NEW POEMS, Consisting of SATYRS, ELEGIES, AND ODES: Together with a Choice COLLECTION Of the Newest Court Songs, Set to MUSIC by the best Masters of the Age.  
All Written by Mr. D'VRFEY.  
— Si me Lyricis vatibus Inseres,  
Sublimi feriam sidera vertice.  Horace Ode I 
LONDON, Printed for I. Bullord, at the Old Black Bear in St. Paul's Churchyard, and A. Roper, at the Bell near Temple-Bar, 1690.   

To the Right Honourable ALGERNON, Earl of Essex, Viscount Malden, Baron Capell of Hadham, and Lord Lieutenant of Hertford.  
MY LORD,  
I Should be very ungrateful for the many extraordinary Favours, which Your Lordship has often showered upon me, if I omitted studying all manner of ways to lay my Faithful Acknowledgements at Your Feet, who have so often been pleased to honour me with Your Conversation, and several of the following Poems with Your Allowance, and Applause: And since a POET can no better way express his Gratitude, than by an humble Address and Dedication of his Endeavours, be pleased, My Lord, to accept this Book, as a Tribute due to uncommon Merit; and as an Offering of Thanks, for the Value Your Lordship is pleased to set on POETRY in General.  
My Lord, You not only Grace and Dignify my unworthy Poems by Your Noble Patronage, but are an Honour to the Age You live in, by showing such an Example; the Love and Inclination You have to Wit and Ingenuity, sufficiently demonstrating your Own Worth, for since nothing can more Illustrate a Young Nobleman, than Arts and Sciences; You have taken the securest way by Encouraging them to declare your Heart is not set upon the Vanities of the World, so much, as to slight or neglect the more solid Treasures of the Soul, Knowledge and Learning.  
Your Observations also in your Travels, have given you a greater Estimate than others have acquired of the same Rank, you have brought home more than yourself again, Embellishments of Languages, together with a Survey of the Manners and Customs of the People, and not like that raw empty-headed Tribe, of whom a famous Antique Author Writes thus, 
— A Sordid Crew,  
Who when they Travail to become rare Men,  
Return Improved with a new foppish Suit,  
Their Brains lie with their tailor's, and get fancies  
To play the Fool next day in; he's sole Heir,  
To all the moral Virtues, that first greets  
The light with a new Fashion, which becomes 'em  
Like Monkeys, covered with the Garbs of Men.   
Your Lordship has likewise been at Rome, without daubing yourself with her Rag of Superstition, or letting your Judgement be imposed upon by the Adulterated Sophistry of Priests and Jesuits: In a Word, My Lord, you have begun your Race so well, that it would appear direct Malice or Stupidity in any one to doubt proceedings answerable through your Course of Life to come.  
I must beseech your Lordship not to let a decent Encomium sound harshly in your Ear, nor think these Assertions flattery, and only natural to Dedications, which are really the just effect of your own Merit, and of my Observation of you, your obliging and easy Temper, affable and unaffected Behaviour, endearing all that have the honour to know ye as well as myself, the Continuance of which Happiness, and the speedy crowning of your Years to come with blessings, in the possession of a Noble and Beautiful Partner, shall be the greatest Joy and Satisfaction imaginable to,  
My Lord, Your Lordship's most obliged, most entirely devoted humble Servant, T. D'urfey.   

PREFACE.  
NOT being able to Excuse myself from the Importunity of some Persons of Quality, and others of my best Friends, whose obliging Requests, as well as generous Subscriptions, have been the chiefest Reasons of my publishing the following Sheets; it would be an unpardonable Fault, and indeed a Presumption in me not to beg the unbiass●d and Impartial Reader, to favour them with his good Nature, and wink at the many Errors and loose Writing in several of them, some having been written many Years ago, and upon low Subjects, especially the two Burlesque Letters, which were written for a Friend in haste, and upon a Subject given me. The Ladies too I must beg to Pardon me for a loose Copy or two, particularly, Phillidor's Tale of a True Intrigue, Page 40. which was turned into Verse from the Story which the Gentleman himself told me, and though the Freedom of it may disoblige some of the Nicest of the Fair Sex, who will be noted to understand more than they should, yet 'tis my hope, that the more judicious will only look upon it as it is, a piece of Mirth, and a natural Description of a Comical Accident, or else, which is much better, forbear looking on it at all, and so be accounted extraordinary for suppressing a Curiosity, which it was never known a Woman was Capable of doing before. In Collections of this Nature, both good and bad, wanton and serious, generally mix, though not with the Author's liking, yet for the Stationer's advantage of swelling the Book, in which, I hope, there are some others that will make amends, viz. The Essay in Defence of Verse, The Elegy on the Duke of Ormond; The Dream; The Ode to the King, Page 180, etc. which have had the good Fortune to be approved of and commended by some of the best judges of Poetry these latter Ages have produced; and will, I hope, find the same success with the Ingenious Reader; Though I must confess the first is a Theme of that Value, that it were fitter to employ the Inimitable Pen of Mr. Dryden, than any Poet of a meaner Class, the Sordid Enemies of this Noble Art being so numerous, and consequently the defence of it so much the more difficult; This has given me occasion to recount in the aforesaid Essay the nature of the Critics and judges of the former Golden Age, and compare them with our present Iron one, viz. 
The Sober Critics were all Judges then,  
And what they cavilled at, could well maintain:  
Instruction, and not Envy filled their Minds;  
The Wits, and would be Wits, were different kinds:  
Reason and Judgement founded their Disputes,  
And Orpheus there was safe amongst the Brutes;  
But here where Routs of Bachanals do throng;  
Alas, what Orpheus can defend his Song! etc.  most of our Town Wits Criticising upon Poetry, not through any solid Understanding they have of the matter, but to insinuate a Value of their Eminent Parts into some unheeding Auditor, that easily could, but thinks it loss of time to contradict them.  
Thus has dejected Poetry, in this Age, very few or no real Friends; Those that judicially can correct Errors, being modestly unwilling to expose them, and those that cannot, most impudently too forward in pretending to it; like a Country Clown at Cudgels with a Master of Defence, still striking without Fear or Wit, though at every blow the Blood runs about his own Ears, through his want of Skill, and ridiculous Rashness.  
The Odes and Songs that I have here published, have, I thank my Fortune, as well as those formerly printed, generally pleased the Town, and though some may appear a little rough and unpolished in the Reading, the amends is made when they are Sung, for I have still taken care to put some Fancy and Thought in them, and the judicious are sensible that 'tis no easy matter, nor is it every one's Talon to confine Sense and smooth Verse to Notes, the quality of performing it well, being as particular as difficult.  
It does not, thank my Stars, afflict me much to know, that a certain very unwieldy Author of this Age, has been this Ten Years pecking at me about this matter, though with as little Success as he had Reason to do so, I having no Correspondency with him, nor to the best of my Memory, have any of our Brothers ever given him any occasion to show the scurrility of his satire, in expressing himself in such Tropes as these, Fellows of no Genius, yelping Curs, Parasites, Knaves, etc. nor does it concern us at all to know whether Poetitto or Poetdungus, be the best name for a comical Author, we have, I think, two ways to expound him, and I suppose he is pleased to new baptise us, either, for diminutive Wits, or Persons: if for the first we must comfort ourselves, and be instructed as well as we can; but for my own part if he lashes me for want of shape, that I confess from him troubles me extremely.  
I am not very uneasy neither to have if judged whether my Grubstreet Songs, as he hints at them, or his late Grubstreet Anniversary Ode be the most notorious, or in his own Phrase, most like the Style of Tom Farthing: I know what the Town says. And since it has sufficiently exposed its own defects, I shall think my Injury revenged to the full, and therefore rest satisfied till farther Provocation.  
There is no Passion incident to Humanity of so low and base a degree as Malice, which I could lash to the quick; nor would the Title of Poet Laureate, and Historiographer Royal, at all deter me from a just Resentment, if I had not an awful Veneration for that noble Patron of Wit and Poetry, whose Indulgence and excellent Nature has been the occasion of bestowing so great a Bounty where it is, and I shall rather believe it the just reward of Merit and Loyalty, as some would fain have it thought, than doubt in the least the justice or judgement of a Noble Man, beloved, reverenced, and admired, by all that ever had any true Pretences to Wit or Learning.  
And now, I think, 'tis time to beg the Reader●s Pardon for this Prolixity, which I could not avoid having been so often affronted without any cause given, and once more desire his Favour on the following Sheets, with a faithful Promise, that when next I trouble the Press it shall be on a Subject that shall less ti●e his Patience, and give him much more Diversion.  
Vale.   

ERRATA.  
PAge 23. l. 12. for adsurd read absurd: p. 31. l. 2. because no praise▪ read since no just praise: pag. 36. l. 7. fatal strife, read fate at strife: p. 129. l. 13. may, read much: p. 130. l. 5. may, read much: p. 137. l. 13. Ears, read Years: p. 145. l. 14. is, read are: p. 149. l. 9 solely, read vilely: p. 166. l. 11. fawned, read fanned.   

THE TABLE.  

A New Essay in defence of Verse, with a satire upon the Enemies of Poetry, Page 1.  
An Ode to the Queen, excellently set to Music; by M. H. Purcel. p. 19  
The Author answers his Friend who blames him for not singing when desired, he contradicts the Third satire of Horace, beginning with Omnibus hoc vitium est Cantoribus inter Amicos, etc. He defends Tigellius, and proves that Horace had no actual Skill in vocal Music, p. 22.  
To the Right Honourable the Earl of Radnor on his Marriage. p. 28.  
To a Lady twitting him with his being peevish, and having ill Humours. p. 32.  
A Parallel. p. 35.  
To the Right Honourable the Lady E. R. upon her finding a Spider in her Bed. p. 37.  
Phillidor's Tale of a true Intrigue. p. 40.  
A Lash at Atheists; the Poet Speaking as the Ghost of a Quondam Libertine, supposed to be the late E. of R. reflects on that part of Seneca's Troas, beginning at Post mortem nihil est ipsaque Mors nihil, etc. p. 54.  
To Cynthia. p. 59  
Prologue by way of satire spoken before King Charles II. at Newmarket. p. 60.  
Epithalamium on the Marriage of the Right Honourable the Lady Essex Roberts. p. 63.  
Paid for Peeping; a Poem occasioned by a Peeping hole into a Chamber where a beautiful young Lady lodged, through which, undiscovered, I could observe all her Actions. p. 67.  
Song. p. 74.  
Against Free Will. p. 76.  
A Song. p. 77.  
A Song b● way of Dialogue between a Town Spark and his Miss. p. 78.  
To Cynthia, a Song. p. 79.  
A Mock Song to, when first Amintor Sued for a Kiss, etc. p. 80.  
Epilogue to the Opera of D●do and Aeneas, performed at Mrs. Priest's Boarding-School at Chelsey spoken by the Lady Dor. Burke. p. 82.  
Love's Revenge; a Song admirably set by Dr. John Blow. p. 84.  
Epsom Wells; a satire by way of Dialogue between Critic and Fame. p. 86.  
Prologue spoken by M. Haines to Trapolin, or a Duke and no Duke. p▪ 88  
An Elegy on the Death of that true Perfection of Beauty and Goodness the Lady Essex Speccot, who died of the Smallpox after her Marriage. p. 91  
An Ode to my much honoured friend Sir Thomas Garrard, Baronet, upon his Climacterical Year. p. 97.  
The King's Health; a Catch sung in parts. p. 98.  
A Letter written for a Friend to one in Town, being a satire on Dingboy, and a Rampant widow, 1685. p. 100  
To the Right Honourable the Lady Olympia R. on her Genius in Poetry. p. 110.  
An Epilogue intended for the 3 Dukes of Dunstable, and to be spoken by M. Monford, in a long Presbyterian Cloak. p. 112  
Another intended for the same. p. 115.  
The Dream, or Celladon's Complaint of Morpheus to the Assembly of the Gods. p. 116.  
To Cynthia. p. 129.  
A Letter written for a Lady in answer to a Friend. p. 130.  
The Farmer's Daughter, a Song set to a Pleasant Scotch Time. p. 132.  
Epithalamium on the Marriage of the Lord Morpeth with the Lady Ann Capel. 136.  
A Song. 138.  
Another set to a pleasant Scotch Time p. 139.  
The Moralist, a Song. p. 141.  
The old Fumbler; a Song set by Mr. Henry Purcel. p. 142.  
A Dialogue between Philander and Silvia, set to an excellent Scotch Time p. 143.  
Second Burlesque Letter. p. 145. p. 159.  
An Ode translated from Anacreon p 160. To Chloris, a Song. p. 162.  
To pretty Mrs. H. D. An Ode upon the sight of her Picture standing amongst others at Mr. Knellers; and excellently set to Music by Mr. Henry Purcel. p. 162.  
To Chloris, An Ode set to the new Riggadon. p. 164.  
An Elegy on the death of the great Duke of Ormond. p. 165.  
Eppigram on the Sacred Memory of that glorious Patron of Poets, greatest and best of Monarch's King Charles II. written 1686. p. 175.  
An Elegy on the late Holy Father Pope Innocent the 11th. p. 177.  
To the King, an Ode on his Birth day. p. 180.  
The Scotch Virago; a Song sung to the Queen at Kensington, the words made to a pretty Scotch Tune. p. 183.  
To Chloris, a Song, the words made to the Time. p. 185.  
A Catch in 3 parts set by Mr. Henry Purcel, and taken from the Latin of Buchanan. p. 186.  
A Poem Panegyrical on his Grace the D. of Albemarle. p. 187.  
Mr. Haine's second Recantation, a Prologue. p. 204.    

A NEW ESSAY In Defence of VERSE, With a satire Upon the Enemies of POETRY.  
WHat time was ever blest to that degree  
As that famed golden Age of Poetry?  
When th' Oaken Garland, and the Laurel Crown  
Flourished, as equal Trophies of Renown.  
When Great Augustus did the Sceptre wield,  
And glittering Arts th' Imperial Crown did gild,  
Poets and Heroes alike honoured were,  
The one to do great deeds, the other to declare.  
Horace, and Ovid, charmed the Courtly throng;  
Majestic Maro sung his lofty Song,  
And by the World's great Monarch 
* Snetonius writes of Augustus, that he was not only an extraordinary lover of the ingenious Authors of that Age, but also an excellent Poet himself: he once writ a bitter satire against a Poet, who durst return no answer, only saying, Periculosum est in e●m scribere, qui potest proscribere.  was so graced,  
The awful Bard he on his right Hand placed.  
Nay even the lesser Genius was not scorned,  
But each to his desert with praise adorned;  
From Pindar's height, to Cinna's low degree,  
Some Honour still was done to Poetry.  
The Nation cherished each Harmonious strain,  
And Tuneful Numbers charmed each Infant Brain:  
Whilst jocund Muses Danced about their Spring,  
And Caesar's glories did to Caesar Sing.  
Momus his malice was ashamed to use;  
Nor durst discountenance a bashful Muse.  
The sober Critics were all Judges then,  
And what they cavilled at, could well maintain.  
Instruction, and not Envy, filled their minds;  
The Wits, and would be Wits, were different kinds.  
Reason and Judgement founded their Disputes,  
And Orpheus there was safe amongst the Brutes;  
But here where Routs of Bachanals do throng,  
Alas, What Orpheus can defend his Song!  
In this lewd Age, ea●h raw pert callow Chit,  
Drunk with the sums of undigested Wit;  
As much by Wine inspired to play the Fool:  
One that a month before was whipped at School  
For grovelling Dulness, with inervate force  
Shall dare to back the Muse's soaring Horse.  
So Maggots bred by the Sun's Genial Eye,  
I'th' Morning Crawl, and before Evening Fly.  
How, Sacred Art, shall thy fame disperse!  
How shall I sing the dignity of Verse!  
From whence the sweetness of each Language springs,  
By which of Heavenly Gods, and Conquering Kings,  
Are writ, in mighty Numbers, mighty things,  
Extracted from the Flowers of every Tongue,  
The Artful Poet frames his pleasing Song.  
Like Bees, by Heaven inspired to influence  
The World, with Works unknown to vulgar sense,  
And does from Powers Divine a gift receive,  
The Crowd may Emulate, but ne'er achieve.  
'Tis this that does their sordid Spleens Alarm,  
Unskilled in th'Magick, though they feel the Charm.  
Tho Tuneful Verse delights each clodded Brain;  
Poet, and Science both, all Fool's disdain.  
Fools ever hate an Art they can't attain.  
With black reproach they a famed Work defile,  
Despise the Virtue, and abhor the Style,  
And Books adorned with Gems of Learning Spoil.  
So have I seen a Brute tread down and tear  
A Laurel, he could ne'er deserve to wear.  
Thus is Instruction lost, for to what end  
Is found Reproof to such as cannot mend.  
Ignorance, in Ages past, a Curse has been,  
But in our time 'tis grown a wilful sin.  
Now Fortune, not Desert, acquires men's fame:  
He that best knows to 
* A Cant amongst Gamesters, signifying a Cheat.  Crimp shall win the Game  
Time serving Parisites preferred shall be,  
Of any Nation, Notion, or Degree,  
But the Poetic Loyal Fool like me.  
In vain is Study, useless is the School,  
Since every Art's abused by every Fool.  
Where Verse has not the power to Influence,  
What method ever can reform the Sense?  
What would a Cato, or a Virgil be,  
johnson, or Shakespeare, to the Mobile?  
Or how would juvenal appear at Court,  
That writing Truth had his Bones broken for't?  
When times are so corrupt they cannot bear  
Reproof, it is a sign Confusion's near:  
And when harmonious Poetry designed  
To calm wild griefs, and still the stormy mind;  
And by a soft and pleasing Elegance,  
The sweets of Artful Rhetoric t'advance,  
Is by the Town decried, it does declare  
Folly, and not Philosophy Rules there.  
Yet though good Writing be a gift sublime;  
How do the Poetasters of the time;  
Debauch the Science still with Dogril Rhyme.  
Ne'er heeding what degrees of Nonsense swell;  
The guilty Lines, if they but Jingle well.  
'Tis Rhyme the Readers reason must control,  
Rhyme is the Sense, the Substance, and the Soul.  
In a whole Poem let no Wit be found.  
If every Couplet end the with same sound.  
Poets, that justly would their fame advance,  
Should make Rhimes fall as if they came by chance.  
A Tuneful word the Verse more sweet to make,  
And not as studied for the Metres sake.  
Such chiming still from solid dulness springs,  
Rhimers and Poets are vast different things.  
Verses with Rhyme, are proper several ways,  
In great Heroics, Satyrs, and Essays,  
But most ridiculous when ●ag'd in Plays.  
First from the Siege of Rhodes that method sprung,  
And there most fitly since the Verse was sung.  
But your stiff Herod's, or Cambyses strains,  
Your Maximins, or hot Almanzor's veins,  
Show rather than the Wit, the heat of Brains.  
Since Nature bears chief Rule in Poetry,  
Than this, what more unnatural can be?  
To hear a King, in Rhyme express his Rage,  
Or for his Cloak, in Verse to ask his Page.  
A Lady too in sounding Numbers tell,  
How oft she took a Glister, and how well.  
Such stuff the Reader every day may meet,  
Too silly, and too tedious to repeat.  
Verse without Rhyme delightful may appear,  
Where Sense in equal Measures charms the Ear.  
This first to use Seraphic Milton brought:  
And great Roscommon since has better taught,  
Who more Correct than any of our times,  
Oft showed, true Reason had no use of Rhimes:  
Patron of Verse, thy soul on Earth did move,  
In the same glory now it shines above.  
Kindle in me, oh mighty Bard, thy fire,  
And with thy powerful Art my Muse inspire.  
So the wronged Sisters shall their griefs disperse,  
And th' Age reform by my Satiric Verse:  
Whilst the wise few, do in this mirror see  
The sordid enemies of Poetry.  
First the Town Fop, in modern Style, the Beau,  
Inspired by learned Pontack, or wise Grilleau:  
Dressed like a Wax-Work-Baby in a Glass,  
That wastes the Morn consulting his odd Face.  
Studies his Stockings with a pensive Head,  
To know which best becomes, the Green or Red;  
And Patches cuts, scented with Ambergreise,  
To hide the Rubies in his pudled Phiz:  
Is one that does to Poetry worst spite,  
By the pretences that he has to write,  
Flush to Wills Coffee House he comes each night.  
Confirmed those Wits are all charmed with his parts,  
As with his Beau Visage the Lady's Hearts.  
To prove this, strait some Poem is inspected,  
And by this Farrier barbarously dissected:  
The mirth goes round, the Paper they condemn,  
Some at the Verses laugh, and more at him;  
But that's not heeded by his grinning Crew,  
Fools always laugh, when e'er their fellows do:  
And when a Jest is put, each has a pride  
To think whoever laughs 'tis on their side.  
Thus 'tis not known which Verse is good or bad,  
Because this Fop the Criticism made:  
For all the Wise owe Poetry a grudge,  
When such as he pretend to Write, or Judge.  
His praise is fatal still, and if he Reads,  
The Martyred Poem still the worse succeeds.  
So Rats, that build in Country Barns their Nest,  
Part of the Corn devour, and spoil the rest.  
Such Fops as this the Poet's fame expose;  
This still is one of their inveterate Foes:  
His managing the state of Verse so ill,  
On the whole Science brings a scandal still.  
In vain, alas, toils the aspiring Drudge:  
'Tis only Wit, that Wit can Write, or Judge.  
A Jewel rated at a price so high,  
That few have stock of Brains enough to buy,  
Yet all aim at the Gem to make'em fine;  
Nay, rather than they'll not be thought to shine:  
Decked with dull Pebbles, not true Warts of Rocks,  
Th' appear like Mrs. H—ton in a Box.  
Tho Wit, within itself, a Beauty be,  
'Tis still more charming dressed in Poetry:  
A Robe, which is by Heavens peculiar care,  
Designed for very, very few to wear.  
For as an awkard, ill bred, Country Clown,  
From his dull Parents newly come to Town:  
Though his Court Taylor racks his Brain to dress  
The Booby, and set off his silly Face,  
Yet all find out the brutish soul within,  
The Ass is seen for all the Lion's skin.  
So th' noisy Bully that oft plagues the Pit,  
Tho dressed in the cast Robes of antic Wit,  
The braying Momus is not hid from view,  
For the dull Ears will still be peeping through.  
The next ill Tribe that Poetry disgrace,  
Is, to their shame, amongst the Female race:  
A Wanton sort of Town Coquets there are,  
That Poets hate, because they Poets fear.  
Wholesome Reproof, like Age, still comes too soon,  
And worse than the Smallpox, is a Lampoon.  
For tell but Lais there's satire writ,  
Struck with a conscious guilt she leaves Basset.  
Tears each Alpieu, hates even dear Sonica,  
And against Poets does with rage inveigh.  
Rogues, to expose her faults to all the Town,  
And make th' intreigue with the dear Coachman known.  
What though to wanton Plays she'll railing come,  
Yet Act each night far lewder Scenes at home?  
What though her fame is known so well abroad,  
The Court and Town can prove her Whore and Bawd?  
Yet if she Prim and swear she's very chaste,  
Shall homely satire dare to spoil the jest?  
When she has bosom Friends, to prove untrue  
Each Amorous slip, though done in open view.  
For whether she's a Devil, or a Saint,  
As Womankind, she can no Party want.  
Virtue on single Innocence depends,  
But favourite Vice is stored with many Friends.  
Howe'er of these, a numerous Tribe there are,  
We have (thank Heaven) some for desert as rare:  
Though Lais does the Poet's Art abuse,  
Divine Asteria dignifies a Muse.  
Souls most Divine, inspiring Verse approve,  
Verse that improves the Saints in Songs above,  
Of charming Honour, and more charming Love.  
And as she, sweetest of that lovely kind,  
An Angel's Body, with an Angel's mind,  
In Beauty's Synod takes the foremost place,  
Excelling all in Feature, as in Grace:  
So does her Wit each fond admirer warm,  
And with her kill Eyes has equal Charm.  
In her dear Breast, the Arts will flourish still,  
There lies no Malice, nor there wants no Skill;  
Her Divine Soul enjoys a blessed Repose,  
And, except gentle Love, no Passion knows:  
Nor that, but in so awful a degree,  
'Twere fitter styled a Heavenly Charity.  
In vain her Virtue, Envy seeks to slain:  
The horny satire lifts his Scourge in vain.  
Instead of finding Vice he might reprove,  
The Monster knelt, and sighs, and falls in Love.  
Like her, each Soul embellished with desert,  
That Sacred Learning loves, applauds this Art.  
But besides these I have exposed to view,  
There are a third, dull, dosing, canting Crew;  
That Noble Sciences so little heed,  
Their Clodpate Offspring scarce are bred to Read.  
Hence 'tis that by the curse of vacant Brains,  
So many whimsies in the Nation reigns:  
Hence Pipe and Tabor, Hum and Buz, are prized,  
And each inspiring Muse as much despised.  
With little Band, and piqued Beard, new pruned,  
Their Brains unsettled, and their Souls untuned:  
They sordidly the generous Art decry,  
And from Tub Pulpits knock down Poetry.  
The Swordman, yet unmarked with honoured Scar,  
Routs Poets too, with Criticisms of War:  
I mean the Spark that Whores, Drinks, Games, and Swears,  
Whose Valour more in Scarf, than Man appears:  
One whose hot Brain, believes, that if he be  
Inclined to Wit, Religion, Modesty,  
A Scholar, and a friend to Poetry;  
'Tis the next way, his Credit to abuse,  
His Honour and Commission both to lose.  
Ah, Dunce, look back on glorious ancient times,  
And see how Arts the Martial Soul sublimes.  
See there a Race of Conquering Emperors,  
With Sciences improve their idle hours:  
Wise 
* Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, was Surnamed Philosophus, not only for his knowledge, but also practice of Philosophy; and was observed to have often in his Mouth that speech of Plato, Tunc florent Respublicae quando Philosophus Regit, vel Rex Philosophatur.  Antoninus, 
† 
This Emperor was also very Eloquent, and a good Poet, as Martial testifies of him, vid. his Epigram of him, lib. 11. Epig. 6.  Quanta quies placidi tanta est facundia Nervae,  Nerva, Adrian,  
Great julius, and Adored Vespasian,  
Thought it a lustre to their dignity,  
T' advance, and be well skilled in Poetry.  
How brutish then must be that grovelling Race,  
That to bright knowledge ne'er erect their Face,  
But with the down-looked Herd unminded Graze.  
And how secure are Arts, and Sciences,  
Though darted at by such weak foes as these.  
What though the name of Poet, in the vogue  
O'th' Mobile, is full as bad as Rogue,  
As wretched, and as scandalous to them,  
As if he were for some vile Theft Condemned.  
Desert should smile, rather than take offence,  
They act according to their Dole of Sense.  
Wit will be still a Gem, though slighted by a Clown,  
As Roses will be sweet, though Asses tread 'em down:  
Or if, which is their greatest infamy,  
A Poet's general state is Poverty.  
As those that slight the World, t'enrich the Mind,  
From thence small favour can expect to find:  
Suppose no Sun shines on him from the Court,  
His Labours to reward, or Life support;  
Suppose he is deceived in some redress,  
As if he's honest, ten to one he is;  
Philosophy does his ill Stars control,  
And far above the vulgar seats his Soul.  
Besides, Maecenas will be still alive,  
And bounteous Cesar every Age survive.  
Some Albem— le, or Dor— tt, will be found;  
Ess— x, or Car— le, with true merit Crowned;  
By grateful Poets deathless Verse renowned:  
That o'er the bladdered Crowd will make 'em swim,  
And lift their sinking Heads above the stream.  
Hail, therefore, Patrons of the Muses all,  
Low at your Feet the Nine do humbly fall.  
You that their Works with generous pleasure see,  
And shine upon the Flowers of Poetry,  
Encourage satire, that exposes Crimes,  
And Version praise for Wit, and not for Rhimes:  
To you, with them, I dedicate my part,  
A weak defender of a Noble Art:  
Glad of applause from Judges, but not grieved  
If by the Crowd my Lines are not received.  
Heaven does Mankind to different Wits condemn;  
The Vulgar hate me, and I pity them:  
But when I with a Man of Judgement meet,  
Or with a virtuous Lady, that has Wit,  
My Breast entire, between 'em both they part,  
He has my faithful Service, she my Heart.  
For blasted be my Muse, when it shall dare  
To wrong a worthy Friend, or hurt the Fair.   

An ODE TO THE QUEEN.  

I.  
HIGH on a Throne of Glittering o'er  
Exalted by Almighty Fate,  
Outshining the bright Gem she wore;  
The gracious Gloriana sat.   

II.  
The dazzling Beams of Majesty  
Too ●ierce for mortal Eyes to see,  
She veiled, and with a smiling Brow,  
Thus taught th' admiring World below.   

III.  
Virtue is still the chiefest good,  
And power, should only be her dress,  
State, is a Fever to the Blood;  
Free Conscience is the solid Bliss:   

IU.  
Glory is but a flattering Dream  
Of Wealth, that is not, though it seem:  
False vision, whose vain Joys do make  
Poor Mortals poorer, when they wake.   

V.  
The fawning Crowd of Slaves, that bow  
With Praise, could ne'er my Sense control;  
Vast Pyramids of State seem low,  
So much above it sits my Soul.   

VI  
She spoke, whilst Gods unseen that stood,  
Admiring one so great so good,  
Flew strait to Heaven, and all along,  
Bright Gloriana was their Song.   

Returnel.  
Bright Gloriana all along,  
Bright Gloriana was their Song.    

The Author answers his Friend, who blames him for not singing, when desired, he contradict the Third satire of Horace, beginning with Omnibus hoc vitium est Cantoribus inter Amicos, etc. He defends Tigellius, and proves that Horace had no actual Skill in Vocal Music.  
IF this strange Vice in all good Singers were,  
As the admired Horace does declare,  
That when desired, though blessed with Health and Eas●  
Their choicest Friends they still deny to please,  
Yet if unasked shall rudely Sing so long,  
To tyre 'em quite with each repeated Song:  
I strongly then should take his Satyr's part,  
Lash the Performers, and despise their Art.  
But having studied long enough to be  
A little knowing in that quality:  
I soon perceived when I his Version met  
'Twas more from Prejudice, than Judgement writ.  
And Horace was in his Reproof more free,  
Because Tigellius was his Enemy,  
Whose resty Vice must bear this fierce Assault  
Whilst all the rest are lashed for one man's Fault.  
satire should never take from Malice aid,  
For with due Reverence to Horace paid,  
Who rails at Faults through personal prejudice,  
Shows more his own, than shames another's Vice;  
Tigellius, as his Character is plain,  
Was of a Humour most adsurd and vain,  
Fantastic in his Garb, unsettled in his Brain.  
And if (as once great 
* 'Tis reported of him, that Augustus once earnestly desiring him to sing, was denied.  Cesar he denied  
When asked to Sing) 'twere the effect of Pride:  
Lictors and Fasces should have bluntly taught  
The Fool to know th' Obedience that he ought.  
But if Augustus his Commands did lay  
When th' Genius was not able to obey;  
As oft with Singers it will happen so,  
According as their Joys or Troubles grow;  
'Twas no Offence then to excuse his Art,  
The Soul untuned makes discord in each part.  
And Monarches can no more give vocal Breath  
Than they can hinder when Fate summons, death:  
Though kind Compliance Singers ought to use,  
They often have just Reasons to refuse;  
A pleasure loved by one, is liked by more,  
Suppose, Sir, I have Sung too much before,  
Made myself hoarse, and even racked my Throat  
To please some Friend, with some fine treble Note;  
Chance does me then to you and others bring,  
The second Compliment, is prithee sing;  
I swear I— Can't, can't say you, that's found sport;  
But all good Singers are so hard to Court:  
Come, come, you must, here's Ladies beg, not I  
What Soul so dull as Beauty can deny?  
To make excuse then, modestly I tell  
How hoarse I am, with what that day befell,  
'Tis all in vain, you rail, I'm thought a Clown,  
And Omnibus hoc victium knocks me down.  
I often have, ('tis true) to sing denied,  
But not through resty Vanity, or Pride;  
But that perhaps I had been tired before,  
Untuned and ill, not able to sing more,  
Or that an hour of Infelicity  
Has robbed my Soul of usual Harmony;  
Yet all's the same th' old Saw is still repeated,  
You Singers long to be so much entreated,  
Though at that time to me no Joy could fall  
Greater, than not to have been asked at all;  
Th' Harmonious Soul must have her Humour free,  
Consent of parts still makes best Harmony.  
We read the jewish Captives could not Sing  
In a strange Land, ruled by a Foreign King;  
Contentment the melodious Chord controls,  
And Tunes the Diapason of our Souls:  
What makes a Cobbler Chirp a pleasant part  
At his hard Labour, but a merry Heart;  
He sings when asked, or bluntly else denies,  
According to his share of Grief or Joys.  
Thus the same Accidents to us befall,  
And that which tuned the Cobbler tunes us all;  
But if against our Will we thrash out Songs,  
For singing then is Thrashing to the Lungs;  
The blast of airy Praise we dearer get,  
Than Peasants do their Bread, with toil and sweat  
To sleep at your command is the same thing,  
As when y'are ill or vexed in mind to sing,  
And though Performance ne'er so easy show,  
As it has Charms it has Vexations too,  
And th' Singers Plague 'tis none but Singers know.  
How often have I heard th' unskilful say,  
Had I a Voice by Heaven I'd sing all day;  
But with that Science had he been endowed,  
And was to sing, when asked, or be thought proud,  
When weary, hoarse, or vexed, not to deny,  
But at all Seasons with all Friends comply,  
He'd then blame Horace full as much as I;  
Whose want of Knowledge in the Vocal Art  
Made him lash all, for one man's mean desert:  
For had he the Fatigue of Songsters known,  
And judged their Inconvenience by his own;  
Tigellius only had Correction met,  
And Omnibus hoc vitium ne'er been writ.   

TO THE Right HONOURABLE THE▪ Earl of RADNOR ON HIS MARRIAGE.  
IF my faint Genius does not reach that height  
It ought, your Fortune to congratulate,  
Be pleased, my Lord, to take this for excuse,  
That 'tis the Inter-regnum of a Muse.  
Apollo frowns upon each drooping Son,  
And Sadness crowns the Bowls of Helicon,  
The Mounting Pegasus, that late could fly,  
Trapped with gay Thought, and fancy through the Sky,  
In her swift Course now the bold Soldier dares  
To stop, and back, and manage for the Wars.  
Strange turns of State disturb the peaceful Nine,  
And with the rest of the sad Muses, mine;  
Such solid Grief does all Parnassus sway,  
There scarce was Joy the Coronation day,  
Pardon a Homely Genius then ill dressed,  
That dares approach without a Nuptial Vest  
To wish you Joy, which though not polished here,  
Nor mirthfully, adorned is yet sincere;  
Poets, like Plants, flourish when shined upon,  
But whither and decay without the Sun.  
Son Renowned Ovid, when in Court preferred,  
For lofty Verse was by all Rome revered;  
But when disgraced he did to Pontus go,  
His Fate was humble, and his Style was low:  
Like him undone, forgotten and distressed,  
I wandered when your Theme my Muse possessed;  
But then, like Atoms, thought did solid grow,  
And Sparks of the old fire began to glow.  
Your new-gained Happiness inspired my Pen  
In spite of all resolves to write again;  
Your Virtues next informed my Memory,  
Your Noble Nature, Love to Poetry,  
That dares encourage Verse you find sublime,  
Unswayed by the Opinion of the time,  
And own, like Athens once, in Wit are Charms,  
And Arts should Grace a State as well as Arms▪  
There honoured with a part of public sway,  
Poets were by the Senate held in pay;  
But here in our Reformed wise warlike Isle,  
Their choicest Labours are not worth a Smile:  
Another Herd have rushed into our Fold,  
And our new brood of Wits devoured the old,  
A decent Praise to mighty worth is due,  
And only such, my Lord, I pay to you.  
To the few Patrons of true Sense I fly,  
And beg a Genius at their Feet may lie,  
More used to satire than to Flattery:  
That slavish Vice I yet ne'er understood,  
Nor can we flatter Merit if we would,  
Because no Praise can ever be too good.  
When once Great Virgil by Augustus sat  
To read the Work he was to dedicate,  
Though Praises even extravagant did seem  
Yet Cesar did not think he flattered him.  
My Muse, though to his height it ought to soar,  
Does only greet your Joy, and wish you more:  
With grateful thanks for Honours done before,  
Be pleased to take what Tribute I can pay,  
And think, my Lord, this is my only way.   

TO A LADY, Twitting him with his being Peevish, and having Ill Humours.  

I.  
TEll, tell me no more that my Humours are bad  
And peevishly ever displease,  
If one had the Plague you would think he were mad,  
Should he rail at another's Disease,  
The Errors that to your own Questions belong,  
You still to my Answers apply,  
And though I have Manners to be in the wrong,  
I have Reason enough to deny.   

II.  
But speaking offends, and to play a new part,  
I'll learn of some favourite Fool,  
Fools oft saying nothing, by signs win a Heart,  
'Tis a fortunate thing to be dull;  
Yet, Madam, how poor is the Conquest you gain,  
When this shall your Reason convince  
On one that has such a defect in his brain,  
How vainly you lavish your Sense.   

III.  
From all but Loves Passions I swear I am free,  
My Soul is serene as the Air,  
With Pride, Envy, Hatred, I ne'er could agree;  
And that I'm good natured I swear.  
But, ah, what are these when my Humours offend,  
And we wrangle where ever we come,  
To give myself ease, and your trouble an end  
'Twere better for me I were dumb.   

IV.  
And now take this secret, you know me not yet,  
I am and can be what I please,  
Now merry, now sad, now a Fool, now a Wit,  
Brisk, dull, gay, and peevish with ease,  
Let Coxcombs supinely all Injuries bear,  
Dull Asses for Burdens were meant,  
And he that is still in one Humour I swea●  
Has not Courage, nor Wit to resent.    

A PARALLEL.  
IN old Italian Prose, we read,  
A youth by Riot and fond Love undone,  
Had yet a Falcon left of famous breed,  
His chief diversion in his fatal Need,  
And sole Companion when he left the Town.  
The Saint that did his Soul possess,  
Touched with a generous Sense of his distress  
Made him a Visit at his poor retreat,  
Whom his Heart nobly feasted, but, alas,  
His empty Purse could get,  
Nothing was good enough for her to eat:  
Till racked with Shame, and a long fruitless search,  
He more to make his Love appear,  
His darling Hawk snatched from the Perch,  
And dressed it for his Dear,  
Which generous Act did so entirely gain her,  
She gave him all her Love and Wealth,  
And nobly paid her Entertainer.  
So when my Love with fatal strife  
Had spent its whole Estate,  
And Nature's short-winged Hawk my Life  
Was doomed a Dish for Fate;  
Divine Olympia changed the sad decree,  
And with infallible Divinity,  
Gave A new Being to my Soul and me.   

TO THE Right HONOURABLE THE LADY E. R. Upon her finding a Spider in her BED.  
SEE what Revenge great Love doth still prepare  
To fright and punish the relentless Fair;  
Into that Bed, where by your cruel doom,  
No passionate Admirer e'er might come;  
Where Heaven on Earth no Eye but Heaven sees,  
And cold Virginity alone does freeze;  
Where Beauty blossoms, and in folded sweets,  
A Body whiter than the snowy Sheets:  
This black detested crawling thing was sent  
From angry Venus for your punishment;  
This is, she cried, her that profaned my Rites,  
Laughed at my Laws, neglected my Delights,  
Flushed with a Pride of Virtue durst withstand  
Love's fiercest Darts, and Nature's great Command,  
Is now condemned by the avenging Fates,  
T' a Bed-fellow, which above all she hates.  
Thus Andromeda flourished in her Prime;  
Thus laughed at Love, and thus still lost her time,  
Whilst bounteous Pity her fair Breast did warm,  
The Powers above protected her from harm,  
But when her Rigour to contempt presumed  
Her blooming Beauties to a Monster doomed;  
And though the Cries of an afflicted Maid,  
Brought the renowned Perseus to her aid;  
Had not her Will been tuned t' another strain  
The Warrior ne'er had loosed her from the Chain,  
Love's Harmony in well tuned Hearts appears  
Alike their hopes, and still alike their fears.  
No jarring Sounds the Consort can molest  
The charming Music fills each happy Breast,  
Their Wills unite, and their charmed Souls agree▪  
Like two soft Flutes, when sounding in one key,  
When honourable Love with humble Grace,  
And Merit pleads to fill the happy space,  
By your sweet side shall Spiders claim a place,  
Shall Rival Infects own a Love-like ours,  
And lay their sprawling filthy Limbs by yours:  
Ah, Madam, then must all Mankind proclaim  
'Tis punishment to you, to them a shame.  
No more Adorers then of Hopes bereave,  
But to your Bed some generous Love receive,  
Marriage, like Irish Wood has such a Charm,  
No Venom dares approach to do you harm:  
If you would have no hated Spiders come  
To Bed, let Love and Honour fill the Room.   

A TRUE TALE OF A True INTRIGUE.  

DARK was the Night, and not a Star  
Was seen o'er all the Hemisphere,  
When lately musing all alone  
I rambled to a Country Town,  
To heal with Balmy Love my Breast,  
That had with Grief been long oppressed;  
For there two Beauteous Sisters shone,  
As bright as the rejoicing Moon,  
When she with full Contentment cloyed,  
Endymion in Eclipse enjoyed.  
Young as the Spring, as sweet they smelled,  
And soft as down of Swans they felt;  
And I transported with delight,  
Could boast myself chief Favourite.  
Oh Happiness! too fierce to taste,  
Oh Pleasure! too refined to last;  
'Tis by the Change, we always see  
The Curse of our Mortality:  
The one was fair as the first Maid,  
That once for Fruit the World betrayed,  
A Rosy Cheek, and such a Skin,  
As well might give excuse for Sin;  
If Sin were possible to be  
Enclosed in such Divinity;  
The other was of browner hue,  
Yet the more charming of the two;  
A shape Divine, and sparkling Eye,  
Her Foot, her Leg, her taper Thigh,  
Her Breasts, where Kings would wish to lie,  
Showed the soft path to kill Joy:  
A solid Beauty, that would last,  
Smooth, plump, and fit to be embraced;  
Full of Delight, as Beauty's Queen  
In Pleasure blooming at eighteen;  
Down her soft Neck her flowing Hair,  
The best adornment of the Fair,  
With lavish Bounty reached her Knee,  
Discovering Nature's Luxury.  
All Graces which Historians find,  
In Books adorning Womankind,  
In these two charming Creatures shone,  
Admired by all, excelled by none.  
Forgive me, if for Beauty's sake,  
I this prolix digression make;  
Since those that of its power have proof,  
Can never speak its praise enough.  
Know then, Olinda, and Cephise  
Were named these lovely Goddesses,  
A Treasure dearer than the Fleece,  
Locked in the old Hesperides;  
And by as strange a Dragon kept,  
A mouldy Aunt that never ●●ept.  
But Love that sound out a device  
To blind the Giants hundred Eyes,  
When jove in Io's snare did fall,  
Cloyed with Embraces Conjugal;  
Soon sent a Hermes to my Aid,  
Who taught me how to bribe her Maid.  
She having in that happy Town  
A constant Roger of her own,  
Kept our Intrigue the more unknown.  
And oftener oped Paradise,  
Than e'er St. Peter with his Keys,  
Such power has praise with profit joined  
To charm a Mercenary Mind.  
Suppose me then close by the door,  
Through which I often went before,  
Giving a sign to let 'em know  
A faithful Lover was below;  
For both were of my Heart possessed,  
And had by Turns chief Interest,  
The Brown, when t' other was not there,  
And when Brown absent was, the Fair,  
Thus great, thus Turk-like did I rove  
In my Seraglio of Love.   

Scarce I the sign had throughly made,  
But word was brought they were in bed,  
And the old Aunt locked up at Prayers  
For blessings on her House Affairs.  
Then whilst I softly scaled the Stairs,  
The trusty Wench with busy Broom  
Below, was scrubbing round the Room,  
Singing th' old Song of Troy betrayed,  
To hide the creeking noise I made,  
Darkness o'er all the World did sway,  
Yet led by Love I found the way  
To th' side where sweet Olinda lay:  
Whose charming Eyes in spite of Night,  
Like Diamonds shone with glittering light,  
And ere she could my welcome speak  
Her Arms were twisted round my Neck,  
Whilst I a thousand Kisses stole,  
And every Kiss was worth a Soul,  
Nor did her Sister less employ  
Her Love, but with a grumbling Joy,  
Child me for my undecent Crime  
Of venturing thither at that time.  
ay, modestly Excuses made,  
With all the moving Words I had,  
Telling her 'twas a greater Crime  
To let my Love be slave to time,  
All times for Lovers are most fit,  
When e'er they can admission get;  
And thus with some few fallacies,  
And tenders that I thought would please,  
All Scruples throughly satisfied,  
I laid me by Olinda's side.   

But first my dirty Shoes from feet  
I pulled, lest they should daub the Sheet,  
And that it never should be said  
A Man in's Breeches went to bed,  
I stole 'em off without offence  
To Dear Olinda's Innocence:  
Who struggling betwixt Shame and Love  
To make a faint resistance strove,  
Then like an eager loving Fop,  
No Petruke on nor e'er a Cap,  
I clung to that soft Angel's side,  
Close as a Bridegroom to his Bride.   

Great Ovid in his mighty Verse  
Of Hermes, a strange Tale declares,  
How he to Aphrodite inclined,  
So fervently their Bodies joined.  
Howe'er that Fancy might be false,  
As there's no certain Truth in Tales;  
'Tis here confirmed, for we that Night  
Made out the true Hermaphrodite.  
Here I could wish the Reader's Thought  
Would not proceed into a Fault,  
By censuring this Extravagance,  
As far as the extreme offence,  
Love does a thousand Follies own,  
That may be proper to be shown,  
And yet the greatest not be done.  
Nor would I have him seek what past  
Between us more, but think the best;  
Whilst I to write my Muse employ  
What discontents ensued this Joy.   

The Morning rose as fair as when  
In flowery Eden, Spring began  
To bless the first Created Man:  
Aurora blushed to be outdone  
By the gay splendour of the Sun,  
And coily his Embrace did shun;  
Whilst he a hot and vigorous Wooer  
Mounts his bright Chariot to pursue her:  
When I from sleep my Senses drew,  
And blessed as he myself I view,  
For I had my Aurora too;  
Who whispering softly as she could,  
Her Story in my Bosom told,  
And blushing, my desires reproved  
With all the tenderness of Love;  
I rapt with such a Load of Charms,  
Took the dear Trembler in my Arms,  
And swore no storm of Fate should move  
The Rock of my Eternal Love:  
A thousand times her Eyes I kissed,  
Ten thousand more her snowy Breast;  
And so unruly were our Joys,  
Her Sister wakened with the Noise;  
Who with her Wit our pleasure graced  
In rallying on adventures past.   

But see what mutability  
Attends on traditory Joy,  
And what a slender Film does grow  
Between extremes of Mirth and Woe,  
As we of past Intrigues conferred  
Unchecked, and as we thought unheard.  
Old Satan ready to devour,  
Stood listening at the Chamber Door;  
The Aunt had in her early Head  
Some nice occasions for her Maid,  
And fearing she should wake my Dears  
To call her softly crept up Stairs;  
Where soon she heard their tattling noise,  
Mixed with my loud Bass-Viol Voice.  
Not more amazed lame Vulcan stood  
When he beheld his Wife was lewd;  
Nor Cesar, who as Story shows  
Saw his fond Girl her Fame expose  
To th' Poet with the Roman Nose.  
Then was Old Grannum at that sound,  
That through her Ears her Heart did wound;  
Stung with a Rage from wonder bred,  
With speed she hobbles to the Bed;  
But not so soon, but first I slipped  
From th' outside between 'em crept,  
Where close the panting Lover lies,  
Half smothered with soft Legs and Thighs;  
The Curtains strait she open threw  
Exposing the poor Girls to view,  
And there not finding what she looked,  
Under the Bed with Broomstick poked,  
Then ghastly round the Room she rowls  
Peeping in all the Chinks and Holes.  
Olinda trembling at her sight,  
And almost murdered with the fright,  
Raises herself in Bed upright,  
And boldly on my Reeking Face  
Sets without Compliment her A—  
Pressing me down so close beneath,  
That I had much ado to breath;  
So warm a place had cased my Nose,  
No Mask sat ever on so close,  
Nor did my Mouth at that time miss  
In corner a dear Friend to kiss,  
Whilst round me nothing seemed to be,  
But Regions of Obscurity.   

Bless me, thought I, sure I am now  
Descending to the Shades below,  
But cannot want the Golden Bough,  
My bold advent'ring steps to guide,  
As once the Great Aenea● did;  
For there the Sibyl stands again,  
And here's the Grove just by my Chin,  
A Copps with fine thick Bushes dressed,  
Where fluttering Loves do build their Nests;  
Nor need I Styx or Cerb●rus fear,  
When that my Passport is so near.   

My Fancy with these Thoughts grown big,  
I reached my Hand to pull a Twig,  
When by some Angry Demons spite  
I found myself brought back to light,  
For that old Hag with Rage overcome,  
Discovering nothing in the Room;  
And knowing too too well the Voice,  
To think the Devil made that noise,  
Not heeding what her Neices said,  
Pulls all the clothes from off the Bed,  
And showed three pair of Legs as bare,  
As first they to the Midwife were.   

Have you not in a Quarry seen  
A Peasant that with Coulter keen  
Has digged beneath some hollow Stone,  
And found a Nest of Snakes well grown,  
Crawling and twisting all in one:  
So clustering in a Knot we lay  
Broadly exposed to open day.   

Imagine now you view the Scene,  
Two plump white Bums my Nose between,  
That from the Motions of their Fear  
Had sent out an ungrateful Air,  
The Aunt with Patience not endowed,  
Ready to bawl for Aid a loud,  
When in my Shirt from both I slipped,  
And to the stun'd old Woman leapt,  
Swearing, if from the place she stirred,  
She should not live to speak a word;  
Then did like Man of Honour try  
To face it with a ready Lie,  
Swearing like any Popish Monk,  
That I last Night came thither Drunk,  
And that her Neices were as free  
From Gild, as at there Infancy,  
Confirming this with Vows and Oaths,  
Still hastening to slip on my clothes,  
Which done, I scampered out of Door,  
Where I could never enter more.    

A LASH AT ATHEISTS: The POET speaking, as the Ghost of a Quondam Libertine, supposed to be the late E. of R. Reflects on that part of Seneca's Troas, beginning at 
Post Mortem nihil est, Ipsaque Mors nihil  
Velocis spatii meta Novissima:  
Spem ponant avidi seliciti metum.  
Quaeris quo Ia●●as post Obitum loco  
Quo non Nata jacent.   
Encumbered with vile Flesh, to Earth inclined,  
Profane Tragedian, once I wore thy Mind,  
Born on the Wings of soaring Wit so high,  
I thought my Soul no farther pitch could fly  
Than the gay Regions of Philosophy.  
The hot-brained Stag'rite in my Breast did reign,  
And Sacred Prophets preached the Truth in vain,  
Nourished by Logic Arts so well I knew  
To vent false Reason and disguise the true:  
Around my Beams the Atheists of the Times,  
Like Atoms, danced and wantoned in my Crimes,  
Strong Vice Opinion of my Wisdom bred,  
Which round the World, those false Apostles led,  
Whilst scandal hourly I on Virtue threw,  
Nor would be witty, unless wicked too;  
All thy pernicious Tenets than I owned,  
And Wit profane with circling Bays I crowned,  
Proud of unbiased Reason, my design  
Was still to blast the Mysteries Divine;  
Defame Religion with unhallowed wit,  
And ridicule the Laws of Sacred Writ:  
But Oh, you foolish, fond, and apish Crew,  
Ye Learned Idiots that my Tracts pursue,  
Ye crawling Worms that bask in the Sun's Ray,  
And yet the Sun's great Maker disobey.  
Pernicious Snakes that by Celestial Fire,  
Relieved from frozen Ignorance, conspire  
Against your God, and think frail Eyes can see  
Through the Arcana of the Trinity,  
Reflect how false your Notions are, by me.  
And thou, poor Heathen, that hadst wit to write,  
Yet not the Truth, hadst Eyes, and yet no sight,  
That wert in th' dawn of our Redemption driven  
Through moral Mists to grope the way to Heaven,  
Thou that with one poor glimpse of Reason blest,  
Given only as distinction from the Beast;  
Profanely dar'st affirm there nothing is  
Beyond the Grave, of Misery or Bliss:  
But that the Soul and Body, like a Tree,  
Rest undisturbed in Earth's Obscurity.  
With me art now severely undeceived  
In those dam'd Tenets which we once believed,  
Yet not believed, for in each vile Harangue  
The Atheist speaks he feels a secret Pang:  
Poor tortured Conscience peeps through his disguise,  
And tells the noisy hot brained Fool he lies;  
Thus Man more sordid than a Brute must be,  
That plagued with the Salt Itch of Sophistry,  
Forfeits his Soul, profanes all Sacred Laws,  
For the vain blast of Popular Applause.  
Had Reverend Hobbs this Revelation marked  
Before his dubious leap into the dark;  
Had he sound Faith, before false Sense approved,  
Moses, instead of Aristotle loved,  
Eternal Vengeance had not found him then,  
Nor gorged him with his own Leviathan;  
Like him, or worse, once madly did I Rave  
Till I had got on▪ Foot into the Grave:  
But there, as if Eternal Power had pleased  
To show in me that Wonders were not ceased;  
My Guardian Angel snatched my Soul from Night  
To the clear Paths of Everlasting Light:  
Then banished Wisdom reassumed my Brain,  
Religious Reason took her Seat again;  
I sighed, and trembled at the horrid view  
Of my past Crimes, and scarcely could renew  
Forgotten Prayer, so little good I knew,  
Till heavenly Mercy down like Manna fell,  
And true Repentance lifted me from Hell:  
Thus Sickness which my Mourning Friends condole  
When Art could not restore my Body whole,  
Proved the Divine Physician of my Soul.  
How deeply then my long lost Reason prized  
The Balmy Scriptures I so late despised!  
How poorly Tinsel-robed Philosophy  
Appeared when Rich Divinity was by!  
And how th' Evangelists and Prophets shone  
Amongst Heathen Poets, that my Heart had won  
Gone was my doubt, the Resurrection plain,  
And if there be a Fool, so vile, so vain,  
That in his Head that Scruple does retain:  
Let him but think what first Created Man,  
Then let him be an Atheist if he can.   

To CYNTHIA.  

I.  
IF Beauty by Enjoyment can  
Reward a Love that's true,  
To bless our Patience or our Pain,  
All I deserve from you.   

II.  
But oh, to Love too well's a Curse  
Of such a strange degree,  
Were my Fidelity far worse  
Much happier should I be.   

III.  
Sad Recompense, relentless Fate  
To faithful Love does give;  
You're pleased in being obstinate,  
Whilst I in Tortures live.   

III.  
Like wretches gulled to Foreign Shores,  
I cruelly am served,  
Instead of Loves dear promised Stores  
Am made a Slave and starved    

A PROLOGUE, By way of satire, spoke before King CHARLES II. at Newmarket.  
EXpect no more th' old fawning Prologue way,  
For the rash spleenful Poet writes to day  
Something of you, Gallants, and not the Play.  
Since freedom's given to each man here resorts,  
He takes the privilege t' abuse your sports;  
Then thus begins, this Court's a Theatre,  
And every Jockey is an Actor here,  
From the dull Knight up to the bawling Peer.  
Newmarket is in general a Place,  
Made of Crimp and Chouse of Cocks and Race,  
Much Noise, much Nonsense, little Wit, or Grace,  
Where Men all seem as Nature had designed 'em,  
To lose their Wits, then Gallop hard to find 'em:  
Pray where's the Jest, for Faith I fain would know  
In Yap, hoh, pugh, they start, they come, they go,  
Chattering one's Teeth the while in Frost and Snow.  
This and Fox-Hunting, th' Ancients did detest,  
Where you Ride ten or twenty Miles at least,  
Following the eager Chase in busy Swarms,  
O'er Hedge and Ditch, venturing Legs, Necks & Arms  
To kill, when at the Journeys end you come  
A stinking Creature not worth bringing home:  
This may be your Delight, but 'tis to me,  
As th' Monsieur says, Diable de Plasire;  
Yet one thing we must own, no Sport us foun●  
In th' World like that, to try if Men are sound;  
Therefore all you that carry tender Fleeces,  
S●un this rude Sport, or gad you'll shake to pieces;  
Another thing I know is worth your Care,  
Claps are all fatal in Newmarket Air:  
This caused an Amorous Groom that knew the danger  
Lately to Hang himself over a Manger,  
And though a Vassal suffered this Disaster,  
My Friends, 'tis Ominous to every Master.  
Drink Brimmers then, Wine makes your bliss complete,  
Locket's a Loyal Fellow, let him Cheat,  
Though stumed Wine at three shillings be too dear,  
Bacchus has safer Joys than Venus here,  
Especially for you who to your cost  
Kept Running Nags all the late bitter Frost.  
Jesting's in fashion, 'tis the Modish way  
And for Example, if you please you may  
At the King's Dinner, hear 'em every day:  
●ests show a Wit, if Modestly they come,  
But such as bluntly and too high presume,  
Make Learning & good Manners quit the Room.  
Yet you all laugh, and in as pleased a Fit,  
As if your Panegyric had been writ.  
So in a Village have I seen a Clown  
With broken Noddle lay the Cudgels down,  
And Sneer to feel his bloody mangled Scull,  
As if the Blow had dignifyed the Fool.  
jockeys, Joke on then, without fear or awe,  
Cheat on, be Friends, do any thing but draw,  
Crimp is no Treason, by Newmarket Law.   

Epithalamy on the Marriage of the Right Honourable the Lady Essex Roberts.  

I.  
RUN Lovers, run before her,  
Kneel once more and adore her,  
The hour is posting on  
When all your Joy  
Below the Sky,  
Will be for ever gone.  
Though Sighs inflame the Air,  
And thousand Eyes are Raining,  
No Art nor no Complaining  
Can now retrieve the Fair;  
She's gone, alas, she's gone,  
Then welcome sad Despair.   

II.  
See, Hymen there attending,  
The God of Love descending  
In Sylvias' Fetters lies,  
Not all his Art,  
Could guard his Heart  
From her victorious Eyes:  
Whose fair, but cruel Breast,  
Refused each Shepherd's Passion,  
A Torment like Damnation,  
To make Philander blest,  
Whilst he the happy he,  
Of Heaven is sole possessed.   

VI  
Hail then belov'd Philander,  
Thou blest, thou glad Commander  
Of all the World holds rare,  
Ennobled Blood,  
The Wise the Good,  
The Virtuous and the Fair.  
The Choice of Heaven's store  
Is thrown to thy Embraces;  
Such Beauty, Wit, and Graces,  
Ne'er decked our Plains before,  
Nor could Fate study how  
To bless a Mortal more.    

The HEALTH.  
A Second Movement.  
ADIEU to Virginity,  
That silly strange nothing, that Maids are so fond of,  
Room, Room, for the Bridegroom, he,  
All Beauty's dear Trophies has now the command of:  
Banish all thoughts of resty Diana,  
Crown the full Bowl, a Health to Lucina.  
Who ere the Year be run,  
Gives the fair Bride a Son,  
Able, able, to pledge his own.   

Paid for Peeping: A POEM, Occasioned by a Peeping hole into a Chamber where a Beautiful and Virtuous young Lady Lodged, through which undiscovered, I could observe all her Actions.  

I.  
ACTAEON thus admiring stood,  
To see bright Cynthia bless the Flood  
With her Soul charming naked Limbs:  
He sighed, and wished for such a Wife,  
Till Peeping cost the Fool his Life,  
Not getting further off betimes.   

II.  
Though no such dreadful Fate I had,  
Nor yet so dear for Peeping paid;  
Nor felt such strange and fatal smart,  
Though all my Stars propitious stood,  
To save the shedding of my Blood,  
Insensibly I lost my Heart.   

III.  
Sweet Innocence well guarded lay  
To Charm my Peeping Soul away,  
With Beauty's penetrating Rays;  
My wanton Thoughts that hoped to see,  
Something well worthy Raillery,  
Were wholly taken up with Praise.   

IV.  
Sometimes I found her close at Prayer,  
And sometimes Combing of her Hair,  
Which on her Back did curling lie;  
Sometimes with Neck and Breasts all bare  
She stood as she was planted there,  
My Heart to Murder through my Eye.   

V.  
Yet shy of every Nudity,  
So Modest that she seemed to me  
Of such a timorous bashful Soul,  
As if she had discovered been,  
Or that she really had seen  
Me fond peeping through the hole.   

VI  
The satire, as old Tales recount,  
Gazed on Diana in the Fount,  
Besotted with a brutish Passion:  
But mine was dashed from that degree,  
For all the brutal part in me,  
Was turned to humble Adoration.   

VII.  
Even I, was to Devotion bend,  
Seeing that dear, that pretty Saint  
With Providence so oft confer;  
Yet when to Heaven I sent my Prayer,  
Before it had got half way there,  
My wand'ring Thoughts flew down to her.   

VIII.  
Then sometimes smothered Zeal would fire,  
Bursting to flashes of desire,  
I envied Heaven the time she prayed;  
Methought that Face, that blooming Youth,  
Those lovely Eyes, that pretty Mouth,  
Were for Eternal Kisses made.   

IX.  
Sometimes she'd laugh and talk of Love,  
Sometimes on graver Matters prove,  
That she well-skilled in Books had been;  
Sometimes she'd Read, and sometimes Write,  
Her little Hands no Snow so white,  
Nor any River-Swan so clean.   

X.  
Boldly, not knowing her Abuse,  
She'd put her Stockings on and Shoes,  
Then Roll a Gartar above Knee,  
Her Foot and Leg, and tempting Thigh,  
And every Beauty that was by,  
All carelessly exposed to me.   

XI.  
And many a Sacred Sunday Morn,  
Naked as ever she was born,  
Ere she was ready to be dressed,  
I've seen her put clean Linen on,  
Whilst to my greedy Eye was shown  
More Beauty than can be expressed.   

XII.  
Children are told that Maids are free  
From Nature's Liquid Quality,  
Imposing thus on Childish Wit;  
And Faith, had I not seen the Pot,  
She was so Neat I should have thought,  
She had done nothing else but spit.   

XIII.  
To free myself from all dispute,  
This Scruple better to confute,  
I once resolved to press more near;  
But ah, here ended all my Joys,  
She found my Cranny, heard my Noise,  
And stood half dead 'twixt Shame and Fear.   

XIV.  
As in some fat and plashy Ground,  
A Fowler has a Covey found,  
All feeding at the Noon of day;  
By his Robust and blundering Noise,  
The Game has raised, they mount the Skies,  
And frighted, post with speed away:   

XV.  
So from that hour no Game was seen,  
No Fairy Land, nor Fairy Queen,  
Did ever since that time appear;  
Closestool was in the Closet shut,  
The Night-shift gone, and the dear Pot,  
barbarously hid the Lord knows where.   

XVI.  
No Wonders now were seen in Bed,  
Before my Chink a Screen was spread,  
Scarce any Light the Room adorns;  
And now the finest sight I had  
Was Squinty Fegue, the dirty Maid,  
In th' Chimney cutting of her Corns.   

XVII.  
Who such a Change did ever know,  
Who but the Devil e'er fell so low,  
That in such state of bliss had been:  
For though my Eyes from Heaven must part,  
The hole damned up, yet my poor-heart  
Was still close Prisoner kept within.   

XVIII.  
But when I heard she would be gone,  
Low as her Feet I threw me down,  
And begged her not to leave the place;  
But now, alas, too well she knew  
My Heartstrings after her she drew,  
And thus reviled me to my face.   

XIX.  
Rather my Glass of Life shall run,  
In Caves that never saw the Sun,  
Than here with thee, thou worst of Men:  
Thee Traitor to despair I doom,  
He that has oagled once my B—  
Shall never see my Face again.   

XX.  
Like Bolts sent from the sultry South,  
This Thunder from her heavenly Mouth,  
On my unguarded Heart did fall  
So fierce, that in my tortured mind,  
Possessed with Rage, I once designed  
To knock my Head against the Wall.   

XXI.  
Then Adam the first Man I cursed,  
That brought the Mischief in at first  
To traffic with forbidden Joys;  
Else Beauty's World had naked been,  
Nor had I for my peeping Sin,  
Like him been banished Paradise.    

SONG.  

I.  
A Pelles told the Painters famed in Greece,  
To draw true Beauty was the hardest piece,  
And now, alas, the same defect we see  
Descend, from Painting into Poetry;  
Divine Olimpia's Face no Skill can take  
Each Feature does the feeble Artist blind,  
And ah, what Muse a just Applause can make  
Of all the Charms in that Angellick kind.   

II.  
Some are for pleasing Features far renowned,  
Others with Wit, or charming Voices wound,  
Many for mein and shape fond Lovers prise,  
And many make vast Conquests with their Eyes:  
But ne'er were these Perfections found in one,  
But in the fair Olympia alone;  
The fair Olympia Phenix-like appears,  
A Wonder seen once in a thousand years.   

Second Movement.  
THAN show thy Power, great God of Love,  
That laughst at women's Craft,  
Make all her Charms less strongly move,  
And make her Heart more soft;  
Ah, why should Beauty first ordained to please,  
Consume and Kill,  
And do such fatal Ill,  
Since only she can cure which causes the disease.    

Against freewill. A SONG.  

I.  
GO silly Mortal, and ask thy Creator,  
Why thy short Life is tormented with care,  
Why thou art slave to the follies of Nature,  
Why for thy Plague he made Women so fair?  
If Cloes Glances  
Can charm thy Senses,  
And Beauty force thee into her snare;  
What's this Free Will of which Gownmen so prate,  
When none, none, have power to control their Fate.   

II.  
If Man be Monarch of all the Creation,  
Women in Reason should stoop to his sway;  
Fair, Rich, or Witty, by free Inclination  
Owning his Privilege, calmly obey:  
Else every Brute is  
More blest with Beauties.  
The Horse or Stag each can seize his Prey,  
Who e'er i'th' Grove saw the Lordly Bull,  
Sigh to the fair, She like a loving Fool.    

A SONG.  

I.  
I Followed Fame and got Renown,  
I ranged all o'er the Park and Town,  
I haunted Plays, and there grew wise,  
Observing my own modish Vice;  
Friends and Wine I next did try,  
Yet I found no solid Joy,  
Greatest Pleasures seem too small,  
Till Sylvia made amends for all.   

II.  
But see the state of humane Bliss,  
How vain our best Contentment is,  
As of my Joy she was the Chief,  
So was she too my greatest Grief,  
Fate, that I might be undone,  
Dooms this Angel but for one,  
And, alas, too plain I see,  
That I am not the happy he.    

A Dialogue between a Town Spark and his Miss.  She. 
DID you not promise me when you lay by me,  
That you would Marry me, can you deny me?  Herald 
If I did promise thee, 'twas but to try thee,  
Call up your Witnesses, else I defy thee.  She. 
Ah, who would trust you Men, that Swear and Vow so,  
Born only to deceive, how can you do so?  Herald 
If we can Swear and Lie, you can Dissemble,  
And then to hear the Lie, would make one Tremble.  She. 
Had I not loved, you had found a denial  
My tender Heart, alas, was but too real;  He, 
Real I know you were, I've often tried ye,  
Real to forty more Lovers besides me.  She. 
If thousands loved me, where was my Transgression,  
You we were the only He, e'er got Possession?  Herald 
Thou couldst talk prettily ere thou couldst go, Child;  
But I'm too old and wise, to be shamed so, Child.  She. 
Tho y'are so Cruel you'll never believe me,  
Yet do but take the Child, all I forgive thee.  Herald 
Send your Kid home to me, I will take care on't,  
If't has the Mother's gifts, 'twill prove a rare one.   

To Cynthia. A SONG.  

I.  
BORN with the Vices of my kind  
I were Inconstant too;  
Dear Cynthia, could I rambling find  
More Beauty than in you:   

II.  
The rolling Surges of my Blood,  
By virtue now ebbed low;  
Should a new Shower increase the Flood,  
Too soon would over flow.   

III.  
But frailty when thy Face I see,  
Does modestly retire;  
Uncommon must her Graces be,  
Whose look can bound desire.   

IV.  
Not to my Virtue, but thy Power  
This Constancy is due,  
When change itself can give no more,  
'Tis easy to be true.    

A Mock SONG to, When first AMINTOR sued for a Kiss, etc.  

I.  
A Minta one Night had occasion to p—  
joan reached her the Pot that stood by her,  
I in the next Chamber could hear it to hiss;  
The Sluice was small, but Stream was strong,  
My Soul was melting, thinking of bliss,  
And raving I lay with desire;  
But nought could be done,  
For alas she p— d on,  
Nor cared for Pangs I suffered long,  
joan next made haste  
In th'self same Case,  
To fix the Pot close to her own A—  
Then Floods did come,  
One might have swom,  
And Puff, a Whirlwind flew from her B—   

II.  
Says joan, by these strange Blasts that do rise,  
I guess that the Night will grow windy,  
For when such Showers do fall from the Skies,  
To clear the Air the Northwind blows.  
Ye nasty Quean, her Lady replies,  
That Tempest broke out from behind ye;  
And though it was decently kept from my Eyes,  
The troubled Air offends my Nose.  
Says joan, 'ods heart,  
You have p— d a Quart,  
And now you make ado for a F— t  
'Tis still your mind  
To squeeze behind;  
But never fell Shower from me without wind.    

Epilogue to the Opera of DIDO and AENEAS,  performed at Mr. Preist's Boarding-School at Chelsey; Spoken by the Lady Dorothy Burk. 
ALL that we know the Angels do above,  
I've read, is that they Sing and that they Love,  
The Vocal part we have to night performed,  
And if by Love ou● Hearts not yet are warned,  
Great Providence has still more bounteous been  
To save us from those grand Deceivers Men,  
Here blest with Innocence, and peace of Mind  
Not only bred to Virtue, but inclined;  
We flourish, and defy all human kind.  
Arts curious Garden thus we learn to know,  
And here secure from nipping Blasts we grow,  
Let the vain Fop range o'er yond vile lewd Town,  
Learn Playhouse Wit, and vow 'tis all his own;  
Let him Cock, Huff, Strut, Ogle, Lie and Swear,  
How he's admired by such and such a Player;  
All's one to us, his Charms have here no power,  
Our Hearts have just the Temper as before;  
Besides to show we live with strictest Rules,  
Our Nunnery-Door, is charmed to shut out Fools;  
No Love-toy here can pass to private view,  
Nor China Orange crammed with Billet dew,  
Rome may allow strange Tricks to please her Sons,  
But we are Protestants and English Nuns,  
Like nimble Fawns, and Birds that bless the Spring  
Unscared by turning Times we dance and sing;  
We in hope to please, but if some Critic here  
Fond of his Wit, designs to be severe,  
Let not his Patience, be worn out too soon,  
And in few years we shall be all in Tune.   

Love's Revenge. A SONG.  

I.  
THE World was hushed, and Nature lay  
Lulled in a soft Repose,  
As I in Tears reflecting lay  
On Chloes' faithless Vows,  
The God of Love all gay appeared  
To heal my wounded Heart,  
New pangs of Joy my Soul endeared,  
And Pleasure charmed each part.  
Fond Man, said he, here end thy Woe,  
Till they my Power and Justice know,  
The foolish Sex will all do so.   

II.  
And for thy Ease believe, no bliss  
Is perfect without pain,  
The fairest Summer hurtful is  
Without some Showers of Rain;  
The Joys of Heaven, who would prise  
If Men too cheaply bought,  
The dearest part of Mortal Joys  
Most charming is when sought;  
And though with Dross true Love they pay  
Those that know finest Metals say,  
No Gold will Coin without allay.   

III.  
But that the Generous Lover may,  
Not always sigh in vain,  
The Cruel Nymph that kills to day,  
To morrow shall be slain.  
The little God no sooner spoke,  
But from my sight he slew,  
And I that groaned with Chloes' yoke  
Found Love's Revenge was true;  
Her proud hard Heart too late did turn  
With fiercer Flames than mine did burn,  
Whilst I as much began to scorn.    

EPSOM-WELLS: A satire by way of Dialogue, between Critic and Fame.  

I.  Crit. 
FAME, that dost o'er the Universe scatter  
Satyrs and Libels, and Politics tell  
Say who's in the Country drinking the Water;  
And first begin with Epsom Well.   

II.  Crit. 
Who is that Lad there puffing and sweeting?  
And who those Rake hells that buzz in his Ears?  Fame. 
'Tis the mad Lord that loves the Bull-baiting,  
With all his Brethren Dogs and Bears.   

III.  Crit. 
Who are those two lank Tallow faced Doxies,  
That look as just they from sweeting did crawl?  Fame. 
Two London Whores would wash off their Pox,  
Dreading their Dooms when Leaves do fall.   

IV.  Cr. 
What City Wife's there on the Downs rolling,  
Who with young Bully to Box-Hill repairs,  Fa. 
One, who whilst Husband loses at Bowling,  
Takes the right way to get him Heirs.   

V.  Cr. 
But amongst all these, prithee dear Rumour  
What jack i'th' Box is that with Coach & four?  Fa. 
A Pox upon him, 'tis a Perfumer,  
That makes a stink all Fleet-street over.   

VI  Cr. 
What Lady bright comes yonder a Tuning,  
To whom the Wits and the Wittols so throng?  Fa. 
One that for all the Rooks is too cunning,  
And Plays and Sings all Summer long.   

VII.  Cr. 
What bonny Blade sits there above fifty,  
Chewing the Cud amongst Elmor's Calves?  Fa. 
'Tis an old Bachelor, that to be thrifty,  
Purchases Land by fulls and halfs.   

VIII.  Cr. 
The Vicar here loves Wine above Water,  
Cheering his Heart against wofuller Times;  Fa. 
Then coaks the Justice, and kiss his Daughter,  
There no more subject left for Rhyme.    

Prologue spoken by Mr. HAINS to TRAPOLIN, or a Duke and no Duke.  
TRapolin supposed a Prince, this humour shows  
Strange Matters do depend upon suppose,  
You wh— res 
* To the Eighteen penny Gallery.  may be thought chaste,  
You Critics witty 
† To the Pit.   
And I that have been kept for being pretty,  
Supposed a Beau, through the well governed City;  
Fancy digested into strong Supposes,  
Makes Cheeks fair, where no Lilies grow nor Roses,  
And Women beautiful that want their Noses:  
'Tis that and Nature all the World inspires,  
Fancy's the Bellows, kindling up new Fires  
When th' Fuel's gone, that should supply desires;  
And Nature is the Parent we all know,  
By whom like Plants, we fructify and grow.  
The Reverend Citizen sixty and above,  
That by poor Inch of Candle barters Love;  
Supposes, that his Son and Heir he got,  
But ask his Wife, and she supposes not.  
The Trees by Rosamonds Pond her Sins have known,  
And the dear Leaves still stick upon her Gown;  
Whilst the dull Sot, that's just a C— old made,  
Supposes she's at Church, and praying for a Trade.  
The Country Novice newly come to Town,  
Doomed by his Parents to a dagled Gown;  
That wanting Grace, in Love most lewdly falls  
With some hot Nymph in these unhallowed Walls,  
Supposes some bright Angel he has gotten,  
Till finding by sad signs the Wh—re was rotten;  
His sweeting Study's changed to sweeting Tubs,  
And Doctor Littleton, for Doctor Hobbs,  
Pray tell me, who would marry here among ye,  
(For Whoring ye all hate, I scorn to wrong ye,)  
That did not first suppose his Wife a Maid,  
And Virgin Pleasures blest the Marriage Bed;  
Yet 'tis Opinion must your Peace secure,  
For no Experiment can do't I'm sure;  
In Paths of Love, no footsteps e'er were traced,  
All you can do is to suppose her chaste;  
For Women are of that deep subtle kind  
The more you dive to know, the less you find,  
Ah, Ladies, what strange Fate attends us Men,  
For when we prudently would scape your gin,  
Sweet Supposition draws the Woodcocks in:  
In all Affairs 'tis so, the Lawyer bawls,  
And with dam'd Noise and Nonsense plagues the Halls,  
Supposing after seven years being a Drudge,  
'Twill be his Fortune to be made a Judge:  
The Parson too that prays against Ill Wethers,  
That thumps the Cushion till he leaves no Feathers,  
Would let his Flock, I fear, grow very lean,  
Without a fat Suppose of being a Dean:  
In every thing is some by End, but Wit,  
And that has too much Virtue in't, to get;  
Then for our sakes that want a lucky Hit,  
Let kind Suppose, for once possess your Mind,  
Think in that Charm all Pleasures are confined,  
Tho you mislike the Farce, pray don't disclose it;  
But if you are not satisfied,— Suppose it.   

An ELEGY On the Death of that true Perfection of Beauty and Goodness, the Lady ESSEX SPIGOT, who died of the Smallpox, immediately after her Marriage.  
Written by way of Dialogue betwixt Mors and Hymen.  Mors. 
GReat Second Cause, of Man's Original,  
Why does thy Head upon thy Bosom fall?  
Why are thy active Spirits all dispersed?  
Why thy Robe torn, and genial Torch reversed,  
As if the end of Nature now were come,  
And general Dissolution filled one Tomb.  
Since Mortals all by our disposes move,  
I point their date of Time, and thou their Love  
Since Death is natural to all are born,  
Why dost thou languish thus, why dost thou mourn?  Hymen. 
Thou bloodless Tyrant of Mortality;  
Pale King of Charnels, canst thou ask me why?  
Ah, that I could reverse Heavens great Decree,  
And in thy Place fix any Fate but thee!  
Thou that thus rudely dar'st my Rights invade,  
And cloud Love's brighest Lustre with thy shade,  
With barbarous Power act a lawless Guest,  
And Rape a Virgin from her Nuptial Feast;  
The sharpest Bolt in Heaven with fatal speed,  
My eager Rage should dart upon thy head,  Mo. 
Raging in vain,— thou idly spendst thy breath,  
Dost thou not know reward for Sin is Death?  
Since Primitive offence, Hymen, for Sin I own,  
But ah, why should she Perish that had none?  
The sweet Aspasia was all purity.  Mors. 
Was not the sweet Aspasia born to die?  Hym. 
Tho Nature's Tribute once she were to pay  
Could it be due upon her Wedding-day;  
A time when Rapture the pleased Sense controls,  
And sprightly Joy kept Revels in their Souls.  
When Vesta fond of her dear Charge to me,  
Had just given up her beauteous Votary,  
A sacred Mould for a blessed Progeny:  
At such a time when Love did brightest shine,  
When Life was dear, to force her to resign  
Was cruelty fit for no Breast but thine.  Mo. 
These Arguments how vainly you employ!  
You are a Friend, but I sworn Foe to Joy;  
At the wide door of Luxury I wait,  
And summon there the least prepared to fate;  
An envious Pleasure does my Breast overflow  
To dash their sweetest draughts of Life with woe;  
So when the haughty Syrian Monarch crowned  
His swelling Bowls in Gulfs of Pleasure drowned;  
When Consecrated Vessels were not free  
From the wild Law of his Impiety;  
When thoughtless Epicures swollen with excess,  
And wanton Women charmed his Soul with bliss,  
The fatal Hand upon the Wall was placed,  
Subscribing that short moment for his last.  Hym. 
Why namest thou tha●, or Syria's Monarch here  
Death, as reward of Sin was proper there;  
His ill spent days obtained to long a date,  
Spotted with Crimes and mellowed for his fate;  
But sweet Aspasia guiltless from her birth,  
Divinely lived an Angel upon Earth.  Mors. 
Merrit extreme, but with a Mortal date,  Hym. 
All worth is Mortal with remorseless fate;  
A charming Grace did all her Actions guide,  
A sacred Virtue never soiled with Pride;  
A saintlike Piety, a pitying Heart,  
An uncorrupted Beauty without Art,  
Humble as Cottage Girls, yet awful too,  
Kidn to distress, and to all Merit true;  
Devout as Angels, singing Hymns on high,  
Yet spite of all their Graces:  Mo. 
Born to die:  Hym. 
If these could not thy Avarice overcome,  
Thou mightst take more to swell the mighty sum,  
Her graceful Modesty, her mighty Wit,  
The one delightful, as the other great;  
And then for Patience, and blessed Charity,  
None e'er her equal knew:  Mo. 
Yet born to die,  Hym. 
Not only die, but in her blooming Age,  
To feel the Curse of thy extremest Rage,  
A double Death did her dear Life pursue,  
Of Beauty first, and then of Nature too,  
Vile Schelliton that wouldst not Pity show,  
But where no Flesh is, how should Pity grow?  
Were thy Soul formed of any thing but spite,  
Or all the contraries of soft delight:  
Those Eyes late blinded with disease so foul  
With pointed Beams had shot thee to the Soul,  Mo. 
That was one Reason why I quenched their fire,  
Her Wit and Beauty did so far aspire,  
Even Death had else been fooled into desire,  
Pity had warmed my Breast to let her live,  
And Female Charms had purchased a Reprieve,  
Had not resenting Ghosts o'er whom I Reign,  
All murmuring at a thought so strange, so vain,  
Declared in the Grand Council of my State,  
Pity was fit for any thing but Fate.  Hym. 
And Fate more fit for any thing than Love,  
Henceforth aloud in every-shady Grove,  
Where harmless Lovers pretty Garlands wove.  
The Swains and Nymphs Aspatia's Obsequies,  
Shall sing with heavy Hearts and weeping Eyes;  
Aspatia's hapless Fate each Breast shall sway,  
Aspatia's story shall wear out the day,  
Satyrs shall range from their obscure Abode,  
Vice shall grow ●amous, Marriage out of mode,  
And till by warrant from the Deity  
Hymen has power to alter Fate's decree,  
Of this great wrong he'll ne'er cease to complain,  
Nor ever tie the genial Knot again.   

An ODE.  
To my much honoured Friend Sir THOMAS GARRARD, Baronet, upon his Climacterical YEAR.  

I.  
THE famous old Prophet that twenty years toiled,  
To write us the Psalms that dunce Hopkins has spoiled,  
In giving account of the Ages of Men;  
Has strangely confined us to Threescore and Ten▪  
He tells us, to scare us, his last hour is near,  
That enters the sad Climacterical Year.   

II.  
Then welfare the Man that inspired by good Wine,  
Cares neither for Seventy nor seven times Nine;  
Whose jolly brisk Humour adds sands to his Glass,  
And standing upright can look Fate in the ●ace;  
That makes much of Life, but when Nature is due  
Declines like a Flower, as sweet as he grew.  
To his fair Example and Grandeur of Soul,  
Let each in his order Carouse a full Bowl;  
Whatever dull Gown men or Sages may think,  
There's no Man grows old till he ceases to drink;  
Then Health to Sir Thomas, and that he may be,  
As well as sixscore as at sixty and thre●●    

The KING'S Health: A CATCH Sung in Parts.  

I.  
NOW Second Hannibal is come,  
O'er frozen Lakes and mounts of Snow,  
To found our Faith on conquered Rome,  
And give Proud France a fatal Blow.   

II.  
Well may our Phoebus disappear,  
And set his Glory in the Sea;  
If Planets of a lower Sphere,  
Can give us greater light than he.   

III.  
Friars and Monks, and all those baldpate Fools,  
With Wafers, Ointments, Beads and sham's,  
Pardons and Antichristian Bulls.  
Must yield to Belgic battering Rams▪   

IV.  
Infallibility is gone,  
And Judges of Dispensing Powers,  
That had their Country quite undone,  
Was ever known such Sons of Whores?   

V.  
Drink all around, then by consent,  
Health to the Monarch of the Land,  
The Queen, and healing Parliament;  
Pledge me six Bumpers in a hand,  
And when the Jesuits you see,  
Dangling upon the Triple Tree,  
Fill up six more, and sing with me,  
A Plague on senseless Popery.    

A Letter written by the Author for a Friend, to one in Town; being a satire, on DINGBOY and a Rampant WIDOW. 1685.  
ABroad when Dingboy's Verses came,  
And in the Scroll you read my Name,  
Too well my dearest Friend I know  
You blushed as much as I do now,  
Not that you thought my scanty Crimes  
Had not deserved Satiric Rhimes;  
But that I should a Subject be,  
For th' Pen of such a Dunce as he,  
Whose empty Noddle still takes pains  
Without a dram of Sense of Brains,  
To make my Fame about the Town,  
As black and ugly as his own.  
Nature a signal shame has meant,  
To the Obstinate and Ignorant,  
And Dingboy above all Mankind  
The Curse of his own Vice does find;  
'Tis plague enough to be a Fool,  
Wretchedly Poor, and Proud, as Dull,  
To aim at Wit and Writing well,  
And yet not have the sense to spell,  
To give the Noble Art abuse,  
By daring to invoke a Muse.  
This, one would think, were shame enough,  
If Blockheads e'er could taste Reproof;  
But he, as if the Genius fled  
From th' barren Soil of such a Head;  
Still plunges on, and with strange flights  
Of new invented Nonsense writes;  
Fame gives it out, th' unthinking Beast  
Once set up for a Romish Priest,  
With goggling Eyes, and supple Hams,  
Trained up to all their Tricks and sham's;  
But ne'er was wise enough to know,  
Whether the Rat was damned or no,  
That eat the consecrated Dough:  
Things past his reach he ne'er durst hope,  
But after got into a Troop,  
Where now he Lurks, Roars, Huffs, and Fights,  
With the same Genius that he writes.  
Don Quixot-like plays pranks in vain,  
Plagued by the Windmills in his brain;  
Now rails, now writes, but such a Style,  
So filthy Dogril and so Vile,  
He dipped his Pen we well might think  
In Excrement instead of Ink,  
Such Rhimes on Wall of common Jakes,  
Which every Bum for Easement takes:  
I many times have seen ill writ  
With Finger and a Thumb be—  
Yet they appear to this dull Sot,  
As fine as ever Cowley wrote,  
Such shameful Madness still we see  
In Impudent stupidity;  
But here le's leave him for a while  
In th' Jakes, which can his Fame defile,  
And turn to jerk the Female Friend,  
He does so wretchedly defend;  
Oh Women, born for Man's Delight,  
His Ease by Day, his Joy by Night,  
Ye useful Mischiefs which we keep  
To procreate, eat, drink, and sleep;  
Ye Ladles which we Fools require,  
To cool the Broth of our desire,  
Designed, no doubt, for our relief,  
Though oft converted to our Grief:  
Listen to one obliged to rail,  
And mark the Justice of my Tale;  
And you, who to our cost we find,  
The worst of all that baneful Kind,  
Widows I mean, who lose your Senses,  
When wanting due Benevolences.  
With solid Confidence prepare,  
And hearken to the Character  
Of the most lewd and rampant Whore,  
That ever— in a Bandore;  
From Taplash froth of Nappy Ale,  
She had her great Original;  
Her Father in a Drunken fit,  
The she clest Monster did beget,  
And brought a Pattern of new Crimes  
To plague the World in after Times;  
Unfortunate the Man, and Cursed,  
That did the sin to wed her first,  
But th' Dunce that second Wedlock named  
Is beyond all Redemption damned,  
No flesh on Earth so wretched made,  
Nor Hell hereafter half so bad;  
The Rogue that Robs to buy him Bread,  
When hanged atones for the ill deed,  
Who Acts all other deadly Sins,  
With his own blood clears each offence.  
His Punishment does pain release,  
Nor does his Crimes retard his Peace;  
But he that does a Widow wed,  
In Lust and rank Contagion bred,  
Fomenter of Revengeful Feud,  
And beyond Messalina lewd,  
One that has still infected been,  
With all the Plagues of Female Sin,  
And like the Grave or greedy Sea,  
Swallowed up all came in her way;  
Who yokes with her is doomed for slaughter,  
And worse Hell here than that hereafter:  
And now to let the Reader see  
The Curse of weak Humanity;  
Amongst the greatest that appears,  
To vex my late Ill managed Years,  
Led by the blind Efforts of Nature;  
'Twas my ill Fate to love this Creature,  
And what from Charity begun,  
To her, her Husband, and her Son,  
By Passion was so hurried on,  
Her Family and mine were one;  
About my Neck the Snake I hung,  
Not thinking I should ere be stung;  
And still to love (made Resolution)  
A Fiend that studied my Confusion;  
This Jilt whom my misguided Powers,  
Have fed in her salacious hours,  
And gorged her Mercenary Lust  
With Love unfeigned, though unjust;  
Pardon me, oh thou better part,  
That hast deserved, and hast my Heart;  
Pardon me, Virtue, that dost know  
What Folly's wild desire will do,  
And let my Shame and Penitence  
Atone for my confessed Offence;  
But let fermented Spleen swell high,  
When I relate her Infamy,  
Who like the Furies is endued  
With baseness and Ingratitude;  
Oft when the black Intrigue was framed  
By Witchcraft and desire inflamed,  
Has the perfidious Strumpet swore,  
Still to love me, and no one more;  
But Gifts did all this kindness buy,  
For still so fond, so blind was I,  
That I pursued the guilty Curse,  
And proved my Passion by my Purse;  
As oft I have by Wine inspired,  
But never so oft as she desired:  
This were a Secret, I confess,  
If th' Nature of her Fault were less;  
But Crimes, like hers, nor can, nor may,  
Be punished any other way.  
Oh that my Pen were filled with Gall,  
To write this next, this worst of all,  
And that her Rage and Lechery,  
Were proved to Nations as to me;  
Know then, this Creature scandal proof,  
This very Widow that's enough,  
Forgetting all the numerous Scrowls,  
She sent me when we mingled Souls;  
The Oaths and Vows, and all the Dam'd,  
Deceits through all her Letters crammed,  
Which that the World the Truth may know  
Under her hand I keep to show:  
This Prostitute, this Fiend in Crape,  
Dares now accuse me for a Rape,  
And swear I forced her Chastity,  
That was more like to Ravish me;  
Such Flames there are, such scorching Fire,  
In women's uncontrolled desire,  
'Tis this that does my Soul perplex,  
This moves my Hatred to the Sex,  
Swells my full Spleen, and makes me prove  
My Anger far above my Love,  
For ne'er was a Woman better used,  
Nor never Man so much abused;  
And though the Champion of this Trull,  
In Dogril Rhimes still plays the Fool,  
Nonsense maliciously expressed,  
'Tis but the Nature of the Beast;  
He only shows his little spite,  
And snarls and grins, but ne'er could bite;  
He means no ill what e'er he says,  
But Cats will Mew, Dogs have their Days;  
Bullies, and Curs, run open mouthed;  
But Oaken Cudgel frights 'em both.  
And now a word or two let's spare,  
To descant on the Husband's Care,  
The Husband that new Joys has tried,  
And found the Indies in a Bride;  
An easy passage through the straits,  
Where Lucifer and Charon waits,  
To carry the next comer over,  
Where many a Man has gone before▪  
Had he no way to shun this Fate,  
No warning of his future State?  
Were there no Halters, no kind hand  
To tip him into some deep Pond?  
No Drug nor Ratsbane to be bought,  
To rid him from his dreadful Lot?  
'Tis hard, but wretched Man ne'er knows  
Till 'tis too late his cure of woes;  
For 'tis beyond all doubt it e'er  
His Wife's Salt Freaks had reached his Ear,  
Which all the Country round can tell,  
And her first C— old knew too well.  
He would some friendly Razor choose,  
Or happy Cord on Rafter use,  
Ere slipped into dam'd Widows Noose.  
But there I leave him to be merry,  
And now the satire growing weary,  
Thinks fit, dear Friend, to bid adieu.  
And Pardon ask for tiring you;  
As for salacious and her Men,  
Especially the Champion Pen,  
As he likes this, I hope he'll write again.   

To the Right Honourable the Lady Olympia R. on her Genius in POETRY.  
NINE Muses celebrate the Poet's Art,  
And you a ●oth shall teach the noblest part  
Virtue and Beauty so divinely known  
In you, I thought, would be enough for one;  
Yet Heaven, that more admired its work should be,  
Has gilded your Mind with glittering Poetry;  
With Gifts uncommon has inspired your Soul,  
Nor thought a part sufficient, but the whole.  
Well may that happy Sex the World subdue,  
That Conquer Men with Wit and Beauty too;  
What foreign Force is proper for our Aid,  
When Powers like these Great Britain does invade,  
Ourselves against ourselves, we must divide,  
And to secure us run off to your side,  
With such a double Force when you assail,  
Alas, what single Armour can prevail!  
So famed Thalestris in the Trojan War,  
Like Pallas Valiant, and like Venus' Fair,  
With double Weapons always gained the Prize,  
Who missed her Sword, fell Prisoner to her Eyes.  
Those who can with bright Beauty's Charms dispense,  
And think they're free, are captived by your Sense,  
And ah, what Force so strong that it should dare  
T' oppose the Good, the Witty, and the Fair;  
Warm me then, Madam, by your Muse's fire,  
And let me see the Works I shall admire,  
My Genius by your Influence shall breathe,  
And proudly bind your Bays into a wreath.   

An Epilogue intended for a late COMEDY, and to be spoke by Mr. MONFORD, in a long Presbyterian Cloak.  
FRom a strange Miracle which none can prove,  
For sure no fool could e'er run mad for Love,  
From antic whim, composed of Song and Rant,  
Our hot-brained Scribbler now will make me cant,  
He says this Carb and a right Tone will fit  
Most of the City Wives that here are met,  
Which if it happen is a fair occasion  
To bring us all the Non●cons of the Nation:  
Things now, thank Heaven, are at a better pass,  
Than late they were before the Act of Grace;  
And if this Project is but managed right,  
Gad we shall strip the Conventicles quite,  
If so, who values how your censure falls,  
There's many a Playhouse full within the Walls:  
Sharp Judges with short Hair and little Bands,  
Will tear their Cuffs with clapping of their Hands:  
I'll try for once.  
Dear Sisters that t●●rayers in Pattens go,  
And all the force of Bowel yearnings know;  
Let not your Breasts for Sinners pant and heave,  
But seek the Truth, and to my Bosom cleave;  
Lewd frothy Bullies only can provoke,  
There's something worth your while under the Cloak,  
I this will do.  
This will my Female Friends from W●pping call,  
A Tone with Women brings the Devil and all:  
But Sirs, methinks, you melancholy grow,  
To teach you then what virtue is in show;  
Look ye, this 
* Puts on a great Peruke.  Wig translates me to a Bow:  
Now let me hear the proudest of ye say  
Amongst you all, that he dislikes the Play.  
If ye are Envious, vent it all at home,  
Wit pardons Faults, since every one has some;  
And that how few correctly use their Pen,  
I leave to th' Judgement of all witty Men,  
And so I'll be a 
* Pulls of a Peruke and claps on a broad Hat.  Canting Rogue again.  
Friends, I would fain adapt to these our Times,  
Religious Use of reasoning in Rhimes;  
Sincerely use the labourer to day,  
W' are now united and may see a Play;  
Affinit●o of Works our liking calls,  
For all our Labours are a kind of Drolls.  
Amongst all the Females here that want conducting  
For I've a great desire to be instructing,  
Hor to convince I do entreat alone,  
To come up to my Room and rub me down;  
And if she be not throughly satisfied,  
Let her from me my choicest Gifts divide,  
Make me a Scoff amongst the Sons of Men,  
As never able to hold forth again.   

Another EPILOGUE Intended for the same.  
REflection on the different Brains of Men,  
Has suddenly restored me mine again▪  
Yet not so perfectly, but that perhaps,  
There may be still some fear of a Relapfe,  
Your kindness, noble Friends, my Wi●s may 〈◊〉,  
But if the Sparks grow mutinous▪ I rave.  
Since 'tis not wholly from their Judgements done▪  
But some dear Female Punt, that sets 'em on:  
The Poet's Cause and mine are one to night,  
I do my best to act, as he to write;  
If after this you our Endeavours ●●ight,  
Then I must fall into my former ●it,  
And though to all true Judgements we submit,  
Rail at the barbarous Dragons of the Pit.  
For to be hissed by such as scar●● can read,  
Faith 'tis enough to make one mad indeed.   

The DREAM: Or, C●LADON's Complaint of MORPHEUS to the Assembly of the GOD'S.  
TO thee, Supreme Almighty jove,  
And all the Parliament above,  
My just Complaint I here address,  
Griefs by complaining are made less;  
Whilst those that silence tries to tame  
Break soon out into a Flame,  
The spiteful Morpheus I accuse,  
That in our Midnight Slumbers shows  
False Scenes of Pleasure to molest  
The tortured Lover from that Rest;  
Which Heaven and Nature does prepare,  
As Cordial for all Mortal Care.  
Relieved by five succeeding years,  
My sighs dispersed, and dry my Tears,  
Which daily had my Eyes bedewed,  
Through Cynthia's strange Ingratitude:  
As in my Bed I sleeping▪ lay,  
Tired with the Troubles of the Day;  
Prepared that Ease to have enjoyed,  
Which restless Love had long denied,  
The God from whom all slumbers fall,  
Decreed I should have none at all;  
But with strange Visions wracked my Brain,  
And Dreams ridiculous and vain:  
Methought, with wings fixed on to fly,  
I strangely soared up to the Sky;  
Where on a Lucid Cloud in State,  
A Reverend hoary Elder sat,  
Bearing a Shield, that styled him Fate;  
His Head and Beard as white as when  
The Winter Snow does Sheet the Plain;  
His Brow austere, his Eye as bright  
As Venus in a starry Night:  
And though some Furrows did appear,  
Digged by the Cares of many a year,  
The awful Wrinkles did presage  
The effects of Wisdom more than Age:  
On his left hand were lesser fates,  
Employed in ordering Crowns and States,  
And on huge Iron Wheels enjoined  
To spin the Lives of Humankind;  
And in his Lap large Bundles were,  
The Dooms of many a forespent year,  
Long scrowls containing wondrous things,  
The downfals of unlucky Kings;  
Swift turns of Nobles into slaves,  
The Luck of Fools and Rise of Knaves;  
And Man's inevitable hour  
Of Good or Ill was in his power;  
Thus whilst I trembling fixed my Eye  
Upon this more than Deity:  
Methought I saw a numerous Crowd  
All thronging up, and crying loud,  
For an immediate redress  
Of all their several Grievances;  
Imperial Heads with Crown and Ball,  
Prelates in Robes Episcopal;  
Traders, Physicians, Lawyers come,  
All crouching to revoke their Doom,  
The Muses also thither pressed,  
And mine, methought, amongst the rest;  
Nay, Beauty too her Interest tried,  
But was as sullenly denied;  
In vain a Monarch here disclosed  
His Suit whom fate had late deposed,  
As vainly Priests large Sums prepare,  
Aspiring to the Papal Chair;  
Or sordid Clowns infest our Schools,  
Born and predestined to be Fools,  
Who dully Rich, would Statesmen grow,  
By Nature moulded for the Blow;  
As vainly too he seeks for Ore,  
Damned to the Curse of being Poor.  
As Travellers in Forests stray,  
He ever takes the Erring way;  
Thus Good or Evil destiny,  
Waits on Fates absolute decree.  
As to my Eyes these Wonders came,  
Methought a burst of dreadful Flame  
Cracked the vast Cloud, and to my sight  
Showed the dark Cave of endless Night,  
Dismal as Chaos when all Nature lay  
Confused in one huge Lump of Clay,  
When Earth's prodigious bulk was seen  
To quake with Air enclosed within,  
And muddy Floods foamed with desire,  
To combat their old Foe the Fire,  
From its wide Mouth breathed forth a Yell,  
That soon confirmed this place was Hell;  
And by some ●●akes of bluish Flame,  
That from a glowing Furnace came,  
Unseen I could discern with ease,  
'Twas th' Devil's Court of Common● Pleas,  
Where Souls in different Causes drudge,  
And where Fate also sits as Judge:  
Here Princes, Plowmen, Lords and Slaves,  
Panders and Statesmen, Fools and Knaves,  
Maids that ne'er blessed with Men would be,  
And Widows damned for having three  
Made their Appeals— some Poets too,  
But very fat and very few,  
The noted dullest of the Crew,  
Broiled their next neighbours, these more cursed,  
Than all the Fiends were hated worst;  
Who knowing Hell so hot a Place,  
Came to augment it with their Grease;  
Vast crowds of Pimps and Noseless Whores,  
Rich Epicures and bloated Boors,  
With Shoals of Baldpate Priests and Friars,  
Even clogged the fiercest of the Fires.  
Deaf with the Cries of those that mourned,  
〈◊〉 I gazed on, the Court adjourned;  
Huge Gates of Jet methought were shut,  
Nor knew I which way to get out,  
Till from a secret dismal Room,  
A hollow Voice methought did come,  
That cried for forty Peter Pence,  
I will (rash Mortal) lead thee hence:  
Agreed, quoth I, with all my Soul,  
Then strait one started from the hole,  
That by his Robe and Stature Tall,  
I knew to be a Cardinal,  
That here on Earth loved Coin so well,  
His Palm was itching fort in Hell;  
But I no sooner had begun  
To drive this hopeful bargain on,  
When one of Fate's great Family  
Came up and seized me for a Spy,  
Swearing I came by Fame's report  
To learn the Practice of that Court;  
Resolved to teach their Methods all,  
To the Attorneys of Guild-Hall:  
Fearing the Lash for taking Bribes,  
My faithful Guide my Doom proscribes,  
And like a through-passed Prelate swore,  
He was attaching me before,  
To bring me to the Throne of Fate,  
Before whom I was hurried strait,  
Through Regions vast of dreary Night:  
At last ascending up to Light,  
The Judge his Reason did unlock,  
And thus methought divinely spoke;  
By Woman's frailty, though undone,  
Yet art thou still Apollo's Son,  
Beauty may grieve thy Heart with pain,  
But it shall never hurt thy Brain;  
Thy Dooms revoked, she not possessed,  
Go hence and slumber, and be blessed.  
As when some Wretch that chained does lie,  
Expecting every hour to die,  
Hears the glad sound of a Reprieve,  
And Royal Grant to let him live;  
His Heart that vast Content does cloy,  
Faints at the blaze of sudden Joy,  
Such Passion did my Soul possess,  
Reflecting on approaching Bliss;  
And now methought by Sacred Power  
I was transported to a Bower,  
Where the Indian Jessamine and Rose  
Of Syria, lasting Sweets disclose,  
Clear Rivulets that took their Vents  
From flowery Mounts, made their descents,  
And with small Pebbles trolled along,  
Making a pretty purling Song;  
And thence in wild Meander's flow,  
To bless the Verdant Meads below:  
Tall Sons of Earth the levy Trees,  
All shook to make refreshing Breeze;  
The lofty Pine, the Maple strong,  
The Laurel ever Green and Young;  
The Oak, the Monarch of the Wood,  
That had two hundred Winters stood▪  
The fatal Ash, that wanting 
* Alluding to an old erroneous Opinion of the Ancients, that the Ash not bearing her yearly Keys, as accustomed, boded Revolutions of State, or the distress or death of some great Prince or Monarch.  Keys,  
To Kingdoms bodes Calamities,  
With th' Elm that high his Front doth raise,  
Long flourished in that heavenly Place;  
Nor did the mirthful Birds forbear  
To keep their Evening Consort there;  
The barbarous Rape that had too long  
Been Philomela's lonely Song;  
The Thrush and Linnet skilled in Arts,  
Set to their Flutes, and sung in parts,  
Whilst the wronged 
† Porgne the Wife of Tereus, turned into a Swallow.  Swallow half the year.  
Still hovers round their Heads to hear;  
And the sad 
‖ I●ys her Son, turned into a Pheasant.  Pheasant takes no bliss  
In his gay particoloured dress;  
As all my Cares here sleep did chase,  
Who could have Cares in such a place?  
To add to my excess of Joy,  
This second Vision blessed my Eye:  
Methought into this charming Grove,  
Attired like the Queen of Love,  
Cynthia approached, her Rosy Face  
Might to the blushing Morn add grace,  
And in her Shape and Mien was all  
That Poets e'er could Beauty call,  
Her fatal Eyes that used to kill,  
Two kind repentant drops now fill,  
Where Pity in warm Bubbles shone,  
To cheer the Heart she had undone,  
As Venus looked when first she found  
Her Darling bleeding on the Ground;  
So Eloquent her Love appears  
In the soft Language of her Tears.  
Rapt with this vissionary Bliss,  
This Scene of Perfect Happiness,  
My throbbing Heart, and swelling Veins,  
Scarcely the flood of Joy contains;  
Whilst like Diana in her Chase,  
Spreading her Arms with lovely Grace,  
Language at last a Passage broke,  
And thus methought the Charmer spoke;  
Oh too much wronged, for too much Love,  
Thou blessing sent me from above;  
Thou Treasure which my Erring Eyes,  
Had never Light enough to prise;  
Accept these Tears that hourly flow,  
T' atone for my cursed breach of Vow,  
And take— Repenting Love as Fee,  
For thy ' admired Fidelity.  
Scarce she these Words had throughly spoke,  
When sighing as my Heart had broke,  
With eager Joy my Arms I stretched,  
But nought, alas, but Air I cetched;  
The God of sleep, as false as she,  
Had with a Dream deluded me,  
And caused fresh Pangs of lasting Pain,  
And new closed Wounds to bleed again.  
Revenge then all ye Powers above,  
Revenge my Wrongs and injured Love,  
Let hated Morpheus Reign no more,  
Nor o'er my peaceful sleeps have power,  
My Soul henceforth let knowledge find,  
Without one thought of Womankind;  
Whose Heart's as wavering as the Wind;  
Falsehood may with Success pursue,  
But none e'er prospered that was true.   

To CYNTHIA.  
BY all the Sacred Powers I love ye so  
There's nothing else so dear to me below;  
And when your Cruel Scorn I would forsake,  
Shunning the Rock that threatens me with wrack,  
Some Angel stops my speed, and bri●gs the Rover back.  
Madam, my Heart no blemish yet has stained,  
And never has deserved to be disdained,  
Nor is it to be fooled with ease,  
But you may break it when you please,  
Like melting Ore, your kindness makes it run.  
But rigour turns it to a Stone,  
And I had rather die than see you frown:  
So may your Influence you prove,  
So much so tenderly I love,  
And think not, dearest Saint, I can deceive,  
But as you hope to be believed, believe;  
By Heaven and you my Life blooms or decays,  
You point my wane or my increase of days;  
Feign, I confess, I would despair forget,  
I would be blessed if you thought fit,  
Yet I too may your self-willed Rigour fear,  
For ah, what hopes is there of Love from her,  
Whose very Soul is Love, and yet the word disdains to hear.   

A Letter Written for a LADY in Answer to a Friend.  
HAd you not known your Merit was so great▪  
That my Laurinda I could ne'er forget;  
Dulness, you might have want of Friendship thought▪  
And my neglect in writing call a Fault:  
But though I want your Genius to express,  
Believe me, dearest Friend, my Love's not less;  
I would accost your Muse with equal Skill,  
For though I want the Wit, I have the Will,  
Did not my Reason whisper like a friend,  
That I should wrong myself, should I pretend;  
But for my friendship I must boldly own  
'Tis firm and Constant, and shall stoop to none;  
Nor is my Heart (which you I thought had known)  
So changed or frozen since I came to Town;  
That it by any Object could be moved  
To slight my dear Laurinda whom I loved:  
Alas, sweet friend, you know not our distress,  
You never dream upon our Grievances;  
Though pestilential Blasts all round us blow,  
And many a beauteous darling face undo:  
Though Bells do toll, and all to fears incline;  
Fears, that would spoil a better Muse than mine,  
You careless in the Silver Grove are seen,  
(I wish for your sake I could call it Green)  
Courting the Places Genius to inspire,  
And strength of Fancy warms instead of Fire;  
But I benumbed with all this Frost and Snow,  
Begin now to believe my Muse is so.  
〈◊〉 like a Linnet, wishing for the Spring,  
●Linnet I say) because I learn to sing;  
Hop up and down all day my lonely Cage,  
And find that Cold's as bad as fumbling Age,  
Nothing can stir up my Poetic Rage;  
My Verses dare not yet their worth expose,  
For well their Feet may halt when they are froze;  
But when the Summer clothes the naked Trees,  
And Balmy Winds refresh with gentle breeze:  
When Flowers their gay Wedding Robes put on,  
To please and welcome in the vigorous Sun;  
Then Silvia sitting by Laurinda's side,  
Shall prove this Truth, and shall not be denied,  
That none on Earth can e'er more faithful be,  
Or her dear Friend can value more than she.  Silvia.  

The Farmer's Daughter, a SONG, set to a Pleasant Scotch Tune.  

I.  
Could and raw the North did blow,  
Bleak in the Morning early,  
All the Trees were hid in Snow,  
Dagled by Winter yearly;  
When come riding over a Knough,  
I met with a Farmer's Daughter,  
Rosy Cheeks and bonny Brow,  
Good faith made my Mouth to water.   

II.  
Down I veiled my Bonnet low,  
Meaning to show my breeding,  
She returned a graceful bow,  
A Village far exceeding:  
I asked her where she went so soon,  
And longed to begin a Parley,  
She told me to the next Market Town  
A purpose to sell her Barley.   

III.  
In this purse, sweet Soul, said I,  
Twenty pounds lie fairly,  
Seek no farther one to buy,  
For I'll take all thy Barley;  
Twenty more shall buy Delight  
Thy Person I love so dearly  
If thou wouldst stay with me all Night,  
And go home in the Morning early.   

IV.  
If twenty pound could buy the Globe,  
Quoth she, this I'd not do, Sir,  
Or were my Kin as poor as job,  
I would not raise 'em so, Sir,  
For should I be to Night your friend,  
Wouldst get a young Kid together,  
And you'd be gone ere the nine months' end,  
And where should I find a Father?   

V.  
I told her I had wedded been  
Fourteen years and longer,  
Or else I choose her for my Queen,  
And tie the Knot much stronger;  
She bid me then no farther room,  
But manage my Wedlock fairly,  
And keep Purse for poor Spouse at home,  
For some other shall have her Barley.    

A CATCH set by Doctor BLOW.  
IN a Seller at Sodom at the sign of the T—  
Two buxum young Harlots were drinking with L—  
Some say they were his Daughters  
No matter for that,  
They're resolved they would souse their old Dad with a Pot;  
All flustered and bousie  
The doting old Sot,  
As great as a Monarch between 'em was got,  
Till the eldest and wisest thus opened the Plot  
Pray show us dear Daddy how we were begot.  
God zoukes, you young Jades, 'twas the first Oath I wot  
The Devil of a Serpent this Humour has taught,  
No matter, they cried, you shall pawn for the shot,  
Unless you will show us how we were begot.   

An EPITHALAMIUM on the Marriage of the Lord MORPETH with the Lady AND CAPELL.  

I.  
WHen Heaven first framed a second Cause;  
And Nature spread her dictates round,  
All Hearts with Joy obeyed her Laws,  
And nothing sad but Man was found;  
Adam in shades long pensive sat,  
And took no comfort in his Life,  
Till he that did the Soul Create,  
Gave him the Soul's best Joy, a Wife.   

II.  
Then o'er the face of Paradise  
Was seen a most unusual Joy,  
Flowers were more sweet, more green the Trees,  
Pleased with her Master's smiling Eye:  
If he were so, how are you blest,  
Brave Damon, with an Eve to day,  
Who all her Beauty does possess,  
Without her Mischief to betray.   

III.  
Gold is a pleasant useful Slave,  
A flattering Dream is loose desire,  
Fame is the frenzy of the Brave,  
Love only is the good entire;  
There's nought worth living for beside,  
Time's hasty Sands in vain would run;  
A noble chaste, and beauteous Bride,  
Are all Earth's Joys summed up in one.   

IV.  
Damon, though Silvies tender Ears,  
Defer your blessing for a time;  
The tract of distant Joy appears  
More full of Rapture, more Sublime:  
Pluck not a Bud, but let it grow  
Till time disclose its sweets to thee,  
Who from a Plant will tear a Bough,  
Destroys his hopes, and spoils the Tree.   

V.  
Oft have I seen two harmless Doves,  
Venting their Passions, Kiss and Cooe,  
In imitation of their Loves;  
Impatient Damon so must you.  
But joy to know her Heart is yours,  
And hopes to meet her in her prime,  
Will post away the lazy hours,  
And make more swift the wings of Time.    

A SONG.  

I.  
Forced by a Cruel lawless Fate,  
I loved a Nymph with Passion,  
But found alas, I came too late  
To sway her Inclination;  
Her Heart was given a Coxcomb's Fee,  
Whose face had introduced him,  
Though not one grain of Sense had he,  
To know how well she used him.   

II.  
I tried if worth could make her kind,  
And hourly made advances;  
But who can e'er the Charm unbind,  
In women's stubborn Fancies:  
I calmly did her foible show,  
Where e'er he came, abused him:  
I called him Fool, I proved him so,  
Yet she the better used him.   

III.  
I hate, she cried, your God of Wit,  
Our Sex should all oppose him;  
'Tis he that Charms my Appetite,  
Shall sleep upon my Bosom:  
This senseless stuff my love withdrew,  
And cured my Melancholy;  
I kicked her brute, then bid adieu  
To every Female folly.    

A SONG  
set to a pleasant Scotch Tune.  

I.  
A Lad o' th' Town thus made his moan  
One Winter Morning early,  
Alas, that I must lie alone,  
And Moggey's Bed so near me:  
All Night I toss, I turn and sigh,  
Nor ever can I close my Eye,  
For thinking that I lig so nigh,  
The Lass I Love so dearly.   

II.  
She's all Delight from foot to crown,  
And just Eighteen her Age is,  
And that she still must lie alone,  
My Heart and Soul enrages;  
I'd give the World I might put on  
Each Morn her Stocking or her Shoes,  
If I were but her Serving Loon  
I'd never ask for Wages.   

III.  
If Moggey would but be my Bride  
I'd take no Parents warning;  
Nor value all the World beside,  
Nor any Lasses scorning:  
My Love is grown to such a height,  
I prise so much my own delight,  
I care not, had I her one Night  
If I were hanged ● ' th' Morning.    

The MORALIST. A Song.  

I.  
WHat's the worth of Health or Living,  
If we stint ourselves of Bliss,  
Grief is but a self-deceiving,  
Choosing may be for what is;  
Dozed all Night, and daily weeping,  
Zealots think to Heaven to climb,  
Thus with Canting and with Sleeping,  
The poor Sots lose all their Time.   

II.  
Give me Love and give me Wine too,  
For Life's Cares to make amends,  
Wit and Poetry Divine too,  
And a charming Female Friend.  
In a Moral honest Station,  
To my Grave in Peace I'll go,  
Let the bug Predestination,  
Fright the Fools no better know.    

The Old Fumbler. A SONG: Set by Mr. Hen. Purcell.  

I.  
SMug, rich and fantastic old Fumbler was known,  
That wedded a Juicy brisk 〈◊〉 of the Town,  
Her Face like an Angel, Fair, Plump, and a Maid,  
Her Lute well in tune too, could he but have played;  
But lost was his Skill let him do what he can,  
She finds him in Bed a weak silly old Man,  
He Coughs in her Ear, 'tis in vain to come on,  
Forgive me, my Dear, I'm a silly old man.   

II.  
She laid his dry hand on her snowy soft Breast,  
And from those white Hills gave a glimpse of the Best;  
But ah! what is Age when our Youth's but a Span,  
She found him an Infant instead of a Man:  
Ah! Pardon, he'd cry, that I'm weary so soon,  
You have let down my Base, I'm no longer in tune,  
Lay by the dear Instrument, prithee lie still,  
I can play but one Lesson and that I play iii.    

A Dialogue between PHILANDER and SILVIA, set to an excellent new Scotch Tune.  

I.  Ph. 
IN a Desert in Greenland, where the Sun ne'er cast an Eye,  
In contempt of all the World I could live with thee my Joy.  Si. 
On the Sands of scorched India, where the Sunburnt Natives fry,  
Blest with thee, my dear Philander, I do choose to live and die,  Ph. 
No Nymph with her sly charming art,  
Ere shall have power to steal my Heart;  
Thou art all and all in every part,  
Each Vein of me shall ever be,  
Panting with Love of thee.  Si. 
No Swain with his Wealth, Wit or Art,  
E'er shall have power to storm my Hear●,  
Thou art all and all in every part,  
Each Vein of me will ever be,  
Panting with Love of thee.   

II.  Ph. 
Let the Monarch's Ambition seek new Empire to obtain,  
Let the Miser sell his Soul to increase his slavish gain,  Si. 
Let the politic Gown-man tread the Mazes of the State,  
Let the Reverend Divine teach Mankind decrees 〈◊〉 Fate.  Ph. 
Give me the dear Nymph I adore,  
Happy or unlucky, Rich or Poor,  
Of bounteous Heaven I'd ask no more,  
Nor ever care who's rich or fair,  
There's all the World in her.  Si. 
Let no Cloud of Ill Fortune rise,  
To shade me from Philander's Eyes,  
Farewell ye World deluding's Joys,  
No Charm would seem worth my esteem  
I have all I wish in him.    

A Second Burlesque LETTER written for a Friend, supposed to be a CUCKOLD'S GHOST, coming from Hell, and answering a satire of STUM CLARET his Brother Vintner; With a Conjugal Reprimand to SALACIA his late Mournful WIDOW.  
IN Limbo where there loudly howls  
Cuckolds, and Cuckold makers Souls,  
Where Courtiers with their Wealth and Wits  
Is damned as well as snivelling Cits;  
And Lady fair, with shape Divine,  
Are ranked with joan that milked the Kine.  
Where Country Knight, and Country Clown,  
Esquire and Plowmen are all one;  
To show all Fools whom Pride does seize,  
Hell and the Grave know no degrees;  
There is a dismal smoky hole,  
The Cell of many a wretched Soul,  
Whose sin of Marriage was occasion  
Of his remediless Damnation.  
A Crew of Ghosts infest this place,  
Pale Monsters of so strange a Race,  
That tortured Imps this Cavern shun,  
As far more dreadful than their own,  
Round a blue fire composed of Souls,  
Of Rampant Wives instead of Coals,  
Poor Cockolds come, and fry by turns,  
And thump each other with their Horns,  
Like Rutting Deer, with Antlets large,  
Or Rams they vigorously charge,  
Doomed to this kind of Punishment,  
For giving an ill Precedent;  
And changing blessed single Life,  
For that perpetual Plague a Wife,  
From this forlorn Eternal Grave,  
Which Belzebub calls Cuckold's Cave,  
This Melancholy Brimstone Bed,  
I come to answer Tory Ned,  
And school a Woman that Surprises,  
Nay quite outdoes all Hell with vices:  
But first, Dull Ghost, how can it be,  
That thou shouldst dare to lash at me,  
With thy late senseless Poetry.  
Thou hast in Hell, I'm sure, thy share,  
If Devils can show Justice there,  
For every deadly Sin of thine,  
Millions against thy head Combine  
Whom thou hast poisoned with dam'd Wine,  
And though I'm with these Horns made rich,  
For marrying a Salacious B—  
Shake thine and mine in Bag together,  
You'll find there's Chastity in neither;  
Thine would have feared no Tongues reproach,  
For setting of her Cask a broach,  
Had not Age cooled her by degrees,  
And sunk the Liquor to the Lees,  
Then what a Plague make thee a roaring,  
And scribbling on my Fubses whoring;  
For were she in her Fame as Odious,  
As the lewd Wife of Cesar Claudius,  
That twenty five one Morning tried,  
Yet went away unsatisfied;  
Or posed the World in these lewd times  
With a new Catalogue of Crimes,  
She in the vicious Mystery  
Could ne'er outdo thy Wife and thee;  
The cause of all her Crimes have been,  
Because to thee she's near of Kin,  
She might have proved a hopeful piece  
Had she not chanced to be thy Niece;  
For as in Cocks of Game there is  
A Metal which can never miss,  
Where if the Breed be true, not one,  
Shall ever leave the Pit and Run:  
So 'tis in Kindred understood,  
Virtue and Vices run i'th' Blood,  
And Whores and Rogues from each Relation,  
Descend to th' twentieth Generation;  
If this be true, thou wretched Ghost,  
How didst thou dare to leave thy Post,  
When thou wert bottling Molten Led,  
Which is in Hell thy daily Trade,  
As punishment for many a Cheat,  
Done in thy Transitory State,  
To Damn thyself by Poetry  
Upon Agario and me?  
Thy haggard Genius solely spends  
Her Heat, for know, as Fate intends  
Cuckolds are always made by friends,  
'Tis your friend still that tops your Spouse,  
For strangers come not to your House,  
At least to have acquaintance there,  
Like friends familiarly and near,  
And I with him am satisfied,  
In all things that concerns my Bride,  
For whether Husbands are or no,  
If their Wife's itch, it will be so;  
Therefore leave off, Good Ned, in time,  
And tempt no more my Rage in Rhyme,  
For I Agario's Muse inherit,  
And double portion of his Spirit;  
And shall so thump thy clodded Brain,  
If thou dost dare to write again,  
The Devil shall think it an Abuse,  
To have in Hell so damned a Muse,  
And send thee back to mortal Life,  
Condemned to a worse Plague thy Wife.  
And now I talk of Wives, I groan  
To think how I must maul my own,  
Though ill, I will not let thee use her,  
I have a Title to abuse her;  
And must long smothered silence break,  
Losers have always leave to speak,  
And if that common Rule prevail,  
Sure Cuckolds may have leave to rail▪  
* Oh thou sworn Foe to all my Ease,  
Thou cursed disturber of my Peace,  
When living I no rest could have,  
Nor now can find it in the Grave,  
Thy mischiefs are so manifold,  
They have pierced through the crumbling Mould,  
And raised me from the shades again  
To be divulger of thy Sin,  
Wast not enough, oh thou Obsceen▪  
Proud, Salt, Lascivious, Rampant Quean;  
That I've endured the Country's scorns,  
And drawn within my Hat my Horns;  
And when I've broached some Hogshead new,  
Have seen some other Tapping you;  
Yet small account o' th' Object made,  
Believing 'twas to force a Trade:  
Have I not hid my Patient Noddle,  
When Bully Rock has called for Bottle,  
And took you to some inner Room,  
To beat a March upon your Drum?  
Nay, to complete thy nauseous Crimes,  
When friend Agario came sometimes;  
When thou with flattering Smiles hast met him,  
And thy Mouth watered to be at him;  
I like a Man that knew good breeding,  
Have slipped away no matters heeding,  
Because a Friend of him we made,  
And for each kiss he sound paid,  
And canst thou be a base Detractor,  
Of one so much thy benefactor,  
And with dam'd Female spite decry,  
One that knew all as oft as I,  
That did our Family such good,  
And was so free t' amend our Blood;  
To us and to our Son, Pox Rot him,  
Was full as kind as if he got him,  
Though a true Rogue as ever twanged,  
And will in all due time be hanged,  
For to what end can he be brought,  
That by thy Morals has been taught;  
And canst thou, worse than Fiend of Hell,  
Thou Jilt incomprehensible;  
Canst thou forswear things plain as light,  
Nay things unquestionably right,  
And does not Pillory plague thy Mind  
With loss of Ears which wretches find,  
That are in spite of Conscience blind;  
Plain is thy Sex's vice by thee,  
Made obvious to Posterity:  
Th●t when a Woman once grows Lewd,  
No Art can turn her back to good,  
The spreading Seed has taken root,  
And spite of Industry will shoot,  
Our wholesome grain we vainly sow,  
Spite of our Art the Tares will grow,  
And gay and flourishing appear,  
As if the Devil had sowed 'em there;  
No Women of the former times  
Arrived to know thy height of Crimes,  
Thy falsehood, baseness, Perjury,  
Ingratitude and Villainy,  
Were never known in this degree;  
For had the Scripture e'er expressed,  
A Woman with thy Devils possessed,  
Our Saviour would have been in doubt  
Whether his Power could cast'em out,  
The Herd of Swine had been too small,  
And never have contained 'em all;  
How happy then is that good Man,  
That Cloaks thy Sins now I am gone,  
That at the Mark still widely shoots,  
And wears with pleasure my old Boots,  
Or if the truth were plainly found,  
The Boots of all the Country round?  
Faith if a Cuckold e'er behaved  
Himself with Merit to be saved,  
Thy Case, poor Fool, is singular,  
For thou hast so much Hell from her,  
'Tis even pity thou shouldst know  
A second Penance here below.  
Couldst thou not find, egregious Sot,  
Why thou wert married, or for what?  
Couldst thou be Ignorant of all  
The Vermin in her Trap did fall?  
And never know 'til 'twas too late,  
Thy morsel was but for a Bait;  
Or that it was thy noble place  
To Father all her spurious Race,  
That if she whelped a squauling Lad,  
The Todpole Imp might call thee Dad;  
Although by Men of all degrees▪  
Compounded like a Chetworth Cheese;  
Or was it really thy want,  
Brought thee to wed this Widow Saint,  
As no one knows a wretch's Case,  
Except he feels the same distress,  
If so, thou'rt fallen from bad to worse,  
No Poverty is half the Curse  
Of him that has to damn his Life,  
A Rampant Strumpet for his Wife,  
Thus say the Fates, and lastly tell  
〈◊〉 precious Mate, that I from Hell,  
And Fiends that fill each gloomy Room,  
Where she at last must surely come,  
Ascend to purge each vile Offence,  
And urge her to repent her Sins,  
With Tears deny what late she swore,  
And never henceforth play the Whore;  
Else from my melancholy Tomb,  
With Troops of Ghosts again I'll come,  
And fiercely drag her hence to slaughter,  
Where all her Priests and Holy Water,  
With all the Aid and Fopperies they can make,  
Shall never have the power to bring her back.   

The Law of Nature; A SONG set to an Excellent new Tune.  

I.  
WHilst their Flocks were feeding,  
Near the foot of a flowery Hill,  
●elladon complaining of his Fate,  
Thus to Astrea Cried:  
Hear my gentle pleading,  
Ah cruel Nymph forbear to kill  
Shepherd with disdain and hate,  
Whom you have once enjoyed:  
here is a sacred power in Love,  
beyond all Moral Rules,  
allow the Laws of Nature,  
〈◊〉 the Divine Creator  
Did produce,  
〈◊〉 for Humane Use  
Did Beauty choose,  
Who deny themselves are Fools.  
Every Heart is paired above,  
And Ingratitude's a Sin  
To all the Saints so hateful,  
She that is found ingrateful,  
May too late,  
In a wretched State,  
Knock at Heaven's Gate,  
But shall never enter in.   

II.  
Had our first made Father,  
Lord of the whole Creation,  
Done such a Crime as could have damned us all,  
In trespassing on his Wife,  
Heaven, no doubt, had rather,  
When it the ill Design had known,  
Have placed his Angel ere the Fall,  
Guarding the Tree of Life;  
But he that well knew Adam's Breast,  
Whom Nature learned to woo,  
Never intended Damning,  
Nor did the Serpents shamming Edify:  
For the Bone of his Side,  
That was made his Bride,  
Taught him what he was to do:  
Nor was the Maker e'er possessed  
With Rage that he did enjoy;  
But the Reflection hated  
What he with Pains Created,  
Should be thought,  
Such a cowardly Sot  
To be poorly caught  
In such a sneaking Lye.    

SONG. II.  
To a young LADY Affronted by an Envious old Woman.  

I.  
IN vain, in vain, fantastic Age,  
Thou seekest such Virtue to abuse,  
Ophelia does Mankind engage;  
Each valiant Sword, each noble Muse,  
Frantic with Spite, let crazy Time  
Take pleasure to engender strife,  
Whilst blooming Beauty in her Prime,  
Takes with Gust the Joys of Life.   

II.  
Each shameful word that Malice speaks,  
Adds, dearest Charmer, to your Fame;  
Each hallowed Grove loud Echo makes,  
Resounding fair Ophelia's Name,  
Old age does Beauty still profane,  
Age ever did good Nature want;  
By Scandal you more Glory gain,  
'Tis Persecution makes the Saint.    

An ODE, From the Greek of ANACREON.  

I.  
IF Gold could lengthen Life, I swear,  
It then should be my chiefest Care,  
To get a heap, that I may say,  
When Death came to demand his pay,  
Thou Slave, take this and go thy way.   

II.  
But since Life is not to be bought,  
Why should I plague myself for nought,  
Or foolishly disturb the Skies,  
With vain Complaints, or fruitless Cries,  
For if the fatal Destinies  
Have all decreed it shall be so,  
What good will Gold or Crying do●   

III.  
Give me to ease my thirsty Soul,  
The Joys and Comforts of the Bowl;  
Freedom and Health, and whilst I live  
Let me not want what Love can give:  
Then shall I die in peace, and have  
This Consolation in the Grave,  
That once I had the World my slave.    

To Chloris: A SONG.  
IF my Addresses are grateful,  
Show it in granting my Suit,  
Or if my Passion be hateful,  
Leave me and end the dispute:  
I hate your doubling and turning,  
Like a coursed Hare in a Morning,  
Either comply as you should,  
Or leave me to others that would.   

To pretty Mrs. H. D. upon the sight of her Picture standing amongst other at Mr. Knellers.  

I.  
COrrinna when you left the Town,  
My Heart secure I thought to find,  
But found alas-new Chains put on,  
By your bright Image left behind.   

II.  
Your Picture now the Conquest has,  
To my fond Soul new flame returns,  
Like Rays contracted in a Glass,  
Though distant your Reflection burns.   

III.  
Had Paradise for you been lost,  
Like Adam I had suffered too,  
What must that Fruit be to the Taste,  
That is so tempting to the view?   

IV.  
Your Graces shining at full length,  
Subdue each Souls devoutest skill,  
When Beauty Charms beyond our strength,  
Where is the use of our free Will?   

V.  
Like that Astronomer I gaze,  
That his propitious Star had found,  
Fixing my Eyes upon your Face,  
I slight the glittering Planets round.   

VI  
And as to Shrines when Pilgrims go,  
Such awful Reverence I feel,  
That though I'm sure 'tis only show,  
I scarcely can forbear to kneel.    

To CLORIS: An ODE set to the New RIGGADON.  

I Love thee well,  
But not so well to wed thee,  
Lest blood rebel,  
And Appetite should cloy;  
Whilst free and kind,  
Each hour I long to bed thee:  
But if consigned,  
Should scarce believe't a Joy.   

Second Movement.  
In Earth and Air  
All Creatures else possess  
Their pleasing Liberty;  
Then why should Man,  
The Lord of all the Universe  
Less happy be.   

Third Movement.  
Bring Music then and Wine still,  
And every one his Dear,  
That friendship most Divine still,  
That treats with Cherseoli éntiér.   

Fourth Movement.  
The wise think all those very dull,  
To marriage yokes incline;  
But if e'er I do play the Fool,  
Dear Cloris I am thine.    

An ELEGY on the Death of the Great Duke of ORMOND.  

LAte in a lonely Melancholy Shatle,  
Whilst all my Cares victorious Sleep obeyed;  
A Vision suddenly possessed my Brain,  
And tortured Nature laboured with the pain.  
My trembling Soul forgot her wont trade,  
Nor could she call the Senses to her aid,  
Oppressed with wonder and uncommon awe,  
At the Celestial Miracles she saw.   

Methought upon a Lucid Cloud in State,  
As on a Throne an awful Monarch sat,  
Mysterious Glories shone around his face,  
And soon I knew by each Angellick Grace,  
And the Indulgence of a pitying Smile,  
'Twas that loved Prince 
* K. Charles II.  that lately ruled this Isle,  
Attending Cherubs sawned him with their wings;  
Whilst on each side a row of British Kings  
All met in Council for some grand Intent,  
Made up in pomp the Glorious Parliament.  
Great Edward, Henry, deathless in their Fames,  
Two Henrys more, and Learned Pious james,  
With that blessed Martyr by his own betrayed,  
Sat mute to hear what their great Offspring said,  
Who with a solemn Voice and awful brow,  
And the same Grace with which he charmed below;  
Whilst crowding Angels their Attentions lent,  
Thus made Oration to th' Omnipotent.   

Great Sire of Angels as of Humane Race,  
All copied from thy own Celestial face,  
Who with a Breath canst Life and Death control  
This hour Create, the next recall the Soul;  
Inspire a Clod, and from Earth's common dust  
Winnow the Brave and Good from the unjust;  
Receive another Hero to thy store,  
And to thy Heaven add one Glory more,  
Ormond, the best of all Earth's noble brood,  
Ormond, the Wise the Virtuous and the Good;  
The noblest Theme of each famed Poets Song,  
Tired with frail Nature he has worn so long,  
Implores to crown his Souls triumphant Fame  
In that Eternal Peace from whence it came,  
Through all the Mazes of ambiguous Life,  
Through foreign Battles and domestic Strife,  
Through Traitor's Swords & Plots contrived in Hell,  
Through inmate Fiends that pray and yet Rebel;  
Ormond, undaunted has like Gideon passed,  
Preserving Faith and Honour to the last,  
Loyal as Brave, and Brave as Mortals were,  
Ere the first damning Sin begot base Fear,  
Nay, what's a Rarity we find in few,  
He was a Saint and yet a Soldier too.   

To what a pitch must Fame his Glory raise,  
That all degrees of Heaven and Earth do praise,  
For his Youth's Judgement by the wise admired,  
As much for Beauty by the Fair desired;  
For as each word would move a slander by,  
So every look could Charm a Lady's Eye;  
Cherubs and Seraphins his value know,  
And chant above what we repeat below,  
Tyrannic Time, that even does ravenous seem,  
To pray on others, did no hurt to him,  
But seemed afraid a Fabric to destroy,  
So long propped up by Sacred Geometry,  
In which all People took such general Joy;  
And that true Justice on my part appear,  
For where should it inhabit if not here.  
I when Intestine Foes my Crown besieged,  
Stood to his Virtue and his Faith obliged;  
He traced my Exile with unwearied Love,  
And to assuage my boundless Sorrows strove;  
Brave man that never failed my Cause to fight,  
Nor valued his when I had lost my right,  
Oppressed with pinching Grief yet still so good,  
he'd murmur not, though almost wanting food;  
But when his Coffers were exhausted dry,  
Fed on the Manna of his Loyalty:  
At last when by thy blessed decree I came,  
To be restored, his duty was the same  
His Soul still wore the same unalter'd dress,  
Not swelled with Power, nor lessened by distress  
But modelled by thy own Divinity,  
It still retains some perfect-Seeds of thee,  
Which now extract him to so pure a state,  
'Twill cost but little trouble to translate:  
Admit then oh Eternal All in All,  
And to our state of Bliss, loved Ormond call,  
●Reward his Zeal and Piety below  
With blessings here too good for Earth to know:  
No Star can better grace the Court Divine,  
Nor of his Magnitude can brighter shine.   

Thus spoke the Godlike Monarch, and a grant  
From Heaven's dread Sovereign published a consent  
The Saints in waiting humed aloud for Joy,  
And hallelujahs filled the echoing Sky;  
When straight a glorious Light, methought was see●  
Just as another Sun had rising been,  
The dazzling Splendour made Eternal day,  
And Ormond's Name Rung o'er the milky way,  
strait the Majestic●●oul was seated high,  
●eck'd in the Robes of new Divinity;  
Through all the Sacred Host was Joy expressed,  
●t the Instalment of this Glorious Guest,  
●n the left hand of Gracious Charles he sat,  
His mortal Cares crowned with immortal State.   

This joyful Scene scarce did my Vision show,  
●ut I was wakened with their Cries below;  
And to my grief as well as theirs I knew  
Their mournful sounds had proved this wonder true,  
His Friends in Tears all made a loud Complaint,  
The World had lost, though Heaven had gained a Saint,  
And amongst all the numerous selfish Train,  
Myself had not lest Reason to complain;  
●ut wished with them a worthy held so dear,  
Had been less happy, and stayed longer here.  
●nd here my Muse make thy peculiar moan,  
The best inspirer of thy Art is gone,  
Thy noble Patron that first plumed thy wing.  
Informed and dipped thee in Apollo's Spring,  
And in Poetic numbers made thee sing,  
By Angels courted to his sacred home,  
Leaves thee to sigh thy Sorrows on his Tomb.  
In wisest Rules of moral Learning bred,  
He never thought it a disgrace to read,  
Nor true Applause to a just Merit grudge,  
Though not a Poet yet a Poet's Judge,  
Could well instruct a Pegasus to fly,  
Show where he flagged or where he soared too hig●  
Mourn, mourn, ye Sons of Phoebus, burn yo● Books,  
And let your hearts be sad as are your Looks;  
Forsake your Lyric strains and let each Eye  
Drown in salt Floods your Patron's Elegy;  
Who? now the Muse's lustre shall advance  
Above the scorn of sordid Ignorance,  
Who? shall their want of generous Friends supp●  
Or raise the drooping head of Poetry:  
〈◊〉 gone, he's gone, his Aid you ask in vain,  
〈◊〉 and the Grave never refund again.  
〈◊〉 late the mighty Loss is understood,  
〈◊〉 know the value till they lose the Good;  
〈◊〉 eighty rolling Years he still was known  
〈◊〉 brightest Jewel in the British Crow●  
〈◊〉 with unblemished lustre graced our Isle,  
〈◊〉 value true, nor needed any foil;  
〈◊〉 Virtue made his Dignity more great,  
〈◊〉 Mein was graceful and his Language sweet,  
〈◊〉 none his noble Actions lived to see,  
〈◊〉 wished him greater than he wished to be.  
〈◊〉 early Cares to serve his Prince did tend,  
●●ithful Subject, Counsellor and Friend,  
●●th' Royal Line, when Faction high did rise,  
〈◊〉 Arm gave succour and his Heart advise;  
once to Saul did the great Prophet do,  
〈◊〉 Counsel gave, and fought his Battles too.   

●appy those Heroes were that understood,  
〈◊〉 Virtues made 'em nobler than their Blood,  
That 'twas the intrinsic Value of the Ore,  
And not the stamp that made the Merit more;  
With vain Ambition some themselves deceive,  
But to be brave and honest is to live;  
To be an Ormond is the Life sublime,  
The noblest Pattern of precedent Time,  
Whose Saintlike Pity, Godlike Gentleness  
T' encourage Merit, and relieve Distress,  
No Wit can praise enough, nor Tongue express.  
Henceforth, vile Age, thy ill spent time redeem,  
Grow good, and let Great Ormond be thy Theme  
Let each vain Courtier break his flattering Glass,  
And in his Pious Mirror learn to dress;  
Whilst all the Muses with dejected Eyes,  
Offer whole Volumes of sad Elgies;  
A mournful Train with Cypress Garlands on,  
Methinks I see forsake their Helicon,  
To sing the solemn Dirges of this day;  
But ah, bright Soul, what Tribute shall I pay!  
My Heart no respite to her Woes shall have,  
For when remembering thee, I idly rave,  
To think no Worth can charm, no Virtue scape the Grave.    

EPIGRAM On the Sacred Memory of that glorious Patron of POETS, greatest and best of Monarches, KING CHARLES' the Second.  
Written 1686.  
IF Sacred Worth, which high as Heaven does raise  
His Fame, were low enough for mortal Praise,  
The mighty Theme would crack each studious Brain,  
No Tongue be still, nor unemployed no Pen;  
But since no Planet can for Phoebus' shine,  
And all Applause is vain of things Divine,  
To Court a Tomb let every Muse be taught,  
And perish with the sad extremes of Thought;  
The impoverished Land is by his loss undone,  
As each Muse dulled now its Inspirer's gone:  
Blest by his Beams the learned in Crowds would throng,  
To 〈◊〉 the Oraculous Wisdom of his Tongue;  
Mute as the Grave, when he a Story told,  
England was then as Athens was of old,  
Or Rome, where Arms with Science flourished long,  
Augustus smiled at honoured Virgil's Song,  
But now our Harps are on the Willows hung:  
For since the Sovereign of all Arts could die,  
There is no farther use of Poetry;  
Hot Pegasus no middle Tract will go,  
Charles', is a Theme too high, and all besides too low.   

An ELEGY On the late Holy Father Pope INNOCENT the Eleventh.  
STrange power of Piety when Virtue is  
So strong it can disarm our prejudice:  
When Luther's Sons Rome's prizeless loss bemoan,  
Less than a Miracle can there be shown;  
Yet see they mourn, and those our Doctrine bred,  
Hating the Body, yet adore the Head.  
This Truth, though Ages passed scarce understood,  
Ours boldly may affirm, one Pope was good;  
Not partial, nor to private Interest sold,  
Nay, what's more strange than all, not fond of Gold;  
But durst against the stream of Avarice swim,  
St. Peter's Keys were never gilded by him,  
Nor did the Church's Biggots, till his sway  
Ever, so little for Salvation pay.  
His mellowed Wisdom propped Rome's tottering State,  
His moderate Judgement stemmed the Clergies hate,  
Willing the Church's variance to atone,  
Railed not at ours, nor lessened not his own.  
When Heathens did in swarming Numbers list,  
And War began 'twixt Mahomet and Christ;  
The imprisoned Treasure which he then set free,  
Showed him refined from former Papacy.  
The Gold which to that Holy War he threw,  
Declared him more than Pope, a Christian too.  
When France observed him scourge the Infidels,  
Quite different from his Pagan Principles;  
His Mother Church th' Apostate durst condemn,  
And slight her power to make his own Supreme,  
Nor longer owned Rome's Doctrine his Soul's guide,  
When its Ambition was unsatisfied;  
This faultless Prelate, if e'er Pope was so,  
Sounded his Wiles, and Plots did overthrow,  
Lent th' golden Mattock to this pious work,  
And balked both Pagan, and the Christian Turk,  
Who slily did like snarling Bloodhound lurk,  
To snap the Prey, and gorge himself alone,  
When th' rest were tired with fight for the bone.  
Mourn all ye neighbouring Princes, sigh and mourn,  
Old Rome will now to her old Sins return;  
Her Scarlet Robe has for a time been clean,  
But with new Errors, will new Spots be seen:  
Now each ambitious Cardinal bribe's high,  
To fill the Conclave for the Prelacy,  
Which gained, the enchanted Purse straight shuts as close,  
As if the strings were never to unloose.  
The Fish is caught, farewel Hypocrisy,  
The Vizor banished, and the Net laid by.  
Religion late was beyond Gold preferred,  
But profit now's the only sound is heard.  
Vile Sores o'er Rome's corrupted Body grow,  
Her Trunk is filthy, now her Head lies low:  
For when as some rich honest Farmer dies,  
Leaving behind him Lands, and Legacies,  
His brainless Offspring by their Vice allured,  
Destroy the Crop, which he with care manured;  
His Garden's fruitless, and his Vineyard bleeds,  
Th' one yields no Grapes, the other only weeds:  
So Rome, her pious Farmer being gone,  
Is left to her lewd Race to be undone.   

To the KING: An ODE on his Birth Day.  


Cloudy Saturnia drives her Steeds apace,  
Heavenborn Aurora presses to her place;  
And all the new dressed Planets of the Night,  
Dance their gay Measures with unusual grace,  
To usher in the happy Morning's Light,  
To usher in, etc.  
Now blest, Britannia, let thy Head be crowned,  
Now let thy joyful Trumpets sound,  
Into the late enslaved 
* London.  Augusta's Ears,  
The Triumphs of a Day renowned,  
Beyond the Glories of all former years,  
A Day when eastern Kings to kneel forbore,  
And end the Worship they begun,  
Dazzled with rising Glories from the British shore,  
No longer they adored the Sun,  
Chorus. A Day when, etc.   

Second Movement.  
The Belgic Sages see from far,  
The glittering Regal Star,  
That blest the happy Morn,  
When Great Nassau was born;  
They heard besides a Cherub sing,  
Haste, Haste, without delay,  
To Albion haste away,  
Revenge their Wrongs, and be a King,  
Before thy Sword, and awful frown;  
Rome Pagan Gods shall tumble down:  
Haste to oppose, Britannia's Foes,  
And then to wear her Crown.  
And now the day is come,  
So dreadful to Proud Rome,  
The day when Gallia shakes,  
And England's Genius wakes,  
To call her Sons to fight,  
And guard 
* The Church.  Eusebia's Right:  
Hark, hark, I heat their loud Alarms,  
And what was sold, for tempting Gold,  
Retrieved again by Arms.  
Chorus. Guard, Guard Eusebia's Right,  
Call, call, her Sons to fight. Hark, hark, etc.   

Third Movement.  
Go on, admired Nassau, go on,  
To Fame and Victory go on,  
Recover Britain's long lost Glory,  
Reflect on former Battles won,  
And what by English Monarches done,  
In Edward's, and Great Henry's Story;  
Whilst we in lofty Song, and tuneful Mirth,  
Each year sing loud to celebrate his Birth,  
Whom bounteous Heaven, with Paternal hand,  
Sent as a second Saviour to this groaning Land.   

Chorus of all.  
Glad Albion, let thy Joy appear,  
Restored is now thy happy State,  
The greatest blessings are most dear,  
When we achieve 'em late.  
And whilst in a Jubilee Triumph we sing,  
All Hail, Great Nassau, all Joy to the King,  
Let a Chorus of Thunder in the loud Consort play,  
To inform the vast Globe this is Cesar's Birth day.     

The Scotch VIRAGO. A SONG Sung to the Queen at Kensington.  
The Words made to a pretty New Scotch Tune.  

I.  
valiant Iockeys marched away,  
To fight the Foe with brave Mackay,  
Leaving me, poor Soul, forlorn,  
To Curse the hour when I was born;  
But, I've sworn Ise follow too,  
And dearest Iockeys Fate pursue,  
Near him be to guard his precious Life,  
Never Scot had such a Loyal Wife;  
Sword Ise wear,  
Ise cut my Hair,  
Tan my Cheeks, that once were thought so fair,  
In Soldier's Weed,  
To him I'll speed,  
Never sike a Trooper crossed the Tweed.   

II.  
Trumpet sound to Victory,  
Ise kill (my self) the next Dundee;  
Love, and Fate, and Rage, do all agree,  
To do some glorious Deed by me.  
Great Bellona, take my part,  
Fame and Glory, charm my Heart,  
That for Love, and bonny Scotland's good,  
Some brave Action may deserve my Blood;  
Nought shall appear,  
Of Female fear,  
Fight by his Side, I love so dear;  
All the North shall own,  
There ne'er was known  
Such a sprightly Lass this thousand years.    

TO CHLORIS: A SONG.  

I.  
CHloris, for fear you should think to deceive me,  
Know all my Life I have studied your kind,  
Learned in your Grammar, I'd have you believe me,  
And all your Tricks in my Practice you'll find;  
Ogling and Glances,  
Sighs and Advances,  
Poor Country Cully no more shall ensnare:  
Pant and Tremble,  
Fits and Dissemble,  
Now you must leave, and Intrigue on the Square.   

II.  
Give me the Girl that's good natured and Witty,  
Whose pleasant Talk can her Friend entertain,  
One who's not Proud, if you tell her she's Pretty;  
And yet enough to be Honest and Clean.  
Pox on Town Cheat,  
Jilts and Cognetting;  
I my Dear Chloris, will bring up by hand:  
Tears and Complain,  
Breed but Disdaining,  
Those still Love best that are under Command.    

A Catch in Three Parts, set by Mr. Hen. Purcel, and taken from the Latin of BUCHANAN.  

I.  
YOung Collen cleaving of a Beam,  
At every thumping Blow, cried Him;  
And told his Wife, who the Cause would know,  
'Twas Hempskirke, made th' Wedge much farther go.   

II.  
Plump joan, at Night when the Bed she came,  
And both were playing at that same;  
Cried, Him, Him, Him, prithee Collen do,  
If ever thou lov'dst me Him, Him now.   

III.  
No, no, no, no, sweet Wife, no no,  
Some Wood will split with half a blow;  
Besides I Bore, now, now, I Bore,  
I Him when I Cleave, but now I Bore.    


A POEM Panegyrical On His GRACE THE D. of ALBEMARLE; With Remarks on His Voyage for JAMAICA, and the late Treasure brought Home in the JAMES and MARY.  
Written Anno Dom. 1686.   

Epistle Dedicatory to Her Grace the DUCHESS.  
WHen Brutus with the rest did Cesar doom,  
And by his Death gave liberty to Rome:  
Great Cato's Daughter 
* Porcia.  his dear faithful Wife,  
That knew the Secret of that fatal Strife,  
From her loved Husband's side would never part,  
Both had one Will, one Courage, and one Heart,  
Her generous Virtue thought it 〈◊〉 to share  
Part of his joy, and nothing of his Care;  
And therefore all his Harms with Patience bore,  
And when he died she likewise was no more:  
Her Virtues, Madam, flourish now in you,  
A second Porcia, Faithful, chaste and True,  
With Heaven's divinest Gifts your Heart is stored,  
And Wove into the Merits of your Lord;  
So fast, and with Affection so sublime,  
You can look down with Scorn on Death and Time:  
Since then Great Albemarle inspires my Muse,  
Upon a Theme 'tis fit the World peruse;  
Who should I beg to Consecrate my Lines,  
But you, who know how bright his Virtue shines,  
You, who have made the business of your Life,  
To show the World, a Pattern of a Wi●e,  
Joyed at your Lord's good Chance, grieved at his Ill,  
Kind, Wise, and what's most Rare Obedient, to his Will:  
More I could say, nay so much might be said,  
These swelling Lines would tyre ye to Read.  
If I could boast of a Poetic Art,  
To speak your Praise, lavish as your Desert,  
No Flight could be too high, no Thought too strong,  
Nor could the Poem ever be too long.  
But modest Pens, that dare not be too bold,  
Know Truth, the shortest way is wisest told.    

A POEM Panegyric on His Grace the DUKE of ALBEMARLE, etc.  

I.  
HAPPY those Islands where no sullen Sky.  
Debars with Clouds the Prospect of the Eye,  
Where the glad Sun with Joy performs his Race,  
And sullies with no Fogs his glorious Face,  
Where change of Wether makes no Native mourn,  
No Agues freeze ye, nor no Fevers burn;  
But genuine Heat, Nature for Health designs,  
And through respiring Pores your Blood refines.   

II.  
But above all most happy is that Land,  
Which you, my Lord, are going to Command,  
Their darling Genius Claps her joyful Wings,  
And your Approach in lofty numbers sings;  
The Sun's attractive force they knew before,  
Exhaling Dews from every Plant and Flower.  
But this new Influence they learn from you,  
That to a point he can draw Virtue too.   

III.  
'Tis said indeed this generative Heat,  
In parching Climes most Worthies does beget;  
And that no Northern Nation can inspire  
Her sickly Sons, with such Heroic fire;  
But I could never credit this till now,  
The Sympathy is verified in you:  
That still your liking for those parts have shown,  
Where the hot glittering God attracts his own.   

IV.  
As some fond Mother, that with tender Care  
Sees her young Darling posting to the War,  
Oppressed with Sorrow, does the Parting view;  
Hates he should go, yet loves his Glory too:  
Such Grief (my Lord) Your mourning Friends all share,  
When of your Voyage the sad News they hear,  
And jointly wish America could know,  
The Gem she gains without their loss in you.   

V.  
But still to have you, were too great a Grace,  
Perfection ne'er continues in one place;  
So Angels did in former time appear,  
Gave us true Joy, but stayed but little here.  
To cheer the World, your Virtue's Heaven designed,  
And could not in one Island be confined;  
Worth like the Sun, so universal known,  
'Tis fit should bless more Countries than your own.   

VI  
Well may those happy Isles serene appear,  
But we, I fear, shall find it Cloudy here,  
If Comets are obliged t' infest the Skies,  
At a States Change, or when a Monarch dies;  
Methinks they should their f●tal Fears infuse,  
Into our Hearts, when we a Worthy lose;  
Did not wise Heaven think it vain to show  
A Prodigy, for Plagues too well we know.   

VII.  
In taking you, Fate leaves us poor and bare,  
The mighty Sum is more than we can spare;  
For common Losses common Tears we shower,  
But, Sir, your Merit will command much more:  
The aching Hearts of all your Countrymen,  
When Woes are deepest, fewest Tears are seen;  
And when Grief burns within, where none can spy,  
The bubbling Fountains of the Head are dry.   

VIII.  
To thy own safety England have regard,  
The Loyal and the Brave are rarely spared;  
In props of Virtue we are not so rich,  
But such a Pillar gone will will make a Breach,  
Crowds may drop off like Hair of no Esteem,  
But when one Hero goes we lose a Limb;  
Well Britain may thy Arms the World over come;  
When thou canst spare an Albemarle from Home.   

IX.  
He, that when late Rebellious Seeds grew high,  
And proud Sedition trod on Loyalty,  
Encompassed round with Dangers, and with Foes,  
Numerous as Dust, when the wild Tempest blows,  
With Fortitude undaunted durst defy  
The Force and Favours of the Enemy,  
From his loved Country should Affection claim,  
Dear as his own, and lasting as his Fame.   

X.  
All good Men know that then he nobly served,  
And to his utmost power the Throne preserved,  
james found his Vigilance and Conduct right,  
Tho upstart Davus snarled and durst not bite;  
Nor can a Royal Heart unmindful be  
Of staunch Hereditary Loyalty;  
For none should Monarches of Remissness charge,  
Their Memories are like their Glories large.   

XI.  
A steadfast Duty, and a Faith entire,  
We know the Gem is right that past the fire,  
So good, our Nation's Genius was afraid  
To lose a Prize so proper for her Aid,  
And lest light Coffers by true Bounty drained,  
A Mighty Prince should Merchandising send;  
Neptune, 
* A Spanish Wreck found, and a vast Treasure taken up from the bottom of the Sea; and lately brought home.  as if he bribed him not to go,  
Sent him a Present from his hoared below.   

XII.  
Seven Wonders Ancient Chronicles relate,  
Now change the Scene, and make the number Eight,  
'tis well Renowned Britain, that with thee  
No Land can vie for Wit or Industry;  
If Honour could the Argument maintain,  
As well as politic Designs for Gain,  
The World would then thy wondrous Merit know,  
And Heaven above, as the Salt Deeps below.   

XIII.  
Gigantic Rocks ravished the wealthy Ore,  
A People's Ruin the Rich Vessel bore;  
And Providence for Ends, now known confined  
In Coral Groves the Mistress of Mankind,  
Full forty Years the pensive Beauty lay,  
Low in a Sea-Gods Cell, to which-none found the Way,  
Till Phip's inspired arrived, and Heaven thought well  
To bless our Hero by a Miracle.   

XIV.  
'Twere wondrous well if Fate would order so,  
That Monarches every Subject's Heart could know,  
They then the difference of Men might see,  
That serve for Interest or for Loyalty;  
To build their Fortunes many plough the Main,  
Their Duty is encouraged by their Gain;  
But he that leaves a Greatness so well known  
Merely to serve his Prince, is Loyal Monk alone.   

XV.  
For who but he would leave the Bowers of Peace  
Of blessed Contentment and delightful Ease;  
To war with Blasts and Fevers of the Skies,  
Half buzzed to death by Buccaneering Flies,  
Who would the tiresome Voyage undergo,  
When Profit has no Golden face to show?  
Or who but he the hot Fatigue would bear,  
And leave New-Hall to be a Viceroy there?   

XVI.  

* A short Character of New-Hall, his Grace's House in Essex.  New-Hall, the true Elysium of the Eye,  
The glorious Seat of ancient Royalty,  
Where Art and Nature seem by Heaven designed  
To strive, which shall be Master of their kin●;  
And as the precious Ore in Golden Mines,  
Nature produces, but 'tis Art that coins;  
So she by Paradise this Model drew,  
And Art improved the Beauties as they grew.   

XVII.  
The curious Gardens that delight the Eye,  
Show the gay Scene of blessed Variety;  
Sweet as a Virgin that has never known  
The scorching passions of the vicious Town  
Ceres and Flora here their Bounty show,  
And Fruits and Flowers so Luxurious grow;  
As Adam here had used his primitive Spade,  
And from his Marke● has just learned the Trade.   

XVIII.  
Next take the Park and prospect in your view,  
Apelles never such a Landshape drew,  
Tall Sons of ●●rth three quarters of a Mile  
Weaving their Branches, frame a wondrous Isle:  
Here the poor Traveller relief to gain  
From the oppressing Storms of Wind and Rain,  
Tired with his tedious Journey slacks his pace,  
Sits down, looks round, and wonders at the Place.   

XIX.  
The Nightingale in every Grove impart,  
By Nature, Airs that need no help of Art;  
No Artist sent from Italy comes there,  
And yet no Eunuch ever sung so rare,  
Curse your ill Stars, ye poor disgendered crew,  
Each Linnet has a better Fate than you,  
For they can in the charming Chorus join,  
And yet enjoy the Pleasures of their kind.   

XX.  
The happy Herds of Dear then Feasting see  
Emblems of Innocence and Amity,  
That feed and love together, couch and rise,  
Never debauched with strife or mortal Vice,  
But silently their great Creator praise;  
And if they chance to see a human Face,  
With eager speed, they from the Object run,  
And gaze and wonder at the Monster, Man.   

XXI.  
Reflect, vain Creature, with errected Face,  
That claimest command o'er the fourfooted Race;  
How much thy lazy Virtue they'd out do,  
If they were blest with sacred Reason too;  
Proud of thy Gifts, yet Heaven in them do find  
More truth, nay more Religion in their kind,  
From Schisms, false Doctrine, and Ambition free,  
And pride the darling Sin of poor Mortality.   

XXII.  
Here ere the Lawns with Summer blessings crowned,  
Pleased with their lusty Health they nimbly bound bound  
Free from the Wether's wild ingrateful storms  
The trembling Hares sit quiet in their Forms:  
Sweet smelling Panthers of whose Spots we read  
In modern Pamphlet, here may welcome feed,  
But yet no Baptist Boar, nor foaming Bear can graze,  
Nor one Immortal Hind in all the Place.   

XXIII.  
When the great General with Victorious Sword,  
Thrice happy England's best of Kings restored;  
When Crowds were to Obedience forced to bow,  
And old Rebellions Giant-head lay low:  
The mighty Genius of this God of War,  
Big with his Merit, did this Place prepare;  
And smiling on him with an awful Grace,  
Spoke thus, Thou wondrous Man rest here in Peace.   

XXIV.  
Here let thy glass of Life in quiet run,  
And let the World admire what thou hast done,  
Thou, that from Chaos didst to order bring,  
Dissenting Crowds, that shuffled out the King,  
And when black gathering Clouds of Mischief grew  
Too dark, for any but thy Eyes to view,  
That all the jarring parts thy power might know,  
Spak'st loud, let there be Light, and it was so.   

XXV.  
This said, the Genius bowed his awful head,  
And at his Feet the conquered Trophies laid;  
From hence a Series of new Years ran on  
Till thronged with Time this great triumphant Man,  
Like some tall lofty Pine with blessings crowned,  
Sunk with his mellow Glories to the ground,  
Leaving behind a Theme far more sublime  
Than e'er again will grace succeeding Time.   

XXVII.  
Sir, still in you we the old Hero see  
The same true Courage, and true Loyalty,  
The Father of his Country does return  
You in a Phoenix rising from his Urn,  
Whose steadfast Faith no Interest could sway,  
So well his Heart had taught him to obey;  
To serve his Prince all Dangers would run over,  
Dreading to stormy Sea, nor no inhospitable shore.   

XXVII.  
Yet though this Sir, on Duties score you do,  
Reason advises to be cautious too;  
When from high Towers you see the dazzling height,  
'Twere direct madness to precipitate.  
Hard is the Game you long have had to play,  
Many would have you go, and more to stay,  
To keep you here, still wish your faithful Friends;  
But Og, would have you gone for his own ends.   

XXVIII.  
Projecting Og, by you like Taper snuffed,  
Like Spider now with innate Venom puffed,  
A Bulk sincere, but there's no Faith in that,  
For all Men are not honest that are fat.  
This Age by a new juggling Fallacy,  
Fattens those most who best can Cheat and Lie;  
Who with next Heir at Law would trust his health,  
Or who a bloated Bancrupt with his wealth?   

XXIX.  
To Fame and Truth your Soul did ever bend,  
The bravest Man is still the truest Friend:  
Heaven its best Graces to your Heart disclosed,  
There all the Elements so well composed,  
That no unruly Passion dares aspire,  
Not too much Earth, nor yet too little Fire;  
But in your Bosom formed, all gently move,  
You show at once the Eagle and the Dove.   

XXX.  
Forgive me Sir, that I these Truths relate,  
And believe Flattery is a thing I hate;  
The Courtier's Gloss to varnish his dull Speech,  
Could I have flattered well I had been Rich;  
A well formed Parasite's an Art so dear,  
I might have got three hundred Pound a year,  
That now can boast no greater Wealth my due,  
Than a good Character from such as You.   

XXXI.  
And rich I am in that, may then your years,  
Rowl on with Joy, and may you know no Cares,  
May bounteous Plenty bless you with her Store,  
And all the teeming Western Mines with Ore,  
May Spicy Breezes cool the parching Air,  
That no hot Ray presume t' offend the Fair,  
And in a happy hour may England boast,  
She can win back the Treasure she has lost.    

Mr. HAINE●'s Second Recantation: A PROLOGUE intended to be spoken by him dressed in a Turkish habit.  
MY Reconversion, Sirs, you heard of late,  
I told you I was turned, but not to what,  
The truth disguised for Cause best known to me;  
But now what really I am, 
* Stroking his Moustaches. — you see;  
In vain did English Education work,  
My Faith was sixth, I always was a Turk;  
Besides my rambling Steps ere I came home,  
Constantinople reached as well as Rome,  
And by the Mufti, who nice Virtue prized,  
For being so Circumspect, was Circumcised;  
'Tis true, I did endeavour to refuse,  
That damned old silly Custom of the jews,  
Because I was ashamed of being shown,  
I was too plump a Babe, an Infant too well grown;  
But they would finish what they had begun,  
So between Turk and jew my job was done;  
I wish the promised blessing may appear,  
I'm sure, I bought Religion plaguy dear;  
For to be free, I greater Danger ran  
Of being an Eunuch, than a Musselman;  
But Constancy takes strangely in that Place,  
My manly Suffering won the People's Grace,  
I gained their Hearts, their chiefest Secrets saw,  
We whored and got Drunk contrary to Law:  
I had five Wives, thank the dear Prophet for it,  
A Black, a Blue, a Brown, a Fair, a Carrot,  
And by the way, 'tis worth your Observation  
To note, the solid Wisdom of that Nation:  
Wives, are like Spannels there, and when ye marry  
You need but whistle, Wife must fetch and carry,  
A prettier Custom, if I understand,  
Than 'tis in England here where they Command;  
The Ladies here may without Scandal show  
Face, or white Bubbies, to each Ogling Beau;  
But there close veiled, not one kind Glance can fall,  
She that once shows her Face, will show ye all;  
Wits there are too, but Poet there's but one,  
A huge unwieldy jarring Lute and Tunn,  
That spite of all my Parts the Laurel won,  
Not for his skill in satire, or in Lyrics,  
Or for his humble Style in lofty Panegyrics,  
Or the rare Images that swell his Noddle,  
But sitting up and Joking o'er a Bottle.  
His Patron's Wit, still as his own is used,  
Yet never had a Friend, but he abused,  
What is his own has neither Plot nor Soul,  
Nor ever one good thought but what he stole;  
Eating, not Writing, is his proper Function,  
Supper's his Sacrament, his Extreme Unction;  
Like Whores condemned, that free themselves from Chains;  
He pleaded for't his Belly, I my Brains,  
But Poet Belly routed Poet Haines:  
Missing this Post, I get into the Wars,  
But finding quickly there's were real jars,  
Not liking that robust Confusion there,  
Sneaked off in time, to get Commission here,  
Well knowing that what ever wrongs are righting.  
You London Blades, have wiser ways than fight.  
FINIS.   

Books Printed for Abel Roper, at the Bell near Temple-Bar.  

1. A Weeks Exercise preparatory towards the Reception of the Holy Communion; Dedicated to the Princess of Denmark, by W. W.  
2. Life and Reign of Innocent the Eleventh, late Pope of Rome.    

Books Printed for John Bullord, at the Old Black Bear in St. Paul's Church Yard.  

1. A Critical History of the Text of the New Testament; Wherein is firmly Established the Truth of those Acts, on which the Foundation of Christian Religion is laid. By R. Simon, Priest.  
2. A View of the true Interest of the several States of Europe since the Accession of their Present Majesties to the Imperial Crown of Great Britain. Also showing the many Advantages of a strict Union in Opposition to the Unjust Usurpations and False Pretensions of the French King. Both quarto.