking-glass,  
Or any thing for which his word will pass.  
Practise these Rules, thou'lt find the benefit;  
I lost my Beauty e'er I got this wit.  
I at that word stepped from behind the door,  
And scarce my Nails from her thin Ceeks forbore.  
Her few Grey hairs in rage I vowed to pull,  
And thrust her drunken Eyes into her Skull.  
Poor in a Dungeons bottom mayst thou rot,  
Dye with a blow with thy beloved Pot,  
No Brandy, and Eternal thirst thy Lot.    

SEVERAL OF Ovid's Elegies, BOOK II.  

ELEGY the FIFTH.  
To his false Mistress.  Englished By Sir Ch. Sidly. 
CVpid, begun! who would on thee rely,  
And thus at every moment wish to die?  
Death is my wish, when on thy guilt I think,  
(Thy faithless guilt) at which I fain would wink.  
False Maid, thou various torment of my life,  
Thou flying pleasure, and thou lasting grief;  
No doubtful Letters thy lost faith accuse,  
Nor private gifts, thou mightst with ease excuse  
Such proofs, one word of thine might overcome;  
Why is my cause so good, and thou so dumb?  
Happy's the man that's handsomely deceived,  
Whose Mistress swears and lies, and is believed.  
These Eyes beheld thee, when thou thoughst me gone  
In books and signs (nor yet in those alone)  
Conveying the glad message of thy Love  
To that gay, vain, dull Fop that sat above.  
I knew the Language soon, what could be hid  
From Lovers Eyes of all ye said or did?  
When others rose, I saw thee Dart a kiss,  
The wanton prelude to a farther bliss:  
Not such as Wives to their cold Husbands give,  
But such as hot Adulterers receive.  
Such as might kindle frozen appetite,  
And fire even wasted nature with delight.  
What art thou mad, I cried, before my face,  
To steal my wealth, and my new Rival grace?  
I'll rise and seize my own upon the place.  
These soft endearments should not farther go,  
But be the secret treasure of us two,  
How comes this third in for a share I'd know?  
This, and what more my grief inspired, I said;  
Her face she covered with a Conscious red:  
Like a Cloud guilded by the rising Sun,  
Or Virgin newly by her Love undone.  
Those very blushes pleased, when she cast down  
Her lovely Eyes, with a disdainful frown.  
Disdain became her, looking on the Earth,  
Sad were her looks, but Charming above mirth.  
I could have killed myself, or him, or her,  
Scarce did my rage her tender Cheeks forbear:  
When I beheld her Face my anger cooled,  
I felt myself to a mere Lover fooled.  
ay, who but now so fierce, grow tame and sue,  
With such a kiss we might our Love renew.  
She smiled and gave me one might jove disarm,  
And from his hand the brandished Thunder charm.  
'Twas worse than death, to think my Rival knew  
Such Joys as till that hour to me were new.  
She gave much better kisses than I taught,  
And something strange was in each touch me-thought.  
They pleased me but too well, and thou didst tongue,  
With too much art and skill, for one so young:  
Nor is this all, though I of this complain,  
Nor should I for a kiss be so in pain:  
But thine could never but in Bed be taught,  
I fear how dear thou hast thy Knowledge bought.   

ELEGY the six.  Englished By Mr. Creech. 
ALas, poor Poll, my Indian talker dies!  
Go Birds, and celebrate his Obsequies.  
Go Birds, and beat your Breasts, your Faces tear,  
And pluck your gaudy plumes, instead of hair.  
Let doleful Tunes the frighted Forests wound,  
And your sad Notes supply the Trumpets sound.  
Why Philomela dost mourn, the Thracian rage?  
It is enough, thy Grief at last assuage;  
His Crimson faults are now grown white with Age.  
Now mourn this Bird, the Cause of all thy woe  
Was great 'tis true, but it was long ago.  
Mourn all ye winged Inhabitants of Air,  
But you, my Turtle, take the greatest share!  
You two lived constant Friends, and free from strife,  
Your kindness was entire, and long as life.  
What Pylades to his Orestes vowed,  
To thee, poor Poll, thy friendly Turtle showed,  
And kept his Love as long as Fate allowed.  
But ah, what did thy Faith, thy Plumes and Tail,  
And what thy pretty Speaking-art avail?  
And what that thou wert given, and pleased my Miss,  
Since now the Birds unhappy Glory dies?  
A lovely verdant Green graced every Quill,  
The deepest vivid Red did paint thy Bill:  
In speaking thou didst every Bird excel,  
None prattled, and none lisped the words so well.  
'Twas envy only sent this fierce Disease,  
Thou wert averse to War, and liv'dst in peace,  
A talking harmless thing, and lov'dst thine Ease.  
The fight Quails still live midst all their strife,  
And even that, perhaps, prolongs their Life.  
Thy Meat was little, and thy prattling tongue  
Would ne'er permit thee make thy Dinner long:  
Plain Fountain-water all thy drink allowed,  
And Nut, and Poppy-seed, were all thy Food.  
The preying Vultures, and the Kites remain,  
And the unlucky Crow still caws for Rain.  
The Chough still lives, midst fierce Minerva's hate,  
And scarce nine hundred years conclude her Fate.  
But my poor Poll now hangs his sickly head,  
My Poll, my present from the East, is dead.  
Best things are soon snatched by covetous Fate,  
To worse she freely gives a longer date.  
Thersites brave Achilles' Fate survived;  
And Hector fell, whilst all his Brothers lived.  
Why should I tell, what Vows Corinna made?  
How oft she begged thy Life, how oft she prayed?  
The Seventh-day came, and now the Fates begin,  
To end the thread, they had no more to Spin.  
Yet still he talked, and when death nearer drew,  
His last breath said, Corinna, now Adieu.  
There is a shady Cypress Grove below,  
And thither (if such doubtful things we know)  
The Ghosts of pious Birds departed go.  
'Tis watered well, and verdant all the year,  
And Birds obscene do never enter there:  
There harmless Swans securely take their rest,  
And there the single Phoenix builds her nest.  
Proud Peacocks there display their gaudy Train,  
And billing Turtles Coo o'er all the plain.  
To these dark shades my Parrot's soul shall go,  
And with his Talk divert the Birds below.  
Whilst here his bones enjoy a Noble Grave,  
A little Marble and an Epitaph:  

In talking I did every Bird excel,  
And my Tomb proves my Mistress loved me well.    

ELEGY the SEVENTH.  
He protests that he had never any thing to do with the Chambermaid.  Englished By Mr. Creech. 
ANd must I still be guilty, still untrue,  
And when old crims are purged still charged with new?  
What tho' at last my Cause I clearly gain?  
Yet I'm ashamed to strive so oft in vain,  
And when the Prize will scarce reward the pain.  
If at the Play I in Fop-corner sit,  
And with a squinting Eye glote o'er the pit,  
Or View the Boxes, you begin to fear,  
And fancy straight some Rival Beauty there;  
If any looks on me, you think you spy  
A private Assignation in her Eye,  
A silent soft discourse in every Grace,  
And Tongues in all the Features of her Face.  
If I praise any one, you tear your hair,  
Show frantic Tricks, and rage with wild Despair.  
If discommend, O then 'tis all Deceit,  
I strive to Cloak my Passion by the Cheat:  
If I look well, I then neglect your Charms,  
Lie dull and lazy in your active Arms;  
If weak my voice, if pale my Looks appear,  
O then I languish for another Fair.  
Would I did sin, and you with Cause complain,  
For when we strive to shun, yet strive in vain,  
'Tis Comfort sure to have deserved the pain.  
But sure fond Fancies now such heats engage,  
Your credulous peevish humour spoils your Rage;  
In frequent Chide I no force can see,  
You frown too often to prevail with me:  
The Ass grows dull by Stripes, the constant blow  
Beats off his briskness, and he moves but slow.  
But now I'm lavish of my kind Embrace,  
And Moll forsooth supplies her Lady's place!  
Kind Love forbid that I should stoop so low,  
What, unto mean ignoble Beauty's bow?  
A Chambermaid! no Faith, my Love flies high,  
My Quarry is a Miss of Quality.  
Fie, who would clasp a Slave, who joy to feel  
Her hands of Iron, and her sides of Steel?  
'Twill damp an eager thought, 'twill check my mind  
To feel those knubs the Lash hath left behind.  
Besides she dresses well, with lovely grace,  
She sets thy Tour, and does adorn thy Face;  
Thy natural Beauty all her Arts improve,  
And make me more enamoured of my Love:  
Then why should I tempt her? and why betray  
Thy useful Slave, and have her turned away?  
I swear by Venus, by Love's darts and Bow,  
A desperate Oath, you must believe me now;  
I am not guilty, I've not broke my Vow.   

ELEGY the EIGHTH.  Englished By Mr. Creech. 
To Corinna's Chambermaid.  
DEar skilful Betty, who dost far excel  
My Lady's other Maids in dressing well:  
Dear Betty, fit to be preferred above  
To Juno's Chamber, or the Queen of Love;  
Gentile, well bred, not rustically coy,  
Not easy to deny desired Joy.  
Through whose soft Eyes still secret wishes shine,  
Fit for thy Mistress Use, but more for mine;  
Who, Betty, did the fatal Secret see,  
Who told Corinna, you were kind to me?  
Yet when she child me for my kind Embrace,  
Did any guilty Blush spread o'er my Face?  
Did I betray thee, Maid, or could she spy  
The least Confession in my conscious Eye?  
Not that I think it a disgrace to prove  
Stolen sweets, or make a Chambermaid my Love.  
Achilles wantoned in Briseis Arms;  
Atrides bowed to fair Cassandra's Charms.  
Sure I am less than these, then what can bring  
Disgrace to me, that so became a King?  
But when she looked on you, poor harmless Maid  
You blushed, and all the kind Intrigue betrayed:  
Yet still I vowed, I made a stout defence,  
I swore, and looked as bold as Innocence:  
Dam, I gad, all that, and let me die;  
Kind Venus, do not hear my perjury,  
Kind Venus, stop thy Ears when Lovers lie.  
Now, Betty, how will you my Oaths requite?  
Come prithee le's compound for more delight,  
Faith I am easy, and but ask a Night.  
What! Start at the proposal? how! deny?  
Pretend fond Fears of a Discovery?  
Refuse lest some sad Chance the thing betray?  
Is this your kind, your damned Obliging way?  
Well, deny on, I'll lie, I'll swear no more,  
Corinna now shall know thou art a Whore;  
I'll tell since you my fair Address forbid,  
How often, when, and where, and what we did.   

ELEGY the EIGHTH.  Englished By Another Hand. 
To his Mistress' Maid.  
THou to whom every Artful dress is known,  
Fit to attend on Goddesses alone,  
Whom I in stolen delights have found so free,  
Fit for your Mistress, but more fit for Me:  
Tell me, O tell the false Discoverers  
Of our past Joys, and all our tender hours.  
Yet did I blush? Or did my Language move  
The least Suspicion of our conscious Love?  
What though I taxed the man with want of sense,  
Whose generous Love could with the Maid dispense?  
Did not Achilles fair Briseis love,  
And Greece's King his Captive's Vassal prove?  
Am I then greater than brave Peleus' Son,  
That I should scorn the thing which Kings have done?  
But when on you she fixed her angry Eyes,  
Your Cheeks confessed the Crime your Tongue denies.  
While my more settled Soul the Fact disproves,  
And makes the Gods the Patrons of our Loves.  
(But O ye Gods forgive the Injury,  
And spare so sweet, so harmless Perjury.)  
Then what Reward is to such Service due?  
Be kind, my Dear, and let's our Joys renew.  
Ingrateful Maid! can you here feign delay?  
More than my Passion, shall her Anger sway?  
Should your nice Folly still deny Access,  
I'll turn Informer, and myself confess;  
Even where we were, how oft, and what was done,  
Both to your Mistress, and the World I'll own.   

ELEGY the NINTH.  Englished By the late Earl of Rochester. 
To Love.  
O Love how cold and slow to take my part,  
Thou idle wanderer about my heart?  
Why thy old faithful Soldier wilt thou see  
Oppressed in thy own Tents? they murder me.  
Thy Flames consume, thy Arrows pierce thy friends,  
Rather on foes pursue more noble ends.  
Achilles' Sword would certainly bestow  
A cure as certain, as it gave the blow.  
Hunters who follow flying Game, give over  
When the prey's caught, hopes still lead on before.  
We thine own slaves feel thy Tyrannic blows,  
Whilst thy tame hand's unmoved against thy foes.  
On men disarmed how can you gallant prove?  
And I was long ago disarmed by Love.  
Millions of dull men live, and scornful Maids,  
We'll own Love valiant when he these invades.  
Rome from each corner of the wide World snatched  
A Laurel, or 't had been to this day thatched.  
But the old Soldier has his resting place,  
And the good battered Horse is turned to Grass.  
The harassed Whore, who lived a wretch to please,  
Has leave to be a Bawd, and take her ease.  
For me then who have truly spent my blood  
(Love) in thy service and so boldly stood  
In Celia's trenches, were't not wisely done  
Even to retire and live at peace at home?  
No— might I gain a Godhead to disclaim  
My glorious Title to my endless Flame,  
Divinity with scorn I would forswear,  
Such sweet dear tempting Devils Women are.  
When e'er those flames grow faint, I quickly find  
A fierce black storm pour down upon my mind;  
Headlong I'm hurled like horsemen, who in vain  
Their (fury flaming) Coursers would restrain;  
As Ships just when the harbour they attain  
Are snatched by sudden blasts to Sea again;  
So Loves fantastic storms reduce my heart  
Half rescued, and the God resumes his dart.  
Strike here, this undefended bosom wound,  
And for so brave a Conquest be renowned.  
Shafts fly so fast to me from every part,  
You'll scarce discern the Quiver from my heart.  
What wretch can bear a livelong Night's dull rest,  
Or think himself in lazy slumbers blest?  
Fool— is not sleep the Image of pale Death,  
There's time for rest when Fate hath stopped your breath.  
Me may my soft deluding Dear deceive,  
I'm happy in my hopes while I believe:  
Now let her flatter, then as fond chide,  
Often may I enjoy, oft be denied.  
With doubtful steps the God of War does move,  
By thy Example in Ambiguous Love.  
Blown to and fro, like Down from thy own Wing,  
Who knows when Joy or Anguish thou wilt bring?  
Yet at thy Mother's and thy slaves request,  
Fix an eternal Empire in my breast:  
And let th' inconstant charming Sex,  
Whose wilful scorn does Lovers vex,  
Submit their hearts before thy Throne,  
The Vassal world is then thy own.   

ELEGY the TWELFTH.  Englished By Mr. Creech. 
TRiumphant Laurels round my Temples twine,  
I'm Victor now, my dear Corinna's mine.  
As she was hard to get, a careful spy,  
A Door well barred, and jealous Husband's Eye  
Long time preserved her troublesome Chastity.  
Now I deserve a Crown, I briskly wooed,  
And won my Prey without a drop of Blood:  
'Twas not a petty Town with Gates and Bars,  
(Those little Trophies of our meaner Wars;)  
No 'twas a Whore, a lovely Whore I took,  
I won her by a Song, and by a Look.  
When Ten years ruined Troy, how mean a Name  
Atrides got? how small his share of Fame?  
But none pretends a part in what I won,  
The Victory's mine, the Glory all my own.  
I in this Conquest was the General,  
The Soldier, Engine, Horse and Foot, and all.  
Fortune and lucky Chance can claim no share,  
Come Triumph gotten by my single Care.  
I fought, as most have done, for Miss, and Love,  
For Helen, Europe, and all Asia strove:  
The Centaurs rudely threw their Tables over,  
And spilt their Wine, and boxed to get a Whore:  
The Trojans though they once had lost their Troy,  
Yet fought to get their Lord another Joy:  
The Romans too did venture all their Lives,  
And stoutly fought their Fathers for their Wives.  
For one fair Cow I've seen two Bulls engage,  
Whilst she stands by, and looks, and heats their rage.  
Even I (for Cupid says he'll have it so.)  
As most men are, must be his Soldier too.  
Yet I no bloody Conqueror shall prove,  
My Quarrels will be Kindness, Wars be Love.   

ELEGY the NINETEENTH.  Englished By Mr. Dryden. 

IF for thyself thou wilt not watch thy Whore,  
Watch her for me that I may love her more;  
What comes with ease we nauseously receive,  
Who but a Sot would scorn to love with leave?  
With hopes and fears my Flames are blown up higher,  
Make me despair, and then I can desire.  
Give me a Jilt to tease my Jealous mind,  
Deceits are Virtues in the Female kind.  
Corinna my Fantastic humour knew,  
Played trick for trick, and kept herself still new:  
She, that next night I might the sharper come,  
Fell out with me, and sent me fasting home;  
Or some pretence to lie alone would take,  
When e'er she pleased her head and teeth would ache:  
Till having won me to the highest strain,  
She took occasion to be sweet again.  
With what a Gust, ye Gods, we then embraced!  
How every kiss was dearer than the last!   

Thou whom I now adore be edified,  
Take care that I may often be denied.  
Forget the promised hour, or feign some fright,  
Make me lie rough on Bulks each other Night.  
These are the Arts that best secure thy reign,  
And this the Food that must my Fires maintain.  
Gross easy Love does like gross diet, pall,  
In squeasie Stomaches Honey turns to Gall.  
Had Danae not been kept in brazen towers,  
jove had not thought her worth his Golden Showers.  
When juno to a Cow turned Io's Shape,  
The Watchman helped her to a second Leap.  
Let him who loves an easy Whetstone Whore,  
Pluck leaves from Trees, and drink the Common Shore.  
The Jilting Harlot strikes the surest blow,  
A truth which I by sad Experience know.  
The kind poor constant Creature we despise,  
Man but pursues the Quarry while it flies.   

But thou dull Husband of a Wife too fair;  
Stand on thy Guard, and watch the precious Ware;  
If creaking Doors, or barking Dogs thou hear,  
Or Windows scratched, suspect a Rival there;  
An Orange-wench would tempt thy Wife abroad,  
Kick her, for she's a Letter-bearing Bawd:  
In short be Jealous as the Devil in Hell;  
And set my Wit on work to cheat thee well.  
The sneaking City Cuckold is my Foe,  
I scorn to strike, but when he Wards the blow.  
Look to thy hits, and leave off thy Conniving,  
I'll be no Drudge to any Wittol living;  
I have been patient and forborn thee long,  
In hope thou wouldst not pocket up thy wrong:  
If no Affront can rouse thee, understand  
I'll take no more Indulgence at thy hand.  
What, ne'er to be forbid thy House and Wife!  
Damn him who loves to lead so dull a life.  
Now I can neither sigh, nor whine, nor pray,  
All those occasions thou hast ta'en away.  
Why art thou so incorrigibly Civil?  
Do somewhat I may wish thee at the Devil.  
For shame be no Accomplice in my Treason,  
A Pimping Husband is too much in reason.   

Once more wear horns before I quite forsake her,  
In hopes whereof I rest thy Cuckold-maker.     

SEVERAL OF Ovid's Elegies, BOOK III.  

ELEGY the FOURTH.  
To A Man that locked up his Wife.  Englished By Sir Ch. Sedley. 
VEx not thyself and her, vain Man, since all  
By their own Vice, or Virtue stand or fall.  
She's truly chaste and worthy of that name,  
Who hates the ill, as well as fears the shame:  
And that vile Woman whom restraint keeps in  
Though she forbear the Act, has done the Sin.  
Spies, Locks and Bolts may keep her brutal part,  
But thou'rt an odious Cuckold in her heart.  
They that have Freedom use it least, and so  
The power of ill does the design overthrow.  
Provoke not Vice by a too harsh restraint,  
Sick men long most to drink, who know they mayn't.  
The fiery Courser, whom no Art can stay  
Or rugged force, does o●t fair means obey:  
And he that did the rudest Arm disdain,  
Submits with Quiet to the loser rain.  
An hundred Eyes had Argos, yet the while  
One silly Maid did all those Eyes beguile.  
Danae though shut within a brazen Tower,  
Felt the Male virtue of the Golden shower:  
But chaste Penelope, le●t to her own will  
And free disposal, never thought of ill;  
She to her absent Lord preserved her truth,  
For all th' Addresses of the smother Youth.  
What's rarely seen our fancy magnifies,  
Permitted pleasure who does not despise?  
They Care provokes beyond her Face, and more  
Men strive to make the Cuckold, than the Whore.  
They're wondrous charms we think, and long to know,  
That in a Wise inchant a Husband so:  
Rage, Swear and Curse, no matter, she alone  
Pleases who sighs and cries I am undone;  
But could thy Spies say we have kept her chaste?  
Good Servants then but an ill Wife thou hast.  
Who fears to be a Cuckold is a Clown,  
Not worthy to partake of this lewd Town;  
Where it is monstrous to be fair and Chaste,  
And not one Inch of either Sex lies waste.  
Wouldst thou be happy? with her ways comply,  
And in her Case lay points of honour by:  
The Friendship she begins wisely improve,  
And a fair Wife gets one a world of Love:  
So shalt thou welcome be to Every treat,  
Live high, not pay, and never run in debt.   

ELEGY the FIFTH. Ovid's Dream.  
'TWas night, and sleep had closed my wearied eyes  
When dreadful Visions did my Soul surprise.  
Under an open Hill I dreamt there stood  
A stately visionary Oaken Wood;  
Which flocks of Birds continually receives  
In to the Shady Covert of its leaves:  
Beyond a Meadow lay to sleeping view,  
Which murmuring Waters constantly bedew;  
The pleasant Virdure of th' extended Plain  
Those murmuring Waters constantly maintain.  
Within the Wood I thought myself to shade  
From Heat, but Heat did even the Woods invade;  
When Lo! a Cow, imaginary white,  
Did seem to feed within my fancy's sight;  
With a promiscuous By't she did devour  
The tender Herb mixed with the springing Flower;  
The purest Fleece of silent Waters ne'er  
Could boast a White that could with Hers compare,  
When fresh, unsullied, on the Earth it lay,  
And was not melted by too long a stay;  
Nay whiter far than Milk squeezed from the Tett,  
That seemed to quit the Udder with regret,  
Whilst murmuring Bubbles wrinkle its smooth Face,  
Being rudely forced to leave its native place.  
By Her a Bull, her happy Lover, fed,  
And they together made the Earth their Bed;  
But as He lay and recalled herbs did eat,  
And feast on his before digested meat,  
The Lover seemed with heavy sleep oppressed,  
And did incline his horny Head to rest:  
Mean time a Crow, that cut the yielding air,  
Th' Occasion took, and thither did repair;  
By the white Cow the winged Ill-Omen stood,  
And with new Passion fired her wanton blood:  
Thrice with his saucy Beak her breast did gore,  
And from her Neck her silver Hair he tore;  
She seemed her Mate and Pasture loath to leave,  
(Yet on her Breast a spot I did perceive)  
And when far off she grazing did espy  
Another Herd, I'm sure they grazed not nigh,  
To them she went, thinking relief might be  
In fresher Pasture, and fresh Company.  
Tell me, O tell me, ye that can reveal  
The fatal Truths that boding Dreams conceal,  
What's thus obscurely to my Fancy brought  
In Hieroglyphics made of sleeping Thought?  
So I. So did th' experienced Augur say,  
Who did each Circumstance exactly weigh.  
The scorching Heat that you so vainly strove  
T' exclude with Leaves, was your prevailing Love.  
The Cow your Mistress was; for what could be  
By such a lovely Creature meant but She?  
The Bull her happy Yoke-fellow, and Mate,  
Did figure you in your unrivalled state.  
The Crow that seemed the Heifers Breast to gore  
Was a damned Bawd that urged her to turn Whore.  
Your Mistress as she left you did bemoan  
You in a Widowed Bed left cold, alone.  
The Spot on her white Breast, I fear, will be  
A sign of violated Chastity.  
Thus spoke the wise Interpreter, when I,  
Pale with Despair and Grief, resolved to die:  
Had not the Vision, that did wound my Sight,  
Kindly dissolved into the shades of Night.   

ELEGY the six.  
To a River, as he was going to his Mistress.  Englished By Mr. Rhymer. 
THy course, thy noble course a while forbear,  
I am in haste now going to my Dear:  
Thy banks how rich, thy Stream how worthy praise!  
Alas my haste! sweet River, let me pass.  
No Bridges here, no Ferry, not an Oar,  
Or Rope to hawl me to the farther shore?  
I have remembered thee a little one,  
Who now with all this flood comest blundring down.  
Did I refuse my Sleep, my Wine, my Friend,  
To spurr along, and must I here attend?  
No art to help me to my Journeys end!  
Ye Lapland powers, make me so far a Witch,  
I may a-stride get over on a switch.  
Oh for some Griffin, or that flying Horse,  
Or any Monster to assist my Course:  
I wish his art that mounted to the Moon,  
In shorter journey would my job be done.  
Why rave I for what crack-brained Bards devise,  
Or name their lewd unconscionable lies?  
Good River, let me find thy courtesy,  
Keep within bounds, and mayst thou ne'er be dry.  
Thou canst not think it such a mighty boast,  
A Torrent has a gentle Lover crossed.  
River's should rather take the Lover's side;  
Rivers themselves Love's wondrous power have tried.  
'Twas on this score Inachus, pale and wan,  
Sickly, and green into the Ocean ran:  
Long before Troy the ten-years siege did fear,  
Thou, Xanthus, thou Neara's chains didst wear,  
Ask Achelöus who his horns did drub,  
Straight he complains of Herculeses club.  
For Calydon, for all Aetolia  
Was then contested such outrageous fray?  
(It neither was for Gold, nor yet for Fee)  
Deianira, it was all for thee.  
Even Nile so rich, that rowls through seven wide doors,  
And uppish over all his Country scowrs;  
For Asop's Daughter did such flame contract,  
As not by all that stock of waters slacked.  
I might an hundred goodly Rivers name,  
But must not pass by thee, immortal Thame;  
E'er thou couldst Isis to thy bosom take,  
How didst thou wind, and wander for her sake?  
The lusty— with broad Humber strove,  
Was it for Fame? I say, it was for Love.  
What makes the noble Ouz up from the main  
With hideous roar come bristling back again?  
He th●nks his dearest Derwent left behind,  
Or fears her false, in new Embraces joined.  
Thee also some small Girl has warmed, we guess,  
Tho' woods and forests now hide thy soft place.  
Whilst this I speak, it swells, and broader grows,  
And o'er the highest banks impetuous flows.  
Dog-floud what art to me? Or why dost check  
Our mutual Joys? And (Churl) my journey break?  
What wouldst, if thee indeed some noble race,  
Or high descent, and glorious name did grace?  
When of no ancient house, or certain seat  
(Nor, known before this time untimely, great)  
Raised by some sudden Thaw thus high and proud,  
No holding thee, ill-mannered upstart Flood.  
Not my Love-tales can make thee stay thy course,  
Thou— Zounds, thou art a— River for a horse.  
Thou hadst no Fountain, but from Bears were't pissed,  
From Snows and Thaws, or Scotch unsavoury mist,  
Thou crawlst along, in Winter foul and poor,  
In Summer puddled like a Common-shore.  
In all thy days when didst a courtesy?  
Dry Traveller ne'er laid a lip to thee.  
Thee bane to cattle, to the Meadows worse,  
For something, all, ay, for my sufferings, curse.  
To such unworthy wretch, how am I shamed,  
That I the generous amorous Rivers named?  
When Nile, and Achelöus I desplayed,  
And Thame, and Ouz, what worm was in my head?  
For thy reward, discourteous River, I  
Wish, be the Summer's hot, the Winter's dry.   

ELEGY the NINTH.  
Upon the Death of Tibullus.  Englished By Mr. Stepny. 
IF Memnon's fate, bewailed with constant dew,  
Does, with the Day, his Mother's grief renew;  
If her Son's death moved tender Thetis mind  
To swell●with tears the waves, with sighs the wind;  
If mighty Gods can Mortals sorrow know,  
And be the humble partners of our woe.  
Now lose your tresses, pensive Elegy,  
(Too well your Office and your Name agree.)  
Tibullus once the joy and pride of Fame  
Lives now, rich fuel on the trembling flame.  
Sad Cupid now despairs of conquering hearts,  
Throws by his empty Quiver, breaks his Darts:  
Eases his useless Bows from idle strings;  
Nor flies, but humbly creeps with Flagging wings.  
He wants, of which he robbed fond Lovers, rest;  
And wounds with furious hands his pensive breast.  
Those graceful Curls which wantonly did flow,  
The whiter rivals of the falling Snow,  
Forget their beauty, and in discord lie  
Drunk with the fountain from his melting Eye.  
Not more Aeneas loss the Boy did move,  
Like passions for them both prove Equal love.  
Tibullus Death grieves the fair Goddess more,  
More swells her eyes, than when the savage Boar  
Her beautiful, her loved Adonis tore.  
Poet's large Souls Heaven's noblest stamps do bear  
(Poets the watchful Angel's darling care)  
Yet Death (Blind Archer) that no difference knows,  
Without respect his, roving Arrows throws.  
Nor Phoebus, nor the Muse's Queen could give,  
Their Son, their own prerogative, do Live.  
Orpheus, the Heir of both his Parent's skill,  
Tamed wondering beasts, not Deaths more cruel will.  
Linus sad strings on the dumb Lute do lie,  
In silence forced to let their Master die.  
Homer (the spring, to whom We Poets owe  
Our little All, does in sweet numbers flow)  
Remains immortal only in his Fame,  
His Works alone survive the envious flame.  
In vain to Gods (if Gods there are) we pray,  
And needless victims prodigally pay.  
Worship their sleeping Deities: Yet Death  
Scorns Votaries, and stops the Praying breath.  
To hallowed shrines intruding Fate will come,  
And drag you from the Altar to the Tomb.  
Go, frantic Poet, with delusions fed,  
Think Laurels guard your Consecrated head,  
Now the sweet Master of your art is dead.  
What can we hope? since that a narrow span  
Can measure the remains of thee, Great Man.  
The bold, rash flame that durst approach so nigh,  
And see Tibullus, and not trembling die,  
Durst seize on Temples, and their Gods defy.  
Fair Venus (fair even in such sorrows) stands,  
Closing her heavy eyes with trembling hands.  
Anon, in vain, officiously she tries  
To quench the flame with rivers from her eyes.  
His Mother weeping doth his eyelids close,  
And on his Urn Tears, her last gift, bestows.  
His Sister too, with hair dishevelled, bears  
Part of her Mother's Nature and her Tears.  
With these two fair, two mournful Rivals come,  
And add a greater triumph to his Tomb:  
Both hug his Urn, both his loved Ashes kiss,  
And both contend which reaped the Greater bliss.  
Thus Delia spoke, (when sighs no more could last)  
Renewing by remembrance pleasures past;  
" When Youth with Vigour did for joy combine,  
" I was Tibullus life, Tibullus mine;  
" I entertained his hot, his first desire,  
" And kept alive, till Age, his active Fire.  
To her then Nemesis (when groans gave leave)  
" As I alone was loved, alone I'll grieve;  
" Spare your vain tears, Tibullus heart was mine,  
" About my Neck his dying arms did twine;  
" I snatched his Soul, which true to me did prove;  
" Age ended Yours, Death only stopped my Love.  
If any poor remains survive the flames  
Except thin shadows, and more empty names;  
Free in Elysium shall Tibullus rove,  
Nor fear a second death should cross his love.  
There shall Catullus, crowned with Bays impart  
To his far dearer Friend his open heart.  
There Gallus (if Fame's hundred tongues all lie)  
Shall, free from censure, no more rashly die.  
Such shall our Poets blest Companions be,  
And in their Deaths, as in their Lives, agree.  
But thou, rich Urn, obey my strict commands,  
Guard thy great Charge from Sacrilegious hands.  
Thou, Earth, Tibullus Ashes gently use,  
And be as soft and easy as his Muse.   

ELEGY the THIRTEENTH.  
To his Mistress, desiring her that (if she will be false to him) she would manage her Intrigues with Secrecy.  Englished By Mr. Tate. 
I Can allow such charms, Inconstancy;  
But prithee hide your amorous Thefts from me.  
I never meant your pleasures to confine,  
Jilt privately, and I shall ne'er repine.  
She's Innocent that can her Crime deny,  
And makes no fault till the discovery:  
'Tis madness your own frailty to betray,  
And what you stole by Night confess by Day:  
What shameless trading Punk of this lewd Age,  
But will secure the Door e'er she Engage?  
Yet thou tak'st pride to publish thy own shame,  
Unjust to me, but falser to thy fame.  
Be wiser, and if chaste thou canst not grow,  
Pretend at least, and I'll believe thee so.  
Do what thou dost, but still forswear it all,  
And from thy Tongue let modest language fall.  
You have your Grotto, your convenient shade.  
A place for Loves most free Enjoyments made.  
(Removed from thence a modest Carriage take,  
And with your Bed your loose desires forsake,)  
But there undress thee in thy Lover's sight,  
And Sally naked to the wanton ●ight;  
Fast wreathed in your Embraces let him lie,  
And in your Bosoms sweet transported die;  
Your softest Language, tenderest sighs, employ,  
And let the trembling Bed confess your Joy:  
But grow reserved when the loose Scene is done,  
And with your Robes a modest Mien put on;  
Impose upon the Crowd, impose on me,  
Whilst Ignorant, I shall not Injured be.  
Why do I see your Billets come and go?  
Your Pallet pressed, your Bed disordered too?  
Your loose and rustled Hair each Morning seems,  
T' imply a busy Night, and more than dreams;  
The amorous warmth still glowing on the cheek,  
And prints of eager kisses on your Neck.  
At least I would not an Eye-witness be:  
Spare if thou canst thy Fame, if not spare me!  
When by yourself your loose Intrigues are told,  
My sense forsakes me, and my blood grows cold!  
'Tis then I rage by fits with Love and State,  
And madly wish on both a sudden Fate.  
Pursue your Trade, but let me never see't,  
And I shall ne'er inquire what Fops you meet;  
" If you with Wheedles or with Cullies sleep;  
" What Terms you've made; whether y'are kept or keep.  
Easie thy Conquest is, when but to say  
I have not done't, takes all my rage away:  
Thus still thy Cause shall for its merit speed,  
Or by the favour of thy Judge, Succeed.   

ELEGY the THIRTEENTH.  
He desires his Mistress if she does Cuckolded him not to let him know it.  Englished By another Hand. 
I Do not ask you would to me prove true,  
Since your a woman and a fair one two.  
Act what you please, yet study to disguise  
The wanton Scenes from my deluded Eyes.  
A stiff denial will attenuate  
That Crime which your confession would make great:  
And 'twere unwise to trust the Tell-tale light,  
With the dark Secrets of the silent night.  
Tho' bought to be enjoyed, a common Whore,  
E'er she begins, will shut the Chamber door.  
And will you turn debauched, then vainly own  
How lewd you are, to this malicious Town?  
At least seem virtuous, and though false it be,  
Say you are honest and I'll credit thee.  
Conceal your Actions, and while I am by  
Let modest words your loser Thoughts belly.  
When to your private Chamber you retire,  
Unmask your lust, and vent each warm desire▪  
Throw off affected Coyness, and remove  
The bold intruder between thee and love:  
Talk not of Honour, lay that Toy aside,  
In men 'tis folly, and in women pride:  
There without Blushes you may naked lie  
Clasping his Body with your tender Thigh;  
Shoot your moist Dart into his mouth to show  
The Sense you have of what he Acts below▪  
Try all the ways, your pliant Bodies Twine  
In folds more strange than those of Aretine:  
With melting looks fierce Joys you may Excite,  
And with thick dying Accents urge delight.  
But when you're dressed then look as Innocent,  
As if you knew not what such matters meant:  
And though just now a perfect fiend you were,  
Hide the true woman and a Saint appear.  
Cozen the prying Town, and put a cheat  
On it and me, I'll favour the deceit.  
False as thou art why must I daily see  
Th' Intriguing Billet Deux he sends to thee?  
The wanton Sonnet or soft Elegy?  
Why does your Bed all tumbled seem to say,  
See what they've done, see where the Lovers lay?  
Why do your Locks and rumpled Head-cloaths show  
'Twas more than usual sleep that made 'em so?  
Why are the kisses which he gave betrayed,  
By the Impression which his teeth had made?  
Yet say your chaste and I'll be still deceived,  
What much is wished for, is with ease believed.  
But when you own what a lewd wretch thou art,  
My blood grows cold and freezes at my heart.  
Then do I curse thee and thy Crimes reprove,  
But Curse in vain, for still I find I love.  
Since she is false, oft to myself I cry,  
Would I were dead, yet 'tis with thee I'd die.  
I will not fee your Maid to let me know  
Who visits you, where and with whom you go.  
Nor by your lodging send my Boy to scout,  
And bring me word who passes in and out.  
Enjoy the pleasure of the present times,  
But let not me be knowing of your Crimes.  
Do you forswear't though in the Act you're caught,  
I'll trust the Oath, and think my Eyes in fault.   

ELEGY the FIRST Of the Second Book.  
That He can write of nothing but Love.  Englished By Mr. Adam's. 
THis too I sing (this Love commanded too)  
I who thus kindly my own lewdness show;  
Hence the unfashionably virtuous Maid,  
Such Scenes must not on such a Stage be played;  
Me the brisk Wife by her dull Husband read,  
I'll raise their fancy, and Improve their breed:  
Me the raw Youth whose Breast first flames do move,  
Unknown to care, and unexpert of Love.  
The more experienced who my Wounds have known,  
Here in my sufferings may discern their own.  
Then wondering say, how could this Poet tell  
The several chances of my Love so well!  
Once I remember in a Nobler strain  
I raised my Voice, nor did I sing in vain:  
I sung of Giants, and of Wars above,  
How Impious Earth revenged herself on jove;  
While her Vile offspring in Rebellion rise,  
And Mountains heaped on Mountains stormed the skies:  
And now I would describe the War, and now  
I'd show what jove could for his Heaven do.  
When the loved Maid, who did with trembling hear  
The sounding Numbers, shut me out for fear,  
jove and his Thunder soon away I threw,  
jove and his Thunder here could little do;  
I chose soft Measures such as Love inspire,  
And warn the wishing Maid into desire:  
Sweet Elegy my own my faithful Arms,  
And soon the door grew softer to my Charms;  
Charms which from Heaven force down the bloody Moon,  
And stop the Coursers of the Sun at Noon;  
Charms which the swelling Serpent burst in twain,  
And turn the Rivers to their Springs again.  
Should my great Theme some mighty Hero be,  
What could that mighty Hero do for me?  
But when the Beauties of some lovely Maid  
In my just lines are faithfully displayed;  
She kindly, she the Poet's Pains regards,  
And oft her praises with herself rewards;  
Ah who! who would not be rewarded so!  
Farewell ye Hero's, I am not for you:  
Let every Charming Maid to me repair,  
'Tis I, know best how to oblige the Fair;  
Here Loves kind heat each tender breast shall move  
In Gentle Verse, Verse dictated by Love.   

ELEGY the FIFTEENTH Of the Second Book.  
On a Ring sent to his Mistress.  Englished By Mr. Adam's. 
THou that the finger of my Fair shalt bind,  
In whom the Giver's Love she'll only find,  
Go, but accepted be, accepted so  
That on her Joint thou presently may'st go;  
Fit her as well as I am used to do,  
When round her Waste, my Circling Arms I throw.  
By my Corinna thou'lt o●t handled be,  
Ah happy Ring! how do I envy thee?  
O that my Gift I quickly might be made,  
By some strange Witchcraft, or some Magic aid;  
Then would I wish her swelling breasts she'd feel,  
While from her lovely hand I'd slily steal,  
Off would I drop, though sticking fast before,  
And kiss the Snowy Bosom I adore:  
Then would I wish I might her Signet be,  
And that the Wax from sticking might be free;  
From her fair mouth I'd humid kisses steal,  
And every Letter bite my Rival's seal:  
But most I'd wish she would me with her bear,  
When to the Bath she'd secretly repair;  
Yet Then! O Then! I should myself betray  
While I her Naked Arms her Breasts survey,  
While my devouring Eye would wander lower,  
I should rise Man and be a Ring no more.  
In Vain I wish, go, little Present, go,  
By thee my Love, my Faith by thee she'll know.    

PART OF VIRGIL'S IV. GEORGICK.  Englished By the E. of M. 
'TIs not for nothing when just Heaven does frown,  
The wretched Orpheus brings these judgements down;  
Whose wife avoiding to become thy prey,  
And all his joys at once were snatched away;  
The poor Nymph doomed that dangerous way to pass,  
Spied not the Snake lie lurking in the grass:  
A mournful noise the spacious Valley fills,  
With echoing cries from all the Neighbouring hills;  
The Dryads roared out in deep despair,  
And with united voice bewailed the Fair.  
For such a loss he sought no vain relief,  
But with his Lute indulged his tender grief;  
All o'er the lonely sands did wildly stray,  
And with sad Songs begin and end the day.  
At last to Hell a frightful journey made,  
Passed the wide gaping Gulf and dismal shade;  
Visits the Ghosts, and to that King repairs,  
Whose heart's inflexible to humane prayers.  
Hell seems astonished with so sweet a Song,  
Light Souls, and airy Spirits slide along  
In troops, like millions of the feathered kind,  
Driven home by night or some tempestuous wind;  
Matrons and Men, raw Youths and unripe Maids,  
And mighty Heroes more majestic Shades;  
Sons burnt before their mournful Parent's face,  
Styx does all these in narrow bounds embrace  
Nine times with loathsome mud, and noisome weeds,  
And all the filth which standing water breeds:  
Amazement reached even the deep Caves of death,  
The Sisters with blue snaky curls took breath;  
Ixion's Wheel a while unmoved remained,  
And the great Dog his three-mouthed voice restrained.  
Now safe returned, and all these dangers past,  
His Spouse restored to breathe fresh air at last,  
Following, for so Proserpina was pleased,  
A sudden rage th' unwary Lover seized;  
He when the first bright glimpse of daylight shined,  
Unmindful, and impatient, looked behind,  
A fault of Love, could Hell compassion find.  
A dreadful noise thrice shook the Stygian coast,  
His hopes now fled, and all his labour lost.  
Why hast thou thus undone thyself and me?  
What madness this? Again I'm snatched from thee,  
She faintly cried; Night, and the powers of Hell  
Surround my eyes, O Orpheus, O farewell:  
My hands stretch forth to reach thee as before,  
But all in vain, alas, I'm thine no more;  
No more allowed to behold him or day;  
Then from his sight like smoke she slipped away.  
Much he would fain have spoke, but Fate, alas,  
Would ne'er again consent to let him pass.  
Thus twice undone, what course now could he take  
To redeem her already passed the Lake?  
How bear his loss? what tears procure him ease?  
Or with what vows the angry Powers appease?  
'Tis said, he seven long months bewailed his loss  
On bleak and barren Rocks, on whose cold moss,  
While languishing he Sung his Fatal flame,  
He moved even Trees, and made fierce Tigers tame.  
So the sad Nightingale, when Childless made  
By some rough Swain who steals her young away,  
Bewails her loss under a Poplar shade,  
Weeps all the night, in murmurs wastes the day;  
Her sorrow does a mournful pleasure yield,  
And melancholy music fills the Field.  
Marriage, nor Love could ever move his mind,  
But all alone, beat by the Northern wind,  
Shivering on Tanais Snowy banks remained,  
Still of the Gods and their vain grace complained.  
Ciconian Dames, enraged to be despised,  
As they the feast of Bacchus solemnised,  
Killed the poor Youth, and strewed about his limbs;  
His Head torn off from the fair body swims,  
Down that swift current, where the Hebre flows,  
And still his Tongue in doleful accents goes;  
Ah, poor Eurydice, it dying cried,  
Eurydice resounds from every side.   

THE PARTING OF SIRENO and DIANA.  Englished By Sir C. Scrope. 
THE ARGUMENT.  
Sireno and Diana having loved each other with a most violent passion, Sireno is compelled, upon the Account of his Master's service, to go for some time into a Foreign Country. The Melancholy parting of the two Lovers is the Subject of the following Eclogue.  
CLose by a stream, whose flowery bank might give  
Delight to Eyes that had no Cause to grieve,  
The sad Sireno sat, and fed his Sheep,  
Which now, alas! he had no Joy to keep;  
Since his hard Fate compelled him to depart  
From her dear Sight, who long had Charmed his heart.  
Fixed were his thoughts upon the Fatal day  
That gave him first what this must take away;  
Through all the Story of his Love he ran,  
And nought forgot that might increase his pain.  
Then with a sigh raising his heavy Eyes,  
Th' approach of his afflicted Nymph he spies;  
Sad as she was, she lost no usual Grace,  
But as she passed seemed to adorn the place:  
Thither she came to take her last Farewell,  
Her silent Look did her sad Business tell.  
Under a Neighbouring Tree they sat 'em down,  
Whose shade had oft preserved 'em from the Sun;  
Each took the other by the willing hand,  
Striving to speak, but could no word Command:  
With mutual Grief both were so overcome,  
The much they had to say had made 'em dumb.  
There many a time they two had met before,  
But met, alas! upon a happier score:  
Cruel reverse of Fate, which all the Joys  
Their mutual presence used to bring destroys.  
Sireno saw his Fatal hour draw near,  
And wanted strength the parting pang to bear;  
All drowned in tears he gazed upon the Maid,  
And she with equal Grief the Swain surveyed;  
Till his imprisoned passion forced its way,  
And gave him leave faintly at last to say,  SIRENO. 
O my Diana! who would have believed  
That when the sad Sireno most had grieved,  
Any affliction could have fallen on me  
That would not vanish at the sight of thee?  
Thy Charming Eyes could all my Clouds dispel,  
Let but Diana smile, and all was well.  
Absent from thee my Soul no Joy could know,  
And yet, alas! I die to see thee now.  DIANA. 
Turn, O Sireno! turn away thy Face,  
While all her shame a blushing Maid betrays;  
For though my Eyes a secret pain reveal,  
My tongue at least should my fond thoughts conceal:  
Yet I would speak, could speaking do me good,  
And since it is to thee, methinks it should.  
O Shepherd think how wretched I shall be,  
When hither I return deprived of thee!  
When sitting all alone within this shade,  
Which thou so oft thy tender Choice hast made?  
I read my Name Engraved on every bark,  
Of our past Love the kind affecting mark;  
Then my despairing Soul to death must fly,  
And must thou be content to let me die?  
Why dost thou weep? Alas! those Tears are vain,  
Since 'tis thy Fault that both of us Complain.  
By this the Falsehood of thy Vows I know,  
For were thy sorrow true, thou wouldst not go.  SIRENO. 
Cease, cruel Nymph, such kill Language cease,  
And let the poor Sireno die in peace.  
Witness ye Everlasting Powers above  
That never Shepherd bore a truer Love!  
With thee I wish 't had been my happy doom.  
With thee alone to spend my Life to come;  
That we now part is by no Fault of mine,  
Nor yet, my dearest Shepherdess, of thine;  
For as no Faith did ever mine excel,  
So never any Nymph deserved so well.  
But the great Shepherd whom we all obey,  
'Tis his Command that forces me away;  
What ever he ordains none dare refuse,  
I must my Joy, or else my Honour lose:  
Should I to him deny th' Allegiance due,  
Thou mightst to thee think me disloyal too.  DIANA. 
No, no, Sireno, now too late I find,  
How fond she is that can believe Mankind;  
Who such Excuses for himself pretends  
Will easily bear the absence he defends.  
A little time, I fear, will quite deface  
Thy thoughts of me, to give another place:  
Fool that I was my weakness of betray,  
To one not moved with all that I can say.  
Go, cruel Man, imbarck when e'er you please,  
But take this with you as you pass the Seas;  
Tho' with the fiercest Winds the Waves should roar,  
That Tempest will be less than mine on Shore.  SIRENO. 
'Tis hard unjust suspicions to abide,  
But who can such obliging Anger chide?  
Fair as thou art, that Charm could never move  
My heart to this degree without thy Love:  
For 'tis thy tender sense of my sad Fate,  
That does my sharpest, deadly'st pain create.  
Ah fear not, to what place soever I go,  
That I shall ever break my sacred Vow:  
When for another I abandon thee,  
May Heaven, for such a Crime, abandon me.  DIANA. 
If ever I my dearest Swain deceive,  
Or violate the Faith that here I give:  
When to their Food my hungry Flocks I lead,  
May the fresh Grass still wither where they tread;  
And may this River, when I come to drink,  
Dry up as soon as I approach the brink.  
Take here this Bracelet of my Virgin hair,  
And when for me thou canst a minute spare,  
Remember this poor pledge was once a part  
Of her, who with it gave thee all her heart.  
Where e'er thou go'st may Fortune deal with thee  
Better than thou, alas! hast dealt with me.  
Farewell, my Tears will give me leave to say  
No more than this, To all the Gods I pray  
These weeping Eyes may once enjoy the sight,  
Before they close in Death's eternal Night.  SIRENO. 
Then let Sireno banish all his fears,  
Heaven cannot long resist such pious Tears.  
The Righteous Gods, from whom our passion came,  
Will pity (sure) so innocent a Flame;  
Reverse the hard Decree for which we mourn,  
And let Sireno to his Joys return.  
I shall again my Charming Nymph behold,  
And never part, but in her Arms grow old:  
That hope alone my breaking heart sustains,  
And Arms my tortured Soul to bear my Pains.   

THE STORY of LUCRETIA OUT OF Ovid de Fastis. Book II.  Englished By Mr. Creech. 
NOw Tarquin the last King did Govern Rome,  
Valiant abroad 'tis true, though fierce at home;  
Some Towns he won, some he did fairly beat,  
And took the Gabbi by a mean deceit;  
For of his Three brave Youths his youngest Son,  
His Nature fierce, his Manners like his own,  
His Father's Child Outright pretends a flight,  
And came amidst the Enemies by Night;  
They drew their Swords, Come kill me now he said,  
My Father will rejoice to see me dead:  
See how his Rods my tender Entrails tore,  
(To prove this true he had been whipped before)  
The men grow mild, they sheathe their threatening swords  
And view his wounds, and those confirm his words:  
Then each man weeps, and each his wrongs resents  
And begs to side with them, and he consents.  
Thus gulled, the crafty Youth, and once in Trust,  
The first occasion sought to be unjust,  
And the unthinking Gabii's Town betray,  
Consults his Father for the surest way.  
There was a Garden crowned with fragrant Flowers,  
A little Spring ran through the pleasant Bowers,  
The soft retreat of Tarquin's thinking hours.  
There when the message came he chanced to stand,  
And lopped the tallest Lilies with his wand:  
With that the Messenger returned, and said,  
I saw your Father crop the lofty head  
Of each tall Flower, but not one word to you;  
Well, says the Son, I know what I must do,  
And straight the Nobles killed; When those were gone  
He soon betrayed the poor defenceless Town.  
When lo (a wondrous sight) a Serpent came,  
And snatched the Entrails from the dying Flame;  
Phoebus advised, and thus the Answer ran  
He that shall kiss (for so the Fates ordain)  
His Mother first shall be the greatest man.  
Then straight with eager haste th' unthinking Crowd  
Their Mothers kissed, nor understood the God.  
But wiser Brutus, who did act the Fool,  
Lest Tarquin should suspect his rising Soul,  
Fell down, as if't had been a Casual fall,  
And kissed his Mother Earth before them all.  
Now Ardea was besieged, the Town was strong,  
The men resolved, and so the Leaguer long:  
And whilst the Enemy did the War delay,  
Dissolved in Ease the careless Soldiers lay,  
And spent the vacant time in sport and play.  
Young Tarquin doth adorn his Noble Feasts,  
The Captain's treats, and thus bespeaks his Guests;  
Whilst we lie lingering in a tedious War,  
And far from Conquest tired out with Care,  
How do our Women lead their Lives at Rome?  
And are we thought on by our Wives at home?  
Each speaks for his, each says I'll swear for mine,  
And thus a while they talked, grown flushed with Wine;  
At last Young Collatine starts up and cries,  
What need of words, come let's believe our Eyes;  
Away to Rome, for that's the safest Course,  
They all agree, so each man mounts his Horse.  
First to the Court, and there they found no Guard,  
No Watchmen there, and all the Gates unbar'd;  
Young Tarquin's Wife, her hair disordered lay  
And loose, was sitting there at Wine and play.  
Thence to Lucretia's, She a lovely Soul  
Her Basket lay before her, and her Wool,  
Sat midst her Maids, and as they wrought she said,  
Make haste, 'tis for my Lord as soon as made;  
Yet what d'ye hear? (for you perchance may hear)  
How long is't e'er they hope to end the War?  
Yet let them but return; But ah, my Lord  
Is rash, and meets all dangers with his Sword:  
Ah when I fancy that I see him fight,  
I swoon and almost perish with the fright.  
Then wept, and leaving her unfinished thread  
Upon her bosom leaned her lovely head.  
All this became, graceful her grief appears,  
And she, chaste Soul, looked beauteous in her tears.  
Her Face looked well, by Nature's art designed,  
All charming fair, and fit for such a mind.  
I come, says Collatine, discard thy Fear,  
At that she straight revived, and oh my Dear,  
She clasped his neck, and hung a welcome burden there.  
Mean while Young Tarquin gathers lustful Fire,  
He burns and rages with a wild Desire;  
Her Shape, her Lilie-white, and Yellow hair,  
Her natural Beauty, and her graceful Air,  
Her words, her voice, and every thing does please,  
And all agree to heighten the disease;  
That she was chaste doth raise his wishes higher,  
The less his hopes, the greater his Desire.  
But now 'twas Morning, and the warlike Train  
Return from Rome, and take the Field again:  
His working Powers her absent Form restore,  
The more he minds her, still he loves the more;  
'Twas thus she sat, thus spun, and thus was dressed,  
And thus her Locks hung dangling o'er her Breast;  
Such was her Mein, and such each Air and Grace,  
And such the charming figure of her Face.  
As when a furious storm is now blown o'er  
The Sea's still troubled, and the Waters roar  
And curl upon the Winds that blew before.  
So he though gone the pleasing form retains  
The Fire her present Beauty raised remains;  
He burns, and hurried by resistless Charms,  
Resolves to force, or fright her to his Arms.  
I'll venture, let whatever fates attend,  
The daring bold have fortune for their friend;  
By daring I the Gabii did o'ercome;  
This said, he takes his Horse, and speeds for Rome:  
The Sun was setting when he reached the place,  
With more than Evening Blushes in his Face;  
A Guest in show, an Enemy in design  
He reached the stately Court of Collatine,  
And's welcomed there, for he was nearly Kin.  
How much are we deceived? She makes a Feast,  
And treats her Enemy as a Welcome Guest;  
Now Supper's done, and sleep invites to Bed,  
And all was hushed, as Nature's self lay dead.  
The Lamps put out, and all for rest designed,  
No Fire in all the House, but in his mind:  
He rose, and drew his Sword, with lustful speed  
Away he goes to chaste Lucretia's Bed;  
And when he came, Lucretia, not a word,  
For look, Lucretia, here's my naked Sword;  
My Name is Tarquin, I that Title own,  
The King's young Son, his best beloved Son.  
Half dead with fear, amazed Lucretia lay,  
As harmless Lambs, their Mothers gone away,  
Exposed to ravenous Wolves an easy prey.  
Her Speech, her Courage, Voice, and Mind did fail,  
She trembled, and she breathed, and that was all:  
What could she do? ah! could she strive? with whom?  
A Man! A Woman's easily o'ercome.  
Should she cry out, and make Complaints of wrong,  
His violent Sword had quickly stopped her tongue.  
What should she strive to fly? that hope was gone,  
Young Tarquin held her fast, and kept her down.  
He pressed her Bosom with a lustful hand,  
That chaste, that Charming Breast than first profaned.  
The Loving Foe still sues, resolved to gain  
With promise, threats, and Bribes: but all in vain▪  
At last 'tis Folly to resist, he cried,  
My Love will rise to Rage, if long denied;  
For I'll accuse thee of unlawful Lust,  
Kill thee, and swear, though false, thy Death was Just.  
I'll stab a Slave, and what's the worst of harms,  
Black Fame shall say I caught thee in his Arms.  
This Art prevailed, she feared an injured name,  
And lived and suffered, to secure her Fame.  
Why dost thou smile, Triumphant Ravisher?  
This shameful Victory shall cost thee dear.  
Thy ruin pay for this thy forced delight,  
How great a price! a Kingdom for a Night!  
The guilty Night was gone, the day appears,  
She blushed, and rose, and double Mourning wears,  
As for her only Son, she sits in Tears.  
And for her Father, and her Husband sends,  
Each quickly hears the message, and attends.  
But when they came, and saw her drowned in Tears,  
Amazed they asked the Cause, what violent Fears,  
What real ill did wound her tender mind;  
What Friend was dead, for whom this Grief designed?  
But she sat silent still, still sadly cried,  
And hid her blushing Face, and wept, and sighed.  
Both strive to Comfort, both lament her Fate,  
And fear some deadly Ill, they know not what.  
Thrice she would speak, thrice stopped, again she tries  
To speak her wrong, yet durst not raise her Eyes:  
This too on Tarquin's score, she cried, I place;  
I'll speak, I'll speak, ah me! my own disgrace,  
And what they could her modest words expressed,  
The last remained, her Blushes spoke the rest.  
Both weep, and both the forced Offence forgive,  
In vain you pardon me, I can't receive  
The pity you bestow, nor can I live.  
This said, her fatal Dagger pierced her side,  
And at her Father's feet she fell and died.  
Her Soul slew through the wound, and mounts above  
As white, and Innocent as a Virgin Dove,  
Not spotted with one thought of Lawless Love.  
Yet as she fell, her dying thoughts contrived  
The fall as modestly as she had lived.  
The Father o'er the Corpse, and Husband fall,  
And mourn, and both the common loss bewail.  
While thus they mourned, the generous Brutus came  
And showed his Soul ill suited with his Name.  
He grasped the Dagger reeking in her Gore,  
And as he held it thus devoutly swore;  
By thee, by this thy chaste and Innocent Blood,  
And by thy Ghost, which I'll esteem a God;  
Tarquin, and all his Race shall be expelled,  
My Virtue long enough hath lain concealed.  
At that she raised her Eyes, she seemed to bow  
Her head, and with her Nod approved the Vow.  
The Pomp appears, and as it passes by  
The gaping Wound exposed to public view,  
Filled all the Crowd with rage, and Justly drew  
Curses from every Heart, and Tears from every Eye.  
Young Brutus heads the Crowd, proclaims the wrong,  
And tells them they endure the King too long:  
The King's expelled, and Consuls they create,  
And thus the Kingdom changed into a State.   

On Mr. Dryden's RELIGIO LAICI.  

BEgone you Slaves, you Idle Vermin go,  
Fly from the Scourges, and your Master know;  
Let free, impartial men from Dryden learn  
Mysterious Secrets, of a high concern,  
And weighty truths, solid convincing Sense,  
Explained by unaffected Eloquence.   

What can you (Reverend Levi) here take ill?  
Men still had faults, and men will have them still;  
He that hath none, and lives as Angels do  
Must be an Angel; But what's that to you?   

While mighty Lewis finds the Pope too Great,  
And dreads the Yoke of his imposing Seat,  
Our Sects a more Tyrannic Power assume,  
And would for Scorpions change the Rods of Rome;   

That Church detained the Legacy Divine;  
fanatics cast the Pearls of Heaven to Swine:  
What then have honest thinking men to do,  
But choose a mean between th' Usurping two?   

Nor can the Egyptian Patriarch blame a Muse,  
Which for his firmness does his heat Excuse;  
What ever Counsels have approved his Creed,  
The PREFACE sure was his own Act and Deed.  
Our Church will have that Preface read (You'll say,)  
'Tis true, But so she will th' Apocrypha;  
And such as can believe them freely may.   

But did that God (so little understood)  
Whose Darling attribute is being good,  
From the dark Womb of the Rude Chaos bring  
Such various Creatures, and make Man their King;  
Yet leave his Favourite, Man, his chiefest care,  
More wretched than the vilest Infects are?   

O! how much happier and more safe are they?  
If helpless Millions must be doomed a Prey  
To Yelling Furies, and for ever burn  
In that sad place from whence is no return,  
For unbelief in one they never knew,  
Or for not doing what they could not do!   

The very Fiends know for what Crime they fell,  
(And so do all their followers that Rebel)  
If then, a blind, wellmeaning Indian stray,  
Shall the great Gulf be showed him for the way?   

For better ends our kind Redeemer died,  
Or the fallen Angels Rooms will be but ill supplied.   

That Christ, who at the great deciding Day  
(For He declares what He resolves to say)  
Will Damn the Goats, for their Ill-natured faults,  
And save the Sheep, for Actions not for Thoughts,  
Hath too much mercy to send men to Hell,  
For humble Charity, and hoping well.   

To what Stupidity are Zealots grown,  
Whose inhumanity profusely shown  
In Damning Crowds of Souls, may Damn their own!   

I'll err at least on the securer side,  
A Convert free from Malice and from Pride.    

To Mr. Dryden on his RELIGIO LAICI.  
THose Gods the pious Ancients did adore  
They learned in Verse devoutly to implore,  
Thinking it rude to use the common way  
Of Talk when they did to such Being's prey.  
Nay They that taught Religion first, thought fit  
In Verse its sacred Precepts to transmit:  
So Solon too did his first Statutes draw,  
And every little Stanza was a Law.  
By these few Precedents we plainly see  
The Primitive Design of Poetry;  
Which by restoring to its Native use,  
You generously have rescued from Abuse.  
Whilst your loved Muse does in sweet Numbers sing,  
She vindicates her God, and Godlike King.  
Atheist, and Rebel too, She does oppose,  
(God and the King have always the same Foes.)  
Legions of Verse you raise in their defence,  
And write the Factious to Obedience.  
You the bold Arian to Arms defy,  
A conquering Champion for the Deity  
Against the Whigs first Parents, Who did dare  
To disinherit God-Almighty's Heir.  
And what the hot-brained Arian first begun  
Is carried on by the Socinian,  
Who still Associates to keep God a Man.  
But 'tis the Prince of Poet's Task alone  
T' assert the Rights of God's, and Charles his Throne.  
Whilst vulgar Poets purchase vulgar Fame  
By chanting Cloris, or fair Phyllis Name;  
Whose Reputation shall last as long,  
As Fops and Ladies sing the amorous Song.  
A Nobler Subject wisely they refuse,  
The Mighty weight▪ would crush their feeble Muse.  
So Story tells, a Painter once would try  
With his bold hand to limn a Deity;  
And He, by frequent practising that part,  
Could draw a Minor-God with wondrous Art:  
But when great jove did to the Workman sit,  
The Thunderer such horror did beget,  
That put the frighted Artist to a stand,  
And made his Pencil drop from's baffled Hand.   


THE XXII. ODE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE.  
Integer Vitae, etc.  

Virtue, Dear Friend, needs no defence,  
The surest Guard is innocence:  
None knew till Gild created Fear  
What Darts or poisoned Arrows were.   

Integrity undaunted goes  
Through Libyan sands or Scythian snows,  
Or where Hydaspes wealthy side  
Pays Tribute to the Persian pride.   

For as (by amorous thoughts betrayed)  
Careless in Sabin Woods I strayed,  
A Grisly foaming Wolf, unfed,  
Met me unarmed, yet trembling fled.   

No Beast of more Portentous size,  
In the Hercinian forest lies;  
None fiercer, in Numidia bred,  
With Carthage were in Triumph led.   

Set me in the remotest place,  
That Neptune's frozen Arms Embrace;  
Where Angry jove did never spare  
One breath of Kind and temperate Air.   

Set me where on some pathless plain  
The swarthy Africans complain,  
To see the Chariot of the Sun  
So near their scorching Country run.   

The burning Zone the frozen Isles  
Shall hear me sing of Caelia's smiles,  
All cold but in her Breast I will despise,  
And dare all heat but that of Caalia's Eyes    

THE VI ODE OF THE THIRD BOOK OF HORACE.  
Of the Corruption of the Times.  

THose Ills your Ancestors have done,  
Romans are now become your own;  
And they will cost you dear,  
Unless you soon repair  
The falling Temples which the Gods Provoke,  
And Statues sullied yet with Sacraligious smoke.   

Propitious Heaven that raised your Father's high,  
For humble, grateful Piety,  
(As it rewarded their Respect)  
Hath sharply punished your Neglect;  
All Empires on the Gods depend,  
Begun by their command, at their command they end.   

Let Crassus Ghost and Labienus tell  
How twice by Jove's revenge our Legions fell,  
And with insulting Pride  
Shining in Roman spoils the Parthian Victors ride.   

The Scythian and Egyptian Scum  
Had almost ruined Rome,  
While our Seditions took their part  
Filled each Egyptian sail, and winged each Scythian dart.   

First, those Flagitious times,  
(Pregnant with unknown Crimes)  
Conspired to violate the Nuptial Bed  
From which polluted head,  
Infectious Streams of Crowding Sins began,  
And through the Spurious Breed and guilty Nation ran.   

Behold a Ripe and Melting Maid,  
Bound Apprentice to the Wanton Trade;  
Iönian Artists at a mighty price  
Instruct her in the Mysteries of Vice,  
What Nets to spread, where subtle Baits to lay,  
And with an Early hand they form the tempered Clay.   

Married, their Lessons she improves  
By practice of Adulterous Loves,  
And scorns the Common mean design  
To take advantage of her Husband's Wine,  
Or snatch in some dark place  
A hasty Illegitimate Embrace.   

No! the Bribed Husband knows of all  
And bids her Rise when Lovers call;  
Hither a Merchant from the Straits  
Grown wealthy by forbidden Freights,  
Or City Cannibal repairs,  
Who feeds upon the flesh of Heirs,  
Convenient Brutes, whose tributary flame,  
Pays the full price of Lust, and guilds the slighted shame.   

'Twas not the Spawn of such as these,  
That Died with Punic blood the Conquered Seas,  
And quashed the stern Aeacides;  
Made the proud Asian Monarch feel  
How weak his Gold was against Europe's steel,  
Forced even dire Hannibal to yield;  
And won the long disputed World at Zamas fatal Field.   

But Soldiers of a Rustic Mould  
Rough, hardy, seasoned, Manly, bold,  
Either they dug the stubborn Ground,  
Or through hewn Woods their weighty strokes did sound.  
And after the declining Sun  
Had changed the shadows, and their Task was done  
Home with their weary Team they took their way,  
And drowned in friendly Bowls the labour of the day●   

Time sensibly all things impairs  
Our Fathers have been worse than theirs,  
And we than Ours, next Age will see  
A Race more Profligate than we  
(With all the pains we take) have skill enough to be.    

THE IV. ODE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE.  

Conquered with soft and pleasing Charms  
And never failing Vows of her return,  
Winter unlocks his frosty arms  
To free the joyful Spring;  
Which for fresh Loves with youthful heat does burn;  
Warm South-winds court her, and with fruitful showers  
Awake the drowsy flowers,  
Who haste and all their sweetness bring  
To pay their yearly Oflering.   

No nipping White is seen,  
But all the Fields are clad in pleasant Green,  
And only fragrant Dews now fall:  
The Ox forsakes his once warm Stall  
To bask in th' Sun's much warmer beams;  
The Ploughman leaves his fire and his sleep,  
Well pleased to whistle to his labr'ing Teams;  
Whilst the glad Shepherd pipes to's frisking Sheep.  
Nay tempted by the smiling sky  
Wrecked Merchants quit the shore,  
Resolving once again to try  
The Wind and Seas Almighty power;  
Choosing much rather to be dead than poor.   

Upon the flowery plains,  
Or under shady Trees,  
The Shepherdesses and their Swains  
Dance to their rural harmonies,  
Then steal in private to the covert Groves,  
There finish their well heightened loves.  
The City Dame takes this pretence  
(Weary of Husband and of innocence)  
To quit the smoke & business of the Town,  
And to her Countryhouse retires,  
Where she may bribe, then grasp some brawny clown,  
Or her appointed Gallant come  
To feed her loose desires;  
Whilst the poor Cuckold by his sweat at home  
Maintains her Lust and pride:  
Blessed as he thinks in such a beauteous bride.   

Since all the World's thus gay and free,  
Why should not we?  
Let's then accept our Mother Natures treat,  
And please ourselves with all that's sweet;  
Let's to the shady Bowers,  
Where crowned with gaudy flowers  
We'll drink and laugh away the gliding hours.  
Trust me, Thyrsis, the grim Conquerer's death  
With the same freedom snatches a King's breath.  
He huddles the poor fettered Slave,  
To's unknown Grave.  
Tho' we each day with cost repair  
He mocks our greatest skill and utmost care,  
Nor loves the Fair, nor fears the strong,  
And he that lives the longest dies but young;  
And once deprived of light  
We're wrapped in mists of endless Night.  
Once come to those dark Cells of which we're told  
So many strange Romantic tales of Old,  
(In things unknown Invention's justly bold)  
No more shall Mirth and Wine  
Our loves and wits refine.  
No more shall your Phyllis have,  
Phyllis so long you've prized:  
Nay she too in the Grave  
Shall lie like us despised.    

THE IV. ODE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE.  Englished By Mr. Duke. 
BLush not, my friend, to own the Love  
Which thy fair Captives eyes do move:  
Achilles once the Fierce, they Brave,  
Stooped to they Beauties of a Slave;  
Tecmessa's charms could overpower  
Ajax her Lord and Conqueror;  
Great Agamemnon, when success  
Did all his Arms with Conquest bless;  
When Hector's fall had gained him more  
Than● ten long rolling years before,  
By a bright Captive Virgin's Eyes  
Even in the midst of Triumph dies.  
You know not to what mighty line  
The lovely Maid may make you join;  
See but the charms her sorrow wears,  
No common cause could draw such tears;  
Those streams sure that adorn her so  
For loss of Royal kindred flow:  
Oh! think not so divine a thing  
Could from the bed of Commons spring;  
Whose faith could so unmoved remain,  
And so averse to sordid gain,  
Was never born of any race  
That might the noblest Love disgrace.  
Her blooming Face, her snowy Arms,  
Her well shaped Leg, and all her charms  
Of her Body and her Face,  
I, poor I, may safely praise.  
Suspect not Love the youthful Rage  
From Horace's declining Age,  
But think removed by forty years  
All his flames and all thy fears.   

THE VIII. ODE. OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE.  Englished By Mr. Duke. 
IF ever any injured Power  
By which the false Barine swore,  
False, fair Barine, on thy head  
Had the least Mark of Vengeance shed;  
If but a Tooth or Nail of thee  
Had suffered by thy Perjury,  
I should believe thy Vows; but thou  
Since perjured dost more charming grow,  
Of all our Youth the public care,  
Nor half so false as thou art Fair.  
It thrives with thee to be forsworn  
By thy dead Mother's sacred Urn,  
By Heaven and all the Stars that shine  
Without, and every God within:  
Venus hears this, and all the while  
At thy empty Vows does smile,  
Her Nymphs all smile, her little Son  
Does smile, and to his Quiver run;  
Does smile and fall to whet his Darts,  
To wound for thee fresh Lovers hearts.  
See, all the Youth does thee obey,  
Thy train of Slaves grows every day;  
Nor leave thy former Subjects thee  
Tho' oft they threaten to be free,  
Tho' oft with Vows false as thine are  
Their forsworn Mistress they forswear.  
Thee every careful Mother fears  
For her Son's blooming tender years;  
thou frugal Sires, thee the young Bride  
In Hymen's Fetters newly tied,  
Left thou detain by stronger Charms  
Th' expected Husband from her Arms.   

HORACE and LYDIA.  
THE IX. ODE.  Englished By Mr. Duke. HORACE. 
WHilst I was welcome to your heart  
In which no happier youth had part,  
And full of more prevailing Charms,  
Threw round your Neck his dearer Arms,  
I flourished richer and more blest  
Than the great Monarch of the East.  LYDIA. 
Whilst all thy Soul with me was filled,  
Nor Lydia did to Chloe yield,  
Lydia, the celebrated Name,  
The only Theme of Verse and Fame,  
I flourished more than she renowned  
Whose Godlike Son our Rome did found.  HORACE. 
Me Chloe now, whom every Muse,  
And every Grace adorn, subdues;  
For whom I'd gladly die, to save  
Her dearer Beauties from the Grave.  LYDIA. 
Me lovely Calais does fire  
With mutual flames of fierce desire;  
For whom I twice would die, to save  
His youth more precious from the Grave.  HORACE. 
What if our former Love's return,  
And our first fires again should burn?  
If Chloes banished to make way  
For the forsaken Lydia?  LYDIA. 
Tho' He is shining as a Star,  
Constant and kind as he is fair;  
Thou light as Cork, rough as the Sea,  
Yet I would live, would die with thee.    

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN HORACE and LYDIA.  Englished by another Hand. HORACE. 
WHile I remained the Darling of your heart,  
And no encroaching Lover claimed a part;  
Unrivalled while my Longing Arms I cast  
About your lovely Neck and slender waste,  
And you to every one but me were chaste;  
I scorned the lofty Persian Monarch's state,  
And thought myself more happy and as great.  LYDIA. 
While I enjoyed you, and no fairer she  
Had stolen your wand'ring heart away from me;  
While Chloe seemed not Lydia to outshine,  
Nor gained a Conquest that before was mine;  
Not Roman Ilia more renowned I thought,  
Although a God her sweet embraces sought.  HORACE. 
Now Thracyan Chloe has supplied your place,  
She Charms me with her Music and her Face;  
To save her life, I with my own would part,  
And freely give it as I gave my heart.  LYDIA. 
Fair Calais now the sweet Messenian Boy,  
Loves me, I him as equally enjoy;  
If by my Dying he might longer live,  
I'd give two lives, if I had two to give.  HORACE. 
What if kind Venus should our hearts unite,  
And force us to adore that Love we slight?  
If Chloe with her Golden locks should yield,  
And banished Lydia should regain the Field?  LYDIA. 
If so, though you are cruel and unkind  
Less to be trusted than the Seas or Wind;  
Tho' he so kind so charming and so true,  
I willingly would live, would die, with you.   

THE III. ELEGY Of the first Book of Propertius.  Englished By Mr. Adam's. 
AS on the Beach sad Ariadne lay,  
While the deaf Winds false Theseus bore away;  
As from the Rock Andromeda redeemed,  
More sweet more fair in her first Slumber seemed;  
Or as the no less weary Bacchanal  
Surprised by sleep near some smooth stream does fall;  
Such seemed to Me, so was my Cynthia laid,  
While breathing soft repose the lovely Maid  
On her fair hand reclined her bending Head;  
When I well drunk through the too narrow Street  
Dragged home at Midnight my unfaithful Feet;  
But as sh'appeared so charming to my view,  
Gently I pressed the Bed, and near her drew;  
Thinking (for so much sense I still retained)  
The Fort of Love might by surprise be gained;  
Yet though commanded by a double fire,  
Both by the flames of Wine, and hot desire;  
Tho' my lewd hand would naughtily have strayed,  
And I would fain my Arms have ready made;  
I durst not in the soft assault engage,  
Dreading to wake her well experienced rage;  
But so my greedy Eyes surveyed her over,  
The waking Argus watched not Io more;  
Sometimes I loosed the Chaplet from my Brow,  
And tried how sweetly 'twould on Cynthia's show,  
Sometimes corrected her disordered Hair,  
That loosely wantoned with the sportive Air;  
And when she sighed, I credulously feared  
Some frightful Vision to my Love appeared.  
Till the bright Moon through the wide Window shone,  
(The Moon that would not suddenly be gone;)  
She with her subtle rays unclosed Her eyes,  
When thus against me did her fury rise.  
At length affronted by some Tawdry Jade,  
Kicked out of doors, you're forced into my Bed;  
For where is it you spend my Nights? you come  
Drawn off and Impotent at Morning home;  
I wish base man! I wish such nights you had,  
As you force me! unhappy me! to lead!  
Sometimes I with my Needle sleep deceive,  
Then with my Lute my weariness relieve;  
Then do I weep, and curse your tedious stay,  
While in some others Arms you melt away;  
Till sleeps soft wings my willing Eyelids close,  
Beguile my Sorrows and my Cares compose,   

OUT OF PETRONIUS ARBITER.  
Foeda est in Coitu & brevis voluptas.  
'TIs but a Short, but a filthy Pleasure,  
And we soon nauseate the enjoyed treasure;  
Let not us then as lustful Beasts do,  
Slovenly, abruptly, blindly fall to:  
Lest we put out Love's gentle fire,  
And he droop, and languish in impotent desire:  
But thus we'll lie, and thus we'll kiss,  
Thus, thus, improve the lasting bliss!  
There is no labour here, no shame,  
The solid Pleasure's still the same,  
Never, oh, never to be done,  
Where Love is ever but begun.   

EPISTLE To R. D. from T. O.  
My much loved Friend,  
WHen thou art from my eyes,  
How do I loathe the day, and light despise?  
Night, kinder nights the much more welcome guest,  
For though it bring small ease, it hides at least;  
Or if e'er slumbers and my eyes agree,  
'Tis when they're crowned with pleasing dreams of thee.  
Last night me thought (Heaven make the next as kind)  
Free as first innocence, and unconfined  
As our first Parents in their Eden were,  
E'er yet condemned to eat their bread with Care;  
We two together wandered through a grove,  
'Twas green beneath us, and all shade above,  
Mild as our friendship, springing as our Love;  
Hundreds of cheerful Birds filled every Tree,  
And sung their joyful Songs of Liberty;  
While through the gladsome Choir well pleased we walked,  
And of our present Valued State thus talked;  
How happy are we in this sweet retreat?  
Thus humbly blest, who'd labour to be great?  
Who for preferments at a Court would wait,  
Where every Gudgeon's nibbling at the bait?  
What fish of sense would on that shallow lie,  
Amongst the little starving wriggling Fry,  
That throng and crowd each other for a Taste  
Of the deceitful, painted, poisoned Paste;  
When the wide River, he behind him sees,  
Where he may launch to Liberty and Ease?  
No cares or business here disturb our hours,  
While underneath these shady, peaceful Bowers,  
In cool delight and innocence we stray,  
And midst a Thousand pleasures waste the day;  
Sometimes upon a River's bank we lie,  
Where skimming Swallows o'er the surface sly,  
Just as the Sun, declining with his Beams,  
Kisses, and gently warms the gliding Streams;  
Amidst whose current rising Fishes play,  
And roll in wanton Liberty away.  
Perhaps, hard by there grows a little bush,  
On which the Linne●, Nightingale and Thrush,  
Nightly their solemn Orgies meeting keep,  
And sing their Vespers ever they go to-sleep:  
There we two lie, between us may be's spread  
Some Book, few understand though many read,  
Sometimes we Virgil's Sacred leaves turn over,  
Still wondering, and still finding cause for more.  
How Juno's rage did good Aeneas vex,  
Then how he had Revenge upon her Sex  
In Dido's state, whom bravely he enjoyed,  
And quitted her as bravely too when cloyed;  
He knew the fatal danger of her charms,  
And scorned to melt his virtue in her Arms.  
Next Nisus and Euryalus we admire,  
Their gentle Friendship, and their Martial fire;  
We praise their valour 'cause yet matched by none,  
And Love their Friendship, so much like our own.  
But when to give our minds a Feast indeed,  
Horace, best known and loved by thee, we read,  
Who can our Transports, or our longings tell,  
To taste of Pleasures, praised by him so well?  
With thoughts of Love, and wine, by him we're fired,  
Two things in sweet retirement much desired:  
A generous Bottle, and a Lovesome She,  
Are th' only Joys in nature, next to Thee:  
To which retiring quietly at night,  
If (as that only can) to add delight,  
When to our little Cottage we repair,  
We find a Friend or two, we'd wish for there,  
Dear B—ly, kind as parting Lovers tears  
Ad— lie, honest as the Sword he wears,  
W—son, professing friendship yet a Friend,  
Or— S—rt, beyond what numbers can commend,  
F—ch, full of kindness, generous as his blood,  
Watchful to do, too modest merit good;  
Who have forsaken the vile tumultuous Town,  
And for a taste of life to us come down;  
With eager arms, how closely then w'embrace,  
What Joys in every heart, and every face!  
The moderate Table's quickly covered over  
With choicest Meats at least, though not with store:  
Of Bottles next succeeds a goodly Train,  
Full of what cheers the Heart, and fires the Brain:  
Each waited on by a bright Virgin-glass,  
Clean, sound and shining like its drinker's Lass.  
Then down we sit, while every Genius tries  
T'improve, till he deserves his Sacrifice:  
No saucy hour presumes to stint delight,  
We laugh, love, drink, and when that's done 'tis night:  
Well warmed and pleased, as we think fit we part,  
Each takes th' obedient Treasure of his heart,  
And leads her willing to his silent bed,  
Where no vexatious cares come near his head;  
But every sense with perfect pleasure's fed;  
Till in full Joy dissolved, each falls asleep,  
With twining limbs, that still loves posture keep,  
At dawn of morning to renew delight,  
So quiet, craving love till the next night:  
Then we the drowsy Sells of sleep forsake,  
And to our Books, our earliest visit make;  
Or else our thoughts to their attendance call,  
And there methinks, Fancy sits Queen of all;  
While the poor under faculties resort,  
And to her fickle majesty make Court;  
The Understanding first comes plainly clad,  
But usefully; no ent'rance to be had,  
Next comes the Will, that Bully of the mind,  
Follies wait on him in a troop behind;  
He meets reception from the Antic Queen,  
Who thinks her Majesty's most honoured when  
Attended by those fine dressed Gentlemen.  
Reason, the honest Counsellor, this knows,  
And into Court with resolute virtue goes;  
Le's Fancy see her lose irregular sway,  
Then how the flattering Follies sneak away!  
This Image when it came too fiercely shook  
My Brain which its soft quiet straight forsaken;  
When waking as I cast my eyes around,  
Nothing but old loathed Vanities I found;  
No grove, no freedom, and what's worse to me,  
No friend; for I have none compared with thee.  
Soon than my thoughts with their old Tyrant Care  
Were seized; which to divert I framed this prayer,  
Gods! life's your gift, then seasoned with such fate,  
That what ye meant a blessing prove no weight.  
Let me to the remotest part be whirled,  
Of this your play-thing made in haste, the World;  
But grant me quiet, liberty and peace,  
By day what's needful, and at night soft ease;  
The Friend I trust in, and the She I love,  
Then fix me; and if e'er I wish remove,  
Make me as great (that's wretched) as ye can,  
Set me in power, the woefull'st state of Man;  
To be by Fools misled, to Knaves a prey,  
But make Life what I ask, or take't away.   

A LETTER to a FRIEND.  

A Youth once free and happy, now a slave,  
Found a retreat within a peaceful Cave;  
Where no intruders durst his hours molest,  
(But the dear Passion still inflamed his Breast)  
And where abandoned to his restless pains,  
He weeps alone, and feels his weighty Chains.  
From thence—  
To a dear Friend (such as are hard to find)  
Known true and just, and longing to be kind,  
Who always shared his pleasures and his pain,  
In these sad terms writ the tormented Swain.   

My only Friend, learn my unhappy Fate,  
That I'm undone by Love, opposed by Hate;  
Your pity e'er I ask I'm sure to gain,  
But cruel Cynthia's never must obtain.  
You are not ignorant of Her charms I know,  
Too well by Her they're known, and thence my Woe:  
Yet must I not complain, I own the Fair  
Has justly doomed me to the pains I bear;  
For I have long profanely laughed at Love,  
And oft to make the World despise it, strove.   

Wanton till now were all the flames I knew,  
With pleasures winged my minutes Gaily flew:  
When Beauty wounded, Wine soon freed my soul,  
My peace came swimming in the healing Bowl;  
Or if too weak the Wine against Love's charms,  
I took some Balmy Harlot to my Arms;  
Which always did the raging pains remove,  
And cool the stings of any other Love.  
In peace and plenty, with still new delights,  
I passed my Joyful days, and Amorous Nights.   

But now in vain that freedom lost I mourn,  
My far fled Liberty will ne'er return;  
Too strong's my passion, as the Nymph too Fair,  
(Ah, Lovely Nymph, must I for ever bear!)  
In your bright Eyes such Heavenly Beauty's shine,  
You want but mercy to be all Divine;  
Lost freedom to regain I dare not try,  
That were Rebellion, and I ought to Die.  
Why should your powerful Charms your pride create,  
Your pride your only fault, my only Fate?   

Thus oft I've mourned the Conquest of Her eyes,  
Since first my Heart was made Her sacrifice,  
And she the panting Victim could despise.  
Yet spite of all Her rigorous disdain,  
I love my Ruin, and I hug my Chain.   

Reason in vain endeavours to persuade  
That I should quit this Haughty, scornful Maid;  
Small Passions often make our Reason yield,  
When Love invades, it well may quit the Field.   

Your hopeless Friend thus Languishing remains,  
Enslaved by one who will not ease his pains;  
Smiles when he weeps, and Frowns when he complains.    

AN ELEGY BY The Wife of St. ALEXIAS (a Nobleman of Rome) complaining on his absence, he having left her on his Wedding Night unenjoyed, out of a Pious Zeal to go Visit the Christian Churches.  Written in Latin by Fran. Remond a Jesuit. 

I Praised and Loved by the best Youth of Rome,  
My fatal Charms sent many to their Tomb,  
Now wretched Maid, and miserable Wife,  
In tears, and in complaints, must waste my Life;  
Abandoned by my Husband e'er enjoyed,  
With thoughts of pleasures yet untasted cloyed.  
He leaves me to my anxious cares a Prey;  
Ah! my Alexias, whither do you stray,  
Whilst in my Maiden Widowed bed I lie,  
More wretched than the Dead, and wish to die?  
In you were all my hopes, dear Wanderer,  
Your doubted safety now creates my Fear;  
He broke his Vows, he broke our Marriage bond,  
What dangers may a Perjured wretch surround,  
At least his flight his tender Feet may wound.  
Oh! that I knew which way his course he stears,  
'Twould soften much my pains, and lessen much my fears:  
A Letter should inform him of my cares,  
And he with pity sure would read my Prayers;  
I'd write him lines might move a senseless Stone,  
Nay his hard Heart to feel compassion.  
But, when we write, too slow are the returns,  
Too slow, for one that with my passion burns;  
Letters I would not trust, myself would go,  
And from my mouth my sorrows he should know.  
By stealth I'll leave my Father's House, 'twas you  
Did first, alas! the sad example show.  
My pressing Love would wing my willing Feet,  
To fly, till my Alexias I should meet.  
Through Deserts I durst go (a tender Maid)  
In search of you I could not be afraid.  
No dangers should my eager steps retard,  
My Innocence, and Love would be my Guard.  
If Dragons against me their crests should rear,  
Or should I meet a Lion or a Bear,  
I never can be capable of Fear.  
David (too young for Toils) a tender Boy,  
Could the fierce Lion, and rough Bear destroy;  
From his small Hand a Pibble could confound,  
And strike the Mountain Giant to the ground.  
Th' Assyrian General, Bethulia's dread,  
By a chaste Woman's hand did lose his Head,  
And she was by her Guardian Angel led.  
Why may not my attempts successful prove,  
Assisted by Divinity, and Love?  
With fearless courage I dare undertake  
Amazing actions, for my Husband's sake:  
Through all the World (my Life) I'll follow thee,  
Whether by Land thou wanderest or by Sea;  
Whether on Shoar or on the swelling Main,  
One House, one Boat may both of us contain:  
If your sharp Keel Ionian Waves divide,  
On that Ionian Sea my Bark shall ride.  
If (to contemplate on the sufferings  
And cruel death of the blessed King of King's,)  
A Pilgrim to the Holy-land you go,  
I'll join in Adoration there with you.  
If where th' adored, Silver jordan flows,  
With you in Palestine I'll offer Holy Vows;  
Or if to Scythian Mountains you repair,  
And leave this temperate for that freeze Air;  
With thee (my Soul) I willingly can dwell  
On the cold top of the Caucasian Hill.  
Or should you wander o'er the Libyan sand,  
(That vast, and wild, unhospitable Land)  
Through those parched plains with thee (my Love) I'll stray,  
Nor fear the hungry, Savage Beast of Prey.  
I'll be a Thracian, if to Thrace you sail;  
My Love shall o'er my Sex's fears prevail,  
Nothing to follow you would seem a toil.  
Tho' to the utmost Indieses you are driven,  
Till I can reach your Arms I'll know no Haven.  
Ah! let chaste Love, propitious Planets keep▪  
Safe from the dangers of the greedy Deep;  
Yet if my Ship by Tempests must be Torn,  
By Artful strokes above the Waters born,  
In spite of Nature I shall swim to shore,  
For love will give my untaught hands the power.  
The slaming Constellations are in Love,  
And Seas, and all that in the Waters move;  
But the unsettl'd Waves, nor the inconstant Wind  
Shall ever move my faith, or shake my steadfast mind.  
But if inevitable Fates decree,  
That I must suffer in the angry Sea,  
Leviathan, let me become thy Prey;  
(The only Succour such a Fate can give)  
In thy kind Bowels hidden let me live,  
There let me rest, till thou shalt find that Shoar  
Where my Alexias is a Wanderer,  
There cast me up unhurt, and leave me there.  
So in the Scaly Monster jonas lay,  
Protected from the fury of the Sea;  
Both wondered at their lot, and both rejoiced,  
One with his guest was pleased, the other with his host;  
The third Day came, and then (by Heaven's command)  
The Fish restored the Prophet to the Land.  
But if to me no Fish will Favour show,  
And (dear Alexias) I must die for you;  
Oh Love Divine! I'm pleased for thee to fall,  
For thee, chaste Author of my Funeral;  
The Sea shall take my Name, and amongst the Stars  
I'll be a guide to wand'ring Mariners:  
While they with wonder shall repeat my Name,  
A faith like mine deserves no less a Fame;  
They'll doubtless Pray that such a Wife, Above,  
May be rewarded for so chaste a Love;  
And that her Husband there may constant prove.  
And for the Load of Waters she has born,  
Her Ashes may lie easy in their Urn.  
Alas! I rave, with Fancies I am fed,  
Not knowing where my dearest Husband's fled,  
I search him, dreaming in my Widowed Bed.  
If to the Woods I go, or Rocks or shores,  
From thee they've learned to scorn Love's mighty Powers.  
Unheard, alas! I lose my Amorous groans,  
The Winds and Waves refuse to hear my moans.  
Echo alone can suffer my complaint,  
And she with repetition is grown faint.   

Return (my Life) for what can cause your stay!  
If thou hast Piety, Oh! come away:  
Ah! suffer not thy absence I should mourn,  
I'll come to thee, if thou canst not return.    

AMARYLLIS, Or the Third Idyllium OF THEOCRITUS, paraphrased.  By Mr. Dryden. 
TO Amaryllis Love compels my way,  
My browzing Goats upon the Mountains stray:  
O Tityrus, tend them well, and see them fed  
In Pastures fresh, and to their watering led;  
And weare the Ridgling with his butting head.  
Ah beauteous Nymph, can you forget your Love,  
The conscious Grottos, and the shady Grove;  
Where stretched at ease your tender Limbs were laid,  
Your nameless Beauties nakedly displayed?  
Then I was called your darling, your desire,  
With Kisses such as set my Soul on Fire:  
But you are changed, yet I am still the same,  
My heart maintains for both a double Flame.  
Grieved, but unmoved, and patient of your scorn,  
So faithful I, and you so much forsworn!  
I die, and Death will finish all my pain,  
Yet e'er I die, behold me once again:  
Am I so much deformed, so changed of late?  
What partial Judges are our Love and hate!  
Ten Wildings have I gathered for my Dear,  
How ruddy like your Lips their streaks appear!  
Far off you viewed them with a longing Eye  
Upon the topmost branch (the Tree was high;)  
Yet nimbly up, from bough to bough I swerved;  
And for to Morrow have Ten more reserved.  
Look on me Kindly and some pity show,  
Or give me leave at least to look on you.  
Some God transform me by his Heavenly power  
Even to a Bee to buzz within your Bower,  
The winding Ivy-chaplet to invade,  
And folded Fern that your fair Forehead shade.  
Now to my cost the force of Love I find;  
The heavy hand he bears on humane kind!  
The Milk of Tigers was his Infant food,  
Taught from his tender years the taste of blood;  
His Brother whelps and he ran wild about the wood.  
Ah Nymph, trained up in his Tyrannic Court,  
To make the sufferings of your Slaves your sport!  
Unheeded Ruin! treacherous delight!  
O polished hardness softened to the sight!  
Whose radiant Eyes your Ebon Brows adorn,  
Like Midnight those, and these like break of Morn!  
Smile once again, revive me with your Charms;  
And let me die contented in your Arms.  
I would not ask to live another Day,  
Might I but sweetly Kiss my Soul away!  
Ah, why am I from empty Joys debarred,  
For Kisses are but empty, when Compared!  
I rave, and in my raging fit shall tear  
The Garland which I wove for you to wear,  
Of Parsley with a wreath of Ivy bound;  
And bordered with a Rosy edging round  
What pangs I feel, unpityed, and unheard!  
Since I must die, why is my Fate deferred!  
I strip my Body of my Shepherd's Frock,  
Behold that dreadful downfall of a Rock,  
Where yo● old Fisher views the Waves from high!  
'Tis that Convenient leap I mean to try.  
You would be pleased to see me plunge to shore,  
But better pleased, if I should rise no more.  
I might have read my Fortune long ago,  
When, seeking my success in Love to know,  
I tried th' infallible Prophetic way,  
A Poppy leaf upon my palm to lay;  
I struck, and yet no lucky crack did follow,  
Yet I struck hard, and yet the leaf lay hollow.  
And which was worse, If any worse could prove,  
The withring leaf foreshowed your withring Love.  
Yet farther (Ah, how far a Lover dares!)  
My last recourse I had to Seive and Shears;  
And told the Witch Agreo my disease,  
(Agreo that in Harvest used to lease;  
But Harvest done, to Chare-work did aspire;  
Meat, drink, and Twopences was her daily hire:)  
To work she went, her Charms she muttered over,  
And yet the resty Seive wagged ne'er the more;  
I wept for Woe, the testy Beldame swore.  
And foaming with her God, foretold my Fate;  
That I was doomed to Love, and you to Hate.  
A milk-white Goat for you I did provide;  
Two milk-white Kids run frisking by her side,  
For which the Nut-brown Lass, Erithacis,  
Full often offered many a savoury Kiss;  
Hers they shall be, since you refuse the price,  
What Madman would o'erstand his Market twice?  
My right Eye itches, some good-luck is near,  
Perhaps my Amaryllis may appear,  
I'll set up such a Note as she shall hear.  
What Nymph but my melodious Voice would move?  
She must be Flint, if she refuse my Love.  
Hippomenes, who ran with Noble strife  
To win his Lady, or to lose his Life,  
(What shift some men will make to get a Wife?)  
Threw down a Golden Apple in her way,  
For all her haste she could not choose but stay:  
Renown said run, the glittering Bribe cried hold,  
The Man might have been hanged but for his Gold.  
Yet some suppose 'twas Love (some few indeed,)  
That stopped the fatal fury of her Speed:  
She saw, she sighed; her nimble Feet refuse  
Their wont Speed, and she took pains to lose.  
A Prophet some, and some a Poet cry,  
(No matter which, so neither of them lie.)  
From steepy Othrys top, to Pylus drove  
His herd; and for his pains enjoyed his Love:  
If such another Wager should be laid,  
I'll find the Man, if you can find the Maid.  
Why name I Men, when Love extended finds  
His power on high, and in Celestial Minds?  
Venus' the Shepherd's homely habit took,  
And managed something else besides the Crook.  
Nay, when Adonis died, was heard to roar,  
And never from her heart forgave the Boar.  
How blest is fair Endymion with his Moon,  
Who sleeps on Latmos top from Night to Noon!  
What jason from Medea's Love possessed,  
You shall not hear, but know 'tis like the rest.  
My aching Head can scarce support the pain;  
This cursed Love will surely turn my Brain:  
Feel how it shoots, and yet you take no Pity,  
Nay then 'tis time to end my doleful Ditty.  
A clammy Sweat does o'er my Temples creep;  
My heavy Eyes are urged with Iron sleep:  
I lay me down to gasp my latest Breath,  
The Wolves will get a Breakfast by my Death;  
Yet scarce enough their hunger to supply,  
For Love has made me Carrion e'er I die.   

PHARMACEUTRIA, OR THE ENCHANTRESS.  
Simaetha is here introduced by the Poet in Love with one Delphis, and not having seen him in Twelve days, and suspecting him to love some other Woman, She, by the help of her Maid Thestylis, endeavours by Charms to reduce him.  
Translated from THEOCRITUS.  By Mr. William Bowles, of King's College in Cambridge. 
THe Philters, Thestylis, and Charms prepare,  
I'll try, since neither Gods, nor Delphis hear,  
If the false Man, by me in vain beloved,  
By Charms, and Arts more powerful, can be moved.  
Twelve days, an age to me alas! are past  
Since at these doors, he knocked, or saw me last;  
Scorned and neglected if I live, or no,  
Inhuman as he is, he does not know.  
To some new Mistress sure he is inclined,  
For love has wings, and he a changing mind.  
To morrow I'll to the Palaestra go,  
And tell him he's unkind to use me so.  
Now to my charm: But you, bright Queen of night,  
Shine, and assist me with your borrowed light,  
You, mighty Goddess, I invoke; and you,  
Infernal Hecate—  
(When you ascend from the pale shades below  
Through gaping Tombs, and the divided ground,  
A sudden horror seizes all arround,  
The Dogs at your approach affrighted fly,)  
Assist, and with your powerful aid be nigh;  
Inspire this charm, and may it prove as strong  
As Circe's or the bold Medea's song.  
Bring back the sacred herbs, and powerful charms,  
Bring back the perjured Delphis to my arms.  
Throw Meal upon the hallowed flames: d'ye stand  
Insensible, you Sot, when I command?  
Or am I scorned, and grown a jest to you?  
Strew Salt, and say, thus Delphis Bones I strew.  
Bring, etc.  
As Delphis me, so I this Laurel burn,  
And as that burns, and does to ashes turn,  
And cracks, and in a glorious light expires,  
So may false Delphis burn in quicker fires.  
Bring, etc.  
As the Wax melts, which in the fire I cast,  
So in Love's slower flames may Delphis waste:  
And as this Wheel with motion quick turned round,  
Tho' seeming to go on, and quit its ground,  
Returns, and in its Magic Circle still is found;  
So, though averse, and fled from my embrace,  
May he return, and still maintain his place.  
Bring, etc.  
Hail, 
Diana.  Artemis, and aid me from above;  
You all the stubborn Powers below can move,  
Th' Infernal Judges and th' infernal King:  
Ring, Thestylis, the sounding Brass, haste, ring;  
She comes, the Goddess comes, the dreadful cry  
Of howling Dogs gives notice she is nigh.  
Bring, etc.  
See! silent are the Winds, a peaceful sleep  
Has calmed the raging Seas, and smoothed the Deep,  
But the rough tempest, that distracts my breast,  
No calm can find, and will admit no rest.  
O Chastity, and violated Fame!  
I burn for him whose love's my only shame.  
Bring, etc.  
Thus thrice I Sacrifice, and thrice I pray  
You execute, great Goddess, what I say:  
Who e'er she be, that shares his envied Bed,  
Proud by her conquest, and my ruin made,  
Her honour lost, and she undone, as I,  
Deserted and abandoned may she lie,  
As did on Dia's shore the royal Maid  
By perjured Theseus' cruelty betrayed.  
Bring, etc.  
Hippomanes but tasted rage inspires,  
And with new heat the winged Coursers fires,  
O'er Fields and Woods, and Mountains tops they go,  
Their rage no bounds, and they no stop can know;  
Such is the plant, and oh! that I might see  
My Delphis with like rage run home to me.  
Bring, etc.  
This fringe, which my loved Delphis once did wear,  
This once dear relic thus enraged I tear:  
How cruel is the Love, that Leech-like dreins  
From my pale limbs the blood, and empty Veins!  
Bring, etc.  
To Morrow a dire potion I'll compound;  
Now, Thestylis, this Philter spread arround  
His fatal door—  
(There all my thoughts, and my lost senses dwell,  
There though ill used, my Soul continues still)  
And spit and the ingrateful Man devove,  
That slights my passion, and neglects my love.  
Bring, etc.  
She's gone; and since I now am left alone,  
What shall I say? what first shall I bemoan?  
What was the Cause? whence sprung my ill placed Love?  
Diana's Rites can tell, and fatal Grove;  
When fair Anaxo to the Temple led,  
Her nuptial Vow to the chaste Goddess paid,  
With savage Beasts the glorious Pomp was graced,  
And a fierce Lioness amidst 'em placed.  

Tell, silver Phoebe, tell whence sprung my flame,  
Tell, for you know whence the dire Passion came.   
Theucharila, my Nurse, would see the show,  
She near us dwelled, and begged of me to go;  
Her prayers, and my ill fate at last prevailed,  
There my kind Stars, and better Genius failed.  
Tell, etc.  
There all my Ills begun; for there, alas!  
I Delphis saw, and Eudamippus pass:  
Their golden Hair in careless Curls hung down,  
And brighter, (Cynthia,) far than you they shone.  
Tell, etc.  
I saw, and was undone! a subtle fire  
Ran through my Veins, and kindled hot desire;  
The shining Pomp could now no more surprise,  
A nobler object now employed my Eyes.  
When that was ended, I forgot to go,  
How I returned, or when I did not know;  
Ten days, as many restless nights I ●ay,  
My Beauty to the fierce disease a prey.  
Tell, etc.  
My flesh all wasted, and my Limbs all pale,  
And all my Hair with the strong poison sell:  
Ah, cruel Love, to what dost thou enforce?  
To what Enchantress had not I recourse,  
For skill in Herbs, and Magic arts renowned?  
No remedy in their vain Arts I found.  
Tell, etc.  
With Sickness wasted, and with Grief oppressed,  
Thus to my Servant I at last confessed:  
Haste, Thestylis, thy dying Mistress sends,  
My Health on Delphis, and my Life depends,  
Delphis, who gave, alone can cure the Wound;  
No remedy for Love but love is found:  
In active Sports, and Wrestling he delights,  
And in the bright Palaestra often sits.  
Tell, etc.  
There watch your time, and softly let him know  
Simaetha sent you, than my Lodgings show.  
She did, and straight his sounding feet I heard.  
Gods! but when lovely Delphis first appeared!  
Tell, etc.  
A deathlike cold seized on me from my Brow,  
Like Southern dew, the liquid drops did flow,  
Stiff and unmoved I lay, and on my Tongue  
My dying words, when I would speak 'em hung;  
As when imperfect sounds from Children fall,  
When in their Dreams they on their Mother call.  
Tell, etc.  
The cruel Man sat down upon my Bed,  
And then with eyes cast downward thus he said:  
In Love you are as far before me gone,  
As young Philinus lately I out run.  
Tell, etc.  
Had not your kinder Message called me home,  
By Love's sweet Joys at night I would have come,  
Armed with my Friends I had beset you round,  
And my victorious Head with Poplar crowned.  
Tell, etc.  
Had you admitted me, it had been well,  
For I in swiftness, and in form excel,  
But that my vanquished Equals best may tell;  
Some smaller favour than I had desired,  
And modestly but with a Kiss retired;  
Had you been cruel, and your doors been barred,  
With Barrs and Torches for the storm I was prepared.  
Tell, etc.  
Now thanks to you great Queen of Love I owe,  
And next, my fair Preserver, next to you,  
She saw the burning Pain which I endure,  
And recommends to you the mighty Cure;  
For cool and gentle are all other fires  
Compared with those which cruel Love inspires.  
Tell, etc.  
Love, tender Maids can from their Beds excite,  
Nor darkness them, nor danger can affright,  
Love's mighty power can the young Wife compel  
From her warm sleeping Husband's arms to steal.  
He said: And I a fond, believing Maid  
Pressed, and reclined him gently on my Bed;  
Now a new heat returned with his embrace,  
Warmth to my Blood, and colour to my Face,  
And, to be short, with mutual Kisses fired,  
To the last bliss we eagerly aspired,  
And both attained, what both alike desired.  
Now swi●t the hours, and winged with pleasure ●lew,  
Calm were our Passions, and no tempest knew,  
No quarrel could disturb our peaceful bed;  
But all those joys this fatal Morning fled.  
Aurora scarce had chased away the Night,  
And o'er the World diffused her rosy Light,  
Philista's mother came, (and as she still  
The Love, and News o'th' Town delights to tell;)  
She told me first that Delphis Loved, but who  
She could not tell, but that he Loved she knew;  
All signs of some new love she said she found,  
His House adorned, and Doors with Garlands crowned.  
She tells me true; oh my ill boding fears!  
And Delphis treachery too plain appears:  
His Visits were more frequent, now at last,  
Since he was here twelve tedious days are past.  
'Tis so: And can he then so cruel prove,  
Am I so soon forgotten, and my Love?  
Now I'm content to see what Charms can do,  
But if he dares go on to use me so,  
Provoked at last a Potion I'll prepare,  
That by his Death shall ease me of my Care.  
So sure the Poison, and so strong the Draught;  
The Secret was by an Assyrian taught.  
You, Cynthia, now may to the Sea decline,  
And to the rising Sun your light resign;  
My Charms now done, and has no longer force  
To fix your Chariot, or retared your course;  
I, what I can't redress, must learn to bear,  
And a sad Cure attend from my despair.  
Adieu, O Moon, and every glimmering light,  
Adieu, ye gay Attendants on the night.   

THE CYCLOPS.  
Theocritus Idyll. 11th.  Englished by Mr. Duke of Cambridge, To Dr. Short. 
O Short, no Herb, no Salve was ever found  
To ease a Lover's heart, or heal his wound;  
No Medicine this prevailing Ill subdues,  
None, but the Charms of the condoling Muse:  
Sweet to the Sense, and easy to the Mind  
The Cure, but hard, but very hard to find.  
This you well know, and surely none so well,  
Who both in Physic's sacred Art excel,  
And in Wit's Orb among the brighest shine,  
The Love of Phoebus, and the tuneful nine.  
Thus sweetly sad of old, the Cyclops strove  
To soften his uneasy hours of Love.  
Then when hot Youth urged him to fierce desire,  
And Galatea's eyes kindled the raging sire,  
His was no common Flame, nor could he move  
In the old Arts, and beaten Paths of Love;  
Nor Flowers, nor Fruits sent to oblige the Fair,  
Nor more to please, curled his neglected Hair.  
His was all Rage, all Madness; To his Mind  
No other Cares their wont entrance find.  
Oft from the Field his Flock returned alone  
Unheeded, unobserved: He on some stone,  
Or craggy Cliff, to the deaf Winds and Sea  
Accusing Galatea's Cruelty;  
Till Night from the first dawn of opening Day,  
Consumes with inward heat, and melts away.  
Yet than a Cure, the only Cure he found,  
And thus applied it to the bleeding Wound;  
From a steep Rock, from whence he might survey  
The Flood, the (Bed where his loved Sea-Nymph lay,)  
His drooping head with Sorrow bent he hung,  
And thus his griefs calmed with his mournful Song:  
Fair Galatea, why is all my Pain  
Rewarded thus? soft Love with sharp disdain?  
Fairer than falling Snow or rising Light,  
Soft to the touch as charming to the sight;  
Sprightly as unyoked Heifers, on whose head  
The tender Crescents but begin to spread;  
Yet cruel You to harshness more incline,  
Than unripe Grapes plucked from the savage Vine.  
Soon as my heavy Eyelid's sealed with sleep,  
Hither you come out from the foaming deep;  
But when Sleep leaves me, you together fly,  
And vanish swiftly from my opening Eye,  
Swift as young Lambs when the fierce Wolf they spy.  
I well remember the first fatal day  
That made my Heart your Beauty's easy prey,  
'Twas when the Flood You, with my Mother, left,  
Of all its brightness, all its Pride bereft,  
To gather Flowers from the steep Mountains top,  
Of the high Office proud, I led you up;  
To Hyacinths, and Roses did you bring,  
And showed you all the Treasures of the Spring.  
But from that hour my Soul has known no rest,  
Soft Peace is banished from my tortured Breast,  
I rage, I burn. Yet still regardless you  
Not the least sign of melting Pity show:  
No; by the Gods that shall Revenge my pain!  
No; you the more I love the more disdain.  
Ah! Nymph, by every Grace adorned, I know  
Why you despise and ●ly the Cyclops so;  
Because a shaggy Brow from side to side,  
Stretched in a line, does my large Forehead hide;  
And under that one only Eye does shine,  
And my flat Nose to my big Lip does join.  
Such though I am, yet know, a Thousand sheep,  
The pride of the Sicilian Hills, I keep;  
With sweetest Milk they fill my flowing Pails,  
And my vast stock of Cheeses never fails;  
In Summer's heat, or Winter's sharpest cold,  
My loaded Shelves groan with the weight they hold.  
With such soft Notes I the shrill Pipe inspire,  
That every listening Cyclops does admire;  
While with it often I all night proclaim,  
Thy powerful charms, and my successless flame.  
For thee twelve Does, all big with Fawn, I feed,  
And four Bear-Cubs, tame to thy hand, I breed.  
Ah! come, to me, fair Nymph, and you shall find  
These are the smallest Gifts for thee designed.  
Ah! come and leave the angry Waves to roar,  
And break themselves against the sounding shore.  
How much more Pleasant would thy Slumbers be  
In the retired and peaceful Cave with me?  
There the straight Cypress and green Laurel join,  
And creeping Ivy clasps the clustered Vine;  
There fresh, cool Rills, from Aetna's purest Snow,  
Dissolved into Ambrosial liquor, flow.  
Who the wild Waves, and brackish Sea could choose,  
And these still Shades, and these sweet Streams refuse?  
But if you fear that I, overgrown with hair,  
Without a fire defy the winter Air,  
Know I have mighty stores of Wood, and know  
Perpetual Fires on my bright Hearth do glow.  
My Soul, my Life itself should burn for Thee,  
And this One Eye, as dear as Life to me.  
Why was not I with Fins, like Fishes, made,  
That I, like them, might in the Deep have played?  
Then would I dive beneath the yielding Tide,  
And kiss your hand if you your lips denied.  
To thee I'd Lilies, and red Poppies bear,  
And flowers that Crown each Season of the Year.  
But I'm resolved I'll learn to swim and dive  
Of the next Stranger that does here arrive,  
That th' undiscovered Pleasures I may know  
Which you enjoy in the deep Flood below.  
Come forth, O● Nymph, and coming forth forget,  
Like me that on this Rock unmindful sit,  
(Of all things else unmindful but of thee)  
Home to return forget, and live with me.  
With me the sweet and pleasing Labour choose,  
To feed the Flock, and Milk the burdened Ewes,  
To press the Cheese, and the sharp Runnet to infuse.  
My Mother does unkindly use her Son,  
By her neglect the Cyclops is undone;  
For me she never labours to prevail,  
Nor whispers in your Ear my amorous Tale.  
No; though she knows I languish every day,  
And sees my Body waste, and strength decay.  
But I more Ills than what I feel will feign,  
And of my Head, and of my Feet complain;  
That, in her Breast if any Pity lie,  
She may be sad, and grieved as well as I.  
O Cyclops, Cyclops, where's thy Reason fled?  
If your young Lambs with new plucked boughs you fed,  
And watched your Flock, would you not seem more wise?  
Milk what is next, Pursue not that which flies.  
Perhaps you may, since This proves so unkind,  
Another fairer Galatea find.  
Me many Virgins as I pass invite  
To waste with them in Love's soft Sports the Night,  
And if I but incline my listening Ear,  
New Joys, new Smiles in all their looks appear.  
Thus We, it seems, can be beloved; and We,  
It seems, are Somebody as well as She.  
Thus did the Cyclops fan his raging fire,  
And soothed with gentle Verse his fierce Desire.  
Thus passed his hours with more delight and ease,  
Than if the Riches of the World were His.   

TO CAELIA.  By Mr. Duke. 
FLy swift, ye Hours, ye sluggish Minutes fly,  
Bring back my Love or let her Lover die.  
Make haste, O Sun and to my eyes once more,  
My Caelia brighter than thyself restore.  
In spite of thee, 'tis Night when she's away,  
Her Eyes alone can the glad beams display,  
That make my sky look clear, and guide my day.  
O when will she li●t up her sacred Light!  
And chase away the flying shades of Night!  
With Her how fast the ●lowing hours run on?  
But oh! how long they stay when she is gone?  
So slowly Time when clogged with Grief does move;  
So, swift when born upon the Wings of Love!  
Hardly three days, they tell me, yet are past,  
Yet 'tis an age since I beheld her last.  
O my auspicious Star make haste to rise,  
To charm our Hearts and bless our longing Eyes!  
O how I long on thy dear eyes to gaze,  
And cheer my own with their reflected rays!  
How my impatient, thirsty Soul does long,  
To hear the charming Music of thy Tongue!  
Where pointed Wit with solid Judgement grows,  
And in one easy s●ream united flows.  
When e'er you speak, with what delight we hear,  
You call up every Soul to every Ear!  
Nature's too prodigal to Womankind,  
Even where she does neglect t' adorn the mind;  
Beauty alone bears such resistless sway,  
As makes Mankind with joy and pride obey.  
But oh! when Wit and Sense with Beauty's joined,  
The Woman's sweetness with the manly mind,  
When Nature with so just a hand does mix,  
The most engaging charms of either Sex;  
And out of both that thus in one combine  
Does something form not humane but Divine,  
What's her command but that we all adore  
The noblest work of her almighty power!  
Nor ought our Zeal thy anger to create,  
Since Love's thy debt, nor is our Choice but Fate▪  
Where Nature bids, worship I'm forced to pay,  
Nor have the Liberty to Disobey.  
And whensoe'er she does a Poet make,  
She giveth him Verse but for thy Beauty's sake▪  
Had I a Pen that could at once impart  
Soft Ovid's Nature and high Virgil's Art,  
Then the immortal Sacharissa's Name  
Should be but second in the list of Fame;  
Each grove each shade should with thy praise be filled,  
And the famed Penshurst to our Windsor yield.   

PROLOGUE, To the University of Oxon. Spoken by Mr. Hart, at the Acting of the Silent Woman,  Written by Mr. Dryden. 
WHat Greece, when Learning flourished, only Knew,  
(Athenian Judges,) you this day Renew.  
Here too are Annual Rites to Pallas done,  
And here Poetic prizes lost or won.  
Methinks I see you, Crowned with Olives sit,  
And strike a sacred Horror from the Pit.  
A Day of Doom is this of your Decree,  
Where even the Best are but by Mercy free:  
A Day which none but johnson durst have wished to see.  
Here they who long have known the useful Stage,  
Come to be taught themselves to teach the Age.  
As your Commissioners our Poets go,  
To Cultivate the Virtue which you sow:  
In your Lycaeum, first themselves refined,  
And Delegated thence to Humane kind.  
But as Ambassadors, when long from home,  
For new Instructions to their Princes come;  
So Poets who your Precepts have forgot,  
Return, and beg they may be better taught:  
Follies and Faults elsewhere by them are shown,  
But by your Manners they Correct their Own.  
Th' illiterate Writer, Emperique like, applieth  
To minds diseased, unsafe, chance Remedies:  
The Learned in Schools, where Knowledge first began,  
Studies with Care th' Anatomy of Man;  
Sees Virtue, Vice, and Passions in their Cause,  
And Fame from Science, not from Fortune draws.  
So Poetry, which is in Oxford made  
An Art, in London only is a Trade.  
There Haughty Dunces whose unlearned Pen  
Could ne'er Spell Grammar, would be reading Men.  
Such build their Poems the Lucretian way,  
So many Huddled Atoms make a Play,  
And if they hit in Order by some Chance,  
They call that Nature, which is Ignorance.  
To such a Fame let mere Town-Wits aspire,  
And their Gay Nonsense their own Citts admire.  
Our Poet, could he find Forgiveness here  
Would wish it rather than a Plaudit there.  
He owns no Crown from those Praetorian bands,  
But knows that Right is in this Senate's hands.  
Not Impudent enough to hope your Praise,  
Low at the Muse's feet, his Wreath he lays,  
And where he took it up Resigns his Bays.  
King's make their Poets whom themselves think fit,  
But 'tis your Suffrage makes Authentic Wit.   

EPILOGUE, Spoken by the same.  Written by Mr. Dryden. 
NO poor Dutch Peasant, winged with all his Fear,  
Flies with more haste, when the French arms draw near,  
Than We with our Poetic train come down  
For refuge hither, from th' infected Town;  
Heaven for our Sins this Summer has thought fit  
To visit us with all the Plagues of Wit.  
A French Troop first swept all things in its way,  
But those Hot Monsieurs were too quick to stay;  
Yet, to our Cost in that short time, we find  
They left their Itch of Novelty behind.  
Th' Italian merry-andrew's took their place,  
And quite Debauched the Stage with jewd Grimace;  
Instead of Wit, and Humours, your Delight  
Was there to see two Hobby-horses Fight,  
Stout Scaramoucha with Rush Lance road in,  
And ran a Tilt at Centaur Arlequin.  
For Love you heard how amorous Asses brayed,  
And Cats in Gutters gave their Serenade.  
Nature was out of Countenance, and each Day  
Some new born Monster shown you for a Play.  
But when all failed, to strike the Stage quite Dumb,  
Those wicked Engines called Machine's are come.  
Thunder and Lightning now for Wit are Played,  
And shortly Scenes in Lapland will be Laid:  
Art Magic is for Poetry professed,  
And Cats and Dogs, and each obscener Beast  
To which Egyptian Dotards once did Bow,  
Upon our English stage are worshipped now.  
Witchcraft reigns there, and raises to Renown  
Macbeth, the Simon Magus of the Town.  
Fletcher's despised, your johnson out of Fashion,  
And Wit the only Drug in all the Nation.  
In this low Ebb our Wares to you are shown,  
By you those Staple Authors worth is known,  
For Wit's a Manufacture of your Own.  
When you, who only can, their Scenes have praised.  
We'll boldly back, and say their Price is raised.   

PROLOGUE, to the University of Oxford, 1674. Spoken by Mr. Hart.  Written by Mr. Dryden. 
Poets, your Subjects, have their Parts assigned  
T' unbend, and to divert their Sovereign's mind;  
When tired with following Nature, you think fit  
To seek repose in the cool shades of Wit,  
And from the sweet Retreat, with Joy survey  
What rests, and what is conquered, of the way.  
Here free yourselves, from Envy, Care and Strife,  
You view the various turns of humane Life:  
Safe in our Scene, through dangerous Courts you go,  
And Undebauched, the Vice of Cities know.  
Your Theories are here to Practise brought,  
As in Mechanic operations wrought;  
And Man the Little world before you set,  
As once the Sphere of Crystal, showed the Great:  
Blessed sure are you above all Mortal kind:  
If to your Fortunes you can Suit your Mind.  
Content to see, and shun, those Ills we show,  
And Crimes, on Theatres alone, to know:  
With joy we bring what our dead Authors writ,  
And beg from you the value of their Wit.  
That Shakespear's, Fletcher's, and great Johnson's claim  
May be Renewed from those, who gave them fame.  
None of our living Poets dare appear,  
For Muses so severe are worshipped here;  
That conscious of their Faults they eat the Eye,  
And as Profane, from Sacred places fly,  
Rather than see th' offended God, and die.  
We bring no Imperfections, but our own,  
Such Faults as made, are by the Maker's shown.  
And you have been so kind, that we may boast,  
The greatest Judges still can Pardon most.  
Poet's must stoop, when they would please our Pit,  
Debased even to the Level of their Wit.  
Disdaining that, which yet they know, will Take,  
Hating themselves, what their Applause must make:  
But when to Praise from you they would Aspire  
Though they like Eagles Mount, your jove is Higher.  
So far your Knowledge, all their Power transcends,  
As what should be, beyond what Is, extends.   

EPILOGUE, Spoken by Mrs. Boutell.  Written by Mr. Dryden. 
OFT has our Poet wished, this happy Seat  
Might prove his fading Muses last retreat:  
I wondered at h●s wish, but now I find  
He sought for quiet, and content of mind;  
Which noisfull Towns, and Courts can never know,  
And only in the shades like Laurels grow.  
Youth, e'er it sees the World, here studies rest,  
And Age returning thence concludes it best.  
What wonder if we court that happiness  
Yearly to share, which hourly you possess,  
Teaching even you, (while the vexed World we show,)  
Your Peace to value more, and better know?  
'Tis all we can return for favours past,  
Whose holy Memory shall ever last,  
For Patronage from him whose care presides  
O'er every noble Art, and every Science guides:  
Bathurst, a name the learned with reverence know,  
And scarcely more to his own Virgil owe.  
Whose Age enjoys but what his Youth deserved,  
To rule those Muses whom before he served,  
His Learning, and untainted Manners too  
We find (Athenians) are derived to you;  
Such Ancient hospitality there rests  
In yours, as dwelled in the first Grecian Breasts,  
Whose kindness was Religion to their Guests.  
Such Modesty did to our sex appear,  
As had there been no Laws we need not fear,  
Since each of you was our Protector here.  
Converse so chaste, and so strict Virtue shown,  
As might Apollo with the Muses own.  
Till our return we must despair to find  
Judges so just, so knowing, and so kind.   

Prologue to the University of Oxford.  
DIscord, and Plots which have undone our Age  
With the same ruin, have overwhelmed the Stage.  
Our House has suffered in the common Woe,  
We have been troubled with Scotch Rebels too;  
Our Brethren, are from Thames to Tweed departed,  
And of our Sisters, all the kinder hearted,  
To Edinburgh gone, or Coached, or Carted.  
With bonny Blewcap there they act all night  
For Scotch half Crown, in English Threepences height.  
One Nymph, to whom fat aff's lean,  
There with her single Person fills the Scene.  
Another, with long use, and Age decayed,  
Dived here old Woman, and rose there a Maid.  
Our Trusty Doorkeepers of former time,  
There strutt and swagger in Heroic rhyme:  
Tack but a Copper-lace to Drugget suit,  
And there's a Hero made without dispute.  
And that which was a Capon's tail before,  
Becomes a plume for Indian Emperor.  
But all his Subjects, to express the care  
Of Imitation, go, like Indians, bare;  
Laced Linen there would be a dangerous thing,  
It might perhaps a new Rebellion bring,  
The Scot who wore it, would be chosen King.  
But why should I these Renegades describe,  
When you yourselves have seen a lewder Tribe.  
Teg has been here, and to this learned Pit,  
With Irish action slandered English Wit.  
You have beheld such barbarous Mac's appear,  
As merited a second Massacre.  
Such as like Cain were branded with disgrace,  
And had their Country stamped upon their Face:  
When Stroulers durst presume to pick your purse,  
We humbly thought our broken Troop not worse,  
How ill soever our action may deserve,  
Oxford's a place, where Wit can never starve.   

PROLOGUE TO THE University of OXFORD:  By Mr. Dryden. 
THo' Actors cannot much of Learning boast,  
Of all who want it, we admire it most.  
We love the Praises of a Learned Pit,  
As we remotely are allied to Wit.  
We speak our Poet's Wit, and Trade in Ore,  
Like those who touch upon the Golden Shore:  
Betwixt our Judges can distinction make,  
Discern how much, and why, our Poems take.  
Mark if the Fools, or Men of Sense, rejoice,  
Whether th' Applause be only Sound or Voice.  
When our Fop Gallants, or our City Folly  
Clap over-loud, it makes us melancholy:  
We doubt that Scene which does their wonder raise,  
And, for their ignorance contemn their Praise.  
Judge then, if We who Act, and They who Write,  
Should not be proud of giving You delight.  
London likes grossly, but this nicer Pit  
Examines, Fathoms all the depths of Wit:  
The ready Finger lays on every Blot,  
Knows what should justly please, and what should not.  
Nature herself lies open to your view,  
You judge by Her what draught of Her is true,  
Where out lines false, and Colours seem too faint,  
Where Bunglers dawb, and where True Poets Paint.  
But by the Sacred Genius of this Place,  
By every Muse, by each Domestic Grace,  
Be kind to Wit, which but endeavours well,  
And, where you judge, presumes not to excel.  
Our Poets hither for Adoption come,  
As Nations sued to be made Free of Rome.  
Not in the suffragating Tribes to stand,  
But in your utmost, last, Provincial Band.  
If His Ambition may those Hopes pursue,  
Who with Religion loves Your Arts and You,  
Oxford to Him a dearer Name shall be,  
Than His own Mother University.  
Thebes did His Green, unknowing Youth engage,  
He chooses Athens in His Riper Age.   

EPILOGUE To OXFORD: Spoken by Mrs. Marshal,  Writ by Mr. Dryden. 
OFt has our Poet wished▪ This happy Seat  
Might prove His fading Muses last retreat:  
I wondered at his wish; but now I find,  
He here sought quiet, and content of Mind:  
Which noiseful Towns and Courts can never know,  
And only in the Shades, like Laurels grow.  
Youth, ere it sees the World, here studies rest,  
And Age, returning thence, concludes it best.  
What wonder, if we court that happiness,  
Yearly to share, which Hourly You possess?  
Teaching even You, while the vexed World we show  
Your Peace to value more, and better know.  
'Tis all we can return for Favours past,  
Whose holy Memory shall ever last.  
For Patronage from Him whose care presides,  
O'er every Noble Art, and every Science guides:  
Bathurst, a Name the Learned with reverence know,  
And scarcely more to his own Virgil owe.  
Whose Age enjoys but what His Youth deserved,  
To rule those Muses whom before He served.  
His Learning and untainted Manners too,  
We find, Athenians, are derived to You.  
Such ancient Hospitality there rests  
In Yours, as dwelled in the first Grecian Breasts,  
Where Kindness was Religion to their Guests.  
Such Modesty did to our Sex appear,  
As, had there been no Laws, we need not fear,  
Since each of You was our Protector here.  
Converse so chaste, and so strict Virtue shown,  
As might Apollo with the Muses own.  
Till our Return, we must despair to find  
Judges so just, so knowing and so kind.   

The Prologue at OXFORD, 1680.  By Mr. Dryden. 
THespis, the first Professor of our Art,  
At Country Wakes, Sung Ballads from a Cart.  
To prove this true, if Latin be no Trespass,  
Dicitur & Plaustris, vexisse Poemata Thespis.  
But Escalus, says Horace in some Page,  
Was the first Mountebank that trod the Stage:  
Yet Athens never knew your Learned sport,  
Of Tossing Poets in a Tennis-Court;  
But 'tis the Talon of our English Nation,  
Still to be Plotting some New Reformation:  
And few years hence, if Anarchy goes on,  
jack Presbyter shall here Erect his Throne.  
Knock out a Tub with Preaching once a day,  
And every Prayer be longer than a Play.  
Then all you Heathen Wits shall go to Pot,  
For disbelieving of a Popish Plot:  
Your Poets shall be used like Infidels,  
And worst the Author of the Oxford Bells:  
Nor should we scape the Sentence, to Depart,  
Even in our first Original, A Cart.  
No Zealous Brother there would want a Stone,  
To Maul Us Cardinals, and pelt Pope joan:  
Religion, Learning, Wit, would be suppressed,  
Rags of the Whore, and Trappings of the Beast:  
Scot, Swarez, Tom of Aquin, must go down,  
As chief Supporters of the Triple Crown;  
And Aristotle's for destruction ripe,  
Some say He called the Soul an Organ-Pipe,  
Which by some little help of Derivation,  
Shall then be proved a Pipe of Inspiration.   

The Prologue to ALBUMAZAR:  Written by Mr. Dryden. 
TO say this Comedy pleased long ago,  
Is not enough to make it pass You now.  
Yet, Gentlemen, your Ancestors had wit;  
When few Men censured, and when fewer Writ.  
And johnson (of those few the best) chose this,  
As the best model of his Masterpiece:  
Subtle was got by our Albumazar,  
That Alchemist by this ginger;  
Here he was fashioned, and we may suppose,  
He liked the Fashion well, who wore the clothes.  
But Ben made Nobly his, what He did mould,  
What was another's Lead, becomes His Gold:  
Like an unrighteous Conqueror He Reigns,  
Yet Rules that well, which He unjustly gains.  
But this our Age such Authors does afford,  
As make whole Plays, and yet scarce Write one word:  
Who in this Anarchy of Wit, Rob all;  
And what's their Plunder, their Possession call.  
Who, like bold Padders, scorn by Night to Prey,  
But Rob by Sunshine, in the face of Day.  
Nay scarce the common Ceremony use,  
Of Stand Sir, and deliver up Your Muse;  
But knock the Poet down, and, with a Grace,  
Mount Pegasus before the Owners Face.  
Faith, if you have such Country Tom's abroad,  
'Tis time for all True Men to leave that Road.  
Yet it were modest, could it but be said  
They Strip the Living, but these Rob the Dead:  
Dare with the Mummyes of the Muse's Play,  
And make Love to them the Egyptian way:  
Or as a Rhyming Author would have said,  
Join the Dead Living to the Living Dead.  
Such Men in Poetry may claim some part,  
They have the Licence, tho' they want the Art.  
And might, where The●t was praised, for Laureates stand  
Poets, not of the Head, but of the Hand.  
They make the benefits of others studying,  
Much like the Meals of Politic jack Pudding.  
Whose dish to challenge, no Man has the courage,  
'Tis all his own when once h'has spit i'th' Porridge.  
But, Gentlemen, you're all concerned in this,  
You are in fault for what they do amiss.  
For They their Thefts still undiscovered think,  
And durst not Steal, unless You please to wink.  
Perhaps, You may award by Your Decree,  
They should refund, but that can never be.  
For should You Letters of Reprisal Seal,  
These Men Write that which no Man else would steal.   

Prologue to ARVIRAGUS REVIVED: Spoken by Mr. Hart.  Written by Mr. Dryden. 
WIth sickly Actors and an old House too,  
We're matched with Glorious Theatres and New  
And with our Alehouse Scenes, and clothes bore worn,  
Can neither raise Old Plays, nor New adorn.  
If all these ills could not undo us quite,  
A Brisk French Troop is grown your dear delight.  
Who with broad bloody Bills call you each day,  
To laugh, and break your Buttons at their Play.  
Or see some serious Piece, which we presume  
Is fallen from some incomparable Plume;  
And therefore, Messieurs, if you'll do us grace,  
Send Lackeys early to preserve your Place.  
We dare not on your Privilege entrench,  
Or ask you why you like 'em? They are French.  
Therefore some go with Courtesy exceeding,  
Neither to Hear nor See, but show their Breeding.  
Each Lady striving to out-laugh the rest,  
To make it seem they understood the Jest:  
Their Countrymen come in, and nothing pay,  
To teach Us English where to Clap the Play:  
Civil Igad: Our Hospitable Land,  
Bears all the charge for them to understand:  
Mean time we Languish, and neglected lie,  
Like Wives, while You keep better Company;  
And wish for our own sakes, without a satire,  
You'd less good Breeding, or had more good Nature.   

Prologue Spoken the first day of the King's House Acting after the Fire.  Writ by Mr. Dryden. 
SO Shipwrackt Passengers escape to Land,  
So look they, when on the bare Beach they stand  
Dropping and cold, and their first fear scarce o'er,  
Expecting Famine on a Desert Shore.  
From that hard Climate we must wait for Bread,  
Whence even the Natives, forced by hunger, fled.  
Our Stage does Humane Chance present to view,  
But ne'er before was seen so sadly true.  
You are changed too, and Your pretence to see,  
Is but a Nobler Name for Charity.  
Your own Provisions furnish out our Feasts,  
While You the Founders make yourselves the guests▪  
Of all Mankind beside Fate had some Care,  
But for poor Wit no portion did prepare,  
'Tis left a Rend Charge to the Brave and Fair.  
You cherished it, and now its Fall you mourn,  
Which blind unmannered Zealots make their scorn.  
Who think that Fire a Judgement on the Stage,  
Which spared not Temples in its furious rage.  
But as our new built City rises higher,  
So from Old Theatres may New aspire,  
Since Fate contrives Magnificence by Fire.  
Our Great Metropolis does far surpass  
What e'er is now, and equals all that was:  
Our Wit as far does Foreign Wit Excel,  
And, like a King, should in a Palace dwell.  
But we with Golden Hopes are vainly fed,  
Talk high, and Entertain You in a Shed:  
Your Presence here (for which we humbly Sue)  
Will Grace Old Theatres, and build up New.   

Prologue for the Women, when they Acted at the Old THEATRE in LINCOLNS-INN-FIELDS.  Written by Mr. Dryden. 
WHere none of you Gallants e'er driven so hard,  
As when the poor kind Soul was under guard  
And could not do't at home, in someby-street,  
To take a Lodging, and in private meet?  
Such is our Case, We can't appoint our House,  
The Lovers old and wanted Rendezvouz.  
But hither to this trusty Nook remove,  
The worse the Lodging is, the more the Love.  
For much good Pastime, many a dear sweet hug  
Is stolen in Garrets on the humble Rugg.  
Here's good Accommodation in the Pit,  
The Grave demurely in the midst may Sit.  
And so the hot Burgundian on the Side,  
Ply Vizard Masque, and o'er the Benches stride:  
Here are convenient upper Boxes too,  
For those that make the most triumphant show,  
All that keep Coaches must not Sat below.  
There Gallants, You betwixt the Acts retire,  
And at dull Plays have something to admire:  
We who look up, can Your Addresses mark;  
And see the Creatures Coupled in the Ark:  
So we expect the Lovers, Braves, and Wits,  
The Gaudy House with Scenes, will serve for Citts.   

A Prologue spoken at the Opening of the NEW HOUSE, Mar. 26. 1674.  Written by Mr. Dryden. 
A Plain Built House after so long a stay,  
Will send you half unsatisfied away;  
When, fallen from your expected Pomp, you find  
A bare convenience only is designed.  
You who each day can Theatres behold,  
Like Nero's Palace, shining all with Gold,  
Our mean ungilded Stage will scorn, we fear,  
And for the homely Room, disdain the Cheer.  
Yet now cheap Druggets to a Mode are grown,  
And a plain Suit (since we can make but one)  
Is better than to be by tarnisht gawdry known.  
They who are by Your Favours wealthy made,  
With mighty Sums may carry on the Trade:  
We, broken Bankers, half destroyed by Fire,  
With our small Stock to humble Roofs retire,  
Pity our Loss, while you their Pomp admire.  
For Fame and Honour we no longer strive,  
We yield in both, and only beg to Live.  
Unable to support their vast Expense,  
Who Build, and Treat with such Magnificence;  
That like th' Ambitious Monarches of the Age,  
They give the Law to our Provincial Stage:  
Great Neighbours enviously promote Excess,  
While they impose their Splendour on the less.  
But only Fools, and they of vast Estate,  
Th' extremity of Modes will imitate,  
The dangling Knee-fringe, and the Bib-Cravat.  
Yet if some Pride with want may be allowed,  
We in our plainness may be justly proud:  
Our Royal Master willed it should be so,  
What e'er He's pleased to own, can need no show:  
That Sacred Name gives Ornament and Grace,  
And, like his stamp, makes basest Metals pass.  
'Twere Folly now a stately Pile to raise,  
To build a Playhouse while You throw down Plays.  
Whilst Scenes, Machine's, and empty Opera's reign,  
And for the Pencil You the Pen disdain.  
While Troops of famished Frenchmen hither drive,  
And laugh at those upon whose Alms they live:  
Old English Authors vanish, and give place  
To these new Conqueror's of the Norman Race;  
More tamely, than your Fathers You submit,  
You're now grown Vassals to 'em in your wit:  
Mark, when they Play, how our fine Fops advance  
The mighty Merits of these Men of France,  
Keep Time, cry Been, and humour the Cadence:  
Well please yourselves, but sure 'tis understood,  
That French Machine's have ne'er done England good:  
I would not prophesy our House's Fate:  
But while vain shows and Scenes you over-rate,  
'Tis to be feared—  
That as a Fire the former House o'erthrew,  
Machine's and Tempests will destroy the new.   

Epilogue by the same Author.  
THough what our Prologue said was sadly true,  
Yet, Gentlemen, our homely House is new,  
A Charm that seldom fails with, wicked, You.  
A Country Lip may have the Velvet touch,  
Tho' She's no Lady, you may think her such,  
A strong imagination may do much.  
But you, loud Sirs, who tho' your Curls look big,  
Critics in Plume and white vallancy Wig,  
Who lolling on our foremost Benches sit,  
And still charge first, (the true forlorn of Wit)  
Whose favours, like the Sun, warm where you roll,  
Yet you like him, have neither heat nor Soul;  
So may your Hats your Foretops never press,  
Untouched your Ribbons, sacred be your dress;  
So may you slowly to Old Age advance,  
And have th' excuse of Youth for Ignorance.  
So may ●op corner full of noise remain,  
And drive far off the dull attentive train;  
So may your Midnight Scowrings happy prove,  
And Morning Batt'ries force your way to Love;  
So may not France your Warlike Hands recall,  
But leave you by each others Swords to fall:  
As you come here to ruffle Vizard Punk,  
When sober, rail and roar when you are drunk.  
But to the Wits we can some merit plead,  
And urge what by themselves has oft been said:  
Our House relieves the Ladies from the frights  
Of ill paved Streets, and long dark Winter Nights;  
The Flanders Horses from a cold bleak Road,  
Where Bears in Furs dare scarcely look abroad.  
The Audience from worn Plays and Fustian Stuff  
Of Rhyme, more nauseous than three Boys in Buff.  
Though in their House the Poet's Heads appear,  
We hope we may presume their Wits are here.  
The best which they reserved they now will Play,  
For, like kind Cuckolds, tho' w' have not the way  
To please, we'll find you Abler Men who may.  
If they should fail, for last recruits we breed  
A Troop of frisking Monsieurs to succeed:  
(You know the French sure cards at time of need.)   

An EPILOGUE.  Written by Mr. Dryden. 
WEre you but half so Wise as y'are Severe,  
Our youthful Poet should not need to fear.  
To his green Years your Censures you would suit,  
Not blast the Blossom, but expect the Fruit.  
The Sex that best does pleasure understand,  
Will always choose to err on t' other hand.  
They check not him that's awkard in delight,  
But Clap the young Rogue's Cheek, and set him right.  
Thus heart'nd well and fleshed upon his prey,  
The Yonth may prove a Man another day.  
Your Ben and Fletcher in their first young flight  
Did no Volpone, no Arbaces write.  
But hopped about, and short excursions made  
From Bough to Bough, as if they were afraid,  
And each were guilty of some slighted Maid.  
Shakespear's own Muse her Pericles first bore,  
The Prince of Tyre was elder than the Moor:  
'Tis miracle to see a first good Play,  
All Hawthorns do not bloom on Christmas-day.  
A slender Poet must have time to grow,  
And spread and burnish as his Brothers do.  
Who still looks lean, sure with some Pox is cursed,  
But no Man can be Falstaff fat at first.  
Then damn not, but indulge his stewed essays,  
Encourage him, and bloat him up with praise.  
That he may get more bulk before he dies,  
He's not yet fed enough for Sacrifice.  
Perhaps if now your Grace you will not grudge,  
He may grow up to Write, and you to Judge.   

An Epilogue for the KING'S HOUSE.  Written by Mr. Dryden. 
WE Act by fits and starts, like drowning Men,  
But just peep up, and then dop down again.  
Let those who call us wicked, change their sense,  
For never Men lived more on Providence.  
Not Lott'ry Cavaliers are half so poor,  
Nor broken Citts, nor a Vacation Whore.  
Not Courts, nor Courtiers living on the Rents  
Of the three last ungiving Parliaments.  
So wretched, that if Pharaoh could Divine,  
He might have spared his dream of 7 Lean Kine,  
And changed his Vision for the Muses Nine.  
The Comet, that they say portends a Dearth,  
Was but a Vapour drawn from Playhouse Earth.  
Penned there since our last Fire, and Lily says,  
Foreshews our change of State, and thin Third days.  
'Tis not our want of Wit that keeps us poor,  
For then the Printers Press would suffer more.  
Their Pamphleteers each day their venom spit,  
They thrive by Treason, and we starve by Wit.  
Confess the truth, 
Looking above.  which of you has not laid  
Four Farthings out to buy the Hatfield Maid?  
Or which is duller yet, and more would spite us,  
Democritus his Wars with Heraclitus.  
Such are the Authors who have run us down,  
And exercised you Critics of the Town.  
Yet these are Pearls to your Lampooning Rhymes,  
Y'abuse yourselves more dully than the Times.  
Scandal, the Glory of the English Nation,  
Is worn to Rags, and scribbled out of fashion.  
Such harmless thrusts, as if, like Fencers wise,  
They had agreed their Play before their prize:  
Faith, they may hang their Harps upon the Willows  
'Tis just like Children when they Box with pillows.  
Then put an end to Civil Wars for shame,  
Let each Knight Errand who has wronged a Dame,  
Throw down his Pen, and give Her as He can,  
The satisfaction of a Gentleman.   

Prologue to the Princess of CLEVES.  Written by Mr. Dryden. 
LAdies! (I hope there's none behind to hear,)  
I long to whisper something in your Ear:  
A Secret, which does much my Mind perplex,  
There's Treason in the Play against our Sex.  
A Man that's false to Love, that Vows and cheats,  
And kisses every living thing he meets!  
A Rogue in Mode, I dare not speak too broad,  
One that does something to the very Bawd.  
Out on him, Traitor, for a filthy Beast,  
Nay, and he's like the pack of all the rest;  
None of 'em stick at mark: They all deceive,  
Some jew has changed the Text, I half believe,  
Their Adam cozened our poor Grandam Eve.  
To hide their faults they rap out Oaths and tear:  
Now tho' we Lie w●re too well bred to Swear.  
So we compound for half the Sin we owe,  
But men are dipped for Soul and Body too.  
And when found out excuse themselves, ●ox cant 'em,  
With Latin stuff, perjuria ridet Amantum.  
I'm not Book Learned to know that word in vogue,  
But I suspect 'tis Latin for a Rogue.  
I'm sure I never heard that Schritchowl hollowed  
In my poor ears, but Separation followed.  
How can such perjured Villains ere be Saved,  
Achitophel's not half so false to David.  
With Vows and soft expressions to allure,  
They stand like Foremen of a Shop, demure,  
No sooner out of sight, but they are gadding,  
And for the next new Face Ride out a padding.  
Yet, by their favour when they have been Kissing,  
We can perceive the ready Money missing:  
Well! we may rail, but 'tis as good even wink,  
Something we find, and something they will sink.  
But since they're at Renouncing, 'tis our parts,  
To trump their Diamonds, as they trump our Heart's   

Epilogue to the Princess of Cleves,  Written by Mr. Dryden. 
A Qualm of Conscience brings me back again  
To make amends to you be spattered Men!  
We Women Love like Cats, that hide their Joys,  
By growling, squaling, and a hideous noise.  
I railed at wild young Sparks, but without lying,  
Never was Man worse thought on for highflying;  
The prodigal of Love gives each her part,  
And squandring shows, at least, a noble Heart.  
I've heard of Men, who in some lewd Lampoon,  
Have hired a Friend, to make their valour known.  
That Accusation strait, this question brings,  
What is the Man that does such naughty things?  
The Spaniel Lover, like a sneaking Fop,  
Lies at our Feet. He's scarce worth taking up;  
'Tis true, such Hero's in a Play go far,  
But Chamber practice, is not like the Bar.  
When Men such vile, such faint Petitions make,  
We fear to give, because they fear to take;  
Since Modesty's the Virtue of our kind,  
Pray let it be to our own Sex confined.  
When Men usurp it from the Female Nation,  
'Tis but a work of Supererrogation.—  
We showed a Princess in the Play. 'Tis true,  
Who gave her Caesar more than all his due.  
Told her own Faults, but I should much abhor,  
To choose a Husband for my Confessor.  
You see what Fate followed the Saintlike Fool,  
For telling Tales from out the Nuptial School.  
Our Play a merry Comedy had proved,  
Had she Confessed as much to him she loved.  
True Presbyterian-Wives, the means would try,  
But damned Confessing is flat Popery.   

Spoken, To the Queen in Trinity-College New-Court in Cambridge.  Written by Mr. DUKE. 
THou equal Partner of the Royal Bed,  
That ma'kst a Crown sit soft on Charles' Head;  
In whom with Greatness, Virtue takes her Seat;  
Meekness with Power, and Piety with State;  
Whose Goodness might even Factious Crowds reclaim,  
Win the Seditious and the Savage tame;  
Tyrants themselves to gentlest Mercy bring,  
And only Useless is on such a King;  
See, Mighty Princess, see how every Breast,  
With Joy and Wonder, is at once possessed:  
Such was the Joy, which the first Mortals known,  
When Gods descended to the people's view,  
Such devout Wonder did it then afford,  
To see those Powers they had unseen adored,  
But they were Feigned: Nor if they had been true,  
Could shed more Blessings on the Earth than you.  
Our Courts enlarged, their former bounds disdain,  
To make Reception for so great a Train;  
Here may your Sacred Breast rejoice to see,  
Your own Age strive with Ancient Piety,  
Soon now, since Blest by your Auspicious Eyes,  
To full Perfection shall our Fabric rise.  
Less powerful Charms than Yours of old could call,  
The willing Stones into the Theban Wall,  
And Ours which Now its rise to You shall owe,  
More famed than that by Your great Name shall grow.   

FLORIANA, A PASTORAL upon the Death of her Grace the Duchess of Southampton.  By Mr. DUKE. Damon. 
TEll me my Thyrsis, tell thy Damon, why  
Does my loved Swain in this sad posture lie?  
What mean these streams still falling from thine Eyes,  
Fast as those sighs from thy swollen bosom rise?  
Has the fierce Wolf broke through the fenced ground?  
Have thy Lambs strayed? or has Dorinda frowned?  Thyrsis. 
The Wolf? Ah! let him come for now he may  
Have thy Lambs strayed? let 'em for ever stray:  
Dorinda frowned? No, She is ever mild;  
Nay, I remember but just now She smiled:  
Alas! She smiled; for to the lovely Maid  
None had the fatal Tidings yet conveyed:  
Tell me then Shepherd, tell me, canst thou find  
As long as thou art true, and She is kind,  
A Grief so great, as may prevail above  
Even Damon's Friendship, or Dorinda's Love?  Damon. 
Sure there is none.  Thyrs. 
But, Damon there may be:  
What if the charming Floriana die?  Damon. 
Far be the Omen!  Thyrs. 
But suppose it true.  Damon. 
Then should I grieve my Thyrsis, more than you.  
She is—  Thyrs. 
Alas! She was, but is no more;  
Now, Damon, now, let thy swollen eyes run o'er:  
Here to this Turf by thy sad Thyrsis grow,  
And when my streams of Grief too shallow flow,  
Let in thy Tide to raise the Torrent high,  
Till both a Deluge make, and in it die.  Damon. 
Then that to this wished height the Flood might swell,  
Friend, I will tell thee.  Th. 
Friend, I thee will tell,  
How young, how good, how beautiful She fell.  
Oh! She was all for which fond Mothers pray,  
Blessing their Babes when first they see the Da●.  
Beauty and She were one; for in her Face  
Sat Sweetness tempered with Majestic Grace;  
Such powerful Charms as might the proudest awe,  
Yet such attractive goodness as might draw  
The Humblest, and to both give equal Law.  
How was She wondered at by every Swain?  
The Pride, the Light, the Goddess of the Plain:  
On all She shined, and spreading glories cast  
Diffusive of herself, where be She passed,  
There breathed an Air sweet as the Winds that blow  
From the blessed Shores where fragrant Spices grow:  
Even me sometimes She with a Smile would grace,  
Like the Sun shining on the vilest place.  
Nor did Dorinda bar me the Delight  
Of feasting on her Eyes my longing Sight:  
But to a Being so sublime, so pure,  
Spared my devotion, of my Love secure.  Damon. 
Her Beauty such: but Nature did design  
That only as an answerable Shrine  
To the Divinity that's lodged within.  
Her Soul shined through, and made her form so bright,  
As Clouds are guilt by the Sun's piercing Light.  
In her smooth Forehead we might read expressed  
The even Calmness of her gentle Breast:  
And in her sparkling Eyes as clear was writ  
The active vigour of her youthful Wit.  
Each Beauty of the Body or the Face  
Was but the shadow of some inward Grace.  
Gay, sprightly, cheerful, free, and unconfined,  
As innocence could make it, was her Mind;  
Yet prudent, though not tedious nor severe,  
Like those, who being dull, would grave appear;  
Who out of guilt do Cheerfulness despise,  
And being ●ullen, hope men think 'em wise.  
How would the listening Shepherds round her throng,  
To catch the words fell from her charming Tongue!  
She all with her own Spirit and Soul inspired,  
Her they all loved, and her they all admired.  
Even mighty Pan, whose powerful Hand sustains,  
The Sovereign Crook that mildly awes the Plains,  
Of all his Cares made her the tenderest part;  
And great Lovisa lodged her in her Heart.  Thyrsis. 
Who would not now a solemn Mourning keep,  
When Pan himself and fair Lovisa weep?  
When those blessed Eyes by the kind gods designed  
To cherish Nature, and delight Mankind,  
All drowned in Tears, melt into gentler Showers  
Than April drops upon the Springing Flowers;  
Such Tears as Venus for Adonis shed,  
When at her feet the Lovely Youth lay dead;  
About her, all her little weeping Loves  
Ungirt her Cestos, and unyoakt her Doves.  Damon. 
Come pious Nymphs, with fair Lovisa come,  
And visit gentle Floriana's Tomb;  
And as you walk the Melancholy Round,  
Where no unhallowed feet profane the ground,  
With your chaste hands fresh flowers and odours shed  
About her last obscure and silent Bed;  
Still praying as you gently move your feet,  
Soft be her Pillow, and her Slumbers sweet.  Thyrsis. 
See where they come, a mournful lovely Train,  
As ever wept on fair Arcadia's Plain:  
Lovisa mournful far above the rest,  
In all the Charms of beauteous Sorrow dressed:  
Just are her Tears, when She reflects how soon  
A Beauty, second only to her own,  
Flourished, looked gay, was withered, and is gone!  Damon. 
O She is gone! gone like a newborn flower,  
That decked some Virgin-Queens delicious Bower;  
Torn from the Stalk by some untimely blast,  
And amongst the vilest weeds and rubbish cast:  
But flowers return, and coming Springs disclose,  
The Lily whiter, and more fresh the Rose;  
But no kind Season back her Charms can bring,  
And Floriana has no second Spring.  Thyrsis. 
O She is set! set like the falling Sun;  
Darkness is round us, and glad Day is gone!  
Alas! the Sun that's set, again will rise,  
And gild with richer Beams the Morning Skies:  
But Beauty, though as bright as they it shines,  
When its short glory to the West declines,  
O there's no hope of the returning Light;  
But all is long Oblivion, and eternal Night.   

The Tears of AMYNTA, for the Death of DAMON.  By Mr. Dryden. 
SONG.  

ON a bank, beside a Willow,  
Heaven her Covering, Earth her Pillow,  
Sad Amynta sighed alone:  
From the chearless Dawn of Morning  
Till the Dews of Night returning  
Singing thus she made her moan:  
Hope is banished  
Joys are vanished;  
Damon, my belov'd is gone!   

2.  
Time, I dare thee to discover  
Such a Youth, and such a Lover,  
Oh so true, so kind was he!  
Damon was the Pride of Nature,  
Charming in his every Feature,  
Damon lived alone for me:  
Me●●ng Kisses  
Murmuring Blisses,  
Who so lived and loved as we!   

3.  
〈◊〉 shall we curse the Morning,  
〈◊〉 b●ess the Night returning,  
Sweet Embraces to restore:  
Never shall we both lie dying  
Nature failing, Love supplying  
All the Joys he drained before:  
Death, come end me▪  
To befriend me;  
Love and Damon are no more.    

The Praises of Italy out of Virgil's Second GEORGIC.  By Mr. Chetwood. 
Sed neque Medorum Sylvae, etc.  
BUt neither Median Groves, whose happy soil  
With choicest Fruits prevents the labourer's toil,  
Nor Ganges streams blessing his fertile land  
Nor Hermus' self rolling on golden sand,  
Can with fair Italy the prize contest,  
Less gay the glorious Kingdoms of the East, blest.  
Nor Araby, with all her gums and spice, is half so  
No Hydra's she, or monstrous Bulls does bear,  
Who with their flaming Nostrils blast the Air;  
Nor Dragons teeth sown in the wondering field  
Do short-lived Harvests of armed brethren yield:  
But vital fruits she brings, Wine, Oil, and Corn,  
And fairest Cattle do her Meads adorn.  
Her warlike Horse is of the noblest Race,  
Who proudly prances o'er his native Place.  
And where thy Magic streams, Clitumnus, flow,  
The flocks are white as the fresh falling snow.  
Heaven does so much those sacred Victims prize  
'Twill give a Conquest for a Sacrifice.  
As in the North 'tis Winter makes the year,  
The Spring and Autumn are the seasons here,  
cattle breed twice, & twice the restless furrows bear.  
But Heaven has banished hence rough beasts of prey,  
No hungry Lions on the Mountains stray,  
Nor monstrous snakes make insecure the fearful travellers way.  
Nature did this; but Industry and Art  
To the rich mass did nobler forms impart.  
Her Marble Rocks into fair Cities rise,  
Which with their pointed Turrets pierce the skies.  
Here, pleasant seats by which clear streams do pass  
Gaze on their shadows in the liquid Glass:  
There, big with story, ancient Walls do show  
Their reverend heads; beneath famed rivers flow.  
The Sea, which would surround the happy place,  
Does it on both sides with his arms embrace:  
And stately Galleys which the Adria ride,  
Bring the world's Tribute with each gentle Tide.  
The spacious Lakes with level prospect please,  
Or swell, an imitation of the Seas.  
What should I tell how 〈◊〉 undertake  
To make a Haven in the Lucrine Lake?  
The 〈◊〉 Mole which bridles in the Main,  
Whilst angry Surges spend their rage in vain,  
As 〈◊〉 Arms all Nations can subdue,  
So 〈◊〉 Works can conquer Nature too.  
〈…〉 veins of Silver hold,  
And 〈◊〉 are all under arched with Gold;  
But her chief Treasures without which the rest are vain,  
Are Men for labour, Generals made to reign.  
She bred the Marsian who ne'er knew to yield,  
And 〈◊〉 Ligurian, fit for either Field:  
Triumphant Cottagers, whose frugal hand  
Held both the Spade and Truncheon of command:  
Decii devoted for the public good,  
Compounding for whole Armies with their blood:  
Camillus saviour of the sinking State,  
Who rescued Rome even from the midst of Fate.  
Marii who Roman Eagles bore so far,  
And Scipio's, the two Thunderbolts of War.  
You last, Great Caesar, whose green years did more  
Than General's old in Triumphs could before.  
You towards th' East your glorious course do run,  
India forgets now to adore the Sun.  
Hail! happy soil, Learning and Empire's Seat,  
Mother of Hero's, Saturn's soft Retreat.  
To you I Grecian Arts in Triumph bring,  
And your just Praise in lasting numbers sing.   

The Ninth ODE of the Fourth Book of HORACE.  By Mr. Stepney. 

VErses Immortal (as my Bays) I Sing,  
When suited to my trembling string:  
When by strange Art both Voice and Lyre agree  
To make one pleasant Harmony.  
All Poets are by their blind Captain led,  
(For none e'er had the sacrilegious pride  
To tear the well-placed Laurel from his aged head;)  
Yet Pindars rolling Dithyrambique Tide,  
Hath still this Praise, that none presume to fly  
Like Him, but flag too low, or soar too high.  
Still does Stesichorus his Tongue  
Sing sweeter than the Bird which on it hung.  
Anacreon ne'er too Old can grow,  
Love from every Verse does flow:  
Still Sappho's strings do seem to move,  
Instructing all her Sex to Love.   

2.  
Golden Rings of flowing Hair,  
More than Helen did ensnare;  
Others a Prince's Grandeur did admire,  
And wondering, melted to desire.  
Not only skilful Teucer knew  
To direct Arrows from the bended Ewgh.  
Troy more than once did fall,  
Tho' hireling God's rebuilt its nodding Wall.  
Was Stenelus the only valiant He,  
A Subject fit for lasting Poetry?  
Was Hector that prodigious Man alone,  
Who, to save others Lives, exposed his own?  
Was only He so brave to dare his Fate,  
And be the Pillar of a tottering State?  
No, Others buried in Oblivion lie,  
As silent as their Crave,  
Because no charitable Poet gave  
Their well-deserved Immortality.   

3.  
Virtue with Sloth, and Cowards with the Brave,  
Are levelled in th' Impartial Grave,  
If they no Poet have.  
But I will lay my Music by,  
And 〈◊〉 the mournful s●ri●gs in silence lie;  
Unless my Songs begin and end with You,  
To whom my strings, to whom my Songs are due.  
No Pride does with your rising Honours grow,  
You meekly look on suppliant Crowds below.   

Should Fortune change your happy state,  
You could Admire, yet Envy not, the Great.  
Your equal Hand holds an unbyass'd Scale,  
Where no rich Vices, guilded Baits prevail.  
You with a generous Honesty despise,  
What all the meaner World so dearly prize.  
Nor does Your Virtue disappear,  
With the small Circle of one short-lived Year.  
Others, like Comets, visit and away;  
Your Lustre (great as theirs) finds no decay,  
But with the constant Sun makes an eternal day.   

4.  
We barbarously call those Blessed,  
Who are of largest Tenements possessed,  
Whilst swelling Coffers break their Owners rest.  
More truly Happy those! who can  
Govern the little Empire, Man:  
Bridle their Passions, and direct their Will  
Through all the glittering paths of charming iii.  
Who spend their Treasure freely, as 'twas given  
By the large Bounty of indulgent Heaven.  
Who in a fixed unalterable state,  
Smile at the doubtful Tide of Fate,  
And scorn alike her Friendship and her Hate.  
Who Poison less than Falsehood fear,  
Loath to purchase Life so dear:  
But kindly for their Friend embrace cold Death,  
And seal their Country's Love with their departing breath.    

HOR. ODE 15. Lib. 2. Imitated.  
jam pauca aratro jugera, In sui seculi luxnriam.  By Mr. Chetwood. 

THen this unwieldy Factious Town,  
To such prodigious bulk is grown,  
It on whole Counties stands, and now  
Land will be wanting for the Blow.  
Those remnants too the Boors forsake,  
Frith must the Nation undertake.  
As in a Plague the Fields shall desert lie,  
Whilst all men to the mighty Pesthouse fly.   

2.  
If any Tree is to be seen,  
'tis Myrtle, Bays, and ever green.  
Lime-trees, and Plane, for pleasure made,  
Which for their Fruit bear only Shade.  
Such as do Female Men content,  
With useless show and barren scent.  
The British Oak will shortly be as rare,  
As Orange-Trees here once, or Cedar were.   

3.  
Not by these Arts, my Masters, sure  
Your Fathers did those Lands procure.  
They preferred Use to empty show,  
No softening French refinements knew.  
Themselves, their House, their Table, plain,  
Noble, and richly clad their Train.  
Temperance did Health without Physicians keep,  
And Labour crowned hard beds with easy sleep.   

4.  
To th' Public rich, in private poor,  
Th' Exchequer held their greatest store.  
They did adorn their Native Place  
With Structures, which their Heirs deface.  
They in large Palaces did dwell,  
Which we to Undertakers sell.  
Stately Cathedrals they did Found,  
Whose Ruins now deform the ground.  
Churches and Colleges endowed with Lands,  
Whose poor Remains fear Sacrilegious Hands.    

The sixteenth ODE Of the second Book OF HORACE.  By Mr. Otway. 

IN Storms when Clouds the Moon do hide,  
And no kind Stars the Pilot guide,  
Show me at Sea the boldest there,  
Who does not wish for quiet here.   

For quiet (Friend) the Soldier fights▪  
Bears weary Marches, sleepless nights,  
For this feeds hard, and lodges cold,  
Which can't be bought with hills of Gold.   

Since wealth and power too weak we find  
To quell the tumults of the mind;  
Or from the Monarch's roofs of state  
Drive thence the cares that round him wait.   

Happy the man with little blessed  
Of what his Father le●t possessed;  
No base desires corrupt his head,  
No fears disturb him in his bed.   

What then in life, which soon must end,  
Can all our vain designs intend?  
From shore to shore why should we run  
When none his tiresome self can shun?   

For baneful care will still prevail,  
And overtake us under fail,  
'Twill dodge the Great man's train behind,  
Out run the Roe, out fly the wind.   

If then thy soul rejoice to day,  
Drive far to morrows cares away.  
In laughter let them all be drowned,  
No perfect good is to be found.   

One Mortal feels Fates sudden blow,  
Another's lingering death comes slow;  
And what of life they take from thee,  
The Gods may give to punish me.   

Thy portion is a wealthy stock,  
A fertile glebe, a fruitful flock,  
Horses and Chariots for thy ease,  
Rich Robes to deck and make thee please.   

For me a little Cell I choose,  
Fit for my mind, ●it for my muse,  
Which soft content does Best adorn,  
Shunning the Knaves and Fools I scorn.    

The First EPOD. OF HORACE.  

1.  
THen you, Maecenas, with your train,  
Embarking on the Royal Fleet,  
Expose yourself to the rough Main,  
And Caesar's threatening danger meet.  
Whilst in ignoble ease I am left behind,  
And shall I call you cruel, or too kind?   

2.  
Pastimes and Wine, which verse inspire,  
Are tasteless all now you are gone,  
Untuned is both my mind, and Lyre,  
And in full Courts I seem alone.  
The relish you to my enjoyments give,  
And life, deprived of you, could hardly live.   

3.  
〈…〉 I a young Seaman grow,  
〈…〉 a Cutlace in my hand?  
〈…〉 you, to the Pole I'd go,  
〈…〉 scorched Afric's treacherous sand.  
〈…〉 perhaps could fight, or such as I,  
〈…〉, instead of better men could die.   

4.  
You'll say, what are my pains to you?  
I'm not for War, and action made:  
Bid me my humble care pursue,  
Seek Winter Sun, and Summer shade.  
Whilst both your great example, and Commands  
Require more active, and experienced hands.   

5.  
If you say this, you never knew  
Friendship, the noblest part of love;  
What for her Fawn can the old One do  
Or for her young the timorous Dove?  
They're more at ease, though helpless, being near,  
And absence, even in safety, causes fear.   

6.  
This Voyage, and a hundred more,  
To gain your favour I would take.  
But done't what's said on virtue's score,  
For servile flattery mistake.  
No City Palace, or large Country Seat  
I seek, nor aim so low as to be Great.   

7.  
I never liked those restless minds,  
Which by mean arts, with mighty pain,  
Climb to the Region of the Wind,  
Then of Court Hurricanes complain.  
Kind heaven assures me I shall ne'er be poor,  
And Os— n be damned to increase his store.    

EPILOGUE intended to have been spoken by the Lady Henr. Mar. Wentworth when Calisto was acted at Court.  

AS jupiter I made my Court in vain,  
I'll now assume my native shape again.  
I'm weary to be so unkindly used,  
And would not be a God to be refused.  
State grows uneasy when it hinders love,  
A glorious burden, which the Wise remove.  
Now as a Nymph I need not sue nor try  
The force of any lightning but the eye.  
Beauty and youth more than a God Command;  
No jove could e'er the force of these withstand.  
'Tis here that Sovereign Power admits dispute,  
Beauty sometimes is justly absolute.  
Our sullen Cato's, whatsoever they say,  
Even while they frown and dictate Laws, obey.  
You, mighty Sir, our Bonds more easy make  
And gracefully what all must suffer take.  
Above those forms the Grave affect to wear;  
For 'tis not to be wise to be severe.  
True wisdom may some gallantry admit,  
And soften business with the charms of wit.  
These peaceful Triumphs with your cares 〈◊〉 boug●●  
And from the midst of fight Nations borough.  
You only hear it thunder from afar,  
And sit in peace the Arbiter of War.  
Peace, the loathed Manna, which hot brains despise  
You knew its worth, and made it early prize:  
And in its happy leisure sit and see  
The promises of more felicity.  
Two glorious Nymphs of your one Godlike line,  
Whose Morning Rays like Noontide strike and shine.  
Whom you to suppliant Monarches shall dispose,  
To bind your Friends and to disarm your Foes.    

VIRGIL'S Eclogues.  
TRANSLATED BY SEVERAL HANDS.  
Printed in the Year, 1684.   

THE First Eclogue.  By JOHN caryl Esq 
THe Reader may be pleased to observe, that Virgil, under the Name of Tityrus, personates himself, newly saved▪ by the Favour of Augustus Caesar, from the general Calamity of his Mantuan Neighbours; whose Lands were taken from them, and divided amongst the Veteran Soldiers, for having been dipped (as may be presumed) in the same Gild with their Borderers of Cremona; who in the Civil Wars, joined with Cassius and Brutus. These Mantuans are likewise personated by Melibeus; as also by Amarillis, the City of Rome, by Galatea, that of Mantua are represented. The drift of this Eclogue, is to celebrate the Munificence of Augustus towards Virgil, whom he makes his tutelar God; and the better to ●et this off, he brings in Melibeus, viz. his Mantuan Neighbours, pathetically relating their own duplorable Condition, and at the same time magnifying the felicity of Tityrus. This his Exemption from the common Calamity of his Countrymen, Virgil shadows over with the Allegory of a Slave, recovering his Liberty: And because Slaves did not commonly use to be inf●anchist, till Age had made them useless for Labour, to follow the Trope, he makes himself an old man, as by the Candidior barba, and the Fortunate Senex, sufficiently appears; though in reality, Virgil at that time was young, and then first made known to Augustus, by the recommendation of his Verses, and of his Friends, Varus, and Maecenas.  TITYRUS. MELIBEUS. MELIBEUS. 
IN peaceful Shades, which aged Oaks diffuse,  
You (Tityrus) enjoy your rural Muse.  
We leave our Home, and (once) our pleasant Fields,  
The native Swain to rude Intruders yields;  
While you in Songs your happy Love proclaim,  
And every Grove learns Amarillis name.  TITYRUS. 
A God (to me he always shall be so)  
O Melibeus! did this Grace bestow,  
The choicest Lamb, which in my Flock does feed,  
Shall each new Moon upon his Altar bleed:  
He every Blessing on his Creatures brings;  
By him the Herd does graze, by him the Herdsman sings.  MELIBEUS. 
I envy not, but I admire your Fate,  
Which thus exempts you from our wretched State▪  
Look on my Goats that browse, my Kids that play,  
Driven hence myself, these I must drive away,  
And this poor Mother of a new-fallen Pair,  
(The Herds chief Hope (alas) but my Despair!)  
Has left 'em in yond brakes, beside the way,  
Exposed to every Beast and Bird of prey.  
Had not some angry Planet struck me blind,  
This dire Calamity I had divined.  
'Twas oft foretold me by Heaven's loudest voice,  
Rending our tallest Oaks with dismal noise:  
Ravens spoke too, though in a lower tone,  
And long from hollow tree were heard to groan.  
But say: What God has Tityrus relieved?  TITYRUS. 
The Place called Rome, I foolishly believed,  
Was like our Mantua, where on Market-days,  
We drive our well-fed Lambs, (the Shepherd's praise;)  
So Whelps (I knew) so Kids, their Dams express,  
And so the Great I measured by the less.  
But other Towns when you to her compare,  
They creeping Shrubs to the tall Cypress are.  MELIBEUS. 
What great occasion called you hence to Rome?  TITYRUS. 
Freedom, which came at last, though slow to come:  
She came not till cold Winter did begin,  
And Age some Snow had sprinkled on my Chin;  
Nor then, till Galatea I forsook,  
For Amarillis, deigned on me to look.  
No hope for Liberty, I must confess,  
No hope, nor care of Wealth, did me possess,  
Whilst I with Galatea did remain:  
For though my Flock, her Altars did maintain,  
Though often I had made my Cheese▪ press groan,  
Largely to furnish our ungrateful Town,  
Yet still with empty hands I trotted home.  MELIBEUS. 
I wondered (Galatea!) whence should come,  
Thy sad Complaints to Heaven, and why so long  
Ungathered on their Trees thy Apples hung?  
Absent was Tityrus! Thee every Dale,  
Mountain and Spring, thee every Tree did call!  TITYRUS. 
What should I do? I could not here be free,  
And only in that place could hope to see  
A God propitious to my Liberty,  
There I the Heavenly Youth did first behold,  
Whose monthly Feast, while solemnly I hold,  
My loaded Altars never shall be cold.  
He heard my Prayers, go home (he cried) and feed  
In peace your Herd, let forth your Bulls for breed.  MELIBEUS. 
Happy old Man! thy Farm untouched remains,  
And large enough; though it may ask thy pains,  
To clear the Stones, and Rushes cure by Drains.  
Thy teeming Ewes will no strange Pastures try,  
No murrain fear from tainted Company.  
Thrice happy Swain! guarded from Sirian beams,  
By sacred Springs, and long acquainted Streams.  
Look on that bordering Fence, whose Osier Trees  
Are fraught with flowers, whose flowers are fraught with Bees:  
How, with their drowsy tone, the whistling Air  
(Your sleep to tempt) a Consort does prepare!  
At farther distance, but with stronger Lungs,  
The Woodman joins with these his rustic Songs:  
Stock-doves, and murmuring Turtles tune their Throat  
Those in a hoarser, these a softer Note.  TITYRUS. 
Therefore the Land and Sea shall Dwellers change,  
Fish on dry ground, Stags shall on water range:  
The Parthians shall commute their bounds with Francs,  
Those shall on Soan, these drink on Tigris Banks,  
ere I his Godlike Image from my heart,  
Suffer with black ingratitude to part.  MELIBEUS. 
But we must room to Parts remote, unknown,  
Under the Torrid, and the Frigid Zone:  
These frozen Scythia, and parched Africa those,  
Cretan Oaxis others must enclose:  
Some amongst the utmost Britain's are confined,  
Doomed to an Isle, from all the world disjoined.  
Ah! must I never more my Country see,  
But in strange Lands an endless Exile be?  
Is my eternal Banishment decreed,  
From my poor Cottage, reared with Turf and Reed?  
Must impious Soldiers all these grounds possess,  
My fields of standing Corn, my fertile Leyes?  
Did I for these Barbarians plow and sow?  
What dire effects from Civil Discord flow!  
Graft Pears (O Melibeus!) plant the Vine!  
The Fruit shall others be, the Labour thine.  
Farewell my Goats! a happy Herd, when mine!  
No more shall I, in the refreshing Shade  
Of verdant Grottoes, by kind Nature made,  
Behold your climbing on the Mountain top,  
The flowery Thyme, and fragrant Shrubs to crop.  
I part with every Joy, parting from you;  
Then farewell all the World! Verses and Pipe, adieu!  TITYRUS. 
At least this Night with me forget your care;  
Chestnuts, and well-prest Cheese shall be your Fare;  
For now the Mountain a long Shade extends,  
And curling smoke from Village tops ascends.   

THE Second Eclogue.  Englished by Mr. TATE. 

A Hopeless Flame did Corydon destroy,  
The loved Alexis was his Masters Joy.  
No respite from his Grief the Shepherd knew,  
But daily walked where shady Beeches grew:  
Where stretched on Earth, alone he thus complains,  
And in these accents tells the Groves his pains.  
Cruel Alexis! hast thou no remorse?  
Must I expire, and have my Songs no force?  
'Tis now high Noon, when Herds to Coverts run,  
The very Lizzards hide, that love the Sun.  
The Reapers home to dinner now repair,  
While busy Thestylis provides both Sauce and Fare.  
Yet in the raging Heat I search for thee,  
Heat only known to Locusts and to me.  
Oh was it not much better to sustain,  
The angry days of Amarillis Reign?  
Or still be subject to Menalchas sway,  
Tho' he more black than Night, and thou more fair than Day.  
O lovely Boy, presume not on thy Form,  
The fairest Flowers are subject to a Storm:  
Thou both disdainest my Person and my Flame,  
Without so much as ask who I am!  
How rich in Heifers, all as white as Snow,  
Or Cream, with which they make my Dairies flow▪  
A thousand Ewes within my Pastures breed,  
And all the Year upon New-Milk I feed.  
Besides, the famed Amphious Songs I sing,  
That into Theban Walls the Stones did bring.  
Nor am I so deformed; for t'other day,  
When all the dreadful Storm was blown away,  
As on the Cliffs, above the Sea I stood,  
I viewed my Image in the Sea-green Flood;  
And if I look as handsome all the year,  
To vie with Daphnis self, I would not fear.  
Ah wouldst thou once in Cottages delight,  
And love like me, to wound the Stag in flight!  
Where wholesome Mallows grow our Kids to drive,  
And in our Songs with Pan himself to strive!  
From Pan the Reeds first use the Shepherd knew,  
'Tis Pan preserves the Sheep and Shepherd too.  
Disdain not then the tuneful Reed to ply,  
Nor scorn the Pastime of a Deity.  
What task would not Amyntas undergo,  
For half the Noble Skill I offer you?  
A Pipe with Quills of various size I have,  
The Legacy Dametas dying gave;  
And said, possess thou this, by right 'tis thine;  
Amyntas then stood by, and did repine:  
Besides two Kids that I from danger bore,  
With streak of lovely white enamelled o'er;  
Who drain the bagging Udder twice a day,  
And both at home for thy acceptance stay.  
Oft Thestylis for them has pined, and she  
Shall have them, since thou scornest my Gifts and me▪  
Come to my Arms, thou lovely Boy, and take  
The richest Presents that the Spring can make.  
See how the Nymphs with Lilies wait on thee;  
Fair Nais, scarce thyself so fair as she.  
With Poppies, Daffodils and Violets joined,  
A Garland for thy softer Brow has twined.  
Myself with downy Peaches will appear,  
And Chestnuts, Amarillis dainty Cheer:  
I'll crop my Laurel, and my Myrtle Tree,  
Together bound, because their sweets agree.  
Unbred thou art, and homely Corydon,  
Nor will Alexis with thy Gifts be won:  
Nor canst thou hope, if gifts his mind could sway,  
That rich jolas' would to thee give way.  
Ah me! while I fond wretch indulge my Dreams,  
Winds blast my Flowers, and Boars bemire my Streams.  
Whom flyst thou? Gods themselves have had abode,  
In Woods, and Paris, equal to a God.  
Let Pallas in the Towns she built, reside,  
To me a Grove's worth all the World beside:  
Lions chase Wolves, those Wolves a Kid in prime,  
That very Kid seeks Heaths of flowering time,  
While Corydon pursues with equal flame;  
Alexis, thee; each has his several Game.  
See how the Ox unyoakt brings home the Blow,  
The Shades increasing as the Sun goes low.  
Blessed Fields relieved by Night's approach so soon,  
Love has no Night! 'tis always raging Noon!  
Ah Corydon! what frenzy fills thy breast?  
Thy Vineyard lies half pruned and half undressed.  
Luxurious sprouts shut out their ripening Ray,  
The Branches shorn, not yet removed away,  
Recall thy senses, and to work with speed,  
Of many Utensils thou standest in need.  
Fall to thy Labour, quit the peevish Boy;  
Time, or some new desire shall this destroy.    

THE Second Eclogue.  Englished by Mr. CREECH. The Shepherd Corydon woes Alexis, but finding he could not prevail, he resolves to follow his Affairs, and forget his Passion. ALEXIS. 
YOung Corydon (hard Fate) an humble Swain  
Alexis loved, the joy of all the Plain;  
He loved, but could not hope for Love again;  
Yet every day through Groves he walked alone,  
And vainly told the Hills and Woods his Moan▪  
Cruel Alexis! can't my Verses move!  
Hast thou not pity? must I die for Love?  
Just now the Flocks pursue the shades and cool,  
And every Lizzard creeps into his hole:  
Brown Thestylis the weary Reapers seeks,  
And brings their Meat, their Onions & their Leeks:  
And whilst I trace thy steps in every Tree  
And every Bush, poor Infects sigh with Me:  
And had it not been better to have born  
The peevish Amarylli's Frowns and Scorn,  
Or else Menalcas, than this deep despair?  
Though He was black, and Thou art lovely fair!  
Ah charming Beauty! 'tis a fading Grace,  
Trust not too much, sweet Youth, to that fair face:  
Things are not always used that please the sight,  
We gather Black berries when we scorn the white.  
Thou dost despise me, Thou dost scorn my flame,  
Yet dost not know me, nor how rich I am:  
A thousand tender Lambs, a thousand Kine,  
A thousand Goats I feed, and all are mine:  
My Dairy's full, and my large Herd affords,  
Summer and Winter, Cream, and Milk, and Curds.  
I pipe as well, as when through Theban Plains,  
Amphion fed his Flocks, or charmed the Swains;  
Nor is my Face so mean, I lately stood,  
And viewed my Figure in the quiet Flood,  
And think myself, though it were judgded by you▪  
As fair as Daphni's, if that glass be true.  
Oh that with me, the humble Plains would please  
The quiet Fields, and lowly Cottages!  
Oh that with me you'd live, and hunt the Hare,  
Or drive the Kids, or spread the fowling snare!  
Then you & I would sing like Pan in shady Groves;  
Pan taught us Pipes, and Pan our Art approves:  
Pan both the Sheep, and harmless Shepherd loves▪  
Nor must you think the Pipe too mean for you,  
To learn to pipe, what won't Amyntas do?  
I have a Pipe, well seasoned, brown, and tried;  
Which good Dametas left me when he died:  
He said, here, take it for a Legacy,  
Thou art my Second, it belongs to thee,  
He said, and dull Amyntas envied me:  
Besides, I found two wanton Kids at Play  
In yonder Vale, and those I brought away,  
Young sportive creatures, and of spotted hue,  
Which suckle twice a day, I keep for you:  
These Thestylis hath begged, and begged in vain,  
But now they're hers, since you my gifts disdain:  
Come, lovely Boy, the Nymphs their Baskets fill,  
With Poppy, Violet, and Daffadil,  
The Rose, and thousand other fragrant flowers,  
To please thy Senses in thy softest hours;  
These Nais gathers to delight my Boy,  
Come dear Alexis, be no longer coy.  
I'll seek for Chestnuts too in every Grove,  
Such as my Amaryllis used to love.  
The glossie Plums, and juicy Pears I'll bring,  
Delightful All, and many a pretty thing:  
The Laurel and the neighbouring Myrtle Tree,  
Confusedly planted 'cause they both agree  
And prove more sweet, shall send their boughs to thee.  
Ah Corydon! Thou art a foolish Swain,  
And coy Alexis, doth thy Gifts disdain;  
Or if Gifts could prevail, if Gifts could woe,  
jolas' can present him more than you.  
What doth the Madman mean? He idly brings  
Storms on his Flowers, and Boars into his Springs.  
Ah! whom dost thou avoid? whom fly? the Gods  
And charming Paris too, have lived in Woods:  
Let Pallas, she, whose Art first raised a Town,  
Live there, let us delight in Woods alone:  
The Boar, the Wolf, the Wolf the Kid pursues,  
The Kid her Thyme, as fast as tother does,  
Alexis, Corydon, and him alone,  
Each hath his Game, and each pursues his own:  
Look how the wearied Ox brings home the Blow,  
The Sun declines, and Shades are doubled now:  
And yet my Passion nor my Cares remove,  
Love burns me still, what flame so fierce as Love!  
Ah Corydon! what fury's this of thine!  
On yonder Elm, there hangs thy half pruned Vine:  
Come, rather mind thy useful work, prepare  
Thy harvest Baskets, and make those thy care,  
Come, mind thy Blow, and thou shalt quickly find  
Another, if Alexis proves unkind.   

THE Third Eclogue.  
Or PALEMON.  Englished by Mr. CREECH. Menalcas and Dametas upbraid each other with their faults; by and by they challenge one another, and pipe for a Wager; Palemon coming that way by chance, is chosen judge; he hears them pipe, but cannot determine the Controversy. MENALCAS. 
TELL me Dametas, tell whose Sheep these are?  DAMETAS. 
Egon's, for Egon gave 'em to my care.  MENALCAS. 
Whilst he Neaera courts, but courts in vain,  
And fears that I shall prove the happier Swain.  
Poor Sheep! whilst he his hopeless Love pursues,  
Here twice an hour, his Servant milks his Ewes:  
The Flock is drained, the Lambkin's swigg the Teat,  
But find no moisture, and then idly bleat.  DAMETAS. 
No more of that, Menalcas, I could tell,  
And you know what, for I remember well;  
I know when, where, and what the Fool designed,  
And what had happened, but the Nymphs were kind.  MENALCAS. 
'Twas then perhaps, when some observed the Clown,  
Spoil Myco's Vines, and cut his Olives down.  DAMETAS. 
Or rather when, where those old Beeches grow,  
You broke young Daphni's Arrows and his Bow,  
You saw them given to the lovely Boy,  
● natured you, and envied at his joy,  
But hopes of sweet revenge thy Life supplied,  
And hadst thou not done mischief thou hadst died:  MENALCAS. 
What will not Master Shepherds dare to do,  
When their base slaves pretend so much as you?  
Did not I see, not I, you pilfering Sot,  
When you lay close, and snapped rich Damon's Goat?  
His Spoch-Dog barked, I cried, the Robber, see,  
Guard well your Flock, you skulkt behind a Tree.  DAMETAS. 
I tell Thee Shepherd 'twas before my own,  
We two piped for him, and I fairly won:  
This he would own, and gave me cause to boast,  
Tho' he refused to pay the Goat he lost.  MENALCAS. 
You pipe with him! thou never hadst a Pipe,  
Well joined with wax, and fitted to the Lip,  
But under hedges to the long eared rout,  
Wert wont, dull Fool, to to't a schreeching Note:  DAMETAS. 
And shall we have a Trial of our skill?  
I'll lay this Heifer, 'twill be worth your while,  
Two Calves she suckles, and yet twice a day  
She fills two Pails; Now speak, what dare you lay?  MENALCAS. 
I cannot stake down any of my Flock,  
My Fold is little, and but small my Stock:  
Besides, my Father's covetously cross,  
My Stepdame cursed, and they will find the loss:  
For both strict eyes o'er all my actions keep,  
One counts my Kids, and both twice count my Sheep:  
But yet I'll lay what you must grant as good,  
(Since you will lose) two Cups of beechen wood,  
Alcimedon made them, 'tis a work divine,  
And round the brim ripe Grapes and Ivy twine;  
So curiously he hits the various shapes,  
And with pale Ivy clothes the blushing Grapes;  
It doth my eyes, and all my friends delight,  
I'm sure your mouth must water at the sight:  
Within two figures neatly carved appear,  
Conon, and He, who was't? that made the Sphere,  
And showed the various Seasons of the year  
What time to sheer our Sheep, what time to plow,  
'Twas never used, I kept it clean till now.  DAMETAS. 
Alcimedon too made me two beechen Pots,  
And round the handles wrought smooth Ivy-knots;  
Orpheus within, and following wood, around  
With bended Tops, seem listening to the sound.  
I never used them, never brought them forth;  
But to my Heifer, these are little worth.  MENALCAS. 
I'll pay thee off, I'm ready, come, let's try,  
And he shall be our Judge, that next comes by;  
See, 'tis Palemon; come, I'll ne'er give o'er,  
Till thou shalt never dare to challenge more.  DAMETAS. 
Begin, I'll not refuse the skilfullest Swain,  
I scorn to turn my back for any man;  
I know myself; but pray judicious Friend,  
('Tis no small matter) carefully attend.  PALEMON. 
Since we have chosen a convenient place,  
Since Woods are clothed with Leaves, the Fields with Grass;  
The Trees with Fruit, the Year seems fine and gay,  
Dametas first, than next Menalcas play,  
By turns, for Verse the Muse's love by turns.  DAMETAS. 
My Muse begin with jove, all's full of jove,  
The God loves me, and doth my Verses love.  MENALCAS. 
And Phoebus mine: on Phoebus I'll bestow,  
The blushing Hyacinth, and Laurel bough.  DAMETAS. 
Sly Galatea drives me o'er the Green,  
And Apples throws, then hides, yet would be seen.  MENALCAS. 
But my Amyntas doth his Passion tell,  
Our Dogs scarce know my Delia half so well.  DAMETAS. 
I'll have a Gift for Phillis ere be long,  
I know where Stock-doves build, I'll take their young.  MENALCAS. 
I plucked my Boy fine Pears, I sent him ten,  
'Twas all I had, but soon I'll send again.  DAMETAS. 
What things my Nymph did speak; what tales of Love!  
Winds bear their Music to the Gods above.  MENALCAS. 
What boot it Boy, you not contemn my flame?  
Since whilst I hold the Net, you hunt the Game.  DAMETAS. 
My Birthday comes, send Phillis quickly home,  
But at my Shearing time, jolas' come.  MENALCAS. 
And I love Phillis, for her Charms excel,  
She sighed, farewel, dear Youth, a long farewell.  DAMETAS. 
Wolves ruin Flocks, Wind Trees, when newly blown,  
Storms Corn, and me my Amarylli's Frown.  MENALCAS. 
Dew swells the Corn, Kids browse the tender Tree,  
The Goats love sallow; fair Amyntas me.  DAMETAS. 
Mine Pollio loves, though 'tis a rustic Song,  
Muse feed a Steer, for him that reads thee long.  MENALCAS. 
Nay Pollio writes, and at the King's command,  
Muse feed the Bulls that push, and spurn the sand.  DAMETAS. 
Let Pollio have what e'er thy wish provokes,  
Myrrh from his Thorns, and Honey from his Oaks.  MENALCAS. 
He that loves Bavius Songs, may fancy thine,  
The same may couple Wolves, and shear his Swine.  DAMETAS. 
Ye Boys that pluck the Beauties of the Spring,  
Fly, fly, a Snake lies hid, and shoots a Sting.  MENALCAS. 
Beware the Stream, drive not the Sheep too nigh,  
The Bank may fail, the Rain is hardly dry.  DAMETAS. 
Kids from the River drive, and sling your Hook;  
Anon I'll wash them in the shallow Brook.  MENALCAS. 
Drive to the Shades, when Milk is drained by heat,  
In vain the Milk maid strokes an empty Teat.  DAMETAS. 
How lean my Bull is in my fruitful Field!  
Love has the Herd, and Love the Herdsman killed.  MENALCAS. 
Sure these feel none of Love's devouring flames,  
Mere skin and bone, & yet they drain their Dams:  
Ah me! what Sorceress has bewitched my Lambs!  DAMETAS. 
Tell me where Heaven is just three inches broad,  
And I'll believe Thee Prophet, or a God:  MENALCAS. 
Tell me where Names of Kings in rising flowers  
Are writ, and grow, and Phyllis shall be yours.  PALEMON. 
I cannot judge which Youth does most excel,  
For you deserve the Steer, and he as well.  
Rest equal happy both; and all that prove  
A bitter, or else fear a pleasing Love:  
But my work calls, let's break the Meeting off,  
Boys shut your streams, the Fields have drunk enough.   

THE Fourth Eclogue.  
POLLIO.  Englished by Mr. DRYDEN. The Poet celebrates the Birthday of Saloninus, the Son of Pollio, born in the Consulship of his Father, after the taking of Salonae, a City in Dalmatia. Many of the Verses are translated from one of the Sibyls, who prophesy of our Saviour's Birth. 
SIcilian Muse begin a loftier strain!  
Though lowly Shrubs and Trees that shade the Plain,  
Delight not all, if thither I repair,  
My Song shall make 'em worth a Consul's care.  
The last great Age foretold by sacred Rhymes,  
Renews its finished Course, Saturnian times  
Rowl round again, and mighty years, begun  
From their first Orb, in radiant Circles run.  
The base degenerate Iron-off-spring ends;  
A golden Progeny from Heaven descends;  
O chaste Lucina speed the Mother's pains,  
And haste the glorious Birth; thy own Apollo reigns!  
The lovely Boy, with his auspicious Face,  
Shall Pollio's Consulship and Triumph grace;  
Majestic Months set out with him to their appointed Race.  
The Father banished Virtue shall restore,  
And Crimes shall threat the guilty world no more.  
The Son shall lead the life of Gods, and be  
By Gods and Heroes seen, and Gods and Heroes see.  
The jarring Nations he in peace shall bind,  
And with paternal Virtues rule mankind.  
Unbidden Earth shall wreathing Ivy bring,  
And fragrant Herbs (the promises of Spring)  
As her first Offerings to her Infant King.  
The Goats with strutting Duggs shall homeward speed,  
And lowing Herds, secure from; Lions feed.  
His Cradle shall with rising flowers be crowned;  
The Serpent's Brood shall die: the sacred ground  
Shall Weeds and poisonous Plants refuse to bear,  
Each common Bush shall Syrian Roses wear.  
But when Heroic Verse his Youth shall raise,  
And form it to Hereditary Praise;  
Unlaboured Harvests shall the Fields adorn,  
And clustered Grapes shall blush on every Thorn.  
The knotted Oaks shall showers of Honey weep,  
And through the matted Grass the liquid Gold shall creep.  
Yet, of old Fraud some footsteps shall remain,  
The Merchant still shall plough the deep for gain:  
Great Cities shall with Walls be compassed round;  
And sharpened Shares shall vex the fruitful ground.  
Another Typhis shall new Seas explore,  
Another Argos on th' Iberian Shore  
Shall land the chosen Chiefs:  
Another Helen other Wars create,  
And great Achilles shall be sent to urge the Trojan Fate:  
But when to ripened Manhood he shall grow,  
The greedy Sailer shall the Seas forego;  
No Keel shall cut the Waves for foreign Ware;  
For every Soil shall every Product bear.  
The labouring Hind his Oxen shall disjoin,  
No Blow shall hurt the Glebe, no Pruning-hook the Vine:  
Nor wool shall in dissembled colours shine.  
But the luxurious Father of the Fold,  
With native Purple, or unborrowed Gold,  
Beneath his pompous Fleece shall proudly sweat:  
And under Tyrian Robes the Lamb shall bleat.  
The Fates, when they this happy Web have spun,  
Shall bless the sacred Clue, and bid it smoothly run.  
Mature in years, to awful Honours move,  
O of Celestial Stem! O foster Son of jove!  
See, labouring Nature calls thee to sustain  
The nodding frame of Heaven, and Earth, and Main;  
See to their Base restored, Earth, Seas, and Air,  
And joyful Ages from behind, stand crowding to appear.  
To sing thy Praise, would Heaven my breath prolong  
Infusing Spirits worthy such a Song;  
Not Thracian Orpheus should transcend my Lays,  
Nor Linus crowned with never-fading Bays:  
Though each his Heavenly Parent should inspire;  
The Muse instruct the Voice, and Phoebus' tune the Lyre.  
Should Pan contend with me, & thou my Theme,  
Arcadian Judges should their God condemn.  
Begin, auspicious Boy, to cast about  
Thy Infant Eyes, and with a smile, thy Mother single out;  
Thy Mother well deserves that short delight,  
The nauseous Qualms of ten long Months and Travail to requite.  
Then smile; the frowning Infants Doom is read,  
No God shall crown the Board, nor Goddess bless the Bed.   

THE Fifth Eclogue.  
DAPHNIS.  Englished by Mr. DUKE. MENALCAS, MOPSUS. MENALCAS. 
MOpsus, since chance does us together bring,  
And you so well can pipe, and I can sing,  
Why sit we not beneath this secret Shade,  
By Elms and Hazels mingling Branches made?  MOPSUS. 
Your Age commands Respect, and I obey,  
Whether you in this lonely Copse will stay,  
Where western Winds the bending Branches shake,  
And in their play the Shades uncertain make:  
Or whether to that silent Cave you go,  
The better choice! see how the wild Vines grow,  
Luxuriant round, and see how wide they spread,  
And in the Cave their purple clusters shed!  MENALCAS. 
Amintas only dares contend with you.  MOPSUS. 
Why not as well contend with Phoebus too?  MENALCAS. 
Begin, begin, whether the mournful flame  
Of dying Phillis, whether Alcons' fame,  
Or Codru's Brawls thy willing Muse provoke;  
Begin, young Tityrus will tend the Flock.  MOPSUS. 
Yes, I'll begin, and the sad Song repeat,  
That on the Beech's Bark I lately writ,  
And set to sweetest Notes; yes, I'll begin,  
And after that, bid you Amintas sing.  MENALCAS. 
As much as the most humble Shrub that grows,  
Yields to the beauteous Blushes of the Rose,  
Or bending Osiers to the Olive-Tree;  
So much, I judge, Amintas yields to thee.  MOPSUS. 
Shepherd, to this Discourse, here put an end,  
This is the Cave, sit and my Verse attend.  MOPSUS. 
When the sad fate of Daphnis reached their Ears,  
The pitying Nymphs dissolved in pious tears.  
Witness, you Hazels, for you heard their Cries;  
Witness, you Floods, swollen with their weeping Eyes.  
The mournful Mother (on his body cast)  
The sad remains of her cold Son embraced,  
And of th' unequal Tyranny they used,  
The cruel Gods and cruel Stars accused.  
Then did no Swain mind how his Flock did thrive,  
Nor thirsty Herds to the cool River drive;  
The generous Horse turned from fresh Streams his head,  
And on the sweetest Grass refused to feed.  
Daphnis, thy death, even fiercest Lions mourned,  
And Hills & Woods their cries and groans returned.  
Daphnis Armenian Tiger's fierceness broke,  
And brought 'em willing to the Sacred Yoke:  
Daphnis to Bacchus' Worship did ordain  
The Revels of his consecrated Train;  
The Reeling Priests with Vines and Ivy crowned,  
And their long Spears with clustered branches bound.  
As Vines the Elm, as Grapes the Vine adorn,  
As Bulls the Herd, as Fields the ripened Corn;  
Such Grace, such Ornament wert thou to all  
That gloried to be thine: since thy sad Fall,  
No more Apollo his glad presence yields,  
And Pales self forsakes her hated Fields.  
Oft where the finest Barley we did sow,  
Barren wild-oats, and hurtful Darnel grow;  
And where soft Violets did the Vales adorn,  
The Thistle rises and the prickly Thorn.  
Come Shepherds strew with Flowers the hallowed ground,  
The sacred Fountains with thick Boughs surround;  
Daphnis these Rites requires: to Daphni's praise  
Shepherds a Tomb with this Inscription raise,  
Here famed from Earth to Heaven I Daphnis lie;  
Fair was the Flock I fed, but much more fair was I.  MENALCAS. 
Such, divine Poet, to my ravished Ears  
Are the sweet numbers of thy mournful Verse;  
As to tired Swains soft slumbers on the Grass,  
As freshest Springs that through green Meadows pass  
To one that's parched with thirst & summer's heat,  
In thee thy Master does his equal meet:  
Whether your Voice you try, or tune your Reed,  
Blessed Swain, 'tis you alone can him succeed!  
Yet, as I can, I in return will sing:  
I too thy Daphnis to the Stars will bring,  
I too thy Daphnis to the Stars, with you,  
Will raise; for Daphnis loved Menalcas too.  MOPSUS. 
Is there a thing that I could more desire?  
For neither can there be a subject higher,  
Nor, if the praise of Stimichon be true,  
Can it be better sung than 'tis by you?  MENALCAS. 
Daphnis now wondering at the glorious show,  
Through Heaven's bright Pavement does triumphant go,  
And sees the moving Clouds, and the fixed stars below:  
Therefore new joys make glad the Woods, the Plains,  
Pan and the Dryads, and the cheerful Swains.  
The Wolf no Ambush for the Flock does lay,  
No cheating Nets the harmless Deer betray,  
Daphnis a general Peace commands, and nature does obey.  
Hark! the glad Mountains raise to Heaven their Voice!  
Hark! the hard Rocks in mystic tunes rejoice!  
Hark! through the Thickets wondrous Songs refound.  
A God A God Menalcas, he is Crowned!  
O be propitious! O be good to thine!  
See! here four hallowed Altars we design,  
To Daphnis two, to Phoebus two we raise,  
To pay the yearly Tribute of our Praise:  
Sacred to Thee they each returning year  
Two bowls of Milk and two of Oil shall bear:  
Feasts I'll ordain, and to thy deathless praise  
Thy Votaries exalted thoughts to raise,  
Rich Chian Wines shall in full Goblets flow,  
And give a taste of Nectar here below.  
Dametas shall with Lictian Aegon join,  
To celebrate with Songs the Rites divine.  
Alphesibaeus with a reeling Gate,  
Shall the wild Satyr's dancing imitate.  
When to the Nymphs we Vows and Offerings pay,  
When we with solemn Rites our Fields survey,  
These Honours ever shall be Thine; The Boar  
Shall in the Fields and Hills delight no more;  
No more in Streams the Fish, in Flowers the Bee,  
ere Daphnis we forget our songs to Thee:  
Offerings to thee the Shepherds every year,  
Shall as to Bacchus and to Ceres bear.  
To Thee as to those Gods shall Vows be made,  
And Vengeance wait on those, by whom they are not paid.  MOPSUS. 
What Present worth thy Verse, can Mopsus find?  
Not the soft whispers of the Southern Wind  
So much delight my Ear, or charm my Mind;  
Not sounding shores beat by the murmuring tide,  
Nor Rivers that through stony Valleys glide.  MENALCAS. 
First you this Pipe shall take: and 'tis the same  
That played poor Corydons unhappy Flame: Ecl. 2.  
The same that taught me Melibaeus' Sheep. Ecl. 3.  MOPSUS. 
You than shall for my sake this Sheephook keep,  
Adorned with Brass, which I have oft denied  
To young Antigenes in his Beauty's pride.  
And who would think he then in vain could sue?  
Yet him I could deny, and freely give it you.   

THE Sixth Eclogue.  
SILENUS.  Englished by the Earl of ROSCOMON. 
My Aim being only to have Virgil understood by such who do not understand Latin, and cannot (probably) be acquainted with some Names and Passages of this Eclogue, I have directed them by Figures to the Postscript, where they will find the best account that I can give, of all that is out of the common Road.  

I First of Romans stooped to Rural strains,  
Nor blushed to dwell among Sicilian ●1 Swains,  
When my Thalia ●2 raised her bolder Voice,  
And Kings and Battles were her lofty Choice,  
Phoebus did kindly humbler thoughts infuse,  
And with this Whisper check th' aspiring Muse.   

A Shepherd (Tityrus) his Flocks should feed,  
And choose a Subject suited to his Reed.  
Thus I (while each ambitious Pen prepares  
To write thy Praises Varus, ●3 and thy Wars)  
My pastoral Tribute in low Numbers pay,  
And though I once presumed, I only now obey.   

But yet (if any with indulgent Eyes  
Can look on this, and such a Trifle prize)  
Thee only, Varus, our glad Swains shall sing,  
And every Grove and every Echo ring.  
Phoebus' delights in Varus Favourite Name,  
And none who under that protection came,  
Was ever ill received, or unsecure of Fame.   

Proceed my Muse.  
4 Young Chromis and Mnasylus, chanced to stray,  
Where (sleeping in a Cave) Silenus lay,  
Whose constant Cups fly fuming to his Brain,  
And always boil in each extended vein;  
His trusty Flagon, full of potent Juice,  
Was hanging by, worn thin with Age and Use;  
Dropped from his head, a Wreath lay on the ground;  
In haste they seized him, and in haste they bound; ●5  
Eager, for both had been deluded long  
With fruitless hope of his Instructive Song:  
But while with conscious fear they doubtful stood,  
Aegle, the fairest Nais ●6 of the Flood,  
With a Vermilion-dye●7 his Temples stained.  
Waking, he smiled, and must I then be chained?  
Lose me, he cried; 'twas boldly done, to find  
And view a God, but 'tis too bold to bind.  
The promised Verse no longer I'll delay,  
(She shall be satisfied another way.)   

With that, he raised his tuneful voice aloud,  
The knotty Oaks their listening branches bowed,  
And Savage Beasts, and Sylvan Gods did crowd;   

For lo! he sung the World's stupendious Birth,  
How scattered seeds of Sea, and Air, and Earth,  
And purer Fire, through universal night,  
And empty space did fruitfully unite,  
From whence th' innumerable race of things,  
By circular successive Order springs.   

By what degrees this Earth's compacted Sphere  
Was hardened, Woods & Rocks and Towns to bear;  
How sinking Waters (the firm Land to drain)  
Filled the capacious Deep, and formed the Main,  
While from above adorned with radiant light,  
A new born Sun surprised the dazzled sight;  
How Vapours turned to Clouds obscure the Sky,  
And Clouds dissolved the thirsty ground supply;  
How the first Forest raised its shady head,  
Till when, few wand'ring Beasts on unknown Mountains fed.   

Then Pyrrha's stony Race rose from the Ground,  
Old Saturn reigned with Golden plenty crowned,  
And bold Prometheus (whose untamed desire  
Rivalled ●8 the Sun with his own heavenly fire)  
Now doomed the Scythian Vulture's endless Prey,  
Severely pays for animating Clay.  
He named the Nymph for who but Gods could tell?  
Into whose Arms the lovely Hylas ●9 fell;  
Alcides wept in vain for Hylas lost,  
Hylas in vain resounds through all the Coast.   

He with compassion told Pasiphae's fault,  
Ah! wretched Queen! whence came that guilty thought?  
The Maids●10 of Argos, who with frantic Cries  
And imitated Lowing filled the Skies,  
(Though metamorphosed in their wild Conceit)  
Did never burn with such unnatural heat.  
Ah! wretched Queen! while you on Mountains stray,  
He on soft Flowers his snowy side does lay;  
Or seeks in Herds a more proportioned Love:  
Surround my Nymphs, she cries, surround the Grove;  
Perhaps some footsteps printed in the Clay,  
Will to my Love direct our wand'ring way;  
Perhaps, while thus in search of him I room,  
My happier Rivals have enticed him home.   

He sung how Atalanta was betrayed  
By those Hesperian Baits her Lover laid,  
And the sad Sisters who to Trees were turned,  
While with the World th'ambitious Brother burned  
All he described was present to their eyes,  
And as he raised his Verse, the Poplars seemed to rise.   

He taught which Muse did by Apollo's will  
Guide wand'ring Gallus ●11 to th' Aonian Hill:  
(Which place the God for solemn Meetings chose)  
With deep respect the learned Senate rose,  
And Linus ●12 thus (deputed by the rest)  
The Hero's welcome, and their thanks expressed:  
This Harp of old to Hesiod did belong,  
To this, the Muse's Gift, join thy harmonious Song;  
Charmed by these strings Trees starting from the Ground,  
Have followed with delight the powerful sound,  
Thus consecrated thy ●13 Grynaean Grove  
Shall have no equal in Apollo's Love.   

Why should I speak of the ●14 Megarian Maid,  
For Love perfidious, and by Love betrayed?  
And her, who round with barking Monsters armed,  
The wand'ring Greeks (ah frighted men) alarmed;  
●16 Whose only hope on shattered ships depends,  
While fierce Seadogs devour the mangled friends.   

Or tell the Thracian Tyrants altered shape,  
And dire revenge of Philomela's Rape,  
Who to those Woods directs her mournful course,  
Where she had suffered by incestuous force,  
While loath to leave the Palace to well known,  
Progne flies, hover round, and thinks it still her own.   

Whatever near ●17 Eurotas' happy stream  
With Laurels crowned had been Apollo's Theme,  
Silenus sings; the neighbouring Rocks reply,  
And send his Mystic numbers through the sky,  
Till night began to spread her gloomy veil,  
And called the counted Sheep from every Dale;  
The weaker Light unwillingly declined,  
And to prevailing shades the murmuring world resigned.   

POSTSCRIPT.  

1. SIcilian— Virgil in his Eclogue, imitates Theocritus a Sicilian Poet.  
2. Thalia— The name of the Rural Muse.  
3. Varus— A great Favourite of Augustus, the same that was killed in Germany, and lost the Roman Legions.  
4. Chromis and Mnasylus— Some Interpreters think these were young Satyrs, others will have them Shepherds: I rather take them for Satyrs, because of their names, which are never used for Shepherds, or any where (that I remember) but here.  
5. They bound— Proteus, Pan, and Silenus would never tell what was desired, till they were bound.  
6. Nais— The Latin word for a water-Nymph.  
7. Vermilion Dye— The Colour that Pan and Silenus loved best.  
8. Rivalled the Sun— Minerva delighted with the Art and Industry of Prometheus (who had made an Image of Clay so perfect, that it wanted nothing but Life,) carried him up to Heaven, where he lighted a Wand at the Chariot of the Sun, with which fire he animated his Image. Ou. 2. M.  
9 Hylas— Favourite of Hercules, who was drowned in a Well, which made the Poets say that a Nymph had stole him away: I use the word resounds (in the Present Tense) because Strabo (who lived at the same time as Virgil) seems to intimate, that the Prusians continued then their annual Rites to his Memory, repeating his name with loud cries.  
10. The Maids of Argos— Daughters of Praetis, King of Argos, who presumed so much upon their Beauty, that they preferred it to Juno's, who in revenge, struck them with such a Madness, that they thought themselves Cows. They were at last cured by Melampodes with Hellebore, and for that reason, Black Hellebore is called Melampodion.  
11. Gallus— an excellent Poet and great Friend of Virgil he was afterwards Praetor of Egypt, and being accused of some Conspiracy, or rather called upon for some Moneys, of which he could give no good account, he killed himself. It is the same Gallus you read of in the last Eclogue: And Suidas says, that Virgil means him by Aristaeus, in the divine Conclusion of his Georgics.  
12. Linus Son of Apollo and Calliope.  
13. The Grynaean Grove— Consecrated to Apollo; by this he means some Poem writ upon that Subject by Gallus.  
14. The Megarian Maid— Sylla daughter of Nisus King of Megara, who falling in Love with Minos, betrayed her Father and Country to him, but he abhorring her Treason, rejected her.  
15. Her who round— another Sylla, daughter of Phorcis, whose lower Parts were turned into Dogs by Circe; and she, in despair, flung herself into the Sea.  
16. Whose only Hope— Vlysses's Ships were not lost, though Scylla devoured several of his Men.  
17. Eurotas— a River in Greece, whose Banks were shaded with Laurels; Apollo retired thither to lament the Death of his dear Hyac inthus whom he had accidentally killed.     

THE Seventh Eclogue.  Englished by Mr. ADAM'S. This Eclogue is wholly Pastoral, and consists of the Contention of two Shepherds, Thyrsis and Coridon, to the hearing of which, Melibaeus was invited by Daphnis, and thus relates it. MELIBAEUS. 
WHile Daphnis sat beneath a whispering shade,  
Thyrsis and Coridon together fed  
Their mingling Flocks; his Sheep with softest wool  
Where clothed his Goats of sweetest Milk were full.  
Both in the beauteous spring of blooming Youth,  
The worthy Pride of blessed Ar●dia both;  
Each with like Art, his tuneful voice could raise,  
Each answer readily in rural Lays;  
Hither the father of my Flock had strayed,  
While Shelters I for my young Myrtles made;  
●ere I fair Daphnis saw; when me he spied,  
●ome hither quickly, gentle Youth! he cried.  
Your Goat and Kids are safe, O seek not those,  
But if you've leisure in this Shade repose:  
Hither to water, the full Heifers tend,  
When length'ning Shadows from the Hills descend,  
〈◊〉 with reeds here interweaves his bounds,  
And from that sacred Oak, a busy swarm resounds.  
What should I do? nor was Alcippe there,  
Nor 〈◊〉, who might of my Lambs take care;  
Yet to my business, I their sports prefer,  
For the two Swains with great Ambition strove,  
Who best could tune his Reed, or best could sing his Love;  
Alternate Verse their ready Muses chose;  
In Verse alternate each quick fancy flows;  
These sang young Coridon, young Thyrsis those.  CORYDON. 
Ye much loved Muses! such a Verse bestow,  
As does from Codrus, my loved Codrus flow,  
Or if all can't obtain the Gift divine,  
My Pipe I'll consecrate on yonder Pine.  THYRSIS. 
YE Arcadian Swains with Ivy Wreaths adorn  
Your Youth, that Codrus may with spite be torn;  
Or, if he praise too much, apply some charm,  
Lest his ill Tongue your future Poet harm  CORIDON. 
These branches of a Stag, this Wild-Boars head,  
By little Mycon's, on thy Altar laid,  
If this conti●ue Delia! thou shalt stand  
Of smoothest Marble by the skilfullest hand.  THYRSIS. 
This Milk, these Cakes, Priapus every year  
Expect, a little Garden is thy care,  
thou'rt Marble now, but if more land I hold,  
If my Flock thrive, thou shalt be made of Gold.  CORIDON. 
O Galatea! sweet as Hybla's Thyme  
White as, more White, than Swans are in their Prime.  
Come, when the Herds shall to their Stalls repair,  
O come, if e'er thy Coridon's thy care.  THYRSIS. 
O may I harsh as bitterest herbs appear  
Rough as wild Myrtles, vile as Seaweeds are;  
If years seem longer than this tedious day,  
Hast home my Glutton Herd, hast hast away.  CORIDON. 
Ye Mossy springs! ye Pastures! softer far  
Than thoughtless hours of sweetest slumbers are,  
Ye Shades! protect my Flock, the Heats are near;  
On the glad Vines the swelling Buds appear.  THYRSIS. 
Here on my hearth a constant flame does play,  
And the fat vapour paints the roof each day,  
Here we as much regard the cold Northwind  
As Streams their banks, or Wolves do number mind.  CORIDON. 
Look how the Trees rejoice in comely Pride,  
While their ripe fruit lies scattered on each side;  
All nature smiles, but if Alexis stay  
From our sad Hills the Rivers weep away,  THYRSIS. 
The dying grass, with sickly air does fade,  
No field's unparcht, no vines our Hills do shade;  
But if my Phillis come all sprouts again,  
And bounteous jove descends in kindly rain.  CORIDON. 
Bacchus' the Vine, the Laurel Phoebus loves,  
Fair Venus cherishes the myrtle Groves,  
Phillis the Hazels loves, while Phillis loves that Tree,  
Myrtles and Laurels of less fame shall be.  THYRSIS. 
The lofty Ash is Glory of the Woods,  
The Pine of Gardens, Poplar of the Floods;  
If oft thy Swain fair Lycidas thou see,  
To thee the Ash shall yield, the Pine to thee.  MELIBAEUS. 
These I remember well  
While vanquished Thyrsis did contend in vain,  
Thence Coridon young Coridon does reign  
The best the sweetest on our wondering Plain.   

THE Eighth Eclogue.  
PHARMACEUTRIA.  Englished by Mr. STAFFORD. 

SAd Damon's and Alphesiboeus Muse  
I sing: to hear whose notes the Herds refuse  
Their needful food, the savage Lynx's gaze,  
And stopping Streams their pressing waters raise.  
I sing sad Damon's and Alphesiboeus Lays;  
And Thou (whatever part is blest with thee,  
The rough Timavus, or Illyrian Sea)  
Smile on my Verse: is there in fate an hour  
To swell my numbers with my Emperor?  
There is, and to the world there shall be known  
A Verse, that Sophocles might deign to own.  
Amidst the Laurels on thy Front divine  
Permit my humble Ivy wreath to twine:  
Thine was my earliest Muse, my latest shall be thine.  
Night scarce was past, the Morn was yet so new,  
And well pleased Herds yet rolled upon the dew;  
When Damon stretched beneath an Olive Lay,  
And sung, rise Lucifer, and bring the Day:  
Rise, rise, while Nisa's falsehood I deplore,  
And call those Gods to whom she vainly swore,  
To hear my sad expiring Muse and Me.  
To Maenalus my Pipes and Muse tune all your harmony.   

On Maenalus stand ever-echoing Groves,  
Still trusted with the harmless Shepherd's loves:  
Here Pan resides, who first made Reeds and Verse agree.  
To Maenalus my Pipes and Muse tune all your harmony.   

Mopsus is Nisa's choice; how just are Lovers fears?  
Now Mares with Griffins join, and following years  
Shall see the Hound and Deer drink at a Spring.  
O worthy Bridegroom light thy Torch, & fling  
Thy Nuts, see modest Hesper quits the Sky.  
To Maenalus my Pipes and Muse tune all your harmony.   

O happy Nymph, blest in a wondrous choice,  
For Mopsus you contemned my Verse and Voice:  
For him my Beard was shaggy in your eye;  
For him, you laughed at every Deity.  
To Maenalus my Pipes and Muse tune all your harmony.   

When first I saw thee young and charming too,  
'Twas in the Fences, where our Apples grew.  
My thirteenth year was downy on my chin,  
And hardly could my hands the lowest branches win;  
How did I gaze? how did I gazing die?  
To Maenalus my Pipes & Muse tune all your harmony.   

I know thee Love, on Mountains thou wert bred,  
And Thracian Rocks thy infant fury fed:  
Hard souled, and not of humane Progeny.  
To Menalus my Pipes and Muse tune all your harmony.   

Love taught the cruel Mother to imbrue  
Her hands in blood: 'twas Love her Children slew:  
Was she more cruel, or more impious he?  
An impious Child was Love, a cruel Mother she.  
To Maenalus my Pipes and Muse tune all your harmony.   

Now let the Lamb and Wolf no more be foes,  
Let Oaks bear Peaches, and the Pine the Rose;  
From Reeds and Thistles Balm and Amber Spring,  
And Owls and Daws provoke the Swan to sing:  
Let Tityrus in woods with Orpheus vie,  
And soft Arion on the Waves defy;  
To Maenalus my Pipes and Muse tune all your harmony.   

Let all be Chaos now, farewell ye Woods:  
From yo● high Cliff, I'll plung into the Floods.  
O Nisa take this dismal Legacy;  
Now cease my Pipes and Muse, cease all your harmony.   

Thus He, Alphesibaeus song rehearse:  
Ye sacred Nine above my rural Verse;  
Bring water, Altars bind with mystic bands,  
Burn Gums and Vervain, & lift high the Wands;  
We'll mutter sacred magic till it warms  
My icy Swain; 'tis Verse we want; my charms,  
Return, return, return my Daphnis to my arms.   

By charms compelled the trembling Moon descends,  
And Circe changed, by Charms, Vlysse's friends;  
By charms the Serpent burst: ye powerful Charms  
Return, return, return my Daphnis to my arms.   

Behold his Image with three Fillets bound,  
Which thrice I drag the sacred Altars round.  
Unequal numbers please the Gods: my Charms  
Return, return, return my Daphnis to my arms.  
Three knots of treble coloured silk we tie;  
Haste Amaryllis, knit 'em instantly:  
And say, these, Venus, are thy Chains; my Charms,  
Return, return, return my Daphnis to my arms.   

Just as before this fire the Wax and Clay  
One melts, one hardens, let him waste away.  
Strew Corn and Salt, and burn those leaves of Bay.  
I burn these Leaves, but he burns me: my Charms,  
Return, return, return my Daphnis to my arms.   

Let Daphnis rage, as when the bellowing Kind,  
Mad with desire, run round the Woods to find  
Their Mates; when tired, their tremble limbs they lay  
Near some cool Stream, nor mind the setting day:  
Thus let him rage, unpitied too: my Charms,  
Return, return, return my Daphnis to my arms.   

These Garments once were my perfidious Swains,  
Which to the Earth I cast: ah dear remains!  
Ye owe my Daphnis to his Nymph: my Charms,  
Return, return, return my Daphnis to my arms.   

Moeris himself these Herbs from Pontus brought,  
Pontus for every noble Poison sought;  
Aided by these, he now a Wolf becomes,  
Now draws the Buried stalking from their tombs,  
The Corn from field to field transports: my Charms  
Return, return, return my Daphnis to my arms.   

Cast o'er your head the ashes in the Brook,  
Cast backwark o'er your head, nor turn your look.  
I strive, but Gods and Art he slights: my Charms,  
Return, return, return my Daphnis to my arms.   

Behold new flames from the dead ashes rise,  
Blessed be the Omen, blest the Prodigies,  
For Hylax barks, shall we believe our eyes?  
Or do we Lovers dream? cease, cease, my Charms,  
My Daphnis comes, he comes, he flies into my arms.    

The same ECLOGUE,  By Mr. CHETWOOD. 

I Damon and Alpheus Love's recite,  
The Shepherd's envy, and the Fields delight:  
Whom as they strove, the listening Heifers stood,  
Greedy to hear, forgetful of their Food;  
They charmed the rage of hungry Wolves and led  
The wondering Rivers from their wont Bed.  
I Damon and Alpheus Loves recite,  
The Shepherd's Envy, and the Fields delight.   

And you Great Prince, whose Empire unconfined,  
As Earth, and Seas, yet narrower than your Mind,  
Whether you with victorious Troops pass o'er  
Timavus Rocks, or coast th' Illyrian shore;  
Shall I beginning with these Rural lays,  
Ever my Muse to such perfection raise,  
As without rashness to attempt your praise?  
And through the subject World your Deeds rehearse,  
Deeds worthy of the Majesty of Verse!  
My first Fruits now I to your Altar bring  
You, with a riper Muse, I last will sing.  
Mean while among your Laurel Wreaths allow  
This Ivy Branch to shade your Conquering Brow.   

Scarce had the Sun dispelled the shades of Night,  
Whilst dewy browse the cattle does invite;  
When in a mournful posture, pale, and won  
The luckless Damon thus his plaints began.   

Thou drowsy Star of Morning, come away,  
Come and lead forth the sacred Lamp of day;  
Whilst I by Nisa baffled and betrayed,  
Dying to Heaven accuse the perjured Maid.  
But Prayers are all lost Breath; the Powers above  
Give Dispensations for false Oaths in Love.  
Begin with me, my Flute, begin such strains,  
As Pan our Patron taught th' Arcadian Swains.  
'Tis a most blessed place, that Arcady!  
And Shepherds blessed, who in those Coverts lie!  
Music and Love is all their business there,  
Pan doth himself part in those Consorts bear:  
The vocal Pines with clasping Arms conspire,  
To cool the Sun's, and fan their amorous Fire.  
Begin with me my Flute, begin such strains,  
As Pan our▪ Patron taught th' Arcadian Swains.   

Mopsus does Nisa, a cheap conquest gain,  
Presented, wooed, betrothed to me in vain,  
What hour secure, what respite to his Mind  
In this false World can a poor Lover find?  
Let Griffins Mares, and Eagles Turtles woe,  
And tender Fawns the ravening Dogs pursue,  
These may indeed subject of wonder prove,  
But nothing to this Prodigy of Love.  
Mopsus buy Torches, Hymen you must join;  
Bespeak our Bridecake, Hesperus all is thine.  
Begin with me my Flute, begin such strains,  
As Pan our Patron taught th' Arcadian Swains.   

A worthy Match, and just reward of Pride,  
Whilst you both Damon, and his Pipe deride!  
Too long my Beard, nor smooth enough my Face:  
And with my Person, you my Flocks disgrace.  
There are revenging Gods, proud Nymphs, there are,  
And injured Love is heavens peculiar care,  
Begin with me my Flute, begin such strains,  
As Pan our Patron taught th' Arcadian Swains.   

Early I walked one Morn with careless thought  
Your Mother you into our Garden brought  
And ruddy wildings round the Hedges sought;  
The fairest Fruit, and glittering all with Dew,  
(The Boughs were high, but yet) I reached for you:  
I came, I saw, I gazed my heart away,  
Me, and my Flocks, and all my Life that minute lead astray.  
Begin with me my Flute, begin such strains,  
As Pan our Patron taught th' Arcadian Swains.   

Now Love I know you, for myself, too late:  
But Shepherds take ye warning by my Fate.  
Trust not his flattering Voice, or smiling Face,  
A Cannibal, or born in rocky Thrace,  
Not one of us, nor like the British Race,  
She Wolves gave Suck to the pernicious Boy,  
The Shepherds he, they do the Flocks destroy.  
Begin with me my Flute, begin such strains,  
As Pan our Patron taught th' Arcadian Swains.   

Mischief is all his Sport; at his Commands,  
In her Son's Blood Medea bathed her hands;  
A sad unnatural Mother she, 'tis true,  
But Love, that Cruelty she learned of you.  
Begin with me my Flute, begin such strains,  
As Pan our Patron taught th' Arcadian Swains.  
Nature which with this dotage hath begun,  
Now into all extravagance will run:  
The Tamarisk bright Amber shall distil,  
And the course Alder bear soft Daffadil.  
Shortly the Screch- Owl, with her boding Throat,  
The Swans shall Rival in their dying note,  
S— and O— the Bays shall claim,  
And equal Dr— and Ros— 's Fame.  
Begin with me my Flute, begin such strains,  
As Pan our Patron taught th' Arcadian Swains.   

May the World sink with me! farewell ye Groves,  
Haunts of my Youth, and Conscious of my Loves:  
Down from the Precipice myself I'll cast,  
Accept this present Nisa— 'tis my last.  
Then cease my Flute, for ever cease thy strains,  
Bid a sad silence through th' Arcadian Plains.    

THE Ninth Eclogue.  
When Virgil by the Favour of Augustus had recovered his Patrimony near Mant●a, and went in hope to take possession, he was in danger to be slain by Arius the Centurion, to whom those Lands were assigned by the Emperor in reward of his Service against Brutus and Cass●●s. This Eclogue therefore is filled with complaints of his hard Usage; and the persons introduced, are the Bailiff of Virgil, and his Friend.  LYCIDAS, MOERIS. LYCIDAS. 
HO Moeris! whither on thy way so fast?  
This leads to Town.  MOERIS. 
O Lycidas at last  
The time is come, I never thought to see,  
(Strange revolution for my Farm and me)  
When the grim Captain in a surly tone  
Cries out, pack up ye Rascals and be gone.  
Kicked out, we set the best face on't we could,  
And these two Kids, to ' appease his angry Mood  
I bear, of which the Devil give him good.  LYCIDAS. 
Good Gods, I heard a quite contrary Tale;  
That from the sloaping Mountain to the Vale,  
And doddered Oak, and all the Banks along,  
Menalcas saved his Fortune with a Song.  MOERIS. 
Such was the News, indeed, but Songs & Rhimes  
Prevail, as much in these hard iron times,  
As would a plump of trembling Fowl, that rise  
Against an Eagle sousing from the Skies.  
And had not Phoebus warned me by the croak  
Of an old Raven from a hollow Oak,  
To shun debate, Menalcas had been slain,  
And Moeris not survived him to complain.  LYCIDAS. 
Now Heaven defend! could barbarous rage prevail  
So far, the sacred Muses to assail?  
Who then should sing the Nymphs, or who rehearse  
The waters gliding in a smother Verse!  
Or Amaryllis praise that heavenly lay,  
That shortened as we went, our tedious way;  
O Tityrus, tend my herd and see them fed;  
To Morning pastures Evening waters led:  
And ' ware the Lybian Ridgils butting head.  MOERIS. 
Or what unfinished He to Varus read;  
Thy name, O Varus (if the kinder powers  
Preserve our plains, and shield the Mantuan towers  
Obnoxious by Cremonas' neighbouring Crime,)  
The wings of Swans, and stronger pinioned Rhyme,  
Shall raise alo●t, and soaring bear above  
Th' immortal Gift of gratitude to jove.  LYCIDAS. 
Sing on, sing on, for I can ne'er be cloyed,  
So may thy Swarms the baleful Yew avoid:  
So may thy Cows their burdened Bags distend  
And Trees to Goats their willing branches bend;  
Mean as I am, yet have the Muses made  
Me free, a Member of the tuneful Trade:  
At least the Shepherds seem to like my lays,  
But I discern their flattery from their praise:  
I nor to Cinna's Ears, nor Varus dare aspire;  
But gabble like a Goose, amidst the Swanlike choir.  MOERIS. 
'Tis what I have been cunning in my mind:  
Nor are they Verses of a Vulgar kind.  
Come Galatea, come, the Seas forsake,  
What pleasures can the Tides with their hoarse murmurs make?  
See on the Shore inhabits purple spring;  
Where Nightingales their Lovesick ditty sing;  
See Meads with purling Streams, with Flowers the ground  
The Grottoes cool, with shady Poplars crowned  
And creeping Vines to Arbours weaved around.  
Come then and leave the Waves tumultuous roar,  
Let the wild surges vainly beat the shore.  LYCIDAS. 
Or that sweet Song I heard with such delight;  
The same you sung alone one starry night;  
The tune I still retain, but not the words.  MOERIS. 
Why, Daphnis, dost thou search in old Records,  
To know the seasons when the stars arise?  
See C●sars Lamp is lighted in the Skies:  
The star, whose rays the blushing grapes adorn,  
And swell the kindly ripening ears of Corn.  
Under this influence, graft the tender shoot;  
Thy children's Children shall enjoy the fruit.  
The rest I have forgot, for Cares and Time  
Change all things, and untune my soul to rhyme:  
I could have once sung down a Summer's Sun,  
But now the Chime of Poetry is done.  
My voice grows hoarse; I feel the Notes decay,  
As if the Wolves had seen me first to day.  
But these, and more than I to mind can bring,  
Menalcas has not yet forgot to sing.  LYCIDAS. 
Thy faint Excuses but inflame me more;  
And now the Waves roll silent to the shore.  
Hushed winds the topmost branches scarcely bend  
As if thy tuneful Song they did attend:  
Already we have half our way o'ercome;  
Far off I can discern Bianors Tomb;  
Here, where the Labourers hands have formed a Bower  
Of wreathing trees, in singing waste an hour.  
Rest here thy weary Limbs, thy Kids lay down,  
We've day before us, yet to reach the Town:  
Or if e'er night the gathering Clouds we fear,  
A Song will help the beating storm to bear.  
And that thou mayst not be too late abroad,  
Sing, and I'll ease thy shoulders of thy Load.  MOERIS. 
Cease to entreat me, let us mind our way;  
Another Song requires another day.  
When good Menalcas comes, if he rejoice,  
And find a friend at Court, I'll find a voice.   

THE Tenth Eclogue.  
GALLUS.  Englished by Mr. STAFFORD. 
SIcilian Nymph, assist my mournful strains;  
The last I sing in rural Notes to Swains:  
Grant then a Verse so tender and so true,  
As even Lycoris may with pity view:  
Who can deny a verse to Grief and Gallus due?  
So, when thy Waters pass beneath the Tide,  
Secure from briny mixture may they glide.  
Begin my Gallus Love and hapless Vows;  
While, on the tender Twigs, the cattle browse:  
Nothing is deaf; Woods listen, while we sing,  
And echoing Groves resound and Mountain's ring.  
Ye Naiades, what held you from his aid,  
When to unpitied flames he was betrayed?  
Nor Aganippe tempted you away,  
Nor was Parnassus guilty of your stay:  
The Bays, whose honours he so long had kept,  
The lofty Bays and humble Herbage wept.  
When stretched beneath a Rock, he sighed alone,  
The Mountain pines and Menalus did groan,  
And cold Lyceus wept from every stone.  
His Flock surrounded him: nor think thy fame  
Impaired (great Poet) by a Shepherd's name;  
ere thou and I our sheep to Pastures led,  
His Flocks the Goddess loved Adonis fed.  
The Shepherds came; the sluggish Neat-herd Swains,  
And Swineherds reeking from their Mast and Grains.  
All asked from whence this frenzy? Phoebus' came  
To see his Poet, Phoebus asked the same:  
And is (he cried) that cruel Nymph thy care,  
Who, flying thee, can for thy Rival dare  
The Frosts, and Snow, and all the frightful forms of War.  
Sylvanus came, thy fortune to deplore;  
A Wreath of Lilies on his head he wore.  
Pan came, and wondering we beheld him too,  
His skin all died of a Vermilion hue:  
He cried, what mad designs dost thou pursue?  
Nor satisfied with dew the grass appears  
With browse the Kids, nor cruel Love with tears.  
When thus (and sorrow melted in his eyes)  
Gallus to his Arcadian friends replies:  
Ye gentle Swains, sing to the Rocks my moan,  
(For you Arcadian Swains should sing alone:)  
How calm a rest my wearied Ghost would have,  
If you adorned my Love and mourned my Grave?  
O that your birth and business had been mine,  
To feed a Flock, or press the swelling Vine!  
Had Phillis, or had Galatea been  
My Love, or any Maid upon the Green,  
(What if her Face the Nut-brown Livery wear,  
Are Violets not sweet, because not fair?)  
Secure in that unenvied state, among  
The Poplars, I my careless limbs had flung;  
Phillis had made me Wreaths, and Galatea sung.  
Behold, fair Nymph, what bliss the Country yields  
The flowery Meads, the purling Streams, the laughing Fields.  
Next all the Pleasures of the Forest see:  
Where I could melt away my years with Thee.  
But furious Love denies me soft repose,  
And hurls me on the pointed spears of foes.  
While thou (but ah! that I should find it so,  
Without thy Gallus for thy Guide, dost go  
Through all the Germane Colds, and Alpine Snow.  
Yet, flying me, no hardship mayst thou meet;  
Nor Snow nor Ice offend those tender feet.  
But let me run to deserts, and rehearse  
On my Sicilian reeds Euphorions Verse;  
Even in the Dens of Monsters let me lie,  
Those I can tame, but not your cruelty.  
On smoothest rinds of Trees, I'll carve my woe;  
And as the rinds increase, the love shall grow.  
Then, mixed with Nymphs, on Menalus resort,  
I'll make the Boar my danger and my sport.  
When, from the Vales the jolly cry resounds,  
What rain or cold shall keep me from my Hounds?  
Methinks my ears the sprightly consort fills;  
I seem to bond thro' Woods and mount o'er Hills.  
My Arm of a Cydonian Javelin seized,  
As if by this my madness could be eased;  
Or, by our mortal woes, the cruel God appeased.  
My frenzy changes now; and Nymphs and Verse I hate,  
And Woods; for ah, what toil can stubborn Love abate!  
Should we to drink the frozen Hebrus go,  
And shiver in the cold Sythonian Snow,  
Or to the swarthy Ethiopes Clime remove,  
Parched all below, and burning all above,  
Even there would Love o'ercome; then, let us yield to Love▪  
Let this sad Lay suffice, by sorrow breathed,  
While bending Twigs I into Baskets wreathed:  
My rural Numbers, in their homely guise  
Gallus, because they came from me, will prise:  
Gallus, whose growing Love my breast does rend,  
As shooting Trees the bursting Bark distend.  
Now rise, for Night and Dew the Fields invade;  
And juniper is an unwholesome shade:  
Blasts kill the Corn by night, and Flowers with Mildew fade.  
Bright Hesper twinkles from afar; away  
My Kids, for you have had a feast to day.   

THE Last Eclogue.  
Translated, or rather Imitated, In the Year 1666.  
ONe labour more, O Arethusa, yield  
Before I leave the Shepherds and the Field:  
Some Verses to my Gallus e'er we part,  
Such as may one day break Licoris Heart,  
As she did his, who can refuse a Song,  
To one that loved so well, and died so young!  
So may'st thou thy belov'd Alpheus please,  
When thou creepest under the Sicanian Seas.  
Begin, and sing Gallus unhappy fires,  
Whilst yonder Goat to yonder branch aspires  
Out of his reach. We sing not to the deaf;  
An answer comes from every trembling leaf.  
What Woods, what Forests had inti●'d your stay?  
Ye Nyades, why came ye not away?  
When Gallus died by an unworthy Flame,  
Parnassus knew, and loved too well his Name  
To stop your course; nor could your hasty flight  
Be stayed by Pindus, which was his delight.  
Him the fresh Laurels, him the lowly Heath  
Bewailed with dewy tears; his parting breath  
Made lofty Maenalus hang his piny Head;  
Lycaean Marbles wept when he was dead.  
Under a lonely Tree he lay and pined,  
His Flock about him feeding on the Wind,  
As he on love; such kind and gentle Sheep,  
Even fair Adonis would be proud to keep.  
There came the Shepherds, there the weary Hinds,  
Thither Menalcas parched with Frost and Winds.  
All ask him whence, for whom this fatal love,  
Apollo came his Arts and Herbs to prove?  
Why Gallus? why so fond, he says, thy flame,  
Thy care, Licoris, is another's game;  
For him she sighs and raves, him she pursues  
Through the midday heats and morning-dews;  
Over the snowy Cliffs and frozen streams,  
Through noisy Camps. Up Gallus, leave thy dreams,  
She has left thee. Still lay the drooping Swain  
Hanging his mournful head, Phoebus in vain  
Offers his Herbs, employs his Counsel here;  
'Tis all refused, or answered with a tear.  
What shakes the Branches! what makes all the Trees  
Begin to bow their heads, the Goats their Knees?  
Oh! 'tis 〈◊〉 with his mossy Beard  
And leafy Crown, attended by a Herd  
Of Wood-b●rn Satyrs; see! he shakes his Spear,  
A 〈◊〉 young ●ak, the tallest of the year.  
Pan the Arcadian God forsook the Plains,  
Moved with the story of his Gallus pains.  
We saw him come with Oaten-pipes in hand,  
Painted with Berries-juice; we saw him stand  
And gaze upon his shepherds bathing eyes;  
And what, no end▪ no end of grief he cries!  
Love, little minds all thy consuming care,  
Or restless thoughts, they are his daily fare.  
Nor cruel Love with tears, nor Grass with showers,  
Nor Goats with tender sprouts, nor Bees with flowers  
Are ever satisfied. Thus spoke the God,  
And touched the Shepherd with his Hazle-Rod:  
He, sorrow slain, seemed to revive, and said,  
But yet Arcadians is my grief allayed,  
To think that in these Woods, and Hills, & Plains,  
When I am silent in the Grave, your Swains  
Shall sing my Loves, Arcadian Swains inspired  
By Phoebus; Oh! how gently shall these tired  
And fainting Limbs repose in endless sleep,  
Whilst your sweet Notes my love immortal keep!  
Would it had pleased the Gods, I had been born  
Just one of you, and taught to wind a Horn,  
Or wield a Hook, or prune a branching Vine,  
And known no other Love, but Phillis thine;  
Or thine Amintas; what though both are brown,  
So are the Nuts and Berries on the Down,  
Amongst the Vines the Willows and the Springs,  
Phillis makes Garlands, and Amintas sings.  
No cruel absence calls my love away,  
Further than Bleeting Sheep can go astray,  
Here my Licoris, here are shady Groves,  
Here Fountains cool, and Meadows soft, our loves  
And lives may here together wear and end:  
O the true Joys of such a Fate and Friend!  
I now am hurried by severe Commands,  
Into remotest Parts, among the Bands  
Of armed Troops; there by my foes pursued;  
Here by my friends; but still by love subdued.  
Thou far from home, and me, art wand'ring o'er  
The Alpine Snows, the farthest Western shore,  
The frozen Rhine. When are we like to meet  
Ah, gently, gently, lest thy tender feet  
Be cut with Ice. Cover thy lovely arms;  
The Northern cold relents not at their charms:  
Away I'll go into some shady Bowers,  
And sing the Songs I made in happier hours,  
And charm my woes. How can I better choose,  
Then amongst wildest Woods myself to lose,  
And carve our Loves upon the tender Trees,  
There they will thrive? See how my love agrees,  
With the young Plants: look how they grow together,  
In spite of Absence, and in spite of Wether.  
Mean while, I'll climb that Rock, and ramble o'er  
Yond woody Hill; I'll chase the grizly Boar,  
I'll find Diana's and her Nymphs resort;  
No Frosts, no Storms, shall slack my eager Sport.  
Methinks I'm wand'ring all about the Rocks  
And hollow sounding Woods: look how my Locks  
Are torn with Boughs & Thorns; my Shafts are gone  
My legs are tired, and all my sport is done.  
Alas! this is no cure for my Disease;  
Nor can our toils that angry God appease.  
Now neither Nymphs, nor Songs can please me more,  
Nor hollow Woods, nor yet the chafed Boar:  
No sport, no labour, can divert my grief:  
Without Licoris there is no relief.  
Though I should drink up Heber's Icy Streams,  
Or Scythian Snows, yet still her fiery beams  
Would scorch me up. Whatever we can prove,  
Love conquers all, and we must yield to Love.  
FINIS.   

A Catalogue of Books, Printed for jacob Tonson at the judge's Head in Cancery lane, 1684.  

Plutarch's First Volume, newly translated from the Greek.  
PLutarch, Written by Mr. Dryden. Theseus, Translated by Mr. Duke. Romulus, Mr. Smallwood. Lycurgus, Mr. Chetwood. Numa Pompilius, Mr. Rycaut. Solon, Mr. Creech. Poplicola, Mr. Dodswell. Themistocles, Dr. Brown, Furius Camillus, Mr. Pain. Pericles, Dr. Littleton. Fabius Maximus, Mr. Carryl.   

Plutarch's Second Volume, newly translated from the Greek.  
ALcihiades. Coriolanus, translated by Dr. Blomer. Paulus Emilius, Mr. Arrowsmith. Timoleon, Dr. Blomer, Pelopidas, Mr. Creech. Marcellus, Dr. Charlton. Aristides, Mr. Cooper. Marcus Cato, Mr. Lydcot. Philopoemen, Dr. Short. Titus Flaminius, Mr. Whitaker.  
The Third, Fourth and Fifth Volumes of Plutarch, translated by several eminent Hands, are now in the Press, and will with all possible speed be published.  
Remarks upon a Tract, entitled, A Treatise of Humane Reason, and upon Mr. Warrens late Defence of it; by Sir George Blundel.  
A Critical History of the Old Testament, in three Books: The first treating at large concerning the several Authors of the Bible. The second, containing the History of the chief Translations of the Bible, made either by Jews or Christians. The third, laying down Rules whereby a more exact Translation may be made of the Scripture than hitherto has been. Written Originally by Father Simon of the Oratory.  
With a Supplement, being a Defence of The Critical History, in answer to Mr. Spanhem's Treatise against it. Both Translated into English by H. D.  
Poems upon several Occasions; written by Mrs. Behen; are now in the Press, and will be published this Term.  
The Works of Horace▪ translated into English; by Mr. Creech of Oxford, are now in the Press, and near Printed.  
Ovid's Epistles, Englished by the Earl of Mulgrave, Sir Carr Scrope, Mr. Dryden, and several other eminent Hands.  
Divine Contemplations upon the life of our Saviour written by the Bishop of Exeter.  
A Chronicle of France, from the beginning of that Kingdom; written by Monsieur Mezeray, Chronologer to the present French King.  
The Decay of the Western Empire, translated out of French, is now in the Press, and will be speedily published.   
FINIS.