Wit at a Venture: OR, CLIO'S Privy-Garden, CONTAINING SONGS and POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS Never before in Print.  
— Potare & spargere flores  
Incipiam, patiarque vel in consultus haberi.  Hor. lib. 1. Ep. 5. 14. 
LONDON, Printed for Jonathan Edwin, at the three Roses in Ludgate-Street, 1674.   

THE Epistle Dedicatory. TO William Wren, Esq;  
SIR,  
I Might not without Reason suspect your Resentment and Admiration, when you behold so trivial and mean a Work of this Nature, confidently sheltering itself under the Infallible defence of your worthy Name, from the piercing storms that are frequently raised by the heat of certain creatures called Critics: But, Sir, that sweetness and everness of your Temper, which all who know you, do with great satisfaction take notice of, has denied me to fear the danger of displeasing a Person whom nothing but very Baseness can make Angry. To that Goodness therefore, I presume to offer up these Fruits of so little worth, they wanted; a good Season to grow to any Perfection in, as having but seldom any Sunshine weather, unless when your Influences did actuate their Principles; if any then amongst them have arrived to more Beauty and Ripeness than their Fellows, they owe it immediately to that Warmth and Vigour they received from you; and in this respect, Sir, you may claim them as your own; for the Sun may be said to have more right to the Fruit he gave colour to, than the Tree that bore it. Vouchsafe, Sir, then, when you unbend from your more weighty and useful Employs of Time, to cast a favourable Eye upon this Poetic Offspring, that foresees a happy Life if he may be admitted into your Service, where if he can please in his Minority, he promises himself such an increase of Spirit and Fancy, that he will aspire to more lofty thoughts, even Sir, to the Ambition of being worthy to style you the sweet Maecenas  
SIR, Of your humbly devoted Servant, C. F.   

The CONTENTS.  

Loves' Trial Pag. 1.  
The Generous Lover 2.  
A Song 4  
Surprising Love 5  
To Silvia on the Tyranny of her Looks 6  
A Dialogue between Strephon and Phillis 7  
The Knight-Adventurer 8  
Love's Conquest 12  
The Protestation 14  
The Nuptial Triumph 15  
A Song 20  
Pleasing Hopes ibid.  
An Epitaph on a merry Wife of Windsor 21  
To Mr. E. M. upon going to Sea 22  
Beauty's frailty 23  
Epithalamium 24  
Acrastick on his lamented Friend G. I. 25  
The tired Pilgrim 26  
Loves Ecstasy 27  
Philomel's Call 28  
Impatience 29  
Goodnight Pag. 30.  
Surprising Favour ibid.  
A New-Years-Gift 31  
On his Mistress walking in the Garden ibid.  
The moralist 32  
The Murdered Beauty 33  
The Desperate Lover 34  
A Song 35  
The Silent Lover 36  
Distempered Love 37  
On his Mistress asleep 38  
The Soldier's Song 39  
Vain Ambition 40  
To Dorinda after Absence ibid.  
A Moral Song 41  
A Dialogue between Fame and Virtue 42  
The Boon Companion 43  
Plea for Enjoying 44  
The brave Bubber 45  
Love's Universe 46  
On a Lady masked supposed to be Dorinda ibid.  
Moderation 47  
Leisure 48  
Epithalamium on E. W. and R. S. 49  
Black Eyes and enticing Frowns 50  
Grief for Absence 52  
Magnetic Influence ibid.  
Mistress I. K. a Surprisal 53  
On Silvia ibid.  
Praise and Dispraise 54  
A brief Survey of this disproportioned World 55  
Double Influence 56  
A Song 57  
The Pleasant Toil 58  
A Balladc on a Country Wedding 59  
The Virtue of a Hothouse 65  
To Celinda 71  
Loves Assurance 72  
The women's Defence 73  
Celadon and Philomela, a Dialogue 74  
Omitting Enjoyment 76  
The Tavern Huff 77  
The Considerate Lover 78  
Beauty's Prerogative 79  
A Rapture 80  
A Song 82  
The Brave Lover 83  
Epithalamium ibid.  
On the sight of my true Dorinda Masked 84  
The Concern 85  
An Elegy on the most lamented Death of that brave and worthy Hero, Edw. Earl of Sandwich, Lord Vice Admiral of England. 88  
An Elegy on the Death of the Valiant Sir Edw. Sprag. 91    

Wit at a Venture. OR, CLIO's Privy-Garden, CONTAINING SONGS and POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS.  

Love's Trial. A Song.  

HOw sweet are the youthful adventures of Love,  
What pretty kind sympathies mutually move?  
How in Amorous Music they each play their parts,  
And make in their minds a transfusion of hearts:  
Yet as strange and as various powers they have,  
When from frowns, sighs and smiles, is Bliss and a Grave.  
When I try with my Nymph the strength of that power,  
Blind Love plays the knave with me every hour;  
For she frowns, and she sighs, and still she cries no,  
Though I'm apt to believe her, yet still I must woe;  
For in the same moment I find in her eyes,  
That joy and that bliss which her coyness denies.   

Then strait I declare the discovery I've made,  
And urging my Suit, she replies, I'm afraid;  
On my life, dear Swain, by no means it may be,  
'Twas the charge of my Grandmother Modesty;  
Yet still I behold a Gem in her eye,  
ne'er was Tantalus half so unhappy as I.   

Why should Nymphs with disguise and flattery deceive,  
When from us the naked truth they receive?  
Though th'effects of fond Love so various be,  
Must it therefore wheedle and captivate me?  
Even let her retire, if she think good,  
To cure my despair, I'll let myself blood.    

The Generous Lover. A Song.  

WHat a giddy fond Lover is he,  
Who in spite of good fate or success,  
Gives scope to his Love,  
Till it wander and rove  
Beyond what his hope can redress:  
When his passions grow fervent and free,  
Instead of considering his flames,  
He hastens his bliss  
To a blind precipice,  
And Love before Honour proclaims.   

My Love's of a nobler descent,  
For that influous power I adore,  
Though my passions are strong,  
Yet rather than wrong,  
I'll prefer the convenience before,  
And though in her arms I could die,  
Yet if fate has against me decreed,  
I'll draw from my heart  
The visible dart,  
While my wounds still inwardly bleed.   

Would to Heaven I could but deserve!  
Those suffering hopes which I bore,  
But since honour denies  
I should venture the prize,  
I'll sigh out a lingering despair:  
Ye powers if your pleasures are so,  
To make me thus hopeless your slave,  
Since I'm suffered no more  
Then just to adore,  
In my heart I'll her Image engrave.    

A Song.  

CVpid some exploits to try,  
With this left hand shot awry,  
His shafts flew still too high or low,  
which made him free and curse his bow,  
Hitting the Mark, at length he found  
His arrows gave a poisoned wound,  
And frenzy bread where Love should be,  
In milder terms called jealousy,   

If such worms grow in Lover's breast,  
Whose venom will admit no rest,  
Then pox upon't, my prayers shall be  
From such Love Jove deliver me:  
Yet I could gladly be content,  
To lay on Love that punishment,  
And scape myself, to be each hour  
Securely guarded from its power.    

The Surprising Lover.  
LOve in rambling once astray,  
Was benighted in his way,  
With cold and tiresome cares oppressed,  
He creeps in fair Lucina's breast  
To shelter there and take his rest:  
The Nymph not dreaming of her fate,  
And of an unexpected Guest Much less  
To come so late,  
Slep on; the Youth recovering heat,  
Prepares his arms to try a feat;  
The deed scarce done, the Nymph awakes,  
And in the Act the Youngster takes,  
Strangely surprised, yet well contented too,  
That she'd enjoyed so sweet a bedfellow.  
Then viewing well her Guests all o'er,  
She liked his presence more and more;  
Telling him, rather than he should be gone.  
She'd nurse and keep him as her own,  
And if he'd vow ne'er to depart,  
She'd find him lodging next her heart.   

To Silvia, on the Tyranny of her Looks. A Song.  

TUrn away those sparkling Gems,  
Who from their motives give such ray,  
As would make Sol contract his beams,  
And leave those Stars to rule the Day:  
What greater Tyranny can Love create,  
Than from such Comets to receive a fate?   

Do not insult thus on your Slave,  
Love should attempt a nobler prize,  
Since 'tis within your power to save,  
Give but one blessing from your eyes:  
Mystery of Fate! that yet I should not know,  
Whether the Puny God's my friend or foe.   

I'll view no more, and yet, alas!  
What cannot such sweet objects move?  
Where smiles (though clouded) seem to pass  
The sentence of a blooming Love:  
What greater joys can pleasing powers decree  
Where love from such Imprisonment sets free?    

A Dialogue between Strephon and Phillis.  STrep. 
Phillis, we have now too long  
Dallied with the lip and tongue,  
These no real joys can move,  
Action is the soul of Love.  Phill 
Do not kisses actions bare,  
Songs and stories please the ear,  
Smiling looks a perfect Bliss?  
I know no other Love than this.  Strep. 
O! say not so, that wishing eye  
Discovers what would hidden lie;  
But yet, in vain, you must not shroud  
The Queen of Beauty in a cloud.  Phill. 
No, I to Venus' Laws should perjured be,  
In keeping hid what Love is pleased to see.  Strep. 
The goddess frowns, be wise Nymph, and obey▪  
Come, we'll Improve our Love's a better way.  Phill. 
Ah! me poor ignorant!  
And if there be a better way than this,  
Pray Strephon, show thy Phillis how it is.  Chorus. 
Then let's remove to some more friendly shade,  
Where neither Sun shall see, or heat invade  
To mix for envy with our flames,  
While we perform what Venus claims;  
And let us thus, O! thus Improve  
Our Joys, till we dissolve in Love.   

The Knight Adventurer.  
AFter a long and continent repose  
From Venus' service, and those ty'rsom foes;  
The brisk young Pego armed with youthful state,  
Resolves to make Adventure of his fate,  
And in a second Expedition tries  
Who are Love's friends, and who his enemies:  
The chiefest reason that did his fancy move,  
Was to th' obliging sweet Cunea's Love,  
There on her fertile Land to pitch his Tent,  
The pleasant's border on the Continent;  
Free from the scorching Sun or humid Air,  
But sweetly calm and every object fair;  
Whilst hot-head Pego wanders thus alone,  
Through Lands obscure, and places yet unknown;  
With discontent and aching pain he strove  
Still to draw near the Palace of his Love,  
Begging the Gods, and all the Fates below,  
To grant him sight but of her Portico;  
Big with desire, at length before his eyes  
He something like a lovely Palace spies,  
Behind a sweet and pleasant Myrtle Vale,  
Two marble pillars on a Pedestal;  
But, treacherous Fate! with an excess of joy  
He did his courage and his hopes destroy,  
That object which had given him life before,  
Has now ensnared him, and his strength's no more;  
For mad with heat, he hastens to the place,  
And does the footsteps of his ruin trace;  
The goodly Vision was a Well he found,  
Adorned with banks, & fenced with bushes round,  
Where many a wand'ring Lover had been drowned,  
Yet not contented, he's resolved to peep,  
Poor thing! not knowing that the Well was deep,  
Head being heavy, and his brains too light,  
In 〈◊〉 falls, and bids to all good-night;  
There in a trance and agony he lay,  
Scarce able to distinguish night from day;  
Chance had with active nature such a strife,  
you'd thought he had been just departing life,  
But Love's officious messenger from thence  
Soon to Cunea sent intelligence:  
She (inoffensive) knew not what to say  
For grief, to so see how dead poor Pego lay,  
With sudden fright she takes him from his Tomb,  
And in a trice conveys him to her home:  
O most unhappy Woman, then cries she,  
‛ That in my precincts this sad chance should be;  
‛ My dearest Pego, I lament thy grief,  
‛ And would to Venus I could give relief;  
Then with a lift she laid him in her bed,  
And with her gentle hand she held his head,  
In soft Love-linnen his bruised head she wraps,  
And gently wipes off the remaining drops;  
His height of Valour now grown tame and meek,  
Instead of red faint dews possess his cheek;  
His body which had youthful Vigour shown,  
Was now grown feeble and the spirit gone;  
Those muscles which were once more stiff than board  
Are quite contracted and no strength afford,  
In this condition lay the breathless Knight,  
No small discomfort to his Lover's sight;  
At length to consolate his dying heart,  
To her sick Love does these words impart,  
‛ My Dear, let not this chance thy life deprive,  
‛ Think on thy Love and thou wilt strait revive;  
‛ Hold up thy head, muse not on future harms,  
‛ But once more rest in thy Cunea's arms:  
‛ Methinks his pulse moves rather quick than slow,  
‛ And yet I feel a dampness o'er his brow;  
‛ What gentle fervour in each joint there feels,  
‛ Yet when I go to set him up he reels:  
Such signs of life yet no more strength t'appear,  
My Love is past recovery I fear,  
Why should this branch which like a Cedar stood,  
Commanding all the shrubs and under-wood  
Now hang his head, whither, wax pale and die,  
From one poor blast of Venus' treachery?  
What shall I do? my charms I have forgot,  
And my best remedy's an Antidote;  
Yet this I'll sentence to revenge thy woe,  
That well shall strictest penance undergo:  
Then white as Ivory a vail was spread,  
Over that dismal Cave where Pego bled,  
That seeing his sick state, it might not be  
The Author of a greater misery;  
Hoping when once the spirits did unite,  
She might enjoy him with more fresh delight;  
And being well animated for the sport,  
At second venture he might gain the Fort;  
By this, Love's tending hand, and Nurse-like care,  
Made Pego venture now to take the Air;  
A kind refreshment his past labours greet,  
Feign would he stand, but cannot find his feet:  
But now the Senses to themselves being come,  
His musing thoughts are of returning home:  
This did his Love with different passions fill,  
Joy for his health, but anguish for his will.  
My Dear (cries she) and will you leave me so?  
Ah! I shall surely bleed for't if you go.  
If you forsake me, all my joys are gone,  
And Fancy'll haunt me when I lie alone,  
And vain Imaginations than will prove  
My only dear Companion and my Love.  
Urge me no more, cries he, lest I grow mad,  
YE enslave me only to make Venus' glad:  
Have I not armed myself both day and night?  
And must I be a Vassal to delight?  
Thus madly in revenge he will depart,  
To cool his giddy brain and fire her heart:  
For since his brains were turned he lost his wits,  
And every other Moon he's mad by fits;  
Then swear by Jove, I'll try the other fall,  
And for her sake will venture neck and all:  
But when he views and feels the painful scars,  
The putrid sores and wounds of Venus' Wars;  
Rather than suffer such a foul abuse,  
He'll keep his service for a better use,  
Who being delivered from the powerful Hag,  
Now lives a private life in pudding-bagg.   

Love's Conquest. A Song.  

WHen first in Love's Court fair Eminda was (tried,  
No pleading was suffered but all was denied;  
No suit or requests, no, nor threatenings could move  
The vain-hearted Nymph to be subject to Love,  
Till Wine and Discourse  
Had made some remorse  
And opened her eyes,  
That at length she mixed smiles with denies.   

I declared how the power of Love was abused  
In denials of Bliss, and how srangely misused,  
When mutual pleasures end both but in one,  
That joy must be poor that's embraced alone;  
For the Nymph that is coy,  
In a dream will destroy  
What Nature and Love  
Whilst awake, has assigned her to prove.   

But how oft the kind force did my passion prolong,  
With the rape of her eyes, and the charms of her tongue,  
Till vigorous Love had once entered the Fort,  
And finding alas 'twas in vain to retort,  
She cried Strephon you kill,  
Yet sweetly lay still,  
Being pleased with the pain,  
Cried, Strephon, Oh! Strephon— again.   

In raptures and ecstasies now she was hurled,  
And told me I'd brought her into a new world;  
She chid her cold Sense that no sooner it knew  
The warmth of Love's Engine, but warmer the dew;  
Then kill me again,  
'Tis the pleasanter pain,  
Dear Swain let me crave.  
You to stab in the wound which you gave.    

The Protestation. A Song.  

THere is no Object to my eye  
Seems fair, but what in thee is found;  
Nor my dull ear hears melody,  
Besides thy voice in any sound:  
Or if my taste its proper art should miss,  
There's nothing could restore it but a kiss.   

May my true touch be chilled by death,  
If any thing is soft but thee;  
Or if my smell besides thy breath,  
Counts any thing perfume but thee:  
May vultures banquet on me, whilst I see  
My Rival joy, in an enjoying thee.    

The Nuptial Triumph.  
SEe from you ' Palace where the gate's set wide,  
The Bridegroom walks in triumph to his Bride;  
A youth of the first hair, with tender skin,  
That never yet felt razor on his chin,  
But all's so soft, as would delight the Bliss,  
And make his Bride indulgent to a kiss;  
He tim'rous seems, as doubtful of his skill,  
His ignorance scarce gives him power to will;  
Whole troops of doubts and fears affright his mind,  
Like youth grown up to years undisciplined:  
He sighs, at last possessed with thoughtful joy,  
Does all his wishes on the night employ.  
Now nature tells, (thinks he) why so afraid?  
I ne'er found danger by my Mother's Maid;  
Nature from her than taught me to be kind,  
She not like nature then, 'twas I was blind.  
Now Virgins to my eyes seem richer things.  
Than to a child appear the nuptial Rings.  
Thus having thought, he does at once foreknow  
His worldly blessing and his duty too;  
In progress to his Rival Joy he goes,  
With splendid garb which carelessly he throws  
About him with neglect, as scorning pride,  
The ground in richest Roman purple died  
And mixed with golden wires; for understand,  
'Twas woven by his careful Mother's hand;  
About the edge double Meanders run,  
'Twas long in work by 'gainst this day 'twas done;  
His countenance sweet, his shoulders neatly spread,  
As sometimes we have seen Gods figured;  
In his bright eye the life of youth did shine,  
As the daystar does from the Ocean's brine,  
Where he hath newly washed himself appears,  
And as he moves, the place about him clears:  
So he his starlike eyes aimed at the place,  
Big with the thought of a long-wished embrace.  
Love troubles him, why she is absent still,  
Till entering he finds time to gaze his fill;  
At length she enters, armed with all parts fair,  
Full ripe for man, of Venus the chief care;  
A Virgin's face, a Virgins chaste attire,  
Which though resembling snow might cause a fire;  
Warm blushes fill her cheeks, which by degrees  
Grow still more hot, and scorch what e'er she sees;  
His youthful fire dispersed everywhere  
On tiptoe move to see this star appear;  
Eye turned to wishes, and on every hand  
The aged Fathers, and the Matrons stand  
And make a reverend lane for her to pass;  
She makes them think upon the time that was  
Their prime, their strength, which makes 'em now that's gone  
Envy those virtues & bewail their own;  
The Bachelors and Maidens simpering stand,  
And swear by heaven they'll marry out of hand;  
Poor Venus Cooks, or Servitors at least,  
Or lookers on that do but smell the Feast.  
On still she goes, and by each arm she's led,  
By a Narcissus and a Ganymede.  
The earth on her, proud that her feet insist,  
And grieves to part with what so late it kissed.  
Still as she further passes on the way,  
With her loose locks the winds delight to play;  
They wanton with her garments to behold  
Her pictured vesture clouded late in gold;  
Did not her coats conceal her heavenly shape,  
They'd blow her naked, and commit a rape.  
But to pass by in this the Parson's share,  
Proceed we to the weighty Night affair;  
ere this the timorous and all-thinking Bride,  
Is brought to th' place where she must now reside;  
Yet now more concious of her strength and state,  
Love does with fear begin t'expostulate;  
Each strive in mirth the other to outdo,  
Yet, transient joys to those that must ensue,  
Now break up revels, for their hours are come,  
Her Purgatory, his Elysium:  
There sweet she lay, just as the trembling dew  
Upon a rose-bud, and the selfsame hue  
As rosebuds have, and so she hid her head,  
Till his obliging heat her leaves had spread.  
Now blessed civility to him and her  
All march, each minute pitying to defer,  
And think that saying seasonably true,  
That all men do as they'd be done unto;  
Now left alone to kiss and talk a while,  
She while she can the time would fain beguile;  
With sudden grief her cheeks are all bewept,  
To lose so soon what she so long has kept;  
He kindly treats her with his hand and tongue,  
And tells her Love can never suffer wrong;  
Yet thinking on't, she dares not let him in,  
Doubting what's lawful, still to be a sin;  
He with such gentle force compels the Lass,  
As would not break her were she made of glass;  
There with a loving arm and leg displayed,  
He shrouds the soft and pain-expecting Maid;  
Now Venus teaches 'em a newfound trade,  
The Marriage-Queen now plays the Chambermaid;  
Juno herself is now officious grown,  
And there attends to teach 'em wars unknown,  
Whilst he seeks (after labour) for his rest,  
On the soft pillows of her downy breast;  
Her panting heart and breasts derive their sense,  
Partly from fear, and from Obedience;  
Still as his hand descends, all joys appear,  
As if he did ascend the Hemisphere;  
Before Joys gates are open, thus he cries,  
Nature ere this has opened sure your eyes;  
Thou of my hopes, the store-house and the treasure,  
My long expected and my newest pleasure;  
My heaven, my dearest life, this could not be  
Without Diana's cursed severity.  
You shall no more the power of Love withstand;  
At this she turns, and stays his forward hand,  
Trembling to think of what was to ensue,  
Or prove the thing which yet she never knew;  
'Twixt hope and fear she thus replies, O fair  
And lovely youth, list to a Virgin's prayer,  
Pity my fears, put me to no affright;  
I only crave reprieve but for this night:  
The prayer was shorter than her fear or doubt,  
Had it been long he'd ne'er have heard it out;  
But hoping the Bliss might greater be  
From expectation and Civility,  
He urges thus, My hopes will melt away  
If I permit one minutes more delay;  
Must I relapse now I am raised so high?  
O! let me know you once before I die.  
With that she seems intranc'd, and prostrate lies,  
Nor hath word to utter more, or eyes  
To see herself unvirgined, winks, lies still,  
And since she needs must, let him act his will;  
There betwixt both they quench their amorous fires,  
She what she fears, he what he most desires.   

A Song.  

PHillis confirm the passion you own,  
Since mine so apparent and just does prove,  
eat the disguise, my heart is known  
To brook no hidden Love;  
What I court I'll enjoy, or I'll give it o'er,  
I'll put no hope or fear on the score;  
'Tis the fop-adoring  
That still is imploring  
Disdain or Love, I'll say no more.   

Sure 'twas a dart but wantonly thrown,  
That makes you conceal what your thoughts inspire,  
Love when 'tis true will ne'er disown,  
The flame that caused the fire;  
But you with your passion such juggling show,  
That in the end you prove your own foe,  
For when we come to trial  
And find a denial,  
To ease our thoughts we let it go.    

Pleasing Hopes. A Song.  

WHat fancies of pleasure does Love all alone,  
Propose to itself when the object is gone?  
But alas! how vain is the strength of that joy,  
Which a word or a look has power to destroy?   

For though the first venture prove calm in her eyes,  
In the second access a storm may arise,  
Then with sighs and with grief are those spirits displayed,  
Who to comfort despair might have given their aid.   

Thus Lovers with doubt a fond kindness pursue,  
Whilst fate for their follies proves false and untrue;  
They're either possessed with the thoughts of despair,  
Or else lay on Love a continual care.   

Then since we're endued with so gentle a soul,  
That every small signal our hearts may control;  
'Twere a sign of Love's pity our cares to restrain,  
By making us freemen without so much pain.    

An Epitaph on a merry Wife of Windsor, that died of the Stone in her Bladder.  
UNder this Stone Moll Standford lies,  
There's no great fear her Ghost will rise,  
Unless it be on Death to rail  
That would not let her vent her Ale,  
But had a mind to pick a quarrel,  
And so in spite stopped up her barrel,  
Thinking to rid her of her worldly pelf,  
Struck in and turned Tapster there himself.   

To Mistress E. m. upon his going to Sea.  

SUre you by Amorous flames were ne'er possessed,  
Since my (alas) does so unhappy prove,  
That fierce Ambition drives me from your breast,  
Slighting the charms of safety, and of Love,   

New projects now arise, and modern cares  
Breed new desires, yet let beatitude  
Prolong your days, whilst tumults of affairs  
I prize beyond the peace of solitude.   

Ambitious hearts a quiet life despise,  
Fortune's the subject of a Hero's Love,  
Whilst in her hand the world's great treasure lies,  
Think not but merit may her bounty move.   

Yet, may your Virtues ne'er from this surmise  
I can contemn so great, so sweet a Bliss,  
Ungrateful Love is to itself unwise,  
Blessings and Prayers are due for every kiss.   

I could shake off this vain enticing fate,  
Did but my wishes here at home prove true,  
And all kind thoughts to an effect create,  
Your Rival (Fortune) I'd renounce for you.   

But she by often whispering in my ear,  
Has now bereaved me of a Deity,  
Whilst to your Harbour still my coast I steer,  
I'm pressed before the Sceptre of your eye.   

Thus by your cruel Rival I'm trappaned,  
To think on Love 'tis but a punishment,  
Who can at once two fatal powers withstand?  
To say the Gods, 'twere but a Compliment.  
Then precious moment hast to ease my pain.  
Your presence to my griefs would comfort give,  
Since I must wear no more this harmless chain,  
Farewell to Love, but let Dorinda live.    

Beauty's Frailty.  

DEceitful Nature! all those youthful Joys  
Thou dost bestow, thou art the first destroys;  
Beauty's but frail, as time runs on it wastes,  
And the more exercised, the more it hasts;  
Not always can the purple Violet rest,  
Or Lilies bloom in the Adorers breast;  
For when that seat they can no longer grace,  
They're laid aside, while fresh supply the place;  
The fragrant rose whose beauty we admire,  
The leaves once fallen shows but a naked brier;  
Fair objects have the shortest course to run,  
The Lily droops to the out-living Sun;  
All the fine trimming that adorns the earth,  
Has the full height of glory in its birth,  
The shortest reign is from the time 'tis blown,  
For when the colour spreads the beauty's gon';  
Heaven thought it too sufficient to decree  
On mortal blessings Immortality;  
Wonder we may if beauty then grow old,  
Since that and favour are of equal mould;  
'Tis Adoration gives those fresh supplies,  
Which once removed, both fame and beauty dies:  
So in the greatest Paragon appears  
A Lease of Beauty, not for life, but years.    

Epithalamium.  
LIve one in heart so long, till time forget you have been two,  
Upon your bosoms, joys more frequent fit than pearls of dew  
On earth's fair cheek, but may  
No Sun kiss one of these away.  
Plenty your tables, chaste desires still meet to Crown your beds,  
And may the Bridegroom the first night beget new Maidenheads:  
I could say more, but verse is tied,  
Wild joys in prose are best supplied.   

Acrosticon on his lamented friend G. I. who after long service at Sea, was accidentally shot by his Friend.  
GO friendly fame, and tell his honours due,  
Enclose my grief, but let his name renew,  
On his cold Tomb methinks each word I see,  
Run into tears and mourn at Destiny,  
Guarded by fate from dread and bloody fight,  
In falling thus, she owed her greatest spite;  
O! pensive mortals, what untimely fate  
Heaven calls our sorrows to participate.  
Nature and memory shall inscribe thy Dust  
Sweet, Sober, Civil, Valiant and Just;  
O! Chance that hand which so much friendship (moved,  
Now has the flower cropped which most it loved.   

The tired Pilgrim.  
COme honest Sexton take thy spade,  
And let my grave be quickly made,  
Thou still art ready for the dead,  
Like a kind host to make a bed,  
I now am come to be thy guess,  
Let me in some dark lodging rest,  
For I am weary, full of pain,  
And of my Pilgrimage complain,  
Which hath been tedious, but I find  
The fates to me at length are kind,  
And did it sure for pity sake  
Of my poor weakness shorter make;  
To heaven's decree I fainting lie,  
Being most ready now to die.  
Make my cold bed good Sexton, Deep,  
That my poor bones may safely sleep.  
Until that sad, and joyful day,  
When from above a voice shall say,  
Wake all ye dead, lift up your eyes,  
The great Creator bids you rise,  
Then do I hope among the Just  
To shake off this polluted dust,  
And with new robes of Glory dressed  
To have a seat among the blessed,  
Hark! hark! I hear the Passing-bell,  
Farewell, my loving friends, Farewell.   

Love's Ecstasy.  
AS Saints, when they a Vision spy,  
Struck with amaze and ecstasy,  
Do their whole sense and soul unite,  
To give attendance to the sight,  
Till every look or thought employed  
Is lost i'th' pleasure it enjoyed:  
So when my Cloris I accost,  
I gaze and wonder till I'm lost,  
And thence conclude, that if there be  
A Heaven upon earth 'tis she.  
When from her eyes I feel a pain,  
I'm cured by looking on again,  
And when my sadness she'd beguile,  
She darts me with a kill smile;  
Thus all in charms I'm covered o'er,  
But of her power, O! name no more!  
Left every thought that flows from thence  
Commit a rape upon my sense,  
And make me thus devoted, prove,  
A Martyr of imperfect Love.   

Philomel's Call. A Song.  

HArk how in yonder shady Grove,  
Sweet Philomela is warbling Love,  
And with her voice is courting Kings,  
For since she was a bird she sings,  
There is no pleasure but in men,  
Oh come and ravish me again.   

Ye Virgins that are young and fair  
May kiss, and grow into a pair,  
Then warm and active use your blood,  
Let no could thought congeal the flood;  
Use what Love and Nature's sent,  
Lest age you envy, and repent.    

Impatience. A Song.  

AH! Cruel eyes that first inflamed  
My poor resistless heart,  
That when my thoughts I would have blamed  
They still increased the smart;  
What power above,  
Creates such Love,  
To languish with desire,  
May some disdain  
Increase my pain,  
or may the flame expire.   

And yet I die to think how soon  
My wishes may return,  
If slighted, and my hope once gone  
I must in silence mourn,  
Then Tyranness  
Do but express  
The mystery of your power,  
'Tis as soon said  
You'll love and wed▪  
As studying for't an hour.   

I yield to fate though your fair eyes  
Have made the power your own,  
'Twas they that did my heart surprise  
Dear Nymph, 'twas they alone,  
Let not my flame  
Pronounce your Name  
So cruel and unkind,  
When I have strove▪  
So long in Love,  
To leave my Joys behind.    

Good Night.  
BId me no more Good Night; because  
'Tis dark, must I away?  
Love doth acknowledge no such Laws,  
And Love 'tis I obey;  
Who blind, doth all your light despise  
And hath no need of eyes  
When day is fled,  
Besides the Sun which you  
Complain is gone, 'tis true  
Is gone to bed,  
Then let us do so too.   

Surprising Favour. A New-Years Gift.  

WHen fair Miradona first honoured my sight,  
I was blest with surprise, and amazed with delight,  
My sense was so weak, I was forced to withdraw  
My eyes from the beautiful object I saw,  
With what honour it struck  
When she gave but a look?  
Then blest be those eyes, and more blest the tongue▪  
That so many blessings has heaped in a throng.  
Where beauty and generous honour conjoin,  
The one full of power the other Divine;  
It does on the humble new fancies bestow,  
And makes him imagine a heaven below:  
Ah! the pleasant relief  
That honour can give  
Where beauty commands, what power can detain?  
Were the Gods upon earth they'd find 'twere in vain.   

Then fairest since you are a Deity here,  
My first fruits I offer, the first of this year;  
May your beauty old time and his minutes servive;  
And may your kind honour your beauty outlive;  
May each hour and each day  
Be delightful as May;  
May this my oblation your favours enjoy,  
You Crown me with bless and my sufferings destroy.    

On his Mistress walking in the Garden.  
TEll gay Spring and let me know  
What pretty feet they were that so  
Impressed the earth and made such flowers grow?  
Sure she was a Queen at least,  
Or a goddess 'bove the rest,  
And all their graces in herself expressed;  
O! 'twere a fame  
To know her name,  
Whether she were the root,  
Or did they take Impression from her foot.   

The moralist.  
TOo weak are human eyes to pry  
Into the shades of destiny,  
Fate spreads a curtain to our sight,  
Through which a faint imperfect light,  
Serves only to perplex our way,  
As blinking Meteors make us stray;  
What can the juggling Priest foretell  
In his ambiguous Oracle?  
Cheating our judgements, whilst he shrouds  
Vain riddles in mysterious clouds:  
Wisely did Providence deny  
To human Curiosity,  
That only privilege to look  
In destinies eternal Book:  
For should we know our periods, than  
We should do more or less than men.   

The murdered Beauty.  

THe young, the fair, the chaste, the good,  
The sweet Clorissa in a flood  
Of her own Crimson lies,  
A bloody, bloody sacrifice,  
To death, and man's inhuman cruelties.  
Weep Virgins till your sorrow swells  
In tears, above those Ivory cells  
That guard those Globes of light,  
Drown, drown, those beauties of your eyes,  
Beauty should mourn when beauty dies,  
And make a general night  
To pay her Innocence its Funeral right.   

Death since his Empire first begun,  
So foul a Conquest never won,  
Nor yet so fair a prize,  
And had he had a heart or eyes,  
Her beauty would have charmed his cruelties:  
Even savage beasts will beauty spare,  
Fierce Lions fawn upon the fair,  
Nor dare offend the chaste;  
But vicious man, that sees and knows  
The mischiefs his wild fury does,  
And not to check it in the least,  
Proves but ungoverned man the greatest beast.    

The Desperate Lover.  

OH that I ne'er had known the power of Love!  
That ignorant of the sweetness I might rest,  
In supposition what the bliss might prove,  
My knowledge has revealed a fate unblessed,  
And by acquaintance of so much Delight  
I'm tortured by the pleasure of my sight.   

In vain was so much sweetness placed upon  
A stubborn heart, a Panther and a Dove,  
Cruel and fair, were never meant for one,  
Resign thy beauty or else put one Love,  
Or shall I pray thy silence still may prove  
What Lovers used t'expound, consent to Love.   

Let not suspicion draw thy wishing eye,  
Thou mayst commit thyself to silent groves,  
The listening trees grooms of thy bed shall be,  
The Air close Secretary to our Loves;  
Be not so coy then to receive a kiss,  
Thou mightst have kiss me twenty times ere this.   

Must I be miserable, and in vain  
Give invitations to Love's pleasing Wars?  
Too well I feel the proof of thy disdain,  
Sighing and curfing my malignant Stars;  
And while I chide the fates that gave me birth,  
Repentance rob thy eyes t'enrich the earth.   

Justice, thou Queen of more than mortal sway,  
Punish with sorrow my contemners pride,  
And by some strange and most prodigious Way,  
Let her the weight of thy revenge abide;  
And since her heart to me a rock hath proved,  
Let her so love at last, and die unloved.    

A Song.  
BEauty that itself can kill  
Through the finest tempered steel,  
Can those wounds she makes endure,  
And insult it o'er the brave,  
Since she knows a certain Cure  
When she is disposed to save.  
But when a Lover bleeding lies  
Wounded by other arms,  
And that she sees those harms  
for which she knows no remedies;  
Then Beauty sorrows livery wears,  
And while she melts away in tears,  
Drooping in sorrow shows  
Like Roses overcharged with morning dews.  
Nor do women though they wear,  
The most tender character,  
Suffer in this case alone;  
Hearts enclosed with Iron walls  
In humanity must groan  
When the fame and virtue falls;  
Careless courage would not be  
An honour, but a shame,  
Nor bear the noble name  
Of valour, but Barbarity;  
The Generous even in success  
Lament their Enemy's distress,  
And scorn it should appear,  
Who are the conquered with the Conqueror.   

The Silent Lover.  
MUst I be silent? no, and yet forbear,  
Convey thy passion rather in some tear,  
Or let a sigh express how much thy bliss  
Depends on her, or breathe it in a kiss,  
And mingle souls; loud accents call the eyes  
Of envy, and but waken jealousies;  
Then silence be my Language, which if she  
But understand and speak again to me,  
We shall secure our fate, and prove at least,  
The miracle of Lovers silent breast;  
Bar frowns from our Discourse, and every where  
A smile may be his own Interpreter:  
Thus shall we read, inspite of standers-by,  
Whole volumes in the twinkling of an eye.   

Distempered Love.  

SO wretched are the sick of Love,  
No herb has virtue to remove,  
The growing ill,  
But still,  
The more we Remedies oppose  
The Fever more malignant grows.  
Doubts do but add unto desire,  
Like oil that's thrown upon the fire,  
Which serves to make the flame aspire;  
And not t'extinguish it;  
Love has its trembling, and its burning fit.   

Fruition which the sick propose  
To end, and recompense their woes;  
But turns them o'er  
To more,  
And curing one, does but prepare  
A new, perhaps a greater Care;  
Enjoyment even in the chaste,  
Pleases, not satisfies the taste,  
And licenc'd Love the worst can fast,  
Such is the Lover's state,  
Pining and pleased, alike unfortunate.    

On his Mistress asleep. A Song.  

CEase warring thoughts, and let her brain  
Such pleasing fancies entertain,  
As make a pulse in every vein.   

Ye Crystal Rivers that are nigh  
As your streams are passing by,  
Teach your murmurs Harmony.   

Ye winds that wait upon the Spring,  
And perfumes to flowers do bring,  
Know, Love's the Mistress of a King.  
And let your sweet and Amorous whispers here,  
Breath soft and pleasant Music in her ear.   

Shrowded the Sun, and let each tree  
To her a kind umbrella be,  
And let her dreams be all on me.   

Ye warbling Nightingales repair  
From every grove to charm this Air,  
For her the fairest of the fair.   

And with the wonders of your breast  
Each striving to excel the rest  
Who can charm my Silvia best;  
That when 'tis time to wake her, close your parts,  
And drop down from the trees with broken hearts.    

The Soldier's Song.  
TO arms! to arms! the Heroes cry  
A glorious death or Victory,  
Beauty and Love, although combined,  
And each so powerful alone,  
Cannot prevail against a mind  
Bound up in resolution.  
Tears their weak influence vainly prove,  
Nothing the daring breast can move,  
Honour is blind, and deaf, even deaf to Love.  
The field! the field! where valour bleeds,  
Spurned into dust by barbed Steeds;  
Instead of wanton Beds of Down,  
Is now the Scene where we must try,  
To overthrow, or be o'erthrown,  
Bravely to overcome, or die.  
Honour in her interest sits above  
What Beauty, Prayers, or tears can move;  
Were there no honour there would be no Love.   

Vain Ambition.  
HOw the vain world ambitiously aspires,  
And falls insensibly in its desires;  
Just as the Sun climbing the Skies,  
He still in brighter beams does rise,  
Till in his full Meridian placed,  
His glories thence decline as fast;  
So men by dangerous degrees  
Arrive at honours precipiec,  
Striving ambitiously to get,  
To brighter stations higher yet;  
There, wanting footing for their pride,  
They totter on the other side,  
And in one act do forfeit more  
Than all they had attained before.   

To Dorinda after Absence.  
Heaven guard my fair Dorinda, some that know  
How far the time's increased  
Since I beheld thy lovely brow;  
Would count an Age at least;  
But unto me  
Whose thoughts are still on thee  
I vow  
By those dear eyes, 'tis but an hour ago.  
That Mistress I esteem but poor in bliss,  
That when her servant parts  
Gives not as much with her last kiss  
As will maintain two hearts  
Till both do meet  
To taste what else is sweet:  
Is't fit  
Time measure Love or our affection it?   

A Moral Song.  

HOw frailty makes us to our wrong  
Fear, and be loath to die,  
When life is only dying long,  
And death the Remedy!  
We eat Eternity,  
And still would grovel here beneath,  
Though still in woe and strife,  
When life's the path that leads to death,  
And death the door to life.   

The fear of death is the Disease  
Makes the poor Patient smart,  
Vain apprehensions often freeze  
The vitals of the heart,  
Without the dreaded dart.   

When fury rides on pointed steel,  
Death's fear the heart doth seize,  
Whilst in that very fear we feel  
A greater sting than his.    

A Dialogue between Fame and Virtue.  Vir. 
RIse golden Fame, and give thy name a birth  
From great and generous actions done on (earth.  Fam. 
The life of Fame is action.  Vir. 
— Understood  
That action must be virtuous great and good.  Fam. 
Virtue itself by Fame is oft protected  
And dies obscure—  Vir. 
That's where the Fame's neglected.  
Great actions oft obscured by time may lie  
drowned in oblivion.  Fam. 
But they oftener last to Memory.  Vir. 
But all do help to lift me to Eternity.  Chorus. 
Thus while Fame's rising, Virtue flies to Heaven,  
And leaves a light here brighter than the seven.   

The Boon Companion. A Song.  

Hung formal debates, let's fill up our bowls,  
And bouse a brisk health to those generous souls  
That Beauty enchants, and music controls,  
For a chat and a hum,  
Like the sound of a Drum,  
Makes our liquor so base  
Whilst neglected it lies  
Like a bait for the flies,  
Then take't while it smiles in your face.   

Come on my brave Lad, here's a health to thy Miss,  
Here's another to thine, and to the next kiss,  
Methinks merry heart there's Music in this.  
All the fault that I know,  
He's one Cup too low,  
Then pray screw him up,  
Lest when we go to play  
On our pipes, he shall say  
He's hoarse, for want of his Cup.   

'Tis friends and good liquour's the soul of our mirth,  
And though every man has a soul from his birth,  
Yet without good wine he's a dry lump of earth.  
Then think not on sorrow,  
Or care for to morrow,  
But away let it pass,  
We'll so dabble our Cares  
And vain idle fears,  
Till they sink to the bottom o'th' glass.    

Plea for Enjoying.  
LOok on those Jewels that abound  
Upon your dress, that Diamond  
No flame, or lustre could impart,  
Should not the Lapidaries Art  
Contribute here, and there a Star,  
And just such things ye women are,  
Who do not in rude quarreys shine,  
But meeting us y'are made divine;  
Then let us mix ourselves and prove  
That action is the soul of Love.  
Why do we coward-gazing stand,  
Like Armies in the netherlands?  
Contracting fear at either's sight,  
Till we both grow too weak to fight,  
Let's charge for shame, and choose you whether  
One shall fall, or both together,  
This is Love's War whoever dies,  
If the survivor be but wise,  
He may reduce the spirits fled,  
For t'other kiss will cure the dead.   

The brave Bubber. A Song.  

COme drawer some wine, send a slave from below,  
Our presence attendance affords,  
Though we cannot make show like his Lordship, or (so  
Yet we can be as drunk as Lords.   

'Tis he shuns care that scorns to be great,  
For when Sack has once tickled his scull,  
He cares not a straw or a grain of wheat,  
For Cham or the Great Mogul.   

'Tis Beauty and mirth is all that we aim,  
We offer to no other shrine,  
The glass is our Altar, our thoughts are the flame  
That heightens the Sacrifice, Wine.   

Then laugh at the World, and fortune despise,  
Since mirth feeds the soul with delight,  
Let's drink a sweet Health to our Mistress' eyes,  
Till our own eyes bid us good Night.    

Love's Universe. A Song.  

HOw vast an extent has Love's Empire and Throne,  
That not Heaven or Earth will its power disown,  
The Gods so respect it, they let it take place,  
While mortals adore it in each pretty face,  
The Contents of this World, and the blessings above,  
Do harmonise all but an echo of Love:  
Should Love in a frolick but once take his flight,  
The Poets themselves would forget how to write.   

Though it be such a Jewel, yet Ladies take care  
How you meet with corrupt and adulterate ware;  
There's Love out of fashion, that's ready to die,  
But your Love in the Mode has intrigue by the by:  
Though the vain idle humour of fashion or wit  
Condemns to what honour is proud to submit,  
'Tis the Passion Heroick, obliging and just,  
That makes Love immortal and bloom in the dust.    

On a Lady masked, supposed to be Dorinda.  
SO have I Cynthia seen her face to hide,  
O' recast with modest clouds, and lose her light,  
So have I seen the brightest Stars denied,  
To show their beauty in some gloomy night,  
So Angels pictures have been veiled o'er,  
That men might more devoutly them adore;  
Eve tempted Adam, but she's wiser grown,  
To bar our knowledge from a fruit unknown;  
It's but a guess, if it Dorinda prove,  
I'll taste the fruit, if not unknown, the Love.   

Moderation. A Song.  

HOw strangely the passion and spirits retire,  
When the fond fickle Lover has quenched his (desire!  
So tender a thing is the spirit of man,  
That with some, if once balked try and do what you (can,  
No Charm can recall, or allurement invite,  
Such is the poor soul that is sick with delight.   

He comes with a petulant spirit half bend,  
And no sooner enjoys but begins to repent;  
Though the Nymph still indulge him and dally a (while,  
He returns her his thanks in a kiss and a smile,  
When the Fop might by trying, such folly deprive,  
In the Virtue she has both to kill and revive.   

Enjoyment the end of all bliss has its measure,  
To be forced to delight makes a toil of a pleasure▪  
Those joys we repeat are both free and at ease,  
We take when we list, and we change when we please  
To the soul that is active, no pleasure it proves  
For a man to be tied to the thing that he loves.    

Leisure. A Song.  

TO what modest grief is a Lover confined,  
Where the tongue dare not utter the truth of the heart▪  
Yet it strengthens the force in a generous mind,  
And makes him still think what his love would impart  
For the more he thinks on, the more happy 'twil prove  
When he comes to appearance to plead for his Love   

WHen our hearts are new kindled to jump 〈◊〉 a Beauty  
But like a French onset comes off with a blast,  
We ought to wait Leisure, 'tis civil and duty,  
Let's love by degrees and the longer 'twill last;  
He that jumbles his Love and Enjoyment together,  
Makes two months of Summer and ten of cold weather.   

Kind Love like a tender and delicate flower,  
Wants only Improvement to make it endure,  
But so oft 'tis transplanted, which makes it each hour  
So droop and decay that it's almost past cure,  
Unless some fair Nymph whose enchantments can (bring,  
To make it refresh a perpetual Spring.    

Epithalamium on E. W. and R. S.  

MAy all felicity betid  
The comely Bridegroom and his Bride?  
May those delights the Morn shall bring  
Be endless as their nuptial ring;  
May they be constant, and exceed  
Each others wishes, hopes and Creed;  
May the three Regions of the Air,  
Pour showers of blessings on this pair;  
May Sol and Cynthia with their rays,  
Silver their nights, and gild their days.  

Chorus.  
All joys attend, and best of fate,  
This fair Adonis and his Mate.    

2. Staza.  
May all the Elements conspire,  
To make them blest in their desire;  
May all their Stars on them reflect  
Their middle looks in Trine Aspect;  
May all the Angels them defend  
From every thing doth ill portend;  
May Angels, Stars and Elements  
Afford them such complete contents,  
That they have nothing else to wish  
But a perseverance of bliss.  

Chorus.  
All joys attend, and best of fate,  
This fair Adonis and his Mate.     

Black eyes and enticing frowns. To Lucina.  
BLack eyes, in your dark orbs doth lie,  
My ill or happy destiny;  
If with clear looks you me behold,  
You give me treasures full of Gold;  
If you dart forth disdainful rays,  
To your own die you turn my days.  
That Lamp which all the Stars doth blind,  
To modest Cynthia is less kind,  
Though you do wear to make you bright  
No other dress than that of night,  
He glitters only in the day,  
You in the dark your beams display.  
The cunning Thief that lurks for prize  
At some dark corner watching lies;  
So that heart-robbing God doth stand  
In those black Gems, with shaft in hand,  
To riflle me of what I hold,  
More precious far than Indian Gold.  
Ye powerful Necromantic eyes,  
Who in your Circles strictly pries,  
Will find that Cupid with his dart  
In you doth practise the black Art;  
And by those spells I am possessed,  
Tries his conclusions in my breast.  
Though from those objects frowns arise,  
Some kind of frowns become black eyes,  
As pointed Diamonds being set,  
Cast greater lustre out of Jet;  
Those pieces we esteem most rare,  
Which in night-shadows postured are.  
Darkness in Churches congregates the sight,  
Devotion strays in open daring light.   

Grief for Absence.  

AS the parched field doth thirst for rain,  
When the Dog-star makes sheep and swain  
Of an unusual drought complain,  
So thirst I to see thee again.   

As the chased Deer doth pant and bray  
After some brook, or cooling bay,  
When Hounds have worried her astray,  
So do I pant for th'approaching day.   

As the forsaken Dove doth moan  
When her beloved Mate is gone,  
And never rests whilst she's alone,  
So of myself I'm weary grown.   

Or as the troubled earth doth mourn  
In black (like Lover at an Urn)  
Till Phoebus' quickening beams return,  
Whilst I in dire impatience burn.    

Magnetic Influence.  
AS to the Pole the Lily bends  
In a Sea-Compass, and still tends  
By a Magnetic Mystery  
Unto the Arctic point in sky,  
By which the doubtful Piloteer  
His course in gloomy nights do steer:  
So the small needle of my heart  
Does point to you, who doth impart  
Atoms of Love, and so imbarks  
All my affections, which like sparks  
Fly up, and guide my sense by this,  
To the full centre of its bliss.   

Mistress J. K. A Surprisal.  
A Pelles Prince of Painters, did  
All others in that Art exceed;  
But you surpass him, for he took  
Some pains and time to draw a look;  
You in a trice and moment space,  
Have in my heart portrayed your face.   

On Silvia.  
ABout the light as the poor Fly,  
Doth flutter and approach so nigh▪  
Till up and down still as she skips,  
With flame her Lawny wings she eclipse;  
So my Affection 'bout the eyes  
Of heart inflaming Silvia flies;  
Till Phaenix-like they into ashes burn,  
Yet still raise new affections from the Urn.   

Praise and Dispraise. Thyrsis and Alexis.  ALex. 
O Thyrsis if that Saintlike soul you knew,  
The fair Laurina, all that's Heaven's due,  
You'd willingly bestow on her, and cry,  
Laurina is my only Deity;  
Her eyes are like those heavenly twins, except  
That of themselves they shine, not by reflect,  
Wherein through Crystal casements one may spy,  
The Queen of Love seated in Majesty.  
Her forehead as the Marble smooth and plain,  
Her cheeks alike, but that half died in grain;  
Her locks might serve well for a net to take  
A Hermit, or an Angel captive make;  
A smile to move a Stoic voice so shrill  
That all Arcadia would with Echoes fill:  
A sweeter breath never perfumed the Air,  
Her lips lest touch would a dead corpse repair.  Thyrsis. 
These are perfections all in outward show;  
But if her inward qualities you knew,  
What you adored before you would detest,  
Turn Love to hate, (or pity at the least;)  
Her breast's a shop of Fraud, her heart a Mill,  
That restless thoughts do grind to wound or kill;  
Her brain's a still that at all hours doth strain  
Destructive cruel notions of disdain;  
Her eyes are windows of false lights, and cries,  
Her tongue a flap of perjury and lies;  
Her chin is double like her heart, her cheeks  
Have pits, as 'twere to bury whom she seeks  
To ruin, this rare treasure you descry,  
Is a fine lump of Dame Hypocrisy;  
He that's indulged into so great a cheat,  
Binds sense and soul apprentice to deceit.   

A brief Survey of this disproportioned World.  
THis lower World but like a mighty Inn,  
And men the rambling Passengers, wherein  
Some do warm Lodgings find, and that as soon  
As out of nature's Closets they see noon,  
And find the tables ready laid; but some  
Must for their commons walk, and trudge for room;  
With easy pace some climb promotions hill,  
Some in the Dale, do what they can, stick still;  
Some through false glasses fortune smiling spy,  
Who still keeps off though she appears hard by;  
Some like the Ostrich with their wings do clutter,  
But cannot fly or soar above the gutter;  
Some quickly fetch, and double good Hope's Cape,  
Some ne'er can do't though the same course they shape:  
So are poor mortals just like tennis Balls,  
Tossed some o'er line, some under fortunes walls;  
As if 'twere heaven's high pleasure man should lie  
Obnoctious to this partiality;  
Yet by industrious ways he may contend  
Nature's short pittance to improve and mend;  
Yet all we crave, that Fortune would present  
Our kind endeavours with a true content;  
That industry might never fail t'advance  
His patient Sons above the reach of chance.   

Double Influence.  

SEe how the sottish World adores  
Beatuy in every face,  
While Zeal the chastity implores  
T'enjoy the wished for place;  
Thus Beauty cannot all suffice  
To feast a Lover's heart,  
For Adam found in Paradise  
The more obliging part.   

The kill eye, the blessing lip  
That shows the art of Love,  
Is but a poor and thirsty sip  
Our burning hearts to prove,  
Had we no more to feast the sense  
Then what all eyes may view,  
We'd soon distil our quintessence  
And bid the world Adieu.   

Venus' wasn't Goddess for her face,  
But something else Jove knew;  
Thank Heaven for that something else,  
That you're a Goddess too;  
Yet prise your fare and think not ill,  
Though Jone's my Lady at night;  
For 'tis the kill Beauty still  
That must renew delight.    

A Song.  

I Told young Jenny I loved her  
With a zeal that I thought would have moved (her,  
I gave her earnest in hand to boot,  
For I knew by my bargain I could stand to't;  
But the Gipsy cunningly taught by her Sire,  
Cried, Marry or else forsake me,  
When you've filled my belly and your desire,  
You'll be hanged before you will take me.   

While her Dad of his own accord Sir,  
Made himself as drunk as a Lord Sir,  
In hopes t'have found it a Wedding-day,  
I took up my Jenny and cared her away:  
Let her scratch and bite, let her kick and wince  
Now I've got her into my clutches,  
She's witty and fair, she's a Gem for a Prince  
And in time she may be a Duchess.    

The pleasant Toil.  

HOw great a slave is active man  
To passion, and his will?  
Drudging with all the art he can  
His wishes to fulfil,  
Whilst like poor Sisyphus he strives  
To roll his stone the more,  
No sooner to its end arrives,  
But 'tis as 'twas before.   

How many a tedious night and day  
For one poor minute's spent?  
Never did Papist fast and pray  
So zealously in Lent;  
Those stomack-staying bits you think  
Your hunger make retire,  
They're but like relish for your drink,  
That makes you still the dryer.   

How like a dream when once enjoyed?  
As if it ne'er had been,  
Like senses stupefied and cloyed,  
That let no pleasure in;  
'tis true fruition gives reward  
To every painful Son,  
Yet though such raptures it afford,  
'Tis dull when all is done.    

A Ballad on a Country Wedding.  

I Tell thee Jack as I zought out  
A straggling Lamb that strayed about  
The wott'n-berry Plain,  
Mine eyes zaw zuch brave things i'th' way  
As I ne'er zaw before that day,  
Nor ne'er shall see again.   

From Bran-hill house there came a band  
Of (I s'pose) Londoners, hand in hand,  
Dressed woundy brave and fine:  
But O their Leader was a Lad  
In such a curious habit clad  
That he did all outshine.   

Our Lord o'th' Town bears not such Port  
When sit prating Law i'th' Court  
With's Tenants round about,  
Should he be on the Green at night  
(Jack) thou and I each Lass would slight  
And crowd to take him out.   

But wot you why he went so gay,  
It seems it was his Wedding-day,  
And now to Church he go:  
Methought he looked oft at the Sun,  
As if he wished his race were run,  
So did the Bride also.   

The Bride the bravest in the row  
Our Town and all our Hundred too  
Can't show the like I'll swore,  
I ne'er saw Lady at a May  
Or Shrovetide, or on Whitsonday  
That might with her compare.   

Of the two Indies I've been told  
Where men find precious stones and Gold,  
I care not where they are:  
Nor do I care to go to see,  
But doubtless if such things there be,  
I think they're both in her.   

Her sparkling eyes are Gems so fair,  
Their lustre dims the twinkling Star,  
Which bids our Shepherd's fold,  
Her lips are Coral of great price,  
Her breath is Violet-buds, and Spice  
Whose worth cannot be told.   

The other Indies men call West,  
These she hath too, and he is blest  
That sought their secret treasure,  
But did he dig in those Mines through,  
So oft as some in thought did do  
He'd labour out of measure.   

Her milky skin and front did show  
Like Meadows clad in Winter's snow  
Or Cotshal wool new dressed;  
Or like the girdle of the sky  
Or a smooth Mount of Ivory,  
Or like to curds new pressed.   

Her cheeks (wherein both Roses join)  
Seemed milk commixed with Claret wine,  
Such as we drank last May-day;  
No Tulip ere such colour wore,  
They looked like Strawberries sugared o'er,  
Such as we eat last Playday.   

When to the new-swept Church they came,  
The lightning which the Queenly Dame  
Shot from her eyes so bright  
Struck blind the Parson, so that he  
Poor Beauty-blasted man, could see  
Scarcely to read aright.   

For all his Coat or Gravity  
I think he wished as ill as I  
Or any that stood by her,  
Though all did look as who should say  
Their very souls did melt away,  
And drop, with self-desire.   

The rites done (which like long grace do  
But keep them off that would fall to)  
These two, now one, went home,  
And called the waiters (sans delay)  
To serve the dinner up, though they  
Had their Feast yet to come.   

The Cooks to give the Guests content  
Had plundered every Element,  
And rifled Sea and Shore.  
Beshrew my heart I ne'er did see  
Board's decked with such variety,  
Nor laden with such store.   

Now were our heads with Roses crowned,  
And flowing cups ran swiftly round,  
We all did drink like fishes;  
That joy and pleasure might betid  
The Bridegroom, ' specially the Bride,  
Each lusty Gallant wishes.   

The women's eyes dwelled on the Maid,  
Some liked this Lace, some that, and said  
'Twas à la Mode du France.  
And drew the picture of the peak;  
But then the Youth did silence break,  
And called them forth to dance.   

No dapper Elves or light-heeled Fawns  
Could nimblier Trip it o'er the Lawns,  
Or Fairies o'er the green.  
Though by the Bride all were as far  
Outstripped as frisking Fairies are  
By Mistress Mab the Queen.   

No Jack-a-Lent danced such a way,  
No Sun upon an Easter-day  
Is such a bonny sight.  
Yet in her eyes I read that she  
Meant to outstrip herself, and be  
Much nimbler far at night.   

Now Supper came and healths went round  
In swinging cups of Sack we drowned  
The slow and tedious Day.  
In singing, kissing oft, and dancing,  
In sighing, wishing well, and glancing,  
We passed the time away.   

Till th' Nightingale did chant her Vesper  
And our curled dogs were warned by Hesper  
To congregrate our sheep.  
Till the gay Planet of the East  
Took leave of Iris and did haste  
To's Sea-green Couch to sleep.   

Now (Jack) the modest willing Bride,  
With busy Virgin crew, aside  
Was stolen to undress.  
The Youth whose active blood began  
To strike up Love's Tantara, came  
Within an hour and less.   

In came he where she blushing lay,  
'Twixt joy and fear, as who would say,  
O! that the time were passed;  
What pity 'tis we still should stay,  
And make them riper Joys delay,  
Only a kiss to taste!   

But still as 'twere to cross their bliss,  
The Bridemaids Banquet entered is,  
The youth devoured it half,  
To end it, not his taste to please;  
For minding those sweets coming, these  
Were dull, as whey or chaff.   

At last, the lights and we went out;  
Now what remained to do, they do't.  
Some say they dance a Jig;  
If so (Jack) it was such (by Dad)  
As thou and I o'th' hay-mow had  
With Jenny and with Peg.    

The Virtue of a Hothouse.  
AMong the various youthful Sports  
Used in the Country's or the Courts,  
Young blood to animate or stir up  
There needs no Cordial or Syrup,  
Each to divert'em have their fancies,  
Some foot Ball love, some Countrey-dances;  
Some wrestle, others play at Backsword,  
Or else at Cudgels, if they lack Sword,  
Others that are more grave and cunning  
Will catch themselves a heat with running;  
Cricket or Gauff, which with some men is  
As pretty a sport as Trap or Tennis;  
But I can tell you of a Feat  
A way to catch yourselves a heat,  
That shall not put you to that labour  
As does a Piper with his Tabor;  
Nay, though you sit as still as Lamb,  
Shall make you sweat like Bacon-ham;  
No Cheshire-Cheese, I tell you truly  
ere sweat so in the midst of July,  
And after you'll be brisk and hoddy,  
As any louse that lives by body;  
Th' Experiment I learned (in short)  
Within the precincts of the Court;  
Three loving Youngsters (as I heard)  
That some approaching tumour feared,  
To recreate themselves would try  
Some new preventing remedy;  
One streigth prescribes 'tis good to sweat,  
Tother cries no, 'twill make one wet;  
The third prescribes a vein to bleed on,  
But the first project was agreed on;  
Away they trudge and strip like Thrashers  
To fricassee their tallow rashers;  
But in good faith to tell you what house  
I know not, but 'twas called a Hothouse;  
'Twas hot, for had you but gone in there,  
You'd sworn the Sun had only been there,  
To see the Rascals sweat and puff  
Like any Smithfield Pig in Buff,  
One was jeering, t'other boasting,  
Who should longest be a roasting,  
Tother laughed, and swore his crupper  
Was grilliading for his Supper;  
They had not thus been long a swelling,  
But in the Cook-room steps in Ellen,  
For she well knew 'twas high time then  
To Cook and dress the Gentlemen;  
There sat the Youths with modest look,  
As if they would have kissed the Cook;  
And well they might, for none was able  
To know his Trapstick from his Naule;  
Ellen with care pursues her office,  
For in that trade she was no novice,  
There with a cleanly clout of linen,  
Made of her Dames Great- Granam's spinning,  
She gently wipes into a puddle  
The sweat, from each man's bum and doodle,  
Who but the damsel could have missed  
To have thought the room had been bepissed?  
But I don't love to play the knave w'e,  
'Twas but the dripping of the gravy;  
For had they pissed the puddle higher,  
It might have quite put out the fire,  
And if the cloth had soon been laid,  
The Devil had for his Supper stayed;  
But th'heat was equally divided  
As prudently the Cook decided,  
Yet others roasted not so fast  
As did the 'Squire that came in last;  
He by the steam and sultry vapours  
Of Charcoal-fire and tallow tapers,  
Found that his heart began to fail him,  
His Comrades wondered what did all him;  
Some thought his being unacquainted  
Might almost cause him to have fainted;  
Others the aching of his belly,  
Or that he had a love for Nelly;  
But while the time th'were thus deferring,  
Down falls the Youngster dead as herring;  
He of his strength that so much boasted,  
Alas! poor heart, was over-roasted;  
Roast Pigs do but their eyes let fall,  
But he let drop head, body and all;  
This gave to all the house surprise,  
Some wring their hands, some wipe their eyes,  
But most of all his Handmaid Nelly,  
Her eyes were bigger than her belly;  
For the poor Lad, that to the Nation  
Might have done good in's Generation;  
All with their best endeavours strive,  
In hopes, the Youngman to revive  
Thence on a Pallet they removed him,  
And all lamented him that loved him;  
There Nelly saw his P— O strange thing!  
It hung its head like any Changeling;  
All sighed and feared, as who'd have said,  
That he was fairly brought to bed;  
But tending hands, and nursly care  
Having perverted all despair,  
His Comrades glad of repose,  
Each to his privy Chamber goes,  
Leaving his Nurse and Handmaid Nell  
To watch the time of's Passing-bell;  
Yet to suspect 'twas no great danger,  
For he was now at rack and manger;  
But in the int'rim I must tell ye  
How a strange Ghost appeared to Nelly,  
That would have disobliged her belly,  
She poor heart void of all suspicion,  
ne'er thought of carnal Inquisition,  
But watched with Care, when in a trice  
She saw a strippling-spirit rise;  
And what d'ye think 'twas, but the dead,  
That rose for Ellens Maidenhead;  
And him that you thought had been no boy,  
Was all this while a tuning's Ho-boy,  
Who straight without entreats or wooing,  
Would with the damsel fain been doing;  
But she being cautious of her honour,  
To let a dead man come upon her,  
Did terrify her more than living,  
Though she knew dead men had no giving;  
Approaching still he comes to stem her,  
And in pursuit begins to wem her,  
And swore by Jemini he'd thank her,  
If that she would but let him clank her;  
The damsel not enduring further  
With open mouth she cries out murder;  
This gave throughout the house uproar,  
Bounce knocks the neighbours at the door,  
And coming in to hear the pother,  
They found his bolt-sprit in her rudder,  
And had not then her kind friend saved her,  
As sure as you're alive a had staved her;  
His Comrades stood like stocks amazed,  
And wondered what the Devil had raised,  
Yet glad to see he was so hoddy  
That he could exercise his body;  
All were amazed and glad at once  
For his good health and Nelly's sconce;  
Nay 'twould h'astonished Captain Brockhorse,  
To see a spirit ride a Cockhorse;  
But all was well, and what's so ended,  
You know by none can be amended;  
Spirits are of uncertain motion,  
Sometimes they plague us in devotion,  
Sometimes in sleep, sometimes at dinner,  
But he's the wonder of a sinner  
That with one foot in Charon's punt  
Can rise to take his leave of C—  
'Twas kindly done she saved his life,  
For which he used her like a wife;  
But if again so close he steer,  
She'll bid him next time come no-near.   

To Celinda. A Song.  

WHy should Celinda disapprove  
A meaner state that's rich in Love?  
If it had been the God's decree,  
To let the Boy take bribe or Fee;  
It would have so depraved his power,  
That every hour  
He thought to place  
His shafts, they'd fly back in his face,  
And like a puny Elf,  
Injure at once his object, and himself.   

No, fair Celinda, 'tis unfit  
That Cupid should at Market sit;  
Besides, it breeds a doubt in you,  
Whether those sparks of Love be true,  
Since not the person nor the parts,  
Nor any Arts  
Can breed a flame  
Upon your too aspiring aim,  
Be kindly-wise remove  
Those towering fancies, and begin to Love.   

Why should a worldly God control  
Him that's immortal as the soul?  
Judge, O ye Powers! and let her be  
Not Mistress of her Love, but me;  
Consider e'er your heart you give,  
For you'll but live  
A subject still,  
Enslaved to Wealth and Tyrants will,  
But ne'er in Love be blest,  
Think then Celinda, think who loves you best.    

Love's Assurance. A Song.  

GO on true heart, pursue the prize,  
Thy passion knows its doom,  
'Twill find some pity in her eyes  
Or send the slighted home;  
Yet from her heart I'll read my fate,  
If it to Love incline,  
It cannot change so soon to hate,  
But it must think on mine.   

Kind nature will her hate oppose,  
And though she do not love,  
My passion I will so disclose  
As shall her pity move;  
Thence from that pity with new fire,  
Although her heart were stone,  
I'd melt it into chaste desire,  
And coin it in my own.    

The women's Defence. A Song.  

FOrbear silly hearts, you insult but in vain,  
Though so mean of our Sex you approve,  
Your hearts are as empty and weak as your brain,  
And your empiric as poor as your Love.  
By your amorous follies we wiser are grown,  
And now to our rigour we'll stand,  
Since the hearts that you claimed become freely our (own,  
You'll find 'em but hard to command.   

What cringes and sighs, what raptures and vows,  
To delude a poor Nymph you employ?  
You design her a Miss, for you fancy a Spouse  
Is a pleasure too long to enjoy.  
What flame can our faithless opinions remove,  
Or what can a kind one create?  
When at once you propose both Honour and Love  
You ruin the Name and Estate.   

How charming and sweet is your Love while 'tis  
But if of your ends you but fail young,  
It altars your note, from an amorous Song  
To a tune, with a huff and a rail:  
If your Loves have no greater power to invite,  
We must this for your passions declare,  
They're not worth our return, nor your scorns our require,  
And so we can rest as we are.    

Celadon and Philomela. A Dialogue.  Cel. 
TEach me dear Nymph to be content,  
Since what I wished I have,  
Why should I think on more, or further crave?  Phill. 
First let me know what by that word is meant,  
Or whether there be such a thing,  
Say if thou wert a King,  
Couldst thou there find it out?  Cel. 
No. doubt,  
Inferior Mortals have their bounds too small.  
To harbour bliss, and where some blessings fall  
By chance, we so transported are,  
That with excese of care,  
We lessen still our share.  Phil. 
Ah! were thy present thoughts placed in the throne,  
They'd still be thinking one,  
One wish enjoyed another would increase;  
Thus heav'n-aspiring man on hopes does live,  
And should he have what heaven or earth can give,  
His restless thoughts find no centent nor peace.  Chorus. 
Then let us wish no more,  
Yet we must think what others are,  
We may implore,  
And yet despair,  
Since even from our birth  
No true content is found on earth:  
Death is the only theme,  
That puts our troubles to a quiet dream.   

Omitting Enjoyment. A Song.  

O! Name not the day lest my senses reprove  
And curse, my poor heart from the knowledge of Love,  
Ah! the hapless mistake in a fearful young Lover,  
When a sign is returned not t'have wit to discover,  
To delay a kind Nymph from her hour of design,  
Is to dig for a treasure and sink in the Mine.   

The effect of a smile in a vein of discourse,  
'Twixt fear and goodwill ought to make a divorce;  
Such Items deserve to be well understood,  
Like a Vizardless Miss that peeps under her hood;  
Had I known but the minute her joys were upon her,  
She had bid me good night, and adieu to her honour.   

I knew not (alas) the intrigue of her art,  
I thought she designed to make sport with my heart,  
It panted with fear and leapt so with joy,  
Yet I thought to attempt, all my hopes would destroy;  
But since I'm resolved ere I prove such a sot,  
The Nymph i'll enjoy though I die on the spot.    

The Tavern Huff. A Song.  

DRrink Wine and be wise,  
Let the Grave and Precise,  
With sober advices correct us,  
We can wash 'em in Wine,  
Till we make their Pates shine,  
And— damn 'em they ought to respect us.   

While each single Sot  
With his Pipe and his Pot,  
Cries, Oh! how the Creature bewitches;  
They shall swig at their Ale  
Till their Noses look pale,  
And then sneak home all drunk as Bitch's.   

We scorn to be base,  
We never say Grace  
O'er a pen-worth of Cheese or Can, Sir,  
We sit at our Talboyes  
And drink 'em off all Boys,  
Till every soul's an Almanzer.   

We Coffee defy,  
And dare give him the lie,  
That says it creates Politicians,  
He's a politic Fool,  
And his grave wooden Scull  
S'like a crowd among able Musicians.    

The Considerate Lover. A Song.  

'tIs pity the passion those eyes do create,  
Between Cupid and me should be held in debate  
This pondering on Love heaven knows whence came  
That should make the blind Boy so precise in his aim  
I behold and I love, yet am forced to defer  
My flame, lest it hinder a happier in her.   

Sometimes in a freak, when I think to divert  
By her absence, the folly of Love from my heart,  
It ceases awhile, yet if near I but come  
To her door, I must see if my Silvia's at home,  
Then straight while I think I am rid of my pain,  
It returns like a Fever and haunts me again.   

Though my heart in a flame of true passion still lie  
I'll ne'er let her know 'twas caused by her eyes:  
Were Love's blessings alike in every degree,  
'Twere convenient for her, and happy for me;  
But Beauty once gained by its amorous Mate,  
Proves eternal delight or repining at fate.   

Yet it must be all power that beauty can bring,  
For she who has that has the world in a string;  
But you see from such joys we poor Mortals are hurled,  
Like slaves) from our fancies to humour the world,  
And fortune with base and malicious design,  
Has delayed your kind passion and frustrated mine.    

Beauty's Prerogative. A Song.  

TRiumphant Beauty, whose overruling fate,  
Not mighty Monarches hearts alone,  
But does command the grand intrigue of State.  
Nothing's exempted from its Throne.  
The world to rule that Sex hath odds,  
That triumphs both o'er men and Gods.   

In peace they arrows stay, yet draw no blood,  
In Wars they win when lose the day,  
Though Captives, on their Conqu'rous necks they tread,  
And the fierce Victor make their prey.  
Strong Sex! who from your chain is free,  
That though he foils, ye bound must be.   

Oh! no, the yoke can ne'er offend your necks,  
Our harsh fates makes us to obey,  
In childhood we obey our Parents becks,  
Then men do steal our hearts away;  
Wretched as weak our Sex is grown,  
Whose wills and hearts are ne'er our own.    

A Rapture.  

COme (fairest) through the fleeting sky,  
Let's cut a way with nimble pace,  
On Cupid's active wings we'll fly  
To Paradise, that wished for place,  
Where I may banquet on thy face.   

Hark! how Love's Choristers conspire,  
With airs might make a Hermit dote,  
T' invite us to the happy choir,  
Where Philomel's enchanting throat  
Is tuned to ravish with a note.   

The downy couch with blushing red,  
With heav'n-resembling tapestry,  
By Nymphs at Love's command here spread,  
Who thought these joys prepared for thee,  
A Blessing Couch, and thou for me.   

No spies shall lurk here to reveal  
To ears that itch with jealousy  
The hour of pleasure we two steal,  
Great Jove knew no such liberty  
When he embraced fair Danae.   

Being set, let's dally till our souls  
To the encounter sound a Call,  
A hasty Love that joy controls,  
(That might receive a kinder fall;)  
But dying, dies for good and all.   

Let's still incite it with a kiss,  
To a Springtide our Love's we'll try  
And if our pleasures fade in this,  
Time dares not a relief deny  
Since we well know our remedy.   

I'll view again and feast a while  
On each Seraphic cheek, which do  
Unite with thy fair lip, whose smile  
Might make a Cynic love thee too,  
And tempt him from his tub to woe.   

Thence on the blessing of thy breast  
The banquet that first feasted man,  
I'll kiss, and there I'll take my rest;  
And from the measure of a span  
I'll teach thee how the world began.    

A Song.  

PHillis confirm the passion you own  
Since mine so apparent and just does prove,  
eat the disguise my heart is known  
To brook no hidden Love,  
What I court I'll enjoy, or I'll give it o'er,  
I'll put no hope or fear on the score,  
'Tis the fop-adoring  
That still is imploring,  
Disdain or Love I'll say no more.   

Sure 'twas a dart but want only thrown  
That makes you conceal what your thoughts inspire,  
Love when 'tis true will ne'er disown  
The flame that caused the fire;  
But you with your passion such juggling show  
That i'th' end you prove your own foe,  
For when we come to trial  
And find a denial,  
To ease our thoughts we let it go.    

The Brave Lover.  

UNhappy he whose fortune lower lies,  
Then his Love will bow unto't;  
The Eagle scorns to prey on silly flies,  
Shrubs whither at the Cedar's root,  
It's better far, to perish tame  
With secret grief, than open shame.   

How tame is he that will his life bestow  
E'er to his foe the Victim flies,  
Or he whose sense does greater blessings know,  
Will wed himself to miseries.  
Then live, and let thy fall be fair,  
By brave attempts, not base despair.    

Epithalamium.  
TO bed, ye two in one united go,  
To pleasures killing;  
Embrace and struggle till your spirits flow,  
Embrace more willing  
Than th'loving Palms, (great unions wonder)  
That ne'er bore any fruit asunder.  
Be young to each, when Winter and grey hairs,  
Your head shall climb;  
May your affections like the merry spheres,  
still move in time;  
And may (with many a good presage)  
Your marriage prove your merny age.   

On the sight of my true Dorinda Masked  
WHen her poor Metaphor, heavens radiant eye  
Puts his day-shading mask of darkness by,  
And freely shines, those shapes of living jet  
I'th' Eastern shores half pickled up in sweat  
Adore his lustre; but they never bow  
Whilst clouds disguise and mascarade his brow;  
So when mine eyes first viewed her, she (alas!)  
Was masked, and ign'rantly I by did pass  
Without adoring, when such shrines as hers  
Would make Saints crowd to be Idolaters,  
When Mistriss-like Lodestones in boxes cased,  
I've sometimes seen neor Iron wedges placed;  
The amorous metal waved and still crept near,  
As if it knew its Love had centred there.  
I felt this sympathy, and in my breast  
(Like a stray bird now fluttring near his nest,  
Or like a Pilot) I my course did steer,  
As who would say, I know my harbours near.  
Now with devouter eyes looked again,  
But her black veil not drawn thus (thought I then)  
Thus Angel-pictures in the sacred choir  
Are veiled to raise our adoration higher.  
Myriad on each side as you walk must fall  
As bastard Eaglets 'fore your Emblem Sol.  
Thus you with looks Philosophy control  
And fate, and leave the world without a soul,  
Or prove (which I confess, since I was hit)  
This all hath but one soul, and you are it.   

The Concern.  
RIse Aristarchus, and erect a Scheme,  
Tell me, may I expect a cheerful beam  
From my Love's eye? Say, shall my joys become  
Perfect on this side of Elysium?  
Come, cast a figure, shall I find that place  
Where I in her may heaven on earth embrace?  
Why should hope flatter me? since her fair hands  
Shuns Hymen's ties and Venus fair commands?  
But why should she shun heavens good will? and be  
So adverse to her Genial Deity?  
Truth on men's tongues (she says) doth seldom sit,  
But what they rashly swear they soon forget;  
She says, they write in sand when they make oaths,  
And keep their vows just as they do their clothes,  
Whilst only they are new and fresh i'th' fashion,  
But once grown old (like words they speak in passion)  
They lay them by forgot, and their Love's leave  
With pensive eyes, to wail the faith they gave  
To their more faithless vows, and then in pride  
And scorns triumphal Chariot they ride  
Over their spoils, and tyrannously glory  
How many female Trophies deck their story.  
Thus slippery streams the yielding banks do court,  
And gliding thence, say, they but loved in sport.  
O heaven! that Lovers who have damned their trust,  
Should rob the reputation of the just!  
Pity ye Gods! still let true love be blest,  
Let not that die a Martyr for the rest.  
Rouse ye infernal Hags, ye direful three,  
From the foul Lake of nights dark Empery.  
Give me a bunch of stinging snakes to lash  
Kind Nymph-deceivers, and to take their flesh:  
Hell's curse on that inconstant crew that took  
Love's sacred name, their fraud and lust to cloak.  
Vipers to your own kind, its long on you  
The Nymphs scarce credit us that would be true.  
Rest thee Ixion, these deserve to feel  
The weary service of thy constant wheel;  
May the laborious Stone disturb your rests,  
And ravenous Vulture's banquet on your breasts;  
May heaven send Plagues, and Poets curses, more  
Than ever yet was thought or heard before;  
And may your ribs in Hell a grid-iron be,  
Whereon your souls may broyl eternally.  
But ah! I faint! I doubt my fate is near,  
I feel that colder poison sad despair  
Invades my veins, troubling my destiny,  
Warning my soul out, who'd fain said stay to try  
(Ere th'other world I know) to find a bliss,  
If not, I never more shall think on this;  
Yet I will, e'er on earth I quit my room,  
Bespeak a better in Elysium.   

An ELEGY On the most lamented Death of that brave and worthy Hero, Edw. Earl of Sandwich, Lord Vice Admiral of England.  
O! That my soul were raptured into Verse!  
To write with dew of passion on thy hearse;  
Could my just grief pathetickly relate  
Our loss in thee, by thy too sudden fate,  
I'd write thy Story in so just degree  
Should melt the Reader into Poesy,  
But when 'gainst grief my fancy I would arm,  
My Pen is wracked, and every thought a storm,  
Though deepest sorrows make a Fame obscure,  
Yet to the suffering thought Love gives the cure,  
And makes that honour which dull grief would (shorwd,  
Peep like the Sun above the dropping cloud.  
Hence my poor restless thoughts are bound to show  
For thee, the justest Honour that I owe;  
Thou goodly Star of mighty Charle's Wain,  
Bellona's heart, and sweet Apollo's brain;  
Thou Hero of so large and free a soul,  
A judgement clear, a courage uncontroul;  
So wisely noble, and so brave a mind  
We must not think in haste on earth to find,  
Unless the times would turn to gold again,  
And nature get new strength in forming men.  
In musting on thy chance we can but guests,  
Fate could have done no more nor honour less;  
Nor can the prying world be so unjust,  
So partial to thy Honour and thy trust,  
If they'd but know how Valour then did lie  
Grasped in an unprevented Destiny,  
Yet so unmoved, that scarce strove life to save,  
But smiled upon its soon expected grave;  
Had Caesar in that cloud of fate been hid,  
He had died like thee more nobly than he did;  
Yet 'twas too soon, Life might in concu'ring Death  
Increased thy fortunes and prolonged thy breath,  
And made those Trophies which thy Valour won,  
A morning Star, and a Meridian Sun;  
Fate seemed indeed a Guardian friend a while,  
But streight'gan to be treacherous and beguile;  
For whilst the thundering Shot amidst the throng,  
Owed him more Honour than to do him wrong,  
She soon her power and proffered trust betrayed,  
And let in Death in gloomy Mascarade:  
It well might to the bravest give surprise,  
To see death come in such a black disguise;  
A doom so cloudy that no ties could see  
His fate or his declining remedy  
Yet Fate did this civil'ty with him use  
That of two Deaths she gave him leave to choose:  
Destructive chance I that turned thy Citadel  
From a fair Palace to a floating Hell,  
That from seven bloody storms thy life was given,  
To the two greatest powers under heaven;  
One most ambitious of thy worth and Fame,  
In this Extreme strove to preserve thy Name,  
Yet could not waste thy Life unto the shore,  
Alas! her Burden was too great before,  
But closed thee in her Womb, since Death would have  
Thy Period set, there to receive a Grave;  
So kind she was when she had lodged thee there,  
And found no fit Companion for thy Peer,  
Knowing thou wert too worthy for her Womb,  
Sent thee a sad but honoured Trophy home;  
Where thy bright Name shall raise unto thy Glory,  
A Monument of everlasting story.   

An ELEGY On the Death of the Valiant Sir Edw. Spragg.  
COuld each brave Hero with his conquering Fame  
Immortalize his Life as well as Name,  
And make those Acts (which Glories fill create)  
Prove Armour 'gainst the nimble stroke of Fate;  
What great attempts would meaner Mortals quit,  
If Death were to be shunned by daring it?  
But here the Virtue's greater in the brave,  
Where Courage strikes for Honour or the Grave;  
Yet still goes on, assured of its aim,  
A senseless Honour or a breathing Fame,  
Though cropped i'th' bud, this comfort Fame doth tell  
The Soul departing that it has done well;  
Fortunes best promise, but depends on chance,  
And oft encourages without advance;  
Some mount apace as darlings of her will,  
Some hope for flood, but yet are stranded still;  
Others on billows of ambition tossed,  
Sink in a wrack before their native Coast;  
Some she gives Crowns, but ere they come to reign  
Disgrace or envy takes 'em back again.  
Some who with Fate have had a free Caress,  
And each endeavour blest with kind success,  
Secure of Honour and foregotten Fame,  
T' increase the Actions and enlarge the Name,  
Boldly go on, till to their bounds they come.  
Where Death meets Fame to give them welcome home;  
There the Plot shows what was so long designed,  
Death robs the Life, but leaves the Name behind:  
Who can his Power immortally intrall  
When Fate has cous'nd such an Admiral?  
The Valiant Spragg, whose Courage did affright  
The Belgic, and Barharian put to flight,  
Disarmed their Forts, and taught the English way,  
To make Bonfires in a briny Bay,  
Beat down their Walls and made their Turret's nod,  
And their men bow as to an angry God;  
Spragg was an European-Asian word,  
So famous was he for his Fire and Sword,  
That should you strive t'epitomize the same  
His bulk was but a Pigmy to his Name,  
And had till now increased had Mars been kind,  
And not to Neptune his just right resigned,  
Whilst Neptune weary of so great a freight,  
To ease his burden turns him off to fate;  
False fate! (for whilst we thought thee Bullet-free)  
Did disappoint at once our hopes and thee.  
But as the Eagle with the Tortis plays,  
Who with his Wings her earthly Lump doth raise,  
Mounting with speed above the massy Eall  
To the heaven's pitch, unkindly lets her fall,  
Or as the Merchant whose successful aim  
Of being rich has so divulged his Name,  
Each subject mentioned that implies a force,  
As money named, he's every man's discourse.  
Whilst he whom all the world thought rich and great,  
Breaks unexpectedly and proves a cheat.  
Thus Fortune makes her dearest Sons a scoff,  
First treats 'em high, and then she turns 'em off.  
Thus a base doom on mighty Spragg befell,  
To drowned an Adm'ral in a Mussle-shell;  
Strange unexpected Fate, and unkind stay  
Death might have found out some more noble way,  
Surprised him singly, rather than have died  
Under the Bulwark of his Champion's side,  
Yet mark the composition of thy freight,  
The surly billow might have born thy weight;  
But greedy Neptune being honoured twice  
With no less than an Adm'ral for a prize,  
Thought good to hold what Fortune did afford,  
Since the last Hero gave so brave reward,  
And Triton's there being busy in the fray,  
Made bold to show thy Predecessors way;  
But see how Fate may by exchange design,  
What was thy doom ought his new birth have been.  
Unhappy Flag! thou unsuccssful Blue!  
O! change thy colour to a mourning hue,  
That couldst not keep such Hero's from the harms  
Of subtle Belgic force and Neptune's arms,  
Twice to have born so great and dear a loss  
Under the Conduct of the English Cross;  
Yet let not losses urge our grief too far,  
Since 'twas the Fate of an ambiguous War;  
The greatest Hero's by Historians penned,  
Have for their mighty Labours found an end;  
The greatest Victor underneath the Sun,  
Died ere his aim'd-at Conquest he'd begun;  
Yet their great Names still to the world do stay,  
And mayst thou have as great a Name as they;  
But this poor age is with the old at odds,  
As men strove then to make 'em demigods  
We silence Fame, which is to honour sin,  
And think on men as if they ne'er had been;  
Deeds now, though ne'er so ardorous and high,  
Scarce reach the life of one man's Memory.  
That mighty soul whom all the world admired,  
Seems like a dream when once the breath's expired;  
And every act though ne'er so good or brave,  
Sinks with the corpse in the forgotten grave.   
FINIS.