LICENCED,  
Rob. Midgley. Octob. 25. 1688.   

POEMS AND TRANSLATIONS, WRITTEN Upon several Occasions, AND To several Persons. By a late Scholar of Eton.  
Et nos ergo manum ferulae subduximus, & nunc  
Expectes eadem à summo minimoque Poeta:  
Scripsimus, & stulta est clementia, cum tot ubique  
Vatibus occurras, periturae parcere chartae.  Juv. Non illud ipsum quod optimum est desperandum, & in praestantibus rebus, magna sunt ea, quae sunt optimis proxima; prima enim sequentem, honestum est, in secundis, tertiisque consistere. Tull. 
LONDON: Printed for Henry Bonwicke, at the Red Lion in St. Paul's Churchyard. 1689.   

TO The Right Honourable THE Countess of CLARENDON, THESE Rude and Unpolished Poems Are Humbly Presented, DEDICATED, and DEVOTED By the Author, Her Ladyship's Most Dutiful and Obedient Servant.   

TO THE Worthy Mr RODERICK, Upper-Master OF EATON-SCHOOL.  
SIR,  
THese Trifles at Your Feet I'd humbly lay,  
And gladly these for my vast Debts repay;  
I'd beg the great Protection of Your Name,  
To have that Altar sanctify my Flame:  
My little All, lent Stock I would resign,  
With reason, proud to serve at such a Shrine;  
But that they're Trifles all, and all those Trifles mine.  
Admit them moderate: the Seed that's sown,  
At first was Yours, much more the Crop's Your own.  
You gave the Talon, that improved I bring;  
By You my Chirping Muse was taught to sing.  
You warmed my Soul with new Promethean Fire,  
Your Wings my flagging Thoughts learned to aspire.  
You all the Wheels of my slow Fancy move,  
My doubtful Wit at Your true Touchstone prove.  
My Pegasus was in Your Pasture bred,  
Not on corpse Birch, but Buds of Ivy fed.  
Hail the professed Palaemon of our Isle!  
Aetonian Helicon for every stile!  
Now give me leave these my First-fruits to bring,  
Pledge of the Summer, and the Pride of Spring.  
So Primroses are upon Altars laid;  
And Pepper-corns for Rent by Beggars paid.  
Your Dutiful Scholar, etc.   

THE TABLE.  

A Translation out of Synesius. To Mr. Henry Colman of Queens-Colledge in Cambridge Pag. 1  
Anacreontiques. Ode I. Love. To Mrs. S. Hill 4  
Ode II. The Letter-Carrier. To Madam Bebington▪ 7  
Ode III. Gold. To Madam Richardson 11  
Ode IV. Grey Hairs. To Mr. Anth. Whistler 14  
Ode V. Drink. To Mr. Will. Harding 15  
Anacreon 's Blessing. To Mr. O— n 17  
A Greek Epigram to Hemiera. To Madam A— R— 23  
The Snowball. A Translation. To Madam D. Boscowen ibid.  
To Idera wearing a Mask. A Song. To Madam M— R— 24  
Bion Idyl. 2. To Mr. Dryden 27  
A Paraphrase on the twenty third Idyl. of Theocritus, to Idera 28  
Chorus 1. of Seneca's Agamemnon. To my Lord Townshend 35  
Parting with his dear Brother, Mr. Ash Wyndham▪ 39  
To Mr. G. L. an Ode 42  
The Spring. To Mr. Ben. Wrightson 49  
Learning. To Mr. Francis Fuller of St. John's in Cambridge 51  
To Mr. R. Smith of King's College in Cambridge 52  
To Idera in Mourning, going into Mourning himself soon after 54  
A Paradox in praise of Ambition. To his dear Friend Mr. Edw. Taylour, of Merton College in Oxford 56  
To Idera. Age in a Looking-glass 64  
Solitude. To his dear Brother, Mr. Ash Wyndham 65  
To a young Lady that constantly slept at Church 76  
To Idera, putting a Copy of Verses in at her Window at midnight. 78  
To Idera, Speechless 80  
Incurable. To Idera 82  
To the Ingenious Mr. Barker. Saul's Witch of Endor 84  
To Mrs. B. Wright, on her Incomparable Poetry 91  
A Fragment of Catullus. Advice to Hemiera. To Madam A— R— 94  
The Paradox to Idera 95  
To Idera, dreaming she was angry 96  
Ovid's Amorum, Lib. 3. Eleg. 9 on the death of Tibullus. To Mr. William Lloyd 98  
To Idera, having by some mischance so hurt herself as to halt 104  
To Mr. O— n. A Dissuasive from that effeminate Passion of Love 108  
To Idera, writing her Name in Snow, which melting to water, froze, and soon after thawed 109  
A Propitiatory Sacrifice, to the Ghost of I— M— by way of Pastoral, in a Dialogue between Thyrsis and Corydon. To his dear Brother Mr. Ash Wyndham 110  
Oldham's Ghost. A Dream. To Mr. Ro. Townshend 117  
On the Death of the late Duke of Ormond. To Mr. Will. Butler 121  
To Mr. R. Nichols. On the Little Man that was showed for a Sight all over England 124  
Solomon 's Song. cap. 1. ver. 2. To Mrs. Mary Nichols 125  
To Idera. The Apology for Silence 127  
The Dumb Discovery. To Idera 129  
In praise of Wine mixed with Water. To Mr. Francis Nichols 130  
Parting with Mr. Tho. Bebington 131  
A Greek Epigram. To Idera 134  
On John Pig, who was very famous for his great Nose. To Mr. R. Nichols 136  
Part of the fourteenth satire of Juvenal, against Covetousness. To Mr. William Percival ibid.  
An Epigram. To Mr. Hen. Northcote of Exon-Colledge, Oxon. The Happy Miser 152  
An Epigram, in praise of John PigsPigs Diminutive Nose. To Mr. Frederick Colman 153  
Concerning John PigsPigs Mountainous Nose, and Quicksilver Feet. To Mr. T. Wooley ibid.  
To a young Lady, reading the seventh Verse of the first Chapter of Proverbs. To Idera. 154  
To his Valentine Hemiera▪ Madam A. R. 155  
To Idera, who would not be seen to steal a Look from Duserastes, by turning her back 157  
To Hemiera 158  
To P. P. being to run a Race after Dinner 161  
Mediocrity. To Mr. Humph. Lind ibid.  
Diogenes in his Kingdom. To Mr. Denham 162  
Noll 's Epitaph. To Mr. Andrew Snapes ibid.  
A Short Life and a Sweet. To Mr. Edward Taylor 163  
To Mr. Henry Palmer, going to Sea ibid.  
To Mr. Butler. A Greek Epigram 164  
To Mr. Will. Percival. That Poetry is Witchcraft ibid.  
Antipater 's Epitaph on Homer. To Mr. John Penneck 165  
To Mr. N. Smith. On a Covetous old Miser, a Religious Gripe ibid.  
To Mr. King, against the Astrologers 166  
To Mr. Hen. Fane ibid.  
An Epigram out of Plato. To Madam Amara 168    

ERRATA.  
PAge 4. line 10. for now read when. p. 11. l. 12. for Passengers r. Passenger. p. 18. l. 27. for they r. would. p. 22. l. 3. for and splits r. exhausts. p. 27. l. 13. for Artist r. Bowman. p. 40. l. 2. for Titles r. name and number. p. 45. l. 14. for bare r. bear. p. 53. l. 20. for can mount r. pretend. p. 54. l. 9 for his r. her. p. 81. l. 1. for her r. you. p. 88 l. 10. for the r. her. p. 124. l. 2. for drop r. pour. p. 140. l. 1. for he r. she. p. 156. l. 26. for R. r. she.   

POEMS.  

A Translation out of Synesius.  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, etc.  
WIT, alas, what idle Charms!  
Herculean Strength, or Milo's Arms!  
Beauty, what ground for Pride is there?  
Or Gold, as trifling as the Fair!  
What Halcyons build within a Crown?  
What solid PleasuresPleasures in Renown?  
If in an equal Balance laid,  
And by a hand impartial weighed,  
With serious and Divine affairs,  
With holy and Religious cares,  
Compared with the Almighty's Love,  
Lighter than Vanity they'll prove.  
One easily outstrips in course,  
The best that ever backed a Horse;  
Can ride Bucephalus full speed,  
Or one of Neptune's generous Breed:  
Can make his fiery Courser fly,  
Like winged Lightning, through the Sky.  
Another has prodigious store,  
Mountains and Seas of Golden Ore;  
The Miser's heart could wish no more.  
Whom Midas envying, would prevent,  
And of his second wish repent.  
One is a Cretan at his Bow,  
Can shoot a very Hair in two;  
Excels the Master of this Art,  
Makes Teucer lay it deep to heart;  
And what was formerly his Pride,  
His Bow, as useless, throw aside.  
Another has a comely Face;  
(And when there's Beauty in the case,  
What Spell can lay this Spirit? what Charms  
Of humane power resist these Arms?)  
H'as such a Beauty so divine,  
Nireus his Title would resign,  
And emulous Narcissus pine.  
Another prides in Noble Blood;  
Another in a numerous Brood  
Of lovely Girls and hopeful Boys,  
Their Country's Props, and Parents Joys;  
Of Danaus and Aegyptus Stock,  
A great and a well-ordered Flock.  
This is my Wish, (let them have theirs,  
Which are the least of all my cares,)  
Let me live private and obscure,  
From Noise, and Pride, and Scorn secure;  
From the dry Compliments of Court,  
Glistning Glowworms! Fortune's sport!  
From mean Ambition, lying Fame,  
Base Actions, and a tainted Name.  
No finespun Cobwebs of the Great,  
No gay Contrivances of State:  
No gilded Greatness, empty shows,  
(Misguiding Meteors!) make me lose  
That happy Path that I would choose.  
Let me with Aglaus be found,  
Pleased in my little spot of ground;  
Or blest with the poor Gardner's fate,  
Envied by Alexander's state.  
Abdolonymus, only known  
To some poor Potherbs of his own;  
Gardner, degraded to a Throne!  
What if the World should never hear  
Of such a one as Go— l there?  
On Earth let me a cipher be,  
So I make one, my God, with thee.  
Here let me, as a stranger, live,  
At best a nameless Expletive;  
So to myself I am but known,  
And unto thee, my God, alone.   

Anacreontiques.  

ODE I. Love.  
AS lately on my sleepy Bed  
I laid my sick and drowsy head,  
And Night itself with me lay dead▪  
The Heavens nodded, Nature snored,  
When Winking Morpheus gave the word  
Silence; and at the Court of Night  
'Twas time to hang out every Light:  
Now wearied Limbs took their repose,  
When troubled Minds began to dose;  
When twinkling Stars could hardly keep  
Themselves from dropping fast asleep;  
Some dimmed and shot, but others fell:  
Close was the silence, deep as Hell.  
Half the Creation jointly slept,  
Clouds Sympathetick Showers wept.  
The Moon, like all the rest, was gone  
To Bed to her Endymion.  
Cupid knocked at Anacreon's Gate;  
What business have you here so late,  
Said I? and asked the stranger's name,  
His Message, and from whence he came▪  
Poor little Beggar-boy, said he,  
That is benighted; pity me:  
For Heaven's sake, Sir, let me in,  
For I am almost wet to th' skin:  
I've been a shooting all this day;  
'Tis dark, and I have lost my way:  
The Stars themselves, the very Moon,  
Share my Misfortune; I'm undone!  
Let me but in a Stable lie,  
'Twill be a deed of Charity.  
I heard the flattering Rascal speak,  
And could not but for pity's sake,  
In such a case, open the Gate,  
Which strait my Youngster entered at,  
With Bag and Quiver at his back:  
And having drunk a Glass of Sack  
To warm within, my little Squire,  
I asked him to come near the Fire;  
And brought him out a sumptuous hoard  
Of Victuals on a plenteous Board,  
The best my House could then afford;  
And played the Courtier, to excuse  
The barren deserts of my Muse▪  
So poor a Meal as he must make,  
And wished it better for his sake.  
I rubbed his little hands in mine,  
And wrung his hair so soft, so fine,  
Like his own Mother's Locks. And now  
He looked so charmingly, I vow  
I scarcely could forbear to hug  
The little fiery wanton Pug.  
And thus no little time was spent  
In Ceremony and Compliment.  
Now when he found himself grow warm,  
Has the Rain done my Bow no harm,  
(Said he)? and made no more to do,  
But took his pretty little Bow,  
And strung it up, and pierced my heart:  
So does the Gad-bee's tickling smart  
Fret and delight th' infected part.  
Up and away then, Whip and Spur,  
Crying, God b'ye, your Servant, Sir;  
I wish you well, my Host, adieu;  
I'm very much obliged to you:  
I see my Bow is well enough;  
But Friend, your Heart's not Arrow-proof.   

ODE II. The Letter-Carrier.  
TEll me, amiable Dove,  
Thou great Ambassador of Love,  
A Spokes man fit for amorous Jove;  
Tell me, tell me, why such haste?  
Whither is't you fly so fast?  
Where didst thou thy breath perfume?  
From what Spicy Country come?  
From whence, with thy Mercurial Wing,  
Dost thou these Heavenly Odours bring?  
Swimming through th' ambitious Air,  
Proud to kiss thy Wings so fair,  
Leaving a scent of sweetness there.  
Tell me who it is, will be  
So honoured with thy company?  
The Dove replied, What would I give,  
Poor Dove, for a Preservative  
From Coxcombs so inquisitive?  
Pray what are my concerns to you?  
But since 'tis your desire to know,  
And Meddlers will not be said no:  
(Save me, ye Gods; for what offence  
Must I be killed by Impertinence?)  
I am (and then she curbed her Head,  
Her Tail, Fan-like, by Feathers spread,  
And walked in state, and clapped her Wings,  
And did a hundred pretty things,  
To show her pride) Anacreon's Dove,  
And manage the affairs of Love  
With his Bathyllus, that dear Boy,  
(Oh, happy state that I enjoy!)  
Lovely Bathyllus, he that can,  
By one sweet look, even conquer Man;  
Can by the Magic of his Eyes,  
Over all things tyrannize;  
Victorious Beauty of all Greece,  
The whole Creation's Masterpiece;  
The Pride of Nature, and the Fire  
That raises Venus' Desire,  
Whom though she envy, she must still admire;  
Could make a Stoic change his mind,  
Fixed as the Sun, turn like the Wind,  
And in Love's School more Pleasures find,  
Than in his former Hermite's Cell,  
Principles dark and deep as Hell.  
To Venus once I did belong,  
She sold me for a trifling Song.  
O happy I, that used to run  
From place to place, from Sun to Sun,  
Managing the Intrigues of Love,  
With Mars, and half the Gods above,  
With her Seraglio of Gallants,  
That by turns supplied her wants;  
Am Servant to Anacreon,  
Who loved by all, yet loves but one.  
And as you see me now, I bear  
His Letters to his lovely Fair;  
This the perfume that scents the Air.  
He promises to set me free;  
Excuse me for such liberty:  
No other freedom would I crave,  
Than name and nature of a Slave;  
Nor other slavery can I dread,  
Than being, as he tells me, freed.  
For to what purpose should I fly,  
And ramble in the spacious Sky,  
By Famine, Net, or Arrow die?  
Sat starving on a Mountain's top,  
Or coo on barren Trees, and hop,  
In fear of death, from bough to bough,  
I know not where, I know not how;  
Either die for want of Meat,  
Else Haws, and Chaff, and Vetches eat:  
Nor safety in that wretched fare,  
‛ Beware Birdlime, Turtle! and the Snare.  
Where Puddle-water is the best,  
A hollow Tree the softest Nest;  
To hear Owls Music, nor that long;  
She'll make one dance unto her Song.  
Is this the freedom I have lost?  
Is this the freedom others boast?  
I by my Master now can stand,  
Peck Crumbs out of Anacreon's hand;  
And have my little Ganymede  
To give me Wine, whenever I need.  
I in a merry mood, can sup  
Wine out of Anacreon's Cup;  
His own pure, choice, delicious Wine,  
So smooth, so sparkling, and so fine!  
Which he keeps purposely to treat  
Bathyllus with, when they two meet.  
When I get drunk, I clap my wings,  
And dance, whilst my Anacreon sings.  
And when I am a sleepy grown,  
Upon his Harp I lay me down:  
Music and I can there agree  
In one united Harmony;  
Both make our Master Melody.  
Peace and Concord is, in brief,  
The perfect sum of my whole Life,  
Free from danger, noise, or strife.  
Farewell. But now too late I must repent,  
That like yourself I'm grown impertinent:  
For when I'm gone, you'll say you took me wrong,  
To be a Dove with a Crows prattling Tongue.   

ODE III. Gold.  
COuld the Miser's heaps of Gold  
Flatter Death to quit her hold;  
Or would Hell be so content,  
To take money for her Rent;  
Could a man at any rate,  
Bribe inexorable Fate;  
Could he get Charon in the mind  
To leave his Passengers behind,  
When he has once his Earnest paid;  
Could this Spirit be ever laid  
By all the Magic and the Spells  
Of Conjuring Misers in their Cells;  
Would Mercury but load himself,  
Instead of men, with loads of Pelf;  
Cumber up Hell with Bags of Coin;  
Could he prevail with Proserpina:  
'Twould be a notable Design.  
Could all his Wealth and all his Power  
Purchase Respite for an hour,  
O how I'd scrape and drudge for Ore!  
O how I'd ransack Natures Store!  
And when I'd done, still crave for more.  
I'd drain Pactolus for his Sands,  
And wish for Midas Golden Hands:  
I'd wash in Tagus to be rich,  
Glad to have that Golden Itch.  
The World should serve me for a Mine,  
To furnish me with Sovereign Coin,  
And I would serve at Pluto's Shrine.  
Almighty Gold should be my Word,  
Almighty Gold should be my Lord:  
Almighty Gold should all control;  
I'd bear his Image in my Soul.  
By him inspired, I'd seek and find  
Wealth, the Saviour of Mankind.  
For Gold is God, and something more;  
His Deity would I adore.  
Of my God I'd make a shrine,  
And out of that a Godhead coin.  
I'd dig to Hell, but that I'd get  
Enough to pay the common Debt  
Of Nature, a Security  
From all Arrests, and thus set free,  
That Hell and I might be at peace,  
And Death might grant a longer Lease.  
But if it be too hard a Task;  
Nay, if it be a sin to ask  
The price of a few fleeting days,  
To add a furlong to ones Race;  
To change one span of life to two,  
A single Thread into a Clue;  
To hire the Fates to sheathe the Knife,  
With Gold to purchase longer life:  
Why should I by daytime weep,  
Or in the nighttime break my sleep?  
Why should I beat my Breast, complain,  
Sigh, and whine, and all in vain?  
Melt into Tears, and tear my Hair,  
Like one in frenzy or despair?  
For if the Fates will so ordain,  
That I must die like other men;  
Nor have I reason to believe,  
From Fate I should myself reprieve:  
If I must die, and hence be hurled  
From this into another World;  
What use or pleasure can I have  
Of Gold or Silver in the Grave?  
They neither revel, buy nor sell,  
Nor drink, nor dance, nor love in Hell.  
Therefore I hope you will excuse  
These Recreations that I use  
Rarely, but Natural to my Muse.  
Besides, I am not like to meet  
A Mistress in a Winding-Sheet;  
Or court a Pretty Maid to Bed  
To Grave to me, when I am dead.   

ODE IU. Grey Hairs.  
WHither fliest thou, O my Dear,  
And leav'st a melting Lover here,  
Dying, sinking in Despair?  
Is my Reverend Hoary Grey,  
Such a bugbear in your way?  
What makes you look so ghast, and stare  
As if you're frighted at my Hair?  
Because yourself's so wondrous fair?  
Because your Cheeks, so lovely red,  
Can make Aurora hide her head,  
And blushing run again to bed?  
Make baffled Venus lose her Trade,  
The emulous Roses blast and fade?  
Scarlet and Crimson lose their die,  
Beauty itself ashamed to vie?  
Do not scornfully despise  
Me, the Victim of your eyes;  
But accept my bleeding Heart,  
Weak in Nature, strong in Art  
Then all objections justly mute  
Will prove, our different colours suit.  
For you must own, to do me right,  
I'm never the worse for being white.  
Such a lustre Lilies cast;  
Wanton Roses, Lilies chaste.  
But when they both together meet,  
The Rivals breathe a fragrant sweet,  
And make a Garland look complete.   

ODE V. Drink.  
WHen Wine has fumed into my head,  
My busy Senses all lie dead,  
And melancholy Migraines sink  
Into the Ocean of my Drink:  
This Whirl-pool swallows them all up;  
And at the bottom of my Cup  
I meet with all the Gods can give,  
To make a Mortal happy live.  
I never covet to be great,  
Nor envy Croesus his Estate.  
Like Bacchanal, I dance and sing,  
And scorn the Title of a King:  
I make a Football of a Crown,  
Kick glorious Diadems up and down.  
I versify Extempore,  
And all my Speech is Poetry.  
So that with reason I may think  
I'm made of Poetry, Love, and Drink.  
Let other men fall out, and fight  
For true or for pretended Right,  
To Arms, to Arms; I never care:  
A Bottle's all the Arms I bear.  
Serve only under Cupid's Banner,  
Till made a Lord of Venus' Manor.  
But now I think on't, I am told,  
That now my youthful Blood grows cold:  
Be wise, Anacreon, as thou'rt old.  
That Fate has eyed me several years,  
Resolved to pay off all Arrears:  
One foot is in the Grave, and Death  
Would fain suck out my fragrant breath:  
But I'll prevent him, and will lie  
Dead drunk o'th' spot before I die;  
And by this pretty Countermine  
Baffle the Cannibal's Design.   

Anacreon's Blessing.  
WHen Sleep had closed my weary Eyes,  
Sleep, that Door of Mysteries;  
On winged Chimaeras strait conveyed,  
Where Sentinels of Visions played  
Before the Gates of Night and Shade;  
Arrived at spacious Fairy Land,  
With Sibyl's Bough, and Morpheus Wand,  
My Fancy on an Object wrought,  
An Object worthy of a thought;  
That which by daytime did engage  
My mind in a Poetic Rage,  
When all my Senses sealed up, lay  
Free from the business of the day;  
My roving Brains again pursued,  
(Tho' the Conception was but rude)  
And once again with Joy renewed.  
Methought Anacreon appeared,  
An old man with a Reverend Beard,  
Old, yet had a graceful look;  
With a Bottle and a Book;  
His breath smelled strong of fragrant Wine,  
(Ah cursed be the fatal Vine!)  
His Lips with Kisses worn, and dry,  
His ruffled Cheeks of Scarlet die,  
His Spaniel Cupid running by.  
When by degrees he nearer drew,  
My Face, my Gate, and Habit knew.  
When falling prostrate on the ground,  
As a Son in Duty bound,  
Ten thousand times to speak I strove,  
Ten thousand times struck dumb by Love.  
Transports of Wonder and Surprise  
Ravished my Soul, and burst out of my Eyes:  
But he preventing my Petition,  
With a prophetical suspicion,  
Stroking my Lethargic head,  
In token of his Blessing, said,  
" Thy Vow is heard, and it is done,  
" The Father's Merits for the Son,  
" Make thee, though an unworthy Heir,  
" Fall to Praise, instead of Prayer.  
" Go lay claim unto my Strains,  
" My Muse inspire thy fruitful Brains,  
" As a Reward for all thy pains.  
" However, aim thou not too high;  
" Some at their lowest higher fly,  
" Than they that soar above the Sky;  
" Than they that soaring, never fell;  
" Know your own sphere, strive to excel  
" In that to which your Genius leads.  
" I never sung Heroic deeds,  
" Nay, should attempt it, all in vain,  
" To write in Homer's lofty strain:  
" Yet in my own peculiar way  
" Am every whit as famed as they.  
" But one Rule more before we go:  
" Let not your Fancy ebb and flow  
" As your Brain on Spirits feeds,  
" 'T helps one Defect, and twenty breeds.  
" Wine will nothing solid settle;  
" Hones by sharpening, wear the Mettle.  
" Tho' the bewitching Cups of Liquor  
" Made elevated thoughts the quicker,  
" Yet the Grapestone stopped my breath,  
" The Grape my life, the Grape my death.  
This said, Anacreon smiled and sneezed,  
A happy Omen he was pleased:  
Then pulled a Garland from his head,  
(The Garland was of Myrtle made,  
The Garland smelled of Love and Wine,  
Anacreontique, sweet, and fine)  
With Violets, Palms, and Roses wrought,  
And for a Song of Flora bought.  
This he about my Temples twined,  
And rapt in a strong blast of wind,  
Left me and sordid Earth behind.  
I for a Legacy did call,  
He let his Book and Spaniel fall.  
When out of sight the Coach was gone,  
I put Anacreon's Garland on.  
How glad I was to be undone!  
The Philtre did effectual prove,  
And nothing can these Charms remove;  
But I am plunged in the Abyss of endless Love.    

Bion Idyl. 4.  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, etc.  
To Mrs. M———— Dr———— r.  
'TIS the effect of Love, not servile Fear,  
The Muses fit their Songs to Cupid's Ear:  
Proud at his feet to lay their Sceptres down,  
And pay Allegiance to their Sovereign's Crown.  
'Tis only Love inspires Apollo's Lute,  
Without that Harmony the Music's Mute.  
The Harp of Eloquence, Venus fairly won  
At Pythian Games, a Present for her Son.  
Orpheus may tune up his Melodious Strings,  
Yet none so sweetly as the Siren sings.  
For that Apostate (an eternal shame  
Confound the Rebel, and his hateful Name!)  
Whose Actions all run counter to his Oath,  
His debauched Judgement counter to them both;  
Dull scribbling Traitor, who would fain infuse  
Treason into the heart of every Muse;  
The wholesome streams of our Parnassus' mud  
Wirh nasty Dregs of Wine, and Lakes of Blood;  
With cold admittance thinks to baffle Love,  
Blasphemously the God a Bastard prove;  
Shall flagging fly, and in those flights still fall:  
Parnassus Doves for him produce a Gall.  
In vain he calls, and swells, and splits his Lungs,  
Cupid has gagged their mouth, or tied their tongues;  
But he that with His Inspiration sings,  
Scorns the mean threadbare stile of warlike Kings,  
jambick Rage, great words, or mighty things:  
But in a soft, a smooth, a gentle strain,  
Shall ease (and without pangs) his teeming Brain;  
Shall as a Priest at Cupid's Altar wait,  
And daily numerous Offerings consecrate.  
His Reason never in Eclipse decay,  
Nor he want fire to animate his Clay.  
Etesian Gales of Wit, Invention blow,  
And Passion with Perfection jointly flow.  
Nature intent, whilst this her Master sings,  
And Immortality mount him on her Wings.  
His Plaudits shall be echoed through the World,  
Himself to the Elysian Mansions hurled.  
By good Experience part myself can prove,  
I never write so well, as when I write of Love.   

A Greek EPIGRAM to Hemiera. To Madam A— R—.  
WHen Pallas armed, met Venus in the Field,  
Will you, said she, the Prize of Beauty yield?  
Venus' replied, If naked with my Charms  
I can prevail, what need have I of Arms?   

The SNOWBALL. A Translation. To Madam D— B—  
ay Dera Snowballs made, and at me threw;  
What can a persecuted Lover do?  
What Labyrinths are these in which I rove?  
Inextricable are the Schools of Love.  
Even Snow, O Irony! to Fire she turns,  
And every Vein, with cold struck through, burns.  
Ah what so cold! yet that she could inspire,  
With heat enough to kindle my desire,  
Thrown only by her hands it set my heart on fire.  
What Antidote can such a Plague remove?  
What place can save me from the Charms of Love?  
If even the Elements unconstant prove;  
If they (like all the World) begin to cheat,  
If Contrarieties can so friendly meet,  
And cold so naturally bring forth heat;  
If Snow itself a hidden Fire contains,  
She only, only she can ease my pains;  
She captived first my heart, she must unloose my Chains.  
But ah! my flames cannot be quenched so,  
By virtue of cold Ice, or frozen Snow.   

To Idera wearing a MASK. A SONG To Madam M— R—.  

1.  
WHY should hoodwinked Nature die?  
And blinded Beauty fade?  
Grace, Innocence, and Virtue lie  
Smothered in Masquerade?   

2.  
Let Cupid's Monarchy display  
His Flags of White and Red,  
Nor give the World just cause to say,  
Sick of a Maidenhead.   

3.  
Why should the Mountebanks lay claim  
To th' Colours of your Skin?  
'T may raise a scandal on your Name,  
Tho' I should think it sin.   

4.  
Tho' my Implicit Faith be strong  
Invisibles to believe,  
Tho' I should think I did you wrong,  
To say you can deceive.   

5.  
Dispel those happy Clouds that kiss  
Your Rising Sun unseen,  
That strive to ravish all the Bliss,  
And interpose a Screen.   

6.  
Who would not at your Rays take fire?  
THE Arabian Deserts fly,  
And in a Spicy Nest expire,  
And in a Fever die?   

7.  
Pity a bleeding, wounded Hart,  
Abandoned by the Herd;  
I'd die, but for my better part,  
Life is to be preferred.   

8.  
Let Venus boast her Masterpiece,  
Let all the World admire;  
Let me alone the Prize possess,  
Troy, Greece,— may be on fire.    

Bion Idyl. 2.  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, etc.  
To Mr. Dryden.  
A Little Stripling once a shooting went,  
And hot he was, and on his Game intent:  
He spied the little blinking Buzzard, Love,  
Skulking in a thick shady Myrtle Grove;  
With joy and wonder struck, first stones he flung,  
And then his Bow, sure of his Buzzard, strung:  
Close by the Tree, a Fated Arrow drew,  
But Love too quick, still to another flew,  
And all the Archer's Policy would not do.  
Then to a good old Man he did himself apply,  
Told him the News, and showed Love perching up on high.  
The Gaffer Ploughman smiling, shook his head,  
Pleased with the fancy, to the Artist said,  
Leave shooting, Youngster, and believe my words,  
These are but feathered Monsters, Beasts of Birds.  
Were you at man's estate, he'd act your part;  
Love's a damned Marksman at a seasoned heart.  
Tho' he flies now, then would he follow you,  
And as a greedy Vultur close pursue.  
You are too young, he's for a noble Prey;  
Yet lest he take a liking to you, get you hence away.   

A PARAPHRASE On the twenty third Idyl. of Theocritus, From the beginning to 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, etc.  
To Idera.  

I.  
AN amorous little Swain  
Was set to keep  
His Father's goodly Flock of Sheep,  
In the Arcadian Plain:  
By chance a beauteous She came by,  
Whom when his watchful Eyes did spy,  
His Guardian Eyes  
That there stood Centinel, with wonder and surprise,  
Marking the beauty of her Angel's face,  
Set off with a sweet Carriage, and a heavenly Grace,  
Blest with a pleasant Mein, and sprightly Air,  
And all the dear Enchantments of the Fair;  
Well satisfied, they let her pass:  
Who thus admitted, did impart  
The secret to his wounded Heart.  
Charmed with the lovely Maid, that Fate had thither brought,  
Whose Beauty did surpass desire or thought;  
In making whom,  
Nature for once did thus presume  
To go beyond her Rule, and place  
On a sweet Virgin's Body, a Cherub's Face;  
Or rather to adorn  
With more than heavenly Beauty, a Terrestrial form.   

II.  
But ah! her Mind  
Not like to her Seraphic Face, proud, scornful, and unkind;  
Despising those whom Passion,  
Whom resistless Passion moved,  
To humble Adoration,  
Those who disdained her most, she above all things loved.  
She knew not, nor desired to know  
The fatal power of Cupid's Bow,  
How oft, and how infallibly he throws  
An amorous golden Dart,  
To pierce the refractory Heart  
That dare his injured Deity expose;  
Cruel in deed and word:  
ne'er the least hopes of comfort would discover,  
To a despairing, burning, dying Lover.  
But in her Veins, Fury for Passion boils,  
No rosy Lips, no pleasant Smiles,  
No blushing Cheeks, no languishing Eyes,  
That might seem to sympathise;  
But as a chased Boar that fills  
With roaring all the neighbouring Hills,  
With Vengeance casts his Eyes around,  
And foaming, tears the groaning ground;  
Till distant Vales the Echo trembling take;  
The Forest all and every Creature shake:  
So she, glances her Eyes upon the Swain,  
With desperate Disdain,  
Adding more fuel to his never dying Pain.   

III.  
With scorn her Countenance turned pale,  
And all her other Charms began to fail;  
Disdain had banished every Grace,  
Those blazing Comets of her Face,  
Pride and Contempt took place.  
Yet the Shepherd finds no Arms  
For these fainting, sickly Charms.  
Her divine Sweetness he must still admire,  
Struck blind from Heaven with Cupid's fire,  
The flashes of an impotent desire.  
Alas! how vain does speechless Reason prove!  
When entered in that Tyrant's Schools,  
We learn his Epidemic Rules;  
And fettered in the Chains of Love,  
Turn Fashionable Fools:  
We cannot call ourselves our own,  
But our affections pay obeisance to another's Crown.   

IV.  
No longer able to contain,  
Tho' all in vain,  
Tho' all his words were Offerings to the Wind,  
Deaf as she was unkind!  
Tears like the Torrent of a swelling Flood,  
Tears from the Heart exhaled, and drops of Blood,  
Their sinking banks did overflow,  
And drown the famished Vales below.  
Trembling with dread and awful fear,  
At last he ventured to draw near  
The Object of his Love, the Cause of his Despair.  
First he presumes to kiss  
The sacred ground whereon he with Devotion trod,  
As in the presence of an angry God,  
And then he strove to speak;  
But conscious Jealousy oft gave a check,  
And made his half-out-lisping words draw back.  
Stam'ring at last he forced out such a Speech as this.   

V.  
" Inexorable, cruel, stony Saint!  
" Blind to my Tears, and deaf to my Complaint!  
" Sure of some Lioness, or Tiger born,  
" Unworthy of my Love, as I unworthy of your Scorn!  
" A grateful Present to your Shrine I bring,  
" The Welcome, and the only welcome thing,  
" That to my comfort, must remain,  
" To ease me of my Pain,  
" To ease me of my Love, and you of your Disdain;  
" And Lo! proud haughty Nymph, and Lo!  
" How willingly I go,  
" How willingly I go, and take delight  
" In your Commands, though banished from your sight.  
" I go where every Lovesick mind  
" An universal Remedy may find;  
" The place is called Oblivion's Land,  
" And Lethe's lazy Lake i'th' midst does stand;  
" Which were it possible that I could dry,  
" In flames unquenchable I still should fry;  
" Nor could I yet forget thy Name,  
" So oft have I repeated o'er the same.  
" But find alas! no Water that can quench my Flame.   

VI  
" Adieu, fair Virgin! and eternally adieu!  
" Yet thou proud Anaxarete! learn what doom  
" Undoubtedly shall on thy Beauty come,  
" And from my dying mouth believe it true.  
" The pleasant Day is quickly done,  
" Flowers in the Morning fresh, cut down by Noon;  
" The blushing Roses fade, and wither soon;  
" White Snow that melts before the scorching Sun,  
" So youthful Beauty's full of Charms, all in a moment gone  
" The time will come, when you yourself will prove  
" How great a Deity is Love,  
" Beauty, or Wit, will even that scornful Soul alarm,  
" A wanton Ovid, or a fair Adonis' Charm;  
" You'll offer Hecatombs of Prayers,  
" Bedew your Sacrifice with floods of tears,  
" Day and night sigh would, but you dare not woe,  
" For all's in vain that you can do,  
" No greater pity will you find than I from you.  
" Then will your tortured Conscience bring me into mind,  
" Not to encourage you, but serve you in your kind;  
" My restless Ghost shall come,  
" Not with soft Sighs, but Io's loud at your deserved doom.   

VII.  
" And yet grant me but this, even this at least,  
" I'll ask no more, but grant me this Request,  
" Pull out the fatal Dagger from my Breast,  
" And come and sigh and mourn a while;  
" I ask not (what I longed for once) a Smile:  
" But pull the Dagger from the Wound,  
" And close, and close embrace me round:  
" Thy Veil over my lifeless Body spread,  
" Give me one kiss, one kiss when I am dead.  
" I ask no more, coy Daphne! grant but this,  
" A meeting, parting Kiss,  
" Seal my cold Lips with thine,  
" When thou hast sucked up all my dying breath,  
" And mournful Cypress round my Temples twine,  
" When to th' Elysian Mansions I am fled.  
" Nor needst thou fear, thus summoned after death,  
" My ravished Sold should come again;  
" No, all thy Courtship is in vain,  
" All cannot draw me from the Joys of the Elysian Plain.   

VIII.  
Then build me up a stately Tomb,  
For a close Retiring Room;  
In it place a Downy Bed,  
Where Love may lay his sworn Confederate's head;  
And leave me, after thou hast three times said,  
My Duserastes, He! Soul of my Soul, is dead.  
Ah, cruel Death! that couldst us two divide,  
Had Jove but pleased that I for thee had died!  
Write this upon my Monument, to prove  
Your own Unworthy Scorn, my Constant Love:  
Here lies a Lover, Killed by deep Despair;  
Stay Reader, stay,  
And only be so kind to say,  
Alas! he loved, alas! he loved a Cruel Fair.    

Chorus 1. Of Seneca's Agamemnon.  
To my Lord Townshend.  

I.  
FOrtune! thou slippery Stage of Kings,  
Upon whose Smiles or Frowns  
Depends the Settlement or Fall of Crowns!  
What various Chances treacherous Fortune brings,  
Mounting on deceitful Wings!  
To Monarch's Sceptres gives, and sets them up on high  
Upon the tottering Spires of Dignity;  
Then leaves them all alone,  
Hung in the Air, upon a Windy Throne,  
Volatile Fortune must be gone:  
So let them fall or rise,  
Away the base perfidious Juggler flies.  
How canst thou put a Cheat on us, so bare,  
Give us but Tinsel Goods for Solid Ware?  
Wouldst have them rich and gay appear,  
Tho' truly little worth, and truly very dear.   

II.  
'Tis not a Conqueror's Sword or Crown,  
A Prince's Smile, or Tyrant's Frown,  
Can make Cares at distance keep,  
Or buy one short-lived moment's sleep.  
Greatness is nothing but a pleasant Fable,  
Nor can it make a Soul invulnerable.  
The Court is no security from pains,  
Princes have wore their Chains.  
One Misery on another's neck does ride;  
'Tis a troubled Sea, when Fortune is our Guide;  
And 'tis a rare unusual sight,  
In Fate's black Webs to see one thread of white.  
The raging Waves tear up the Sand,  
And foaming beat against the Land;  
Yet not so fast the Tide can flow,  
Yet not so fast the Wind can blow,  
As giddy Fortune rashly throw  
Out of her careless hand, the doubtful Die,  
When in the twinkling of an Eye,  
King's Beggars, Beggars Kings, turned at her Lottery.  
King's would be feared, but even Kings we see,  
Fear, lest they that fear them, should use Treachery.   

III.  
'Tis not the Night can give the Balm of Rest  
To those whose Spirits are oppressed  
With Care, that Nightmare on their breast.  
Sleep is no Antidote t' expel  
Fear, that Firebrand of Hell.  
What City will not impious Arms destroy?  
'Slight was the Cause, great was the Fall of Troy.  
Bloodthirsty War swallows whole Kingdoms down,  
Nor makes two mouthfuls of a Crown.  
See the vast Pyramids that once even reached the Sky,  
Like Molehills in the dust, or Atoms lie.  
Chastity is at Court a hateful name,  
And silenced Justice put to shame:  
They laugh at Wedlock's Sacred Tie,  
Stifle gasping Innocence,  
Perjure their Reason, and debauch their Sense,  
And impudently give even Truth itself the Lye.   

IV.  
But War in Hostile manner stands  
With Spear advanced, and bloody hands:  
And there Jove's Executioners all wait  
To overturn those Pinnacles of State.  
Furies in the Triumphant Chariot ride,  
With Whips to check the Consul's pride.  
Death in a thousand dreadful shapes appears,  
And gnaws on Conscience prepossessed with fears.  
Crowns from weight, and care from Kings,  
Are both inseparable things.   

V.  
Yet suppose Fate offers no Violence,  
Public Peace, private Innocence,  
Still things that are so high and great,  
Cannot support their feeble height,  
But tottering down, sink under their own weight.  
If Sails be filled, though by a prosperous wind,  
Those Gales may prove unkind.  
A Whirlwind overturns the Tower that shrouds  
Its lofty top amongst the Clouds.  
The little Shrubs in humble shades that spread,  
See the vast Oak, whose proud aspiring head  
Defied the Thunderer, in the Forest lie  
Sapless, withered, cracked, and dry.  
Flashes of Lightning only Mountains strike;  
In this alone are Fortune's Scales alike:  
Whatever's above weight must over fall,  
Without exception, All.  
Great Bodies, too luxurious grown  
With something more than properly their own,  
Predominant Diseases feed  
Corruption in the Blood, and Humours breed.  
The fattest cattle are for slaughter chose,  
To dangers Greatness must expose.  
Whatever tottering Fortune does exalt,  
Has only Crutches lent to learn to halt.   

VI  
Low moderate things must needs bear longest date,  
That man is truly, and is only Great,  
That lives contented with a mean Estate.  
Thrice happy is that man whose Means do lie  
Above, or else below cursed Fortune's Eye;  
Nor like a Coward to the shore does creep,  
Nor rashly thrusts himself into the deep,    

Parting with His Dear Brother, Mr. Ash Wyndham.  

I.  
MAke room, ye pygmy Sons of Fame,  
That with Antiquity would swell your name,  
Proud before others, to have trod  
The Paths of Virtue, and the Ways of God.  
Tho' last, I'll mend my pace,  
Not they that set out first, must win the Race.  
'Tis done! and now, methinks,  
The stately Monument of Nisus sinks,  
And all those Hero's dust to nothing shrinks.  
'Tis done! I mount upon the Wings of Love,  
And through the Sky, by the Twin-Stars I move;  
From whence those little Atoms I review,  
That once with Titles filled the World,  
Thousands into a crowded Pitcher hurled,  
Wet with the Tears of Moisture and of Dew.   

2.  
'Tis done! and all the Fields my own,  
But still what shall I do to be for ever known?  
How shall I keep up this my flight,  
And prove 'tis not Presumption, but my Right?  
'Tis done! and the unquestionable Heir,  
Dear Corydon, will to my Title swear,  
Even He, whose name had spread from Pole to Pole,  
Great and diffusive as his Soul:  
Had Fame, with all her hundred Tongues, but breath  
To sound him loud enough, till after death,  
Whose Name was made to comprehend  
All the Virtues of a Friend:  
Too great for words, whose Soul needs no translation, Nature's one only work of Supererogation.   

3.  
Oh! I could almost with that Fate would try  
How unconcerned for thee I durst to die;  
How at the fatal Altar I could smile,  
Grieved only at thy absence for a while.  
Proud as a Harbinger, to go before  
To choose some melancholy Grove,  
Where I together with my thoughts might rove,  
And thy auspicious Name implore.  
Yet if not sentenced to depart,  
How gladly could I watch the Guardian of my heart!  
Nor yet by day, nor yet by night,  
Let thee steal one short moment from my sight.  
How with thy absence can I be content,  
When every minute without thee, is misspent?  
But ah! the Fruits forbidden for a time,  
And who the Tree dares climb?  
Now were not Jealousy a sin,  
I could once more, once, and eternally begin  
Thy Faith, thy Promise to secure,  
Not in a thousand Oaths secure.   

4.  
Pardon (Dear Corydon!) too zealous Love,  
That fain would all things prove;  
Afraid on slender grounds to trust,  
Or can a Friend be over just?  
For though my faltering fears betray  
Suspicious doubts, yet I must still believe  
'T's impossible for Corydon to deceive;  
Whose heart's Truth's Hieroglyphic well expressed,  
Presiding in the Temple of your Breast.  
Where on that Altar I must humbly lay  
This Offering, with my consecrated Vow,  
My Sibyl's Golden Bough.  
I swear by your own self, and truth by you,  
That to the selfsame Oath I will be true:  
Nor need I tell you, for you needs must know,  
I love you above all things here below.  
By Heaven once more, and the Almighty Powers,  
Entirely and eternally I'm Yours,   
C. O.   

To Mr. G. L. an ODE.  

1.  
DEar George, the better part  
Of my united, now divided heart,  
Accept of these rude Lines this Paper bears,  
Conceived in Sorrow, and brought forth in Tears;  
Sad as th' Occasion, hasty as thy Flight:  
Nor wonder, if with so much pains  
They wrought their passage through my brains:  
No wonder, if so hardly I the Dirge indite,  
Which even my Pen clogged with grief, cannot write:  
No wonder, if my Verses lag behind,  
Since my Muse with Tears is blind,  
I to this Prison here confined;  
For sure no better is that place to me,  
Whilst thou are absent, wheresoever it be.   

2.  
Seven days are past, since I beheld thy face,  
In which Divinity itself is writ,  
And Angel all in every line of it;  
Picture of Beauty, and the Stamp of Grace.  
Seven! to what immense number does that word amount!  
Seven days! 7000 years in Love's account.  
Every Minute is a Day,  
Every Hour a tedious Year,  
In which the Sun does once appear,  
And in a moment vanishes away,  
And leaves the miserable cloudy Hemisphere.  
Seven days! before I could my silence break,  
Thy Name in Accents interrupted speak.  
For seven long days upon the Rack,  
And overwhelmed with the dreadful storm,  
Grief haunted me like th'evil Spirit of Saul;  
Then in my wavering mind I thought,  
What if I should myself to David's Harp apply?  
And might not numbers be a Remedy?  
I tried and found it nonsense all;  
I tried again, and at the second draught,  
Like old Deucalion's Stones, all came to better form.   

3.  
To say, my Life is bound in thine,  
In deed were a Tautology;  
For that as necessarily must be,  
As that thou hast a Soul divine.  
But to express the Grief and Consternation,  
When Soul and Body part;  
For such it is does seize my heart,  
That, that only is above my passion.  
Each day, my Sun, since you withdrew your light,  
Has been an everlasting Night;  
And yet still banished, Thyrsis, from thy sight!   

4.  
I feel the Pangs and Tortures of a dying Soul;  
Nay, I myself am dead, though but in part,  
Whilst you are my Vicegerent in my heart,  
And must command the whole.  
'Tis this alone that does support  
My sinking Spirits from the Grave,  
That though the Scorpion stings, her blood can save.  
Greatness and Fortune do your absence court;  
Tho' Fate does her malicious Nature show,  
To make such bitter streams from a sweet Fountain flow.   

5.  
Methinks I Pylades and Orestes see,  
And must admire their constancy;  
But when again I do recount  
To what vast sum my Debts amount,  
How infinitely I am obliged to thee,  
Their Friendship in the Balance laid,  
And equally and fairly weighed  
Against my spotless Love,  
Lighter than Vanity does prove,  
Tilts up, (like Vapours that the Air invade)  
Whilst mine is solid and does downward to its centre move:  
No more to be compared, than Atoms to the Sun,  
Or little drops unto the boundless Ocean.   

6.  
Pylades proffered his own Life, ('tis true)  
And bore that punishment was justly due  
To 
| Orestes, who killed his Mother.  such a Friend; but hadst 
† Pylades.  thou died  
Instead of him, thou hadst been styled the Matricide,  

* This, according to Tully's Maxim in his Treatise De Amicitiâ, proves, that these two could not be true Friends; for, says he, Amicitia nisi in bonis esse non potest. Quid igitur? an caedes, bonum?  His horrid Crime transferred to you:  
That Murder soon have put an end  
To that proverbial name of Friend.  
But as thy matchless Innocence  

‖ An Apostrophie to his Friend.  Could only be a capital Offence,  
Thy Virtues I would ransom by my death,  
And bless the Author with my dying breath.   

7.  
This I with less reluctancy could bear,  
Than such damnation to despair,  
Than absence from that glorious Sun,  
Who lends all Creatures light, and yet himself wants none.  
'Tis from his Rays I steal Promethean fire,  
Kindle my fatal 
† An Allusion to the Phoenix.  Spices, and expire:  
Whose Worth and Virtues when I think upon,  
Tossed by two different motions of my mind,  
But both to the same end inclined,  
I cannot be withheld, I must be gone:  
My Soul is on the wing;  
But being stopped by cross Necessity,  
She makes a Post of every Wind,  
Sends word she fears you grow unkind;  
Commits to every blast a sigh,  
Then melts away into a piece of Poetry.  
So when the Nightingale has gored her breast,  
She tunes her Pipes, and quavers out her best:  
And though in the extremity of pain,  
Has not forgot her usual strain,  
But sets herself to sing.    

The SPRING. To Mr. Ben. Wrightson.  
Ver adeò frondi nemorum, ver utile sylvis:  
Vere tument terrae, & genitalia semina poscunt.  Vir. geor. 2. 
HAil fragrant Spring! the charming pride of May,  
Let Heaven smile upon this solemn day,  
The Sun new dressed, shine with a brighter ray.  
The Feverish Summer, Aguish Winter fly,  
Consumptive Autumn with her Palsy die,  
Or banished hence at the dread Queen's command,  
Go take possession in another Land.  
For Flora comes with Royal Garlands crowned,  
The Flowers kiss her feet upon the ground;  
The Muses, Graces, and good Genius dance,  
And with just Measures and sweet Tunes advance.  
Birds winged Sirens, Choristers of the Sky,  
In Consort sing, and in Procession fly;  
Each keeps his proper Time, and Note, and Place,  
Whilst falling murmuring Rivers sing the Base.  
The Eastern winds Arabian Odours breath,  
The Western upwards blow those Sweets they sucked beneath.  
The Fields arrayed in their new Robes of State,  
Upon their bounteous Benefactor wait.  
Birds fan their wings, & spread their speckled plumes,  
And Violets make a Present of Perfumes.  
The Air on Primroses and Lilies feeds,  
Melts Spices, and prolific moisture breeds.  
The Woodbinds and the Honysuckles strive  
Which with Ambrosia first can stock a Hive.  
Nature does entertain the Queen with Feasts,  
And Plays and Masks acted by wanton Beasts:  
The Elephant plays Gambols with his Trunk;  
The Grasshopper with dew of Nectar drunk,  
To his own Music leads a Country-Dance:  
Mettlesom Horses, through their Pasture prance;  
The active Roes and Kids at Leapfrog play;  
The whole Creation keeps a Holy day.  
Now tempting Venus, naked in her Hair,  
With her Gallants walks out to take the Air.  
Love in his Mother's Locks hides all his Darts,  
And takes his rounds to single out his Hearts:  
And here and there, still as he passes by,  
At random lets an amorous Arrow fly.  
Day and night Vulcan his vast Bellows blows,  
Day and night the Cyclopian Anvil glows  
With hardened Metal worked on th' Forge of Fate,  
For Shafts, some gilt with Love, some tipped with Hate.  
His Stock for all the following year, new ground,  
Poisoned to carry Death in every Wound.  
Proud Peacocks with their Tails expanded strut,  
And jealous Rams for recreation butt.  
The Warlike Steed waves up and down his Main,  
The Warlike Steed, the Champion of the Plain.  
The Bull fights bloody Duels for his Mate,  
And to keep up the Grandeur of his State.  
No Fleecy Tempests gather in the Sky,  
Nor raging Dog-stars torrid heat now fry.  
But Sol with his new Chariot shines more bright,  
His Horse's breath less flame, and clearer light.  
The Silver Streams double refined flow,  
And Fishes frisk, to see the pompous Show.  
Home the kind Oak the Vine his Wife receives,  
And hides her nakedness with his own Leaves.  
Turtles together billing sit, and coo,  
And with alternate glances silent woe.  
Nightingales charm the listening Woods, to wrest  
Their tender Sprigs, to make a downy Nest.  
Flora's conducted to her Vernal Throne,  
And now a Trumpet for Retreat is blown.  
Once more her Court, the painted Gardens smile,  
And sweat out moisture from their fruitful Soil.  
The sickly Plants revive, look fresh and fair,  
The Season temperate, clear the Morning Air:  
The Evening drops down various sweets in showers;  
Proserpina plunders Sicily for Flowers.  
The little eager Virgin never stands,  
But fills her Lap, her Bosom, and her Hands:  
The Blossoms, pressed by an untimely death,  
Spin out their Odour with their dying breath:  
(As Bees, killed by the wanton Boys in play,  
Their Honey from their swelling Bags convey.)  
Blind Pluto comes, innocent his design!  
Led by the scent, and lights on Proserpina:  
Then greedy to secure those fragrant Sweets,  
He takes her too, and rifles all he meets.  
Now more than her Elysian Joys invite,  
Now Fate unlocks the Iron Gate of Night,  
The Prisoner visits Ceres and the Light.  
Almighty Jupiter descends to lie  
With Mother Earth, and passing through the Sky,  
The scorching heat of Signs malignant damps,  
And with fresh Oil supplies the heavenly Lamps.  
Now Mother Earth's full time is almost come,  
Parent of all things, bears a pregnant Womb.  
Nature is hatching Plenty on her Nest,  
Nature by youthful Saturn first compressed.  
This is the Life and Spirit of the Year,  
With a brisk Air thus Janus does appear.  
This the slick skin, the shrivelled Snake does wear,  
when her old case is ragged, loose, and bare.  
Harmonious Music, and Seraphic Love,  
Is all those happy Souls enjoy above.  
Now Earth is like the Mansions of the Blessed;  
Music in every Grove, and Love in every Breast.  
Here in this natural Landscape we may see  
Hesperian Paradise in Epitome:  
For what was Paradise, but eternal Spring?  
Let Birds of Paradise its Praises sing.  
Hail, Sacred Spring! Hail to thy lovely Green!  
Let the World shout, Amen; and cry, God bless the Queen.  
Non alios primâ crescentis origine Mundi  
Illuxisse Dies, aliumve habuisse tenorem  
Crediderim. Ver illud erat: ver magnus agebat  
Orbis, etc.  Vir. Geor 2.  

Learning.  
WHen dismal Chaos did the World confound,  
And all lay in a common Deluge drowned,  
Horror, Despair, and Death reigned all around.  
Parnassus was the last that disappeared,  
Or first his reverend top aspiring reared.  
The Olive-Tree then lifted up her head,  
And smiled to see no Rival Beauty bred.  
Thus Learning is the next to our Salvation;  
Last of the old, or first o'th' new Creation.   

To Mr. R. Smith of King's College in Cambridge.  
Ingentes animos angusto in Corpore versant.  Vir. Geor 4. 
I Hear, my Friend, some dare profane your name,  
Derogate from your Merit and your Fame,  
Presume your Body, for a capacious Mind  
Too little, as if Dwarves were Fools by kind.  
Minerva sure was no such bouncing Dame,  
The puny Product of Jove's little Brain.  
Apollo too was but a Dapper Twin,  
By Nature and by Birth the next akin:  
Apollo all the Wit from Diana stole,  
Shared half his Father's Rape, but all his Soul.  
The other rough, unhewen, long Lubbers made,  
For Nonsense, Service, Slavery, and Trade.  
The Sacred Laurel is itself but low,  
And with its humble and submissive bough,  
Does court the mighty Brain, the little Brow.  
What though your Body be diminutive,  
Heaven to your Soul can no addition give.  
Infects that have most Legs, do slowest crawl;  
The Dove of all Birds, only wants a Gall.  
What greater Bruits go by the name of men,  
Than a Thersites, or a Saracen?  
What though dumb Animals we can despise,  
The wisest man yet thought the Ant was wise.  
A Nutshell held the worth of Homer's Brain,  
And a small Bottle could the Winds contain.  
From narrow straits vast rapid Billows flow,  
And Zephyrus fruitful Gales do gently blow.  
Full as much Prudence to the Bee is given,  
As any winged Inhabitant of Heaven.  
And the least Body justly may aspire  
To one small spark of the Celestial Fire,  
The Great can do no more, the Great can mount no higher.  
The barren Tree can in the Deserts spread,  
And threaten Heaven with its luxurious head:  
Whilst others low, and laden with their Fruit,  
With bended Branches touch their very root.  
Let Fools and Coxcombs prate what they think fit,  
And burst with Envy, they must still submit  
To pygmy Members, and Gigantic Wit.   

To Idera in Mourning, Going into Mourning Himself soon after.  

1.  
PRovident Fate considered well,  
When at one double stroke two fell,  
For both to toll one Passing-bell.   

2.  
Not that his stock of Shafts was low,  
Nor did they one another know  
For Fellow-Travellers below.   

3.  
But when she saw one bleeding heart,  
In different Liveries forced to part,  
She drew a reconciling Dart.   

4.  
When therefore there a Blank was put,  
Here Fate a Thread, grown rotten, cut,  
And Eyes that could not open, shut.   

5.  
Of hoary Grief now both partake,  
Or else a solemn Mourning make,  
Idera! for one another's sake.   

6.  
For thus by Heaven it was decreed,  
Our Myrtle, for our Mourning Weed,  
Incorporate should together breed.   

7.  
Our Streams from the same Fountain flow;  
From the same Stalk our Troubles grow;  
The Rise, the Root we only know.   

8.  
So when one Flower's torn, and pressed,  
And smothered in a steaming Breast,  
That Wound will murder all the rest.   

9  
So if one Base be struck alone,  
The next that bears a heavy tone,  
Will fetch a Sympathetick Groan.   

10.  
Learn from your everlasting Dye,  
Not with your Black to change your Constancy,  
'T were better you should mourn alone, than I    

A Paradox in Praise of Ambition.  
To his dear Friend Mr. Edw. Taylour, of Merton College in Oxford.  
— Deus immortalis haberi  
Dum cupit Empedocles, ardentem fervidus Aetnam  
Insiluit.  Horat. de Arte Poeticâ. 

1.  
SOul of the World! Spark of Promethean Fire!  
Sick of this lower Orb, my Breast inspire!  
Mount me upon thy Wings!  
To blow thy Thundering Trumpet Fame,  
To be the Herald of thy Name,  
And tune thy speaking Strings!  
Let me for ever at thy Altars wait,  
Know what it is to be divinely Great.   

2.  
Thou art the whole Creation's Mystic Sun,  
And thou art all its Beauties drawn in one!  
For when thy Glory's set,  
Thick Clouds must intercept the Light,  
Black Darkness, and eternal Night  
Their old Dominion get,  
When thou art banished from thy Royal Throne,  
Confusion must her Firstborn Chaos own.   

3.  
Thou dost our grovelling Souls from Earth transport,  
From sordid Earth, with Jove to keep our Court:  
Thou dost of God partake  
A Particle of heavenly Air,  
The Badge of Honour that we wear  
For our Distinction sake:  
Else Bruits might claim preeminence over Man,  
Nay Bruits would suffer by th' Comparison.   

4.  
Thy Engine mounts our noble thoughts on high,  
Deucalion's Stones have learned the art to fly:  
Thou dost our Metal prove,  
Thou hast the everlasting Springs  
On which all great and mighty things  
In their right order move;  
Thy Spirit does life unto our Souls dispense,  
Thy Centre's everywhere, but nowhere thy Circumference.   

5.  
Nor can our leaden Faculties aspire  
To one great Action, till thy Vestal Fire  
On our blind Reasons shine;  
From Sleep our dull Affections raise,  
Free Passions from a misty maze,  
Our drossy part refine.  
Whatever's wonderful, from thee must come,  
Must be conceived in thy Omniscient Womb.   

6.  
What is it that I hear Caesar thy Heir,  
Caesar, Soul of thy Soul, devoutly swear,  
This Light shall either see  
Caesar degraded to a Tomb,  
Or Caesar Pontifex of Rome,  
A Slave, or Monarch Herald  
Here Sovereign Prince, or there a Sovereign Shade,  
Where amongst Nothings, no Distinction's made.   

7.  
It was a thought worthy of thy own Spirit,  
Nor was Rome over answerable for his Merit.  
She could not put him by,  
For overruled by Power Divine,  
They all their Hearts and Voices join,  
And Caesar, Caesar cry.  
It was the breathing of a Soul inspired,  
With a true Principle of Honour fired.   

8.  
Thus Calchas baffled in Prophetic strife,  
Redeemed his Honour by his loss of life.  
And thus in Robes of State,  
When ransacked Rome was all on fire,  
The Senate only did desire,  
Like Gods, to meet their Fate.  
Thus Hannibal could Death itself command,  
Resolved to fall by none but his own hand.   

9  
Stoics in vain a Rigorous Life defend,  
And to renounce all Passions would pretend:  
Whilst they submit to thine,  
Thee Sovereign over Nature own,  
As a just Tribute to thy Throne,  
Bodies and Souls resign.  
See Cato, for his Honour bleeding lie,  
Brutus, the Best of men, for Glory die.   

10.  
Of Alexander, what should I rehearse?  
Who took a Journey through the Universe,  
Did all things there subdue;  
Kingdoms against Kingdoms hurled,  
At one stroke conquered all the World,  
And shocked even Nature too:  
At last with Tears crammed into a small Tomb,  
Complaining in these narrow straits for want of room.   

11.  
And now methinks ten thousand Heroes throng,  
To hear and bear a part in this my Song;  
Where in the Front I spy  
Hercules by his Pillars stand;  
Scaevola with his withered hand;  
Codrus and Decius vy:  
With Palms the Royal Champions all in white  
In a Procession go, a Glorious Sight!   

12.  
What though th' Rebellious Giants groaning lie,  
Stretched out under a vast Eternity?  
What though that hateful name  
Catiline greedy to be Great,  
Make nothing to devour a State?  
Theirs was a Bastard Flame.  
For pure Ambition nothing will suggest,  
Nothing but what will stand even Virtue's Test:   

13.  
Nor a dishonourable Scaffold climb,  
To build to Heaven, to compass her design;  
Nor when in quest of Fame,  
To quench her never-dying Thirst,  
Take draughts of Poison till she burst,  
And so procure a Name.  
From a base Thought or Action she will fly,  
Too near akin to Virtue to comply.   

14.  
When Heaven first made our active Souls of Fire,  
Heaven designed those flames should all aspire.  
Can we be so unjust,  
Our divine Natures to debase?  
Crawl with the Serpent on our Face,  
And lick our Native Dust?  
Our Souls as heavy as our Corpse of Clay,  
Not unlike Worms, were we not worse than they.   

15.  
But above all our Tribe with thee possessed,  
Indulge thy brooding motions in their breast.  
In thy winged Chariot rise,  
The glorious works of God survey,  
The Regions of eternal Day,  
And Flowery Paradise:  
Sometimes above take an immortal flight,  
Or pass through Tempe's Valleys of Delight.   

16.  
Thou with the influence of thy fruitful Beams  
Reflect'st a warmth on Helicon's cold streams:  
By thee, the heavenly Choir  
All their harmonious Anthems sing,  
Apollo without thee's no King,  
Thou breathest on his Lyre.  
By thee the Palm pressed down, still higher shoots,  
Till Heaven her Branches kiss, and Hell her roots.   

17.  
Full of thy Power I can no more contain,  
But the excess of Pleasure turns to pain;  
Alas what shall I do?  
Still but a younger Son of Fame,  
Nor that— a cipher of a Name,  
A Dwarfish Poet too?  
How shall I Nature underhand engage,  
Not thus to measure out my Portion by my Age?   

18.  
What Manure is't will ripen Barren Brains?  
How shall I spin out Sense in Waller's strains?  
Oh! that I could but draw  
All those beauteous Charms that lie  
Under the Veil of Poetry,  
And could strain Nature's Law,  
To comprehend all Wisdom, and all Wit,  
Nor, by thy light, upon the Rocks of Error split!   

19  
What shall I do to be for ever known,  
And make Perfection's Quintessence my own!  
But all my thought's in vain,  
I only can myself apply  
To Caesar's fatal Remedy,  
I flag in every strain,  
And like the Nightingale must even expire,  
Vanquished, and dumb on the Victorious Lyre.    

To Idera. Age in a Looking-glass.  
O quam continuis, & quantis longa senectus  
Plena malis! deformem, & tetrum ante omnia vultum,  
Dissimilemque sui, deformem pro cute pellem,  
Pendentesque genas, & tales adspice jugas,  
Quales umbriferos ubi pandit Tabraca saltus,  
In vetulâ scalpit jàm mater simia buccâ, etc.  
Juv. Sat. 10.  
DO not, haughty Nymph, disdain  
The Incense of an Humble Swain!  
What though you're Great? what though you're Fair?  
Age and Death will not spare.  
A furrowed Cheek, a wrinkled Chin,  
An old tough Hide, a Saffron Skin,  
Sore, Rheumy Eyes, the Senses gone,  
Fallen Jaws, nothing but skin and bone,  
The Picture of a Skeleton,  
May be thought something like a Face,  
To one that loves the former Grace;  
Apollo scorns a cold Embrace.  
The like Marpessa choose a Joy,  
Not transient, nor apt to cloy:  
A constant Love, that's like to last,  
Tho' Clouds and Storms should overcast.  
Apollo takes you for a time,  
And only courts to taste your Prime:  
A God too goodly to engage  
His Faith to Females for an Age:  
Must through all Cupid's Labyrinths range,  
His Love as often as his Visage change;  
But Idas, though a Mortal, yet may prove  
Immortal in his Love:  
None can like Ida's constant be,  
And none like Idas can resemble Me.   

SOLITUDE. To his dear Brother, Mr. Ash Wyndham.  
Sic ego secretis possum bene vivere sylvis,  
Qua nulla humano sit via trita pede.  
Tu mihi curarum requies, tu nocte vel atrâ  
Lumen, & in solis tu mihi Turba locis.  

1.  
O Corydon! how I hug myself to think!  
When in this troubled Sea the World,  
All thrust into the Main,  
Till by a Hurricane,  
Through the Abyss with Vengeance hurled,  
With horrible Adieus they parting sink.   

2.  
Whilst I upon the silent shore, secure,  
Fear neither stormy Wind nor Tide,  
With elevated Soul,  
Can move from Pole to Pole,  
And through the airy Regions glide,  
Need only pity what they must endure.   

3.  
The World will take no notice of my Name;  
Well then I'll let th' Impostor see  
I have my Passions broke,  
Brought Pride to wear a Yoke,  
I'm as Indifferent as she;  
No— I will never stop her Trump of Fame.   

4.  
That cursed word the World blisters my Tongue,  
It breathes out all the Plagues of Hell;  
'Tis Nonsense intricate,  
Unintelligible state,  
That puzzles all my Brains to spell,  
If I guess right, Man's Dust the World is Dung.   

5.  
I never could any Contexture find,  
Confusion only is her course,  
Her Joys but pleasant Fictions,  
A Mass of Contradictions,  
All Gild, all Trouble and Remorse;  
This is the World, or she or I am blind.   

6.  
She never yet was in true Colours drawn;  
All, Disappointments, Pains, and Fears,  
One Scene of Misery,  
Constant Inconstancy,  
Tempestuous World, a Vale of Tears,  
For our chief Happiness Chance the only Pawn.   

7.  
Passions, and Discontents, and Jealousies,  
Public War, and Domestic Strife,  
Perjury and Deceit,  
This Gall confounds the Sweet,  
And poisons all the Joys of Life;  
And our veins Hopes must end in penitential Sighs.   

8.  
Oh! I am sick, and my head giddy turns,  
The thoughts of noise I cannot bear,  
Impertinence strikes me through,  
Business that kills me too,  
Death is less terrible than Care;  
To get from this Fool's Paradise my heart burns.   

9  
Who would not then with us, dear Friend, retire?  
Accept the happiness to shroud  
Under a shady Screen,  
To walk along unseen,  
Wrapped like Aeneas in a Cloud,  
And see the World, as he did Troy, on fire.   

10.  
'Tis more than time, my Soul, that we were gone,  
Delay, my Corydon, does us wrong;  
The World will grow more bold,  
Still loath to quit her hold,  
For her Temptations they are strong.  
Come then and put blind Pluto's Helmet on.   

11.  
— What a fair prospect now have we!  
Can undisturbed together stand,  
Enjoy ourselves, and all  
The World her goods can call,  
And touch the Globe but with our hand,  
And all things past, present, and future see.   

12.  
Here at Earth's puffed up Bubbles we can smile,  
Her fucused Vanities despise,  
Divert with pleasant Chat,  
Discourse of this or that,  
Still aiming to be truly wise,  
With Books, or harmless sport, the time beguile.   

13.  
Full of ourselves, what can we wish for more?  
We find us work enough, to tend  
The habit of our Soul,  
Our Passions to control,  
To do the Duties of a Friend,  
'Tis the mistaken World, not we, are poor.   

14.  
Here in an empty Theatre we sit,  
Retired to keep our Holiday,  
Our Minds the Scenes must be,  
The Critical Spectators we,  
Of one another's Life, the Play,  
The Authors and the Judges of our Wit.   

15.  
If we have acted well in Heaven's sight,  
What though we hear no echoing Stage?  
Or when our State we change,  
What though our names seem strange,  
Unknown to a succeeding Age?  
Without that Witness happy Democrite!   

16.  
Why should we Fame, that treacherous Idol, court?  
That sets us up for Envy's Mark,  
That burns us with the Rays  
Of undeserved Praise,  
Only to blind us in the dark,  
To throw us down again, for fear or sport.   

17.  
Fame's breath is short, when she must trumpet loud:  
'Tis seldom that she comes alone;  
She's an unconstant Guest,  
That loves to change her Nest,  
True Worth, true Praise would not be known.  
The Sun looks brightest through a silver Cloud.   

18.  
On an embroidered Bank here we can pick and choose  
An unbought, savoury, wholesome Dish,  
On Leaves serve up our Fare,  
Perfumed with the sweet Air:  
Then Corydon! to complete our Wish,  
Our Recreation, Friendship, and a Muse.   

19  
Sometimes we take a pride to stand and see  
Bees bring their yellow Harvest home,  
Unload their swelling Thighs,  
And as their Goddess wise,  
Spin it into their Hony-comb.  
Happy Spectators! happy Rivals we!   

20.  
Sometimes upon a Downy Couch of Grass,  
On Flowery Cushions stretched we lie,  
To hear a dying Swan,  
More sensible than Man,  
Warble forth a sweet Elegy:  
Or in soft Tunes the purling Rivers pass.   

21.  
Or else dissolved in Ease, lay down our heads  
In Slumbers as our Nature's kind,  
Bound in each others Arms  
By Virtue's strictest Charms,  
Lulled asleep by the whistling Wind,  
On easy Velvet, fragrant Violet-beds.   

22.  
The name Diogenes justly none can give,  
Nor churlish call our Innocence:  
With Solitude thus crowned,  
What Firebrand can be found?  
Unless our Happiness give offence:  
For in the World, as out of it, we live.   

23.  
Sometimes hear Echo her Misfortunes tell,  
See how she'll watch the louly Boy  
Narcissus, as he looks  
Into the Crystal Brooks:  
Her vocal Repartees enjoy;  
Or the melodious Notes of Philomela.   

24.  
Sometimes in shady Groves together walk,  
And satisfied with humble Sights,  
See Art and Nature both digest  
In Milton, Waller, and the rest:  
Full and unparallelled Delights!  
Of Love and Solitude divinely talk.   

25.  
Each Dryad that is worthy of the Wound,  
Each Tree that's worthy of the Mark,  
Our mutual Friendship know,  
Under our Auspice grow,  
Thyrsis and Corydon on the Bark,  
Thyrsis and Corydon the Woods resound.   

26.  
But above all, the Ash aspiring shoots,  
Thy Badge of Honour proud to wear;  
The Ash, a Tree for Jove,  
The Ash, itself a Grove,  
Proud thy Name in hers to bear,  
She nods her trembling Head, and struts her swelling Roots.   

27.  
The Nymphs here take their rounds, and dance, and play;  
The Hamadryads at us peep;  
Crocus and Hyacinth, some bring,  
Daisies, the Maidenhead of the Spring:  
Others behind us softly creep,  
And steal our Songs and Pastorals away.   

28.  
When our light hearts are for a loser Rein,  
To Banquets we ourselves invite,  
Consorts of Music and of Love,  
Ambrosia from above;  
Verses for second Course recite,  
And with alternate Trifles entertain.   

29.  
Or we converse with Garden Mysteries,  
See the emulous Roses blast;  
The loving Ivy twine;  
The Wall cling to the Vine;  
And Flora taking her repast:  
Adam might envy in his Paradise.   

30.  
And thus withdrawn from business, noise, and strife,  
We double our few fleeting days,  
And when together fled,  
Fate having cut our Thread,  
Were we sent back into this Maze,  
We'd act but the same Scene, our former life.   
Rura mihi & rigui placeant in vallibus amnes;  
Flumina amem, silvasque inglorius. O, ubi campi,  
Sperchiúsque, & virginibus bacchata Lacaenis  
Taygeta! O, qui me gelidis in vallibus Haemi  
Sistat, & ingenti ramorum protegat umbra! etc.  
Fortunatus & ille, deos qui novit agrestes,  
Panaque Silvanumque senem, Nymphasque sorores.  Vir. Geor 2.  

To a young Lady that constantly slept at Church.  

1.  
I Often wondered, as I lay,  
Wishing for my Books, and Day,  
What Hag should sit upon my Breast,  
That I could neither speak nor rest;  
What could that Stranger Morpheus keep  
From his nightly Tribute, Sleep.   

2.  
When Love, with an enchanted Key,  
Thus unlocked the Mystery:  
Sleep saw, and not without surprise,  
The Charms of Idera's piercing Eyes;  
Then paid a Visit to her Heart,  
And now he knows not how to part.   

3.  
But here possessed with Jealousy,  
Himself the Watch of her fair Eye,  
Lest with Religion tempting Jove  
Should anticipate her Love,  
From her Devotion in the day,  
Resolves to ravish her away.   

4.  
Will seize on Thyrsi's heart no more,  
Stand Sentry only at her door:  
Nor will open Casements trust,  
(Suspicious are the Rapes of Lust)  
But in her Bath a sweeting lies,  
I'th' Exhalations of her Eyes.   

5.  
Yet if 't be she does steal my sleep,  
If she my Senses waking keep,  
Let those stolen Goods be sweet,  
Prosperous the Pillage of her Sheet.  
Sleep still refresh her flagrant Beams,  
Till with thee she shares my Dreams.   

6.  
Sleep still be happy, still be proud,  
To bear the Office of a Cloud:  
For if her Sun thus raging burns,  
Unless thy Fan the scorching Fervour turns:  
My Nest will even be set on fire,  
And then the Phoenix must expire.    

To Idera, Putting a Copy of Verses in at her Window at Midnight.  
Nox erat & Coelo fulgebat Luna sereno,  
Inter minora sydera—  Hor. 
THou conscious Night, my Strategem conceal!  
May no perfidious Dreams my Theft reveal!  
No Tell-tale Stars come prying near this way,  
By silent signs, dumb motions to betray!  
Propitious Venus, only she shine bright!  
To blind the rest, and give a Lover light!  
Go to the Enemy's Quarters, happy Scout!  
" There unconcerned, undaunted look about,  
" Soft as thy Message, as thy Master stout.  
" If any rude, uncivil Hand should press,  
" Exclaim against thy own unhappiness!  
" Or silent trust th' event; Thou slily fraught  
" With Sinon's Art, wilt to the Queen be brought:  
" And when into her presence thou art come,  
" She'll read a line or two, then see from whom;  
" Inquire where taken: still her heart will fail,  
" The treacherous Prisoner must be sent to Jail,  
" That comes to steal the Hostage of her Heart,  
" And lies in Ambush with the charming Art  
" Idera moved with pity, will repent,  
" Some pretty amorous punishment invent;  
" Perhaps, as much as she has read, she'll burn,  
" Till Floods of Tears the Flames shall inward turn;  
" Sympathy only will the Fire remove,  
" In the old Channel set the course of Love.  
" Under her Pillow the Remains she'll lay,  
" By night to be her Dream, her Song by day.  
" Which whilst she quavers out, the other part  
" May pass her Guards, and seize her captived Heart.  
" Thou in Perfumes shalt either ravished die,  
" Or in the Milky Way translated lie.  
" Go my Ambassador! before 't's too late,  
" And oft revolve Scaevola's noble Fate.  
" Carry these Kisses, Seals of my command,  
" Unsullied let her have them all at second hand.  
" Go— let her Rosy Mouth, her Balmy Lips,  
" (Where Cupid all his golden Arrows dips)  
" The warm Virginity of these Kisses taste;  
" Go— nor thy time, nor their sweet odour waste.  
" These give her, as a Pledge, that I will own  
" Thyrsis a humble Slave to Idera's Throne.  
" Go— my Soul with thee take— thy Fortune try,  
" Dangers and Difficulties all defy,  
" What if thou shouldst like Codrus, or like Decius die?   

To Idera, Speechless.  
Dicere quae puduit, scribere jussit amor.  Ou. 

1.  
LOng has this grand Mistake deceived Mankind,  
To think that Love is only blind;  
The Serpent too has lost his Tongue,  
When he has any untaught Novice stung.   

2.  
He leaves his Venom in the rankled Wound,  
That closes up as it were sound,  
Spreads out into a blushing Cheek,  
And yet the Lips hard by can nothing speak.   

3.  
Whether 'tis Ecstasy, or Fear, or Zeal,  
Whose prevalent motions thus we feel,  
I know not yet— but this I know,  
These are my Symptoms, and my Case is so.   

4.  
Here in a Hective Fever I must burn,  
And I can neither speak nor turn,  
Can neither have nor hope for Ease;  
Sure 'tis an Incubus is my Disease.   

5.  
Fain would I tell her plainly all my mind,  
But neither Tongue, nor Heart can find;  
My conscious guilt, and modest shame,  
In Virgin Red stifle my youthful Flame.   

6.  
'Tis true my Eyes long since betrayed their smart,  
When Love shot through into my Heart,  
When all your Charms took so much pains  
T'infuse an amorous Heat into my Veins.   

7.  
Excessive hot, or beyond measure cold,  
My Fits too violent to hold:  
By heat, incapable I'm made;  
When cold, I am indifferent and afraid.   

8.  
Turtles for Mates thus one another Prove,  
Their Eyes the measures of their Love.  
And thus Pygmalion chose a Wife,  
An Ivory Statue carved out to the life.    

INCURABLE. To Idera.  
Hei mihi! quòd nullis amor est medicabilis herbis.  Ovid. 

1.  
HOW oft have I, like wretched Dido, swore  
I'd court Inconstancy no more?  
But 'tis in vain, for I must still adore.   

2.  
I pluck not up the root, but lop the Tree,  
Wove Vows, as Webs, Penelope;  
Still tempted I, and still as charming she.   

3.  
I strive to skin the Wound of Cupid's Dart;  
With a new Itch, and tickling Smart,  
Still it breaks out again upon my heart.   

4.  
I pour into the fifty Sister Urn;  
And Sisyphus his Stone I turn;  
Leave off, t' begin again, and quench myself to burn.   

5.  
How oft have I dragged home my Fugitive?  
But still my Heart the slip will give,  
My Heart, that cannot without vital Passion live.   

6.  
With Books and Business I would entertain,  
But Books are toil, and Business pain:  
He's gone I know not how, and all my Art's in vain.   

7.  
The Oak and Ivy, which together grow,  
If parted by an unkind Blow,  
Their Arms will about one another throw.   

8.  
So Birds that now forsake their Nests through fear,  
When they some danger see or hear,  
Will build again in the same place, another year.    

To the Ingenious Mr. Barker. Saul's Witch of Endor.  
A Long and prosperous Reign had Saul enjoyed,  
With the excess of Peace and Plenty cloyed,  
Of daily Triumphs and new Trophies proud,  
Not one Eclipse, nor melancholy Cloud;  
In Peace, his People's Guardian, and their Shield,  
Always his Arms victorious in the Field;  
Fraught with Success, and passive Duty crowned,  
None that durst question his Proceedings, found,  
When now for Blood his thirsty Spirits craved,  
(Like Diomede's Horses) he for Man's flesh raved.  
His Sword already had been satisfied,  
Reaking from Enemy's fresh Wounds, new died  
With purple Gore and a polluted Tide.  
Well then for change, th' ungrateful wretch intends  
To sheathe it in the bosom of his Friends:  
And he must have that Life, that was laid down  
For God's, for Israel's Honour, and the Crown;  
When conscious Jealousy, and pretended Zeal,  
Upon Ambition whet the envious Steel.  
David, who did a Miracle for Saul,  
Must stand a Mark for Javilins at the Wall:  
Goliah's head, must make him lose his own,  
Because he killed the Monster, he alone,  
With a small Sling and little Pebble-stone.  
Because he did that which none else could do,  
Six Cubits with five hundred Shekels slew.  
Unhappy Youth! whose service thus repaid  
By him that must have fallen, without thy aid!  
And must his Life and Kingdom be restored,  
To kill thee with the same Victorious Sword?  
In what, innocent Youth! couldst thou offend?  
A crime to be a Saviour and a Friend?  
No Arms waste thou beholden to from Saul;  
A little Stone, and Leather Thong was all.  
Goliath did not challenge, but defy,  
Not only Treason belch, but Blasphemy:  
If to save Saul's a capital offence,  
Thy death be justified by that pretence,  
It cannot be imputed sin or shame,  
To stand up bravely for Jehovah's Name.  
Nor can they make out any other Plea,  
To tax thee with the least disloyalty:  
For David never yet his Prince forsook,  
Ambitious only of a Shepherd's Crook.  
Nothing received, but what was justly due,  
Nor that, till promised once, and proffered too.  
Here by the way, could I sit down, and shed  
Whole floods of Tears for thee, and in thy stead  
Lay down my Soul, the Javelin cuts the Air,  
And trembling glances through the Champion's hair:  
Thou standest upon thy guard, thy own defence,  
Armed only with the Mail of Innocence.  
Canst unconcerned, upon thy Music play,  
And to thy Harp again another day.  
To see thy troubles and to trace thy flight,  
Unsafe by day, yet less secure by night;  
Thy Wife exposed to danger for thy sake,  
Must one distracted Vow of Duty break:  
Jonathan must renounce Father, or Friend,  
Or else his life, in death for David spend.  
But causelessly we all our Tears impart,  
God needs must love the Image of his heart:  
And as he can, he will his Darling save,  
And bury all his troubles in the Tyrant's Grave.  
Here than we trust him to th' Almighty's hand,  
And the Philistines now invade the Land.  
The Scene is changed, and for a single Flea  
Men, like the Sands or Waves upon the Sea,  
Gigantic Warriors, Trees for Javelins wield,  
And strut along, and challenge all the Field.  
What should Saul do? God and Man persecute;  
His Dreams are silent, and his Prophets mute:  
Urim's forgot its old prophetic strain,  
And Saul's among the Prophets too in vain.  
Witches dare only be with Imps possessed,  
And carry their Familiars in their Breast.  
'Tis Death, to draw a Circle in the Sand;  
'Tis Death, to have but a Magician's Wand:  
Yet for all this (though it seem something odd)  
The Devil must be the Messenger of God.  
But hard necessity maintains his Cause,  
To break through God's, his own, and Kingdom's Laws.  
A Witch, or no Witch, he would only learn  
Th'unknown Event of such a Great Concern.  
To Endor then, but not without disguise,  
In the extremity of madness wise;  
Where first on God, he for the Devil does call,  
For she was less afraid of him, than Saul,  
And with an Oath confirming his design,  
To these infernal Rites conjures divine.  
When to her Cabin now the Witch returns,  
Sulphur and Pitch, mixed in a Cauldron, burns:  
Infusing Vervain, Moly, Nightshade, Rue,  
Then on the Floor five Magic Circles drew,  
With gloomy Cypress round her Temples twined,  
She scattered dead men's Ashes to the Wind;  
Thrice Salt and Bran, Venefick Offerings strowed,  
Pouring out thrice a Black fleeced Lamb's warm Blood,  
And burning Paeony, Fern, and Heliochryse,  
She strikes upon her hollow Cymbal thrice;  
And heaving, swelling, foaming, than she cries,  
With an infernal Howl, Rise, Samuel, rise.  
The parting Ground was with Convulsions torn,  
By subterraneous Winds he upwards born,  
Wrapped in his Prophet's Mantle, like a God,  
In a bright Fiery Chariot, whirling rode.  
But the Witch trembling at so strange a sight,  
And terrified with so divine a Light,  
Cried out; and what through wonder, and surprise,  
Knew not the Fiend assuming that disguise.  
But eager Saul still pressing her to tell  
What she had wrought by virtue of the Spell,  
Samuel thus preventing silence broke,  
With profound Reverence, in soft Whispers spoke.  
Saul! Saul! why troublest thou my Soul at rest?  
My Soul, to leave the Mansions of the Blessed?  
Why, raising Tumults thus among the Just,  
Offerest thou Violence to my sacred Dust?  
Why ransackest my Grave? and summon'st me  
From my Long Home, Seat of Eternity?  
But Saul, big with Repentance in his Eyes,  
And with a Heart as full of Grief, replies:  
It was thy Office, Samuel, once to bless;  
Canst thou not pity now in my distress?  
When the Philistines dare new Wars proclaim,  
Defy my Hosts, despise my Royal Name,  
Whether to set up David in my Throne,  
Or take my Life, God knows, and God alone;  
But this I know, God fights against me too:  
What should a Prince, when thus forsaken, do?  
By God, by Man cast off, disdained, forlorn,  
My People's Burden, and my Enemy's Scorn;  
His Vengeance persecutes me, wretched Saul!  
The Curse of God, and a Reproach to all;  
My Prophet's silent, and my inspired Lute,  
Together with my Dreams and Visions, mute:  
Therefore it is, by a more powerful Spell,  
I call thee up, for thou alone canst tell  
What a distressed, abandoned Prince can do;  
Tho' God hath left me, let not Samuel too.  
Thus trembling Saul bowed his Anointed Head,  
When Samuel thus in hollow Murmurs said:  
Can I, poor Saul! reason the Case with God?  
Put by the stroke of an Almighty Rod?  
Can I, without Heaven's licence, stand thy Friend,  
If God will?— and he will thy Kingdom rend.  
Good David must and shall thy Sceptre sway;  
Gladly will Israel such a Prince obey:  
More gladly slip thy Yoke from off their neck,  
The Yoke thou shouldst have put on Amalek;  
But him, the Enemy of all that's good,  
Glutted with Lust, and surfeited with Blood,  
With Blasphemy swollen big, corrupt within  
With spurious Seed of every deadly Sin,  
With whom thou shouldst have sworn immortal hate,  
As false to God, and dangerous to thy State;  
That Kingdom thou establishest by Peace,  
Dost Amalek for David's Life release;  
A thousand sham's, to put him by, contrive,  
But maugre all, David shall King survive.  
Trust in Suspense, hope only in Despair,  
Thy Kingdom's won before 'tis lost: Prepare  
To meet with Fate; for all thy Hosts shall fly,  
Thou and thy Sons to morrow be with me.  
This said, surprising Horror swelled his Veins,  
And his sick mind anticipates his pains;  
Speechless and cold, he falls upon his Face,  
In Frenzy would the fleeting Air embrace,  
But Samuel he returns unto his place.   

To Mrs. B. Wright, On her Incomparable Poetry.  
LOng since my thoughts did thus forboding tell,  
The Muses would our Governors expel,  
To their own Crown raise up a Female Heir,  
One of their Sex the Diadem should wear:  
The time's expired, my Jealousy proves true,  
We have a Queen, but thanks to Heaven 'tis you;  
Before in all things else we did submit,  
Madam! in all things else, but only Wit:  
With this Prerogative we could not part,  
But in its stead each yielded up his heart.  
Such was our vain Self-love and stubborn Pride,  
What will not bend, must break; in vain we tried  
Our Title, nor must even the Inheritance divide  
But now (as Captives to a Conqueror)  
We must surrender all into your power:  
With conscious Blushes must your Praise exert,  
Reflecting on ourselves in your desert.  
Eve first sought Knowledge from the fatal Fruit;  
(Why should we Virtue to false ends impute?)  
Whilst lazy Adam shruged, was very loath  
To part with Darling Ignorance and Sloth:  
Noble was her design, had it not been  
Branded by Heaven as a presumptuous sin.  
Your Quest of Knowledge can incur no shame,  
Unless some Masculine Malice taint your name.  
So different as the Cause, are the Effects;  
For as she ruin'd, you have raised your Sex:  
She doomed to Death, you gain Eternity,  
For you must live until your Works can die.  
Had they been like to S.'s Gouty Rhyme,  
Or Smithfield-Ballads, in a little time  
They'd have been thrown amongst bald musty Songs,  
When the young Ballad-Wench had tired her Lungs.  
But Nature, Judgement, Fancy, Art and Wit,  
Shall sooner to one common Fate submit,  
Than the rich Structures of your Brain shall fall,  
Which are the very Quintessence of all.  
Nor are you so desirous of the Bays,  
As to detract from an inferior Praise;  
But giving us an everlasting Name,  
You merit to yourself a nobler Fame:  
Whilst your own Glory you so much neglect,  
And others with such skill and care protect,  
More lasting Trophies to yourself erect.  
But oh! how high your Fancy takes its flight,  
Whilst they admire at you gone out of sight!  
So fled Elijah wrapr in Fire and Wind,  
And left Elisha wondering here behind:  
They like Elisha, for a Blessing call;  
You hear their Prayers, and let your Mantle fall.  
With this they strange unheard-of things can do,  
Had they a Fiery Coach, they'd be Elijah's too.  
So did th' associated Nymphs rejoice,  
Whom Diana had thought worthy of her choice;  
So they though fair in all the Gods esteem,  
Yet made her Beauty far more charming seem.  
Let others slander, envy, or despise,  
The Cyprian Goddess still must have the Prize.  
Daphne to Laurel turned, a Female Brow  
Has the best title to a Female Bough.  
Had Fate but placed you in the Roman State,  
The Salic Law would have been out of date.  
Alcides' scorned to gain Divinity  
By one great labour, but still more would try,  
And Heaven, & Earth, and Hell did valorously defy.  
Farther oblige the World, good Madam! still  
With the rich products of your fruitful Quill.  
Restore the Muses; and true Poetry,  
And show what Charms do in just measures lie.  
And when you find a time best to retreat,  
Spin out into a curious Web of Wit.  
Let me your Muse a Legacy inherit,  
With double portion of your sacred Spirit.   

A Fragment of Catullus. Advice to Hemiera.  
To Madam A— R—.  

1.  
SEE how the naked widowed Vine,  
That in the empty Valley grows,  
That wants the happiness to twine  
About a Husband's brooding Boughs:   

2.  
Is without Virtue, Sap, or Juice,  
Nor can it raise its drooping head,  
Or one small bunch of Grapes produce,  
Or gather strength to bud and spread.   

3.  
Alas! it ne'er aspiring shoots,  
For all the help of Wind and Wether,  
The tallest Sprigs even touch the Roots,  
The Vine tied neck and heels together.   

4.  
The churlish Shepherds pluck it up,  
Or without notice pass it by;  
Nor will the cattle deign to crop,  
Or glance that way one greedy eye.   

5.  
If wedded to an Elm, they strive  
Who can their favours most improve,  
With emulation make it thrive,  
All proud to signalise their Love.   

6.  
The blushing Rose, if let alone,  
With shame will fade upon the Tree:  
A Maidenhead thus overgrown,  
Will superannuated be.    

The PARADOX, To Idera.  
STesichorus, and Orion blind, received their sight,  
One by Apollo's Numbers, th'other by his Light.  
Orion basking in his burning Rays;  
Stesichorus singing Hymns in Helen's praise:  
Had I not, Idera, on you gazed, nor of you sung,  
I had not lost my Eyes, nor with those Eyes my Tongue.   

To Idera, Dreaming she was Angry.  

1.  
FAirer than all the Grecian Dames!  
Idera! too too fair!  
These Touchwood Relics of my Flames,  
For Heaven's sake forbear:  
For though your Anger at a distance burn,  
My Soul, Love's Tinder, will to nothing turn.   

2.  
Why would you me from Love dissuade?  
Why would you tie my Tongue?  
My Infant Passion thus upbraid?  
Tell me, I am too young?  
Oh! why in Visions all my hopes destroy!  
Have you forgot that Cupid was a Boy?   

3.  
If thus in Dreams you can despise!  
If thus you can beguile!  
Assume a Wizard for disguise!  
Do any thing but smile!  
All the effects of 
* The Weed Heleneius that grows in Rhodes, so called from Helen, that hanged herself upon an Oak near which it sprung up. Whoever tasted of it, was provoked to Anger, Strife, Bawling, and other ill Qualities. Ptolem. Hephaest. l. 4.  Helen's Weed will be,  
Passions essential to a Deity.   

4.  
Ah! Duserastes is undone!  
Unless your goodness spare;  
For though the heat of your bright Sun  
He can with pleasure bear,  
Yet if your Lightning strike his dazzled Eyes,  
In horror and confusion Duserastes dies.    

Ovid's Amorum Lib. 3. Eleg. 9 On the death of Tibullus. To Mr. William Lloyd.  
IF Heaven's Eye, the bright Aurora, shrouds  
Her troubled Face under a Veil of Clouds,  
And every Morning cursing her own Womb,  
With fragrant Tears bedews her Memnon's Tomb:  
If Thetis does her watery Fountains drain,  
And with salt roaring Billows fill the Main;  
Black Waves, as Mourners, for her Son provide,  
And every day lament him with a Tide:  
If Deities themselves submit to Fate,  
Needs must Mortality sink with such a weight.  
Come, mournful Elegy, with dishevelled hair,  
Sad as thy Style, thy Face, and hopeless as Despair:  
That as too true, thy Nature and thy Name,  
So now thy Habit too may be the same.  
Tibullus stamped with every beauteous Grace,  
So faintly shadowed in thy pensive Face,  
Inspired even from the Womb with thy own strain,  
That Soul that ne'er conceived a thought in vain;  
Thy Pride, thy Heir, thy Glory, and thy Fame,  
Thy All is fuel for his fatal Flame.  
Poor Cupid for his dear Tibullus mourns,  
And carelessly his empty Quiver turns;  
Puts out his Torch with streaming floods of Tears,  
And broken Arrows for a Trophy rears.  
No more his Hymen, nor his Iô sings,  
But sighs and sobs, and flags his wanton Wings:  
With his own Dart scratches and tears his breast,  
With the same Epidemic Rage possessed  
As Lovers are in Frenzy or Despair,  
And digs for his Tibullus seated there.  
So for Aeneas mourned the lovely Boy,  
The Pride of future Rome, and Fame of Troy.  
Nor could sweet Beauty's Queen be troubled more  
For her loved Youth, torn by a Savage Boar.  
Loved Youth (said I) alas! compared with thee,  
What would a thousand such Adoni's be?  
A Poet's thought ('tis true) to be the Heir  
Of Immortality, Heaven's peculiar Care,  
Large Souls, a Colony of the Heavenly Line,  
With something amiable and divine;  
Nought comes amiss to sacrilegious Death,  
That stops the Impious and the devout Breath.  
And no Protection can secure from Fate,  
That loves to prey upon the Good and Great.  
What signified it, Orpheus to be born  
Of Gods, by Furies into pieces torn?  
With Melody to charm the Beasts of Prey,  
When men themselves prove greater Bruits than they?  
On barren Mountains does the God of Wit,  
Mourning in melancholic horror, sit  
Sighing a broken Tune to his mute Lyre,  
And wishes for his Linus to expire.  
Homer, that Tree of Knowledge, Greece's Pride,  
(That Pegasus whom all the Poets ride)  
In life hard Fate deprived him of the light,  
And after shaded with eternal Night,  
That unexhausted Spring, to whom we owe  
All those small Streams of ours that scattering flow.  
His glorious Works, and his adored Name,  
Only survive as proof against the flame.  
For Homer's Troy, that Phoenix cannot die,  
So may Penelope's honest guile defy  
The envious rage of Time, and reach Eternity.  
And so shall Nemesis and Delia prove  
As lasting in their Fame as in their Love:  
Delia, that first his youthful Passion warmed,  
And Nemesis that last and longest charmed.  
In vain to lazy Gods we duly pray,  
And to their Shrines our constant Homage pay.  
In vain we deaf or helpless Stocks implore,  
Or drowsy dreaming Deities adore,  
That neither will have pity nor regard;  
And righteous Souls can merit no Reward,  
But turn like Bruits unto their native Dust.  
What reason then have we to run on trust?  
I'm tempted to believe no God, or Heaven's unjust.  
Live well, and die well, there's an end of one;  
And why should I the foolish hazard run  
Of being virtuous, when I may as well  
In floods of Pleasures swim the way to Hell?  
Death drags us from the Altar to the Grave,  
Whilst careless Heaven looks on and will not save.  
Death makes no Sanctuary of any place,  
To whom, when, where, she comes, 'tis all a case:  
The Laws of Fate, without exceptions, made  
Irrevocable, needs must be obeyed.  
Is Pluto blind? what then? the blind can hear:  
And cannot Verses charm the Tyrant's Ear?  
If so, would our Tibullus thus have died?  
Tibullus Beauty's Prince, the Poet's Pride?  
See now, of that Great Man the small Remains  
A little narrow Urn in Dust contains.  
How durst the flames (dear Friend) accost that breast  
With such an hallowed Vestal Fire possessed?  
What dare not they, that Vengeance can provoke,  
And down with Gods and Temples at a stroke?  
The Queen of Love with pity, and with dread,  
At such Presumption turned away her head;  
Nay some affirm, the Deity present there,  
Could scarce from melting drops of Tears forbear.  
Yet thanks to Heaven that thou diedst at home,  
Corcyra could not be so sweet as Rome.  
Thy Mother here closed thy departing eye's,  
And set that Sun that never more would rise.  
In the cold hands of unrelenting death,  
Gathered the fragrant Relics of thy breath,  
And paid her last Devotion to thy Urn:  
With her thy Sister did in Consort mourn;  
For thee she did her lovely Tresses tear,  
For thee in floods of tears she washed her scattered hair  
And when too forward on thy way to Bliss,  
Delia and Nemesis secured a Kiss:  
A Kiss (said I!) millions they laid in store,  
Since they were never like to see thee more;  
Some of thy parting breath they did receive,  
And for each Sob a thousand Kisses give,  
Kisses on which they might for ever live.  
The Rivals both with emulous passion stay,  
Until the Flames had ravished thee away.  
Thus Delia parting, for she left him first,  
(The Wounds of Bosom-friends are always worst)  
" 'Twas I that seasoned first thy untaught heart,  
" And did the secret Rites of Love impart.  
" Hadst thou been true, Albius, thou hadst not died;  
" But thank thy own inconstancy and pride,  
" One and the same Divorce did me and life divide.  
" Vengeance has found thee out in my defence,  
" And took the part of injured Innocence.  
" Ah! that thou hadst but thy own interest known,  
" And loved thy Delia, and loved her alone.  
But Nemesis with Tears, (resolved to prove  
She had best right and title to his Love)  
Replies—  
—" To me Grief only does belong,  
" And if you shed a Tear, you do me wrong.  
" Long since your Tyranny you did resign,  
" Tibullus since was mine, and only mine.  
" He grasped me in his Arms, and held me fast,  
" Nor would he let me go, whilst breath would last.  
" When Death's Convulsions Nature's Fabric tore,  
" His Organs loosed, and he could speak no more,  
" In broken Accents this I heard him breath,  
" My Soul into thy arms, my Nemesis, I bequeath.  
If there be aught of us survives the Flames,  
Ought of us but our shadows and our names,  
T' Elysium shall Tibullus be conveyed,  
And there his Soul become the brightest Shade.  
There shalt thou Calvus and Catullus find,  
(About his Temples sacred Ivy twined:)  
There in those Regions of Eternal Day,  
If Fame belie him, (as I wish it may)  
Shalt thou Tibullus with thy Gallus meet,  
And your strange shades your former loves repeat.  
Gallus, inspired with an ambitious Flame!  
Gallus, too prodigal of Life and Fame!  
But whilst his Shade wanders amongst the Just,  
Thou Urn be careful of thy precious Trust,  
Nor let his sacred Ashes touch the common Dust.  
Lie light, thou Earth, indulgent to his rest,  
Whilst his great Soul converses with the Blessed.   

To Idera, Having by some Mischance so hurt herself as to halt.  

1.  

* Ceres in her Travels over all the World, in quest of her Daughter Proserpina, that was stole away by Pluto, meeting with Neptune, who by his troublesome company increased her grief, she turned herself into a Mare, and coming to Styx, a River in Arcadia, where she saw her Face, she died the Water of a black colour. Ptolem. Hephaest. Lib. 3.  CEres in quest of Proserpina,  
Seeing th' reflection of her Face,  
Not as 'twas formerly divine,  
Grief dispossessing every Grace;   

2.  
She unconcerned at such a sight,  
Yet made her Glass the Stygian Lake,  
To mourning turn her crystal white,  
And of her Grief the Streams partake.   

3.  
Blush not, sweet Nymph! though envious Fate,  
Proud on your Feet to set a mark;  
Let them that dare provoke your hate,  
Not at your Altar light a spark.   

4.  
Vulcan was lame, althô a God:  
(Nor must the Truth be always said)  
Let them not kiss the Ground you trod,  
Scrupulous Fools! but strike them dead.   

5.  
Timorous Fate, like Diomedes,  
Strike Venus on the lower parts:  
They that dare make the Wound to bleed,  
Set hungry Vultures at their hearts.   

6.  
Set them a Mark for your fair Eye,  
And kill them, kill them with Despair,  
They need not with worse Torments die,  
Than to see Heaven, but not come there.   

7.  
When Nature, with Ambition fired,  
Some strange and wondrous thing designed,  
And to outdo herself aspired,  
She took you out of Womankind.   

8.  
All their Perfections knit in one,  
Thy Soul presented from above,  
Jealous to see herself outdone,  
With her own Works she fell in love.   

9  
Cupid could scarce his Mother know,  
Venus and Idera were so like;  
But Fate with a deciding Blow,  
The Mark on Idera's side did strike.   

10.  
Yet thanks to Fate, whose common Brand  
Has set us both on even ground;  
Yet thanks to Fate, whose heavy hand  
Could forbear a mortal Wound.   

11.  
Achilles by an Arrow fell,  
Struck through his heel, whilst you still live,  
With Scars that can your Valour tell,  
And yet a thousand Deaths can give.   

12.  
A thousand cased within my Breast,  
Glance Idera a dissolving Smile,  
If you would have them dispossessed,  
Or with the Quiver of my Heart recoil.    

To Mr. Omnibon.  
A Dissuasive from that Effeminate Passion of Love.  
OFF (Thyrsis!) with this melancholic Fit,  
Nor like a Purgatory Freshman sit;  
In love, my Thyrsis, and pretendest to Wit!  
What, reconciled! and canst thou not forbear?  
What, pardon those that did to pieces tear  
Thy Brother Orpheus? what, not Love forswear?  
Love, that damned Leprosy, infectious Pest,  
All Africa's Monsters kenneled in his breast.  
Tell me not 'tis a sin to break your Vows  
Of Lovers, perjury Jove himself allows.  
No— he's an Ass that Womankind adores:  
Let Bacchus kick the Bastard out of doors.  
Come then dip the blind Rogue in a full Bowl,  
And let Wine's Spirits elevate your Soul.  
For Love will vanish at his Brother's sight,  
So Phoebus dims the Lamps that rule the Night:  
So Antidotes rank Poison can expel:  
And so one Witch undoes another's Spell:  
So Music helpeth when Tarantula's sting;  
And Orpheus can as well as Sirens sing.   

To Idera, Writing her Name in Snow, which melting to Water, froze, and soon after thawed.  
YOur Name on fallen Snow I sealed;  
The melting drops to Ice congealed:  
In Crystal Prints the Letters shine,  
And their material white refine.  
Here daily, hourly as I pass  
By this heavenly Looking-glass,  
I see the picture of my Face,  
And the reflecting Name embrace.  
But as by Images of Wax  
The Witch a real Body racks;  
So as my Heart within consumes,  
Ice Snow, Snow Water, reassumes.  
My Flames do all your Cold withdraw,  
Till we resolve on better Law,  
That you shall never freeze, to thaw.  
For thus well armed, you can defy  
A thousand Deaths at once let fly,  
Laugh to see Duserastes die.  
With your Temptations, millions strong,  
To do me right, you do me wrong.  
Nay— even with Chemical Experiments entice:  
Your very Name can make a Burning-glass of Ice.   

A Propitiatory Sacrifice, To the Ghost of I— M— by way of Pastoral, in a Dialogue between Thyrsis and Corydon.  
To his dear Brother Mr. Ash Wyndham.  THYRSIS. 
GOod morrow, Corydon! but why so strange?  
What makes your jolly Countenance thus change?  
What, have you lost a Kid? or pine and mourn  
For Galatea's slights, or Amarylli's scorn?  
Did melancholy Dreams disturb your rest?  
Ease then on me the burden of your breast,  
A hearty Friend will not your Grief despise,  
And Thyrsis will be proud to sympathise.  CORYDON. 
Ah, Thyrsis! see, after unpleasant food,  
The very Cows will chew no bitter Cud;  
Can my repeated Sorrows do thee good?  
And yet for thee my Grief will I control,  
For thee I'll offer Violence to my Soul:  
Know then, nor need I give that Caution, weep,  
Thy Eyes are neither dry, nor Heart asleep:  
Know then, the rise of it is Daphny's death;  
And since the Fates have stopped my Daphny's breath,  
I have my Pipes, my Flocks, my Loves forswore,  
And well I might, since he is now no more.  THYRSIS. 
When the Day's Lamp's shadowed before the Night's,  
And spangled Heaven sets out her glittering Lights,  
Sweet Philomela her little Throat does tune,  
And charm with warbling Notes the listening Moon.  
When the sharp watchful Thorn has gored her breast,  
And bleeding Philomela can take no rest:  
So may your Muse unfledged yet try her Wing,  
And Grief and Love jointly together sing.  
So may we well pull up the Sluices of our Eyes,  
For Death has stopped the Springs of Paradise;  
Which in profuse Meanders curling ran,  
Baptised us Poets, and gave life to Man.  
For Death has seized our Mint of learned Ore,  
And sweeped away all our Poetic store.  
So when an ancient Oak falls on the ground,  
The Woods all tremble, and the Rocks resound;  
Nor falls alone, but hover in the Air,  
A thousand little Fates the Branches bear.  
Arcadians mourn! Daphnis a public loss,  
And well may all our Tears and Grief engross.  
Sound then his Obsequies, Daphnis deceased!  
Come sing away the burden of thy Breast,  
For he deserves thy Song, and well deserves the best.  
Or both alternately our parts will sing,  
You shall the Laurel, I the Myrtle bring.  CORYDON. 
Ordinary Tears sufficient are to fall  
Attendants of a common Funeral:  
Daphnis deserves for each a drop of Blood,  
And for each single drop a scarlet Flood.  
As Nightingales sing sweeter than the Thrush;  
The Cedar's better than the Bramble-bush;  
Sweet Margerum and Musk, than stinking Weeds;  
Daphnis our Merit and our Praise exceeds.  
The Elm for Daphnis groans, will let the Vine  
No more in his embraces fond twine.  
Bees leave their Flowers, which droop their sickly head,  
Have lost their sweet repast on which they fed,  
Since he whose breath inspired it all, is dead.  
Our Flocks all keep a Fast for Daphnis sake:  
Our Isle the sweet-tongued Chanters too forsake.  
None but the inauspicious Ravens croak,  
The Nymphs and Demigods their Pipes have broke,  
And bid adieu to all their Fairy Kings.  
The Scriech Owl howts, and the black Swallow sings.  
Nature herself puts on her Mourning-Weed.  
One Wound makes the whole Universe to bleed.  THYRSIS. 
As Day without the prospect of the Sun,  
As Night without the conduct of the Moon,  
Such, Daphnis, is the World, now thou art gone!  
For Daphnis, too too well beloved of Heaven,  
Only to teach us Self-denial given,  
Is dead alas! O Paradox! is dead,  
Voracious Grave! and consecrated Head!  
What, could not Daphnis charm ambitious Death,  
From gathering all the Relics of his breath?  
Could He not even the Powers of Hell defy,  
And by soft Airs bring them to Harmony?  
Been something more than Mortal? No— Heard Fate  
Spares not the Rich, the Good, the Wise, the Great.  
The proudest Dust must hid in silence lie:  
The proudest Dust must in oblivion die.  CORYDON. 
Tho' Fortune acted oft the Stepdame's part,  
Yet would not Daphnis curse her in his heart:  
Tho' Gall infused into his bitter Cup,  
Taught by Philosophy, he drank it up.  
Ah too too soon a shining Cherub made  
Of that blessed place thou hadst so long surveyed!  
My Muse must tell the Groves Great Daphnis dead!  
Whilst pining Echo answers what is said:  
Echo for him must die a second death,  
Used to retort his words, and suck his fragrant breath.  THYRSIS. 
Trees full of Tears hide their heads, bowing down,  
All Rivals once which should be made his Crown:  
All proudly conscious of their welcome Shade,  
Where Judgement, Wit, and Innocence were laid:  
Nurse of his Thought, and Midwife of his Brain,  
That fruitful teeming Womb that knew no pain;  
But brought the well- digested Product forth,  
Pregnant with joy, and boasting such a Birth.  
Nor must we here his forward Youth forget,  
To pay whose Portion Nature ran in debt.  
So soon the Bard, and so divine a share  
He well deserved, who was her only Heir,  
Her Darling-Son, and her peculiar Care.  
He could teach Reverend Sages how to write,  
And prescribe Rules even to the God of Wit.  
(Like Tages) born a Poet from the Womb,  
And sung himself from is Cradle to his Tomb.  
Inspired with Melody, with his first breath,  
Improving Art and Learning, till his death.  
Still as his annual Circles rolled about,  
They unknown Worlds of Sciences found out.  
Here only Mother Nature, for his sake,  
Did her own Laws out of Indulgence break,  
From Youth and Age one spiritual Compound make.  
But when his Age and Fruit together ripe,  
(Of which blind Homer only was the Type)  
Tiresias like, he mounted up on high,  
And scorned the filth of dull Mortality.  
Conversed with Gods, and graced their Royal Line,  
All Ecstasy, all Rapture, all Divine.  CORYDON. 
So the Philosopher would needs be blind,  
T' improve the nobler Eyesight of his Mind,  
Not to mean earthly Optics be confined.  THYRSIS. 
No wonder, if th' ambitious Laurel's dead,  
Degraded to a Mercenary Head.  
If Birds forget their Notes, and sit alone,  
With melancholy Progne in the Deserts moan,  
Since this our Bird of Paradise is flown.  
Daphnis! the great Reformer of our Isle!  
Daphnis! the Patron of the Roman Style!  
Who first to sense converted Doggrel Rhimes,  
The Muse's Bells took off, and stopped their Chimes,  
On surer Wings, with an immortal flight,  
Taught us how to believe, and how to write.  
And could we but have reached his wondrous height,  
We'd changed the constitution of our State.  
Where Reason must enlightened Souls confute,  
To common Earth 'tis still forbidden Fruit:  
For all in Torrents his Inventions flow,  
And drown the little Vales that lie below.  
And yet so sweet, Malice would silenced die;  
So perfect, they could Prejudice defy.  
Daphnis! whose Modesty might justly boast,  
His Errors least, his Excellencies most.  
Well might we blush at every sacred Line,  
To see a Soul so Humble, so Divine.  
But I offend— and whilst I praise his Style,  
Do in Apostate Rhimes his Worth defile.  
His Guardian Angel does begin to frown,  
His Spirit looks with indignation down.  CORYDON. 
Even Tombs of Stone in time will wear away;  
Brass Pyramids are subject to decay;  
But lo! the Poet's Fame shall brighter shine  
In each succeeding Age,  
Laughing at the baffled Rage  
Of envious Enemies, and destructive Time.  THYRSIS. 
Rest Phoenix! in thy Paradise above,  
Thy Works enjoy a Paradise of Love:  
Tho' some with a rank emulous Poison swell,  
Others admire, and praise, but none excel.  
May our poor Rustic Muse add Ciphers to thy Fame.  
Thy Works are everlasting Monuments to thy Name.   

Oldham's GHOST. A Dream. To Mr. Ro. Townshend.  
ALL hushed and still, Night's melancholy shade  
The dusky Arch of Heaven had overspread;  
The very Beasts of Prey their Wander ceased;  
The little Birds their murmuring Notes suppressed:  
No Star appeared, no Noise, no Wind was heard,  
And neither Bough, nor Leaf, nor Blossom stirred.  
When on the sweeting ground I silent lay  
On Flowery Beds under a fragrant Bay,  
Whose sweetness sucked my emulous breath away.  
Now parting with my Reason and my Sense,  
Slumbers as soft, as sweet as Innocence,  
Had seized my Eyes, and the great God of Rest  
Had drawn his drowsy Wand along my Breast.  
Methought I saw an Angel by me stand,  
With Laurels on his head and Myrtles in his hand.  
And all the way the Messenger of God  
Had with his hallowed Feet in Glory trod:  
Sprung up Elysian Flowers here and there,  
Sweet as their Climate, as their Parent fair.  
His heavenly Locks lay curled by Nature's Arts:  
A Quiver for his Brother Cupid's Darts,  
Sweeting Ambrosian Dew: His Eyes too bright:  
His Roses were too red: his Lilies were too white.  
His Smiles kind entertainment did bespeak,  
His Smiles spread in a pleasant Lip and blushing Cheek:  
Narcissus smiles not half so sweet as they,  
Althô he loved, and smiled himself away.  
Presumption yet they checked, I know not how,  
With a Majestic Censure on his Brow.  
So sweet a Cherub of the Heavenly Choir!  
The Gods themselves did their own Works admire.  
Thus stood the winged Mercury, arrayed  
In Purple Robes of State—  
Which to his Buskins reached, kissed them, and with them played.  
Thus stood the Prophet, pressing me to take  
A Vizard, and a Book, for Oldham's sake.  
By which I knew I had acceptance found;  
And falling down, I kissed the Holy Ground.  
But he proceeded thus— for I was dumb—  
" Hail Thyrsis! little Bud of Fame! I come  
" Fraught with an Embassy, sent from above,  
" An Embassy of Favour, Grace, and Love.  
" Thy Wish is entered in the Rolls of Fate:  
" Thy Prayers are heard, nor fear thou shalt be great.  
" Thy Parts the only Talon Heaven will give,  
" (On such a Portion Prodigals might live.)  
" Tho' Honour is not in the least thy aim,  
" Yet Wits a hunting, often light on Fame.  
" Friends thou shalt have, but few, faithful, and free,  
" As thou desir'st, deserv'st, if that can be.  
" Wedded to a young Widow Colledge-life,  
" Thy Books thy Children, and thy Muse thy Wife.  
" And since thou dost only invoke my Muse,  
" Me and my Works for thy sole Pattern choose:  
" By my own self I swear, thou shalt inherit  
" A double Portion of Apollo 's Spirit.  
" Nor my adopted Son! when thus retired,  
" (The Blessing which thou hast so long desired)  
" Shalt thou not find a heart to lash the Crimes,  
" The bold notorious Strumpets of the Times.  
" Nor shalt thou want a Telescope from far:  
" Deep Caves alone by day descry a Star.  
" Secure from danger on the silent shore,  
" The horror of a Storm others see more,  
" Than they, that without hope and help complain,  
" And lose their sense in the Abyss of pain:  
" By sad experience their own misery find;  
" Can't utter the confusion of their mind;  
" But swallowed up, plunge deeper in Despair;  
" Carried they know not how, they know not where.  
" My Works shall both thy Mint and Optic be;  
" Here at one prospect thou shalt all things see:  
" All things Sarcastical, that justly fall  
" Under that common head, compendious All.  
" My Works shall be thy Forge to form thy Skill:  
" The World finds Matter, and thy self a Will.  
" Improve thy Worth, Worth is itself a Name:  
" Trace but my Style, and you secure my Fame.  
" Satyr's a plain, Satyr's a pleasant Road,  
" Provided that the way be not too broad.  
" But in a full career 'tis hard to miss  
" Running upon a dangerous Precipice.  
" Be neither trivial, nor take too much pains;  
" Let Malice never guide your furious Reins.  
" When grave, be not elaborate, nor write  
" For solid, intricate: for easy, slight:  
" These and the rest for your instruction learn,  
" And between good and evil to discern.  
This said, rapt in an Ecstafie of Love,  
Fed with vain hopes, I would my Vision prove.  
Of blind Delusions in false Dreams afraid,  
Strove to embrace the Evangelic Shade.  
When lo! he vanished from my dazzled Eyes,  
And thus my filial Love, and thus my Duty did despise.  
Fanning his silver Wings, he cut the Sky,  
Which gathering in thick fleecy throngs, did fly  
To see the great Ambassador of Heaven pass by.  
And where the Clouds parted to give him way,  
My Cries did post along as fast as they.  
My Father! Father! kept the Chariot's tract,  
Hung on the Wheels, and would have brought him back,  
But left so far behind, I start and wake.   

On The Death of the late Duke of Ormond.  
Ipse tibi jam brachia contrahit arden's  
Scorpius, & coeli justâ plus parte reliquit.  Vir. Geor 1. 
To Mr. William Butler.  
UNder a fatal Yew, as I was laid,  
Pleased with the dismal melancholic Shade,  
Democritus in a black Veil appears,  
Democritus his Ghost in floods of Tears.  
Horror my Senses in confusion sealed,  
The icy current of my Blood congealed.  
Each Joint and Sinew loosed: my swelling Veins  
Were cold and stiff, bound on the Rack of Pains.  
Smothered in silence thus I panting lay,  
And heard the hollow Spectre sighing say,  
He's gone— the Pillar of the Church and State  
With honour sinks under the mighty weight;  
The British Atlas falls a Sacrifice to insulting Fate.  
Who would not even the Laws of Nature break?  
And be a 
* Polyzaelus a Cyrenian, who never laughed. v. Ptolemaeus Hephaest. Lib. 3.  Polyzaelus for his sake?  
Democritus, the lightest Mould of Earth,  
Whose Life was one continued Scene of Mirth,  
A Deluge of religious Tears must shed,  
To wash the Hero; for a HeroesHeroes dead.  
Fame! thou chief Attribute of his great Soul!  
Proclaim the doleful News from Pole to Pole:  
Employ thy hundred Tongues, that all may come,  
And pay their last Devotion to his Tomb.  
Here at this 
† Agelastos, a Stone so called from Ceres her sorrow for the loss of her Daughter, not far from the Well Callichorus. v. Apollod. Lib. 1. Cap. 5. § 1.  Agelastos sigh and groan,  
Till Niobe's fate more justly be their own.  
Let Nature her unhappy loss bewail,  
And hide her head under a Widow's Veil:  
Or like Evadne, with her Husband burn,  
As he to Ashes, she to Chaos turn.  
The Sun and Moon eclipsed!— where am I now?  
Stars clashing fall!— the sinking Heavens bow!  
The Sun and Moon would Ormond both embrace!  
The Sun and Moon would both resign their place:  
The Constellations all together crowd,  
And hide themselves behind a bashful Cloud!  
The Signs contracted, shrink to make him room!  
Concerned where Ormond will vouchsafe to come!  
Each for the honour of his presence vy!  
Yet blush Ormond should have no Rival in the Sky!  
Ha! what strange Light is this that strikes my Eyes,  
And from those Mists of Darkness seems to rise!  
— What blazing Comet's that I see  
Newly installed chief in the Galaxy!  
Perseus and Cassiopeia round him twine,  
To blind his Lustre, both their Forces join;  
But he does all the heavenly Host outshine!  
'Tis Ormond, by that Spotless Robe of white!  
Nor could another Sign be half so bright!  
'Tis He— insert him in your Calendar,  
A worthy Saint, and an auspicious Star.  
Thou World, alternately rejoice and mourn,  
But rather drop more Tears into his Urn:  
Whilst I to my own self and to my place return.   

To Mr. R. Nichols. On the Little Man that was showed for a Sight all over England. In imitation of a Greek Epigram out of Lucilius.  
A Grave Philosopher of old, that taught  
The World at first was out of Atoms brought,  
Had Fate projected in his time, thy Birth;  
When Epicurus thus conceived the Earth;  
He would have made the Universe of thee:  
As much less than diminutive Atoms be.  
Or this at least he would for granted take,  
Heaven did out of thee those Atoms make.  
Man, the World's Microcosm, all allow:  
The Microcosm of an Atom Thou!   
Solomon's Song, cap. 1. ver. 2. Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth. 
To Mrs. Mary Nichols.  
WHat Angels voice thus echoes through the Sky,  
Thus rowls along, and breaks in Harmony?  
Rejoice, rejoice, for thy Redemption's nigh.  
Ah! what soft welcome Airs salute my Ears!  
Airs! that enchant the Stars, and charm the Spheres!  
The Clouds all melt away! succeeding Light  
And glorious Pomp dazzle my fixed sight!  
The Elements give back, and bow the knee,  
Whilst Seraphs dance unto the Melody;  
But I alone stand weeping by the Tree:  
Not yet the Tree of Life, a melancholy Cross;  
There seek for Remedy, and bewail my loss.  
For in my Saviour's absence, that long while,  
Nothing could force, no not a feigned smile;  
Nor make me blot the Copy he had set,  
Whose Eyes were never wanton, often wet;  
Whose Sufferings Agonies, drops of Blood his Sweat.  
But now He's come! the Herald did proclaim,  
And bowed with Reverence at his Sacred Name.  
My ravished Soul fell down before his Throne,  
And now I knew it was the Holy One.  
'Twas my Beloved I had sought so long,  
Whom I had found, had I not sought him wrong.  
And art thou come?— And is it thou, blessed Dove?—  
Can I believe my Eyes, or trust my Love?  
Pardon, dear Jesus! such a jealous Faith;  
Tho' weak my Trust, my Love's as strong as Death.  
Pardon me too, for since I saw thee last,  
The Floods have laid my fruitful Garden waste.  
Alas! what pleasure could a Widow take,  
Who only loved that Garden for thy sake!  
What's all the rest, when Sharon's Rose is gone?  
The Rose that's all my Garden's Sweets in one?  
Let me but hug that Rose within my Breast,  
And then, my Love! let who's will take the rest.  
No— that has lain all open to the South,  
And I have only kissed thy hands and feet;  
Now kiss me with the kisses of thy mouth,  
The kisses of thy mouth, for they are sweet!  
My Spouse, let me suck up thy fragrant breath,  
For ah! my Love's as strong as Wine or Death.  
For a Kiss for our last parting I must sue;  
And one at meeting justly is my due.  
Pay all thy Debts for absence, these and more,  
With usury pay off that divine Score.  
Do not my Passion, O my Spouse! disdain,  
Nor let my Sighs and Tears be all in vain:  
But give me Balmy Kisses in exchange,  
Nor let unhappy Absence make thee strange.  
Come— let us strive which first their Lips can join,  
Which can the closest to their Rivals twine;  
Until our struggling Spirits both release,  
Till these our Seconds make a perfect peace.  
Victorious Captives both with joy return,  
Both with new Love and Emulation burn.  
As for my Soul, thou shalt new life inspire,  
In gratitude with zeal I'll blow the Fire.  
Come then— dear Jesus! come— and no more part,  
But take the full possession of my Heart.   

To Idera, The Apology for Silence.  

1.  
LOng has the Storehouse of my heart  
Been laying Fuel in;  
Here and there Cupid's left a Dart,  
The fire for Matches to begin.   

2.  
But my Combustibles, as yet  
Have not their Caverns broke:  
And whilst they can no passage get,  
Send only Volleys out of Smoke.   

3.  
Yet by these Sparks you might have guest  
What Balls of Flames do roll  
Within the Furnace of my Breast,  
And even consume my melting Soul.   

4.  
Vesuvius hollow Entrails glow,  
Red-hot with hidden Fire;  
And yet they nothing upwards throw,  
But keep their stock of Flames entire.   

5.  
Their stock of Flames which once a year  
They pour upon the fruitful Plain;  
Their Forge of loads of Ashes clear,  
And to their Smithy work again.   

6.  
Tho' Preludes yet I only show,  
Nor tell you all my mind,  
Idera! trust me to be true,  
And think, my Fair One! th' more's behind.    

The Dumb Discovery.  
To Idera.  
Tho' Cupid flames from Vulcan stole,  
And made a Bonfire of my Soul;  
Resolved from Aetna to remove,  
There to set up his Forge for Love:  
With this persuasion prepossessed,  
That Flames penned in a narrow Breast,  
Would dispatch sooner poisoned Darts,  
None so hot as Lovers hearts:  
Yet thought I none this Shop can know,  
Hid, like Aetna, under Snow.  
None suspect, an outward Styx  
With Phlegeton under ground should mix:  
But my Ashes all betray,  
And to my Work house show the way.  
Thus the Philosopher, who fraught  
With an ambitious fury, thought  
To be installed a God, by night  
Took downwards an immortal flight:  
By his descension would aspire  
Through the burning Mount, in fire:  
Aetna, to undeceive the World,  
His Iron Slippers upwards hurled.  
He, greedy to advance his Name,  
Beguiled at once of Life and Fame.   

In praise of Wine mixed with Water. A Greek EPIGRAM, Out of Meleager.  
To Mr. Francis Nichols.  
THE Nymphs, when Bacchus, like an Embryo, came  
Out of his Mother's Ashes, on a flame,  
Dipped the young Deity in a cool stream,  
To quench the fire, and take away the steam.  
The Nymphs and Bacchus ever since agree,  
Without the Nymphs, Thunder and Lightning He!  
Thus Water moderates the rage of Wine,  
And Fire itself proves cool and anodyne.  
Wine all the Waters crudities consumes;  
Water feeds on her hot and heady fumes:  
To one another both a flavour give,  
And make a Cordial of a Corrosive.   

Parting with Mr. Tho. Bebington.  

DOwn by a River's side together sat  
Thyrsis and Hylas, (such was once the State  
Of our First Parents, in a friendly Strife,  
Thus Innocence might learn to square her life)  
Where singing Waters lulled themselves asleep:  
And clouded Heaven did sympathising weep.  
When pensive Thyrsis thus did silence break,  
And all in Tears to his loved Hylas speak.   THYRSIS. 
And canst thou, Hylas, thou, be so unkind  
Thus to leave me and Life behind?  
And canst thou think of me without regret?  
On Love's account for millions run in debt?  HYLAS. 
No Thyrsis! Hylas can't unconstant prove,  
Nor have I yet been wavering in my Love;  
But emulous Fate summons us both to part:  
Hast thou not a sufficient Pledge, my Heart?  THYRSIS. 
Yet out of sight I shall be out of mind:  
Ah! Hylas, should you prove unkind,  
Officious Fate would need no other Knife  
To cut in two my ravelled Thread of Life.  HYLAS. 
Nature herself shall first unhinged be;  
The whole Creation lose its Symmetry:  
Iron th' attractive Loadstone shall forsake,  
When I the sacred League of Friendship break.  THYRSIS. 
Into a confused Chaos shall be hurled  
The shattered Atoms of the World:  
The Needle too the Northern point shall shun:  
And with my Promise Rivers backwards run.  HYLAS. 
To Hylas then be sure you never fail  
Kisses to send by every gentle Gale.  
Let Hylas be your talk, Hylas your Dreams:  
Transport me Sighs over the Belgic Streams.  THYRSIS. 
To Thyrsis, without intermission, pay  
Your bounden Duty night and day;  
And nothing less to Thyrsis, than to Heaven,  
For Life and Love by both alike are given.  
Pray to the Gods; but I can hardly say  
Whether to them you first presume to pray:  
No— your first and last thoughts must be my due.  
Come, Hylas! then once more renew  
Your everlasting Vow, before your long Adieu.  HYLAS. 
I swear by all the Thunderbolts of Jove;  
By those revengeful Darts of injured Love:  
By Life and Death, and all the Powers above;  
To comprehend them all, I swear by You,  
That I for ever will be just and true.  THYRSIS. 

May all the Plagues that Vengeance has in store  
For Infidelity, these and more,  
With Aggravations, light on perjured Me,  
If I be guilty of Unconstancy.  
Or if an Action be against me brought,  
Of one suspicious Deed, or doubtful thought.   

This said, ravished into an Ecstasy,  
They would in their perfection die;  
And struggling hardly to themselves can come,  
Like Prophets with their Inspiration dumb.  
Cupid the heavenly Mediator came,  
And with two Arrows dipped in Honour's Flame,  
Their golden points piercing through both their hearts,  
For trial of their Faith and Virtue, parts.  
Hylas the Seas to Holland troubled bore,  
And left deserted Thyrsis sighing on the shore.    

A Greek EPIGRAM.  
To Idera.  
SHot by th' Artillery of your fair Eye,  
So great my pains, I would, but cannot die:  
Sicilian Tyrants never yet could Death deny!  
Tears from my festered Wound, like Matter, flow,  
And still the Fire you will not quench, but blow.  
What shall I do? I've ransacked Nature's store,  
She has no Plantain for a Lover's Sore:  

* Leucas, a Rock so called from Leucus one of the Companions of Ulysses, who was slain by Antiphus, as Homer tells the Story. Whosoever leaped down from the top of this Rock, was freed from the slavery and tyranny of Love, as Jupiter, Venus, Artemisia, Hippomedon, and several others experienced. See the reason of this wonderful Virtue, that was so peculiar to this Rock, given by Ptolemaeus Hephaestion. Lib. 7.  Leucas the only Remedy is no more.  
Ah! Madam, you, and only you can save,  
Your Beauty that must heal the Wound it gave.  
I'm Telephus, you have Achilles' Arms,  
You have, and know you have all their inherent Charms.  
However, let me not like 
† Hercules upon some quarrel with the Centaurs for broaching a new Hogshead of their Wine for his own drinking, as he shot at Elatus one of their company, the Arrow struck through his arm into his Friend Chiron's knee; who by reason of his immortality, was forced to endure a great deal of misery; but at last was released, being permitted to change life for death with Prometheus. v. Apollodor▪ Lib. 2. Cap. 4. § 4.  Chiron lie  
Cursing myself, and you, and Immortality!  
— Qualis conjectâ cerva sagittâ,  
Quam procul incautam nemora inter Cresia fixit  
Pastor agens telis, liquitque volatile ferrum  
Nescius: illa fugâ silvas saltusque peragrat  
Dictaeos: haeret lateri lethalis arundo.  Vir. Aeneid. 4.  

On John Pig, who was very famous for his great NOSE.  
To Mr. R. Nichols.  
TO say, the Nose of Pig! that cannot be;  
There's no comparison, 'tis all Hyperbole!  
But he that would the naked Truth expose,  
Must for distinction say, Pig of the Nose!   

Part of the 14th satire of Juvenal, Against Covetousness: With a long Preface taken out of the same satire.  
Et quando uberior vitiorum copia? quando  
Major Avaritiae patuit sinus?  Juv. Sat. 
To Mr. Will. Percival.  
TOO many things (Censorius!) there be  
That do entail an endless Infamy,  
That brand a man with a deserved shame,  
And spoil the lustre of an honest Name,  
Which Parents to their Children do transmit,  
And ground them in before their Alphabet.  
'Tis no such wonder nowadays to see  
How liquorish a little Boy will be,  
Still craving change of Dainties to invite  
A squeamish Stomach to an Appetite,  
Disdaining hearty Fare, and wholesome Meat,  
Consulting with Apicius what to eat;  
When the old toothless Grandsire with his Gums  
Mumps Mushrooms, Marmalade, and Sugar-plums;  
Sucks from Herculean Bowls the choicest Wines,  
And does whatever Luxury enjoins:  
Go, cries that Lust, he runs: Come, and he'll fly:  
What Belly-God his Palate can deny?  
No wonder if the Son precisely tread  
In the same path where his good Father led.  
If he's for this and t'other costly Bit,  
Can down with nothing but what's delicate;  
And by Tradition keeps to the old Wish,  
A Princely Kitchen, and a Dainty Dish.  
Thus Nature binds us by too hard a Law;  
Domestic patterns easily withdraw;  
Led by the Ignis Fatuus of their Vice,  
We make no question but they must be wise,  
And we fall on, refusing to be nice:  
Loath to be made Subjects for Ridicule,  
Single exceptions from a Common Rule.  
But most when great Authorities enforce,  
We hurry on, and follow the same course,  
And strive, if possible, to be much worse.  
Some few there be more virtuously inclined,  
Whom Titan made of Clay the best refined,  
Whom Titan has inspired with a more generous mind:  
Who scorn by evil Precepts to be swayed,  
And by authentic wickedness betrayed,  
Whilst others keep the tract their Ancestors have made.  
The generality go the common Road,  
In which their bigoted Forefathers trod,  
Considering not the way's too easy and too broad.  
Abstain from Vice, if nothing else can move,  
Tho' other Reason's insufficient prove,  
Let this prevail, a Father's Duty, and a Father's Love.  
Lest your Posterity imitating you,  
Quote your Authority for what they do;  
Your vile Example should infect the Times,  
And you must bear your own and others Crimes.  
There is a natural Veneration due  
Not only from your Son, but for him too.  
If an ill thought but comes into your head,  
His presence ought to strike that Rebel dead,  
And even the Cradle-Infant stifle the misdeed:  
Like Hercules that in his Swadling-bands,  
Two Serpents crushed between his Infant-hands.  
Contemn not Children that are young and green,  
They're old enough to imitate your sin.  
Besides with what Authority, what face  
Can you reprove a Child for want of Grace?  
And never think yourself how many grains  
Must be allowed for your own shallow Brains?  
'Tis a considerable thing thou'st done,  
In getting of a true and lawful Son,  
And adding to thy People's number one:  
But that's not all; fit him for Peace or War,  
The Clergys' Pulpit, or the Lawyer's Bar,  
The Tradesman's Shop, or honest Ploughman's Share.  
Capacitate him for some good Vocation,  
The Service of his God, his King and Nation:  
Else to what purpose is this Propagation?  
The Vultures leave their Storehouse in the Fields,  
And bring their young ones what that Storehouse yields.  
These, as they older grow, hunt the same Prey  
From their Dam's mouths they gobled t'other day.  
Breed up your Children well, on that depends  
Their future State; their good or their bad ends.  
To other Vice's Youth itself is prone,  
Sordidness, that unnatural sin, alone  
Must be inculcated, nor dares appear  
Without the Mask of provident and severe.  
By these insinuations ground he gains,  
Then wins the Field, and as a Tyrant reigns.  
Nor is it strange the covetous Gripe should be  
Praised for the virtue of Frugality,  
That all respect to his bald pate be paid,  
A long experienced Artist in his Trade!  
Whose Furnace melts down the rich Ore of grounds!  
Whose Hammer beats out Pennies into Pounds!  
Rare Alchemist! makes Money out of Mould!  
Rare Midas! at a touch turns all to Gold!  
Now he that does this pinching Art profess,  
Will only Brother Miser's practice bless,  
And to his silver God ascribe true happiness.  
Him will he teach his Children to adore,  
Tell them there is no Hell but to be poor.  
That Heaven's Treasure lies in swelling Bags,  
The Mark of all Believers holy Rags.  
(Vice has her Hornbook and successive Schools,  
And steps by method Rudiments and Rules.  
The quickest Wits can't all at once be taught;  
'Twas by degrees that Mithridates brought  
Poison to be no Poison, but a cordial Draught.)  
Here than he enters Children that are young,  
Infants who have not yet well loosed their lisping tongue.  
To little sordid things first works their Brain,  
Then to insatiable desires of gain.  
No Masters but must Graduates first be,  
Vice will not trust a Novice with the Key  
That picks the Lock of her Philosophy.  
See how the Wretch feeds on a buried Chest,  
With Famine starved, of golden Dreams possessed!  
See how he will his Servants of their Wages cheat!  
And grudges every fragment that they eat!  
Each fragment of dry crust, though mouldy Bread,  
What! Servants pampered? upon Salads fed?  
See how he locks up Cabbage, Sprouts, and Leeks!  
A parted Onion, counting all the streaks!  
See how wild rotten Olives he'll devour!  
And quaff off dregs, Vinegar not so sour!  
On his own Birthday, through a small Crow's quill,  
Foul stinking Oil upon his Herbs distil:  
In raging Dog-Stars putrefying heat  
Bring out a Mess of yesterday minced Meat.  
On Beds of Straw free choice of penance lie,  
The Swine's Alcove is richer in the Sty.  
Frugality! of a Sprat a Dinner makes;  
For change of Raiment in the Dunghill rakes.  
Hang sneaking! for a Feast in his best clothes,  
He to the Beggar-boys a mumping goes.  
In Winter runs to Bed before the Sun,  
With Turfs and Rush-lights he shall be undone.  
But to what purpose dost thou hoard up Pelf,  
To ruin Prodigals, and cheat thy self?  
Why like the Bee thy time for nothing waste?  
Nor of the fruits of all thy labours taste?  
Honey for others luxury prepare?  
A Beggar to the World, rich only to thy Heir.  
Why be a Pimp to prostitute thy store?  
Like Damocles hungry, like a 
* According to the old Proverb, Cynicè vivere, (i. e.) canino more vivere, non ob impudentiam tantum sed & ob sordes. Cynicè 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉. Torrentius.  Cynic poor.  
Thy Soul is in a Dropsy, and her thirst  
Will then be satisfied when she can burst;  
Else pour down millions, still thou art not well,  
But thy inordinate desires with Riches swell,  
Thy Sieve still gapes, and yet can nothing hold:  
Crassus his Cure was a sweet Drench of melted Gold.  
He that has least of Wealth, desires it least:  
Content is happiness: Enough's a Feast.  
When two Farms will not do, a third you'll buy,  
And cease to purchase with Eternity.  
You cannot see a Neighbour's Vineyard yield  
A plenteous Vintage, or a fruitful Field  
A better crop of Corn, but you must long,  
All my own, cries Extortion, right or wrong.  
Such things are branded with notorious shame,  
Loud sounds the Trumpet of an evil Fame.  
Words are but wind, Riches to me are more,  
Than to be called an honest man, but poor.  
Yes,— Wealth includes Prosperity and Ease,  
Security from pains, peace, plenty, what you please!  
'Tis strange to think how times degenerate!  
That which was formerly a good Estate,  
Goes for a trifle: Avarice so abounds,  
The Prodigal's so profuse, so rich the Miser's grounds.  
Avarice, that swollen Python! that Big-bellied Devil!  
Who bore, and bred the Hydra of all evil.  
That first the use of Steel and Poison taught,  
And barefaced Murder into fashion brought:  
For he that is so eager to be rich,  
The more he rubs, the more he frets his Itch.  
Pygmalion thus, of Homicides not the least,  
For Money slew a Brother and a Priest.  
Live with your little hills and huts content,  
'Tis better in your Bodies to be penned,  
Than in your minds. Thus good Fabricius said,  
And Curius upon Rapes from Earthen Vessels fed.  
These Precepts did those reverend Sages give,  
And by their practice taught us how to live.  
He that the Yoke of Poverty can bear,  
Nor under want sinks deeper in despair:  
Need not into the mouth of danger run,  
Kill or be killed, at once made or undone.  
This would the Ancients on their Children press;  
In Virtue only lies true happiness.  
Now the old covetous Gripe like Stentor bauls,  
His Clerk at Midnight to his business calls.  
When the poor shivering Youngster scarce can hold  
His Pen, for the extremity of cold.  
Rise! rise! you Sluggard, rise! Fitzherbert look,  
Or carefully peruse the Statute-book.  
Copy out this Indenture; make a Deed,  
And give me an account of what you read.  
Quibbles have neither profit, nor delight,  
Sophistry nothing tempting to invite:  
Then give your mind to any other thing;  
Present a Panegyric to the King:  
Even to thee his bounty may extend,  
A Mandate for a Fellowship to lend.  
For a Lieutenant's or a Captain's place,  
Show your broad Porter's shoulders to his Grace.  
Nine-pin Legs, Hairy Nostrils, brawny Fist,  
Be sure your Name'll be entered in the List.  
But if you tremble when you hear a Gun,  
And an Alarm rather makes you run,  
Turn Chimny-sweeper, Broker; never care  
What Envy may object, but deal in any Ware;  
For Gain smells sweet, come it from what it will,  
None will say, Gain has an offensive smell.  
He hugs his Gold that in the Kennel rakes,  
Come it from Common-shore, or Sink, or Jakes.  
None question whence a man grows rich, or how;  
But money must be had, that we all know.  
This every Infant learns of his old Dad,  
Without it there's no Farthing to be had.  
The little Boys and Girls these Terms of Art,  
Before their A b c, must have by heart.  
Why all this stir to teach a Child to be  
No stranger to his Parent's knavery?  
Alas! there's no such need for him to kiss the Rod,  
'Tis easy following where his Father trod.  
He's an apt Scholar, let him but alone,  
When's corrupt Native Seeds full ripe are grown;  
He cannot miss his Father's fatal Shelf,  
Yet he has had no time to show himself.  
When come to age, and in his hot mad blood,  
And all the Doctor's practice understood:  
He'll swear, forswear, in Villainy take delight,  
Kill his rich Wife upon his Wedding-night;  
And when the witty Rogue has done the feat,  
Put a Jest on't, and laugh at the conceit:  
I've purified my Gold, cries he, from dross,  
And separated my Lumber without loss.  
Whilst others sweat and labour night and day,  
By Sea and Land through unknown places stray,  
He has a shorter cut, a more compendious way.  
'Twas but the letting a young Widow blood,  
That betwixt him and Miser's Heaven stood:  
Now he'll be rich, and in a little time,  
A new invention! and a rare design!  
The Reason's evident, the case is plain,  
Sin comes into the world not without guilt, but pain.  
You! no not you! ne'er taught your Child to be  
A sordid Hoarder, base, or niggarlie:  
What then? those covetous Seeds he had from thee.  
They're naturally engrafted in his mind,  
And he's a Miser not by Rule, but Kind.  
A sordid Principle was in his blood,  
And as he's yours, he'll never come to good.  
He that commends Frugality, and allows  
The least suspicious action in his house,  
Of Error his own Judgement he convicts;  
And whilst his Reason thus he contradicts,  
Youth of that slip an ill improvement make,  
That as an universal Licence take,  
To cheat, defraud, and swear out an Estate,  
Do any thing to be rich, do any thing to be great.  
Give them an Inch, and they will take an Ell,  
Blow you the Fire, their greedy Passions swell,  
They think they must exceed, or else they can't excel.  
You've bred a Viper, that in time will eat  
Through your own Bowels, and begin the cheat  
Upon yourself: so the wild savage Bear  
Will his own Master first to pieces tear.  
Half his allowance he'll to Saffold give,  
To know how long th' Old Man is like to live.  
Gapes for your Gold, and curses every Knell,  
That he mistakes to be your Passing-bell.  
At length impatient for your lingering doom,  
He will not let it soft and fairly come:  
Saves Hell the trouble, and will Fate forestall,  
Be Executioner, and have at all.  
From your own flesh and blood you're forced to guard your Throat,  
And carry up and down an Antidote.  
Hail Democritus! tune up your Lungs for mirth!  
Here's the Ludibrium of Heaven and Earth,  
That might your laughter for your lives engross,  
To see refined Clay thus hoard up dross.  
With pains, and care, and danger, grasp up store,  
With pains, and care, and danger, keep it more,  
But in reversion rich, emphatically poor!  
The Miser's Life's a pleasant Comedy!  
None so ridiculous a Fool as he!  
The Dancer on the Ropes less laughter makes,  
H'as better grounds for what he undertakes;  
By hazarding his neck he gets his Bread,  
And Nature to sustain, ventures his head:  
Like Nero, you for Mounts of Golden Ore,  
To tumble up and down on silver floor.  
See what vast throngs of Vessels plough the Main,  
And all to find out unknown Worlds of Gain.  
By Hercules his Pillars take their rounds,  
Shoot Gulfs, like Remus leap o'er Nature's bounds.  
'Tis worth the while to run the risk of Fate,  
Stare Death i'th' face, to raise a vast Estate.  
He that to this degree of confidence arrives,  
Tho' Pluto be his Guide, by Pluto thrives;  
'Tis not one Fury, nor one Devil drives.  
He that one plank from Hell can lie and sleep,  
With both the Indies loaden, dance along the deep,  
Tho' he to save his Purse may well forbear  
Revenge upon his clothes, and pulling off his Hair:  
Yet Bedlam for him groans, Bedlam ne'er had  
One under her correction half so mad.  
A Storm comes hover, and Phoebus' shrouds  
His watery Rays under eclipsing Clouds;  
Cimmerian darkness falls upon the Air,  
Black as th' Abyss, and hopeless as Despair;  
Flashes of Lightning's all the light is given,  
And Thunderbolts roll o'er the Plains of Heaven;  
Yet cries the Scrape: Trust my Astrology,  
Clear is the lowering Sky, and calm the troubled Sea.  
These are but Lambent flames, what men afraid of light?  
Of harmless Crackers in a Summer's night?  
Which a scorched Air and sultry heat produce?  
Come hoist your Sails, and let your Rudders lose,  
Let frowning Heaven scare us then no more,  
The God will save me whom I still adore.  
Blind! vain! unhappy man! perhaps to night  
His Soul to Charon goes, and his delight  
To Pluto offers him a Sacrifice:  
The Conj'rer so by his Familiar dies.  
Methinks I see him struggling hard for breath,  
Oh, how he gnaws his Purse, and grinds his teeth!  
And that must be his life, or that must be his death!  
If Fortune favour, he comes safe to shore,  
Whom all the World could not suffice before,  
Nor Tagus nor Pactolus with their Golden Ore.  
Now without House or Home, ready to starve,  
Torn Rags to hide his nakedness will serve,  
Fragments of mouldy Bread, and scraps of Meat,  
Which Beggars proffered, would refuse to eat,  
Go down so cheerfully, and oh! a Crust's so sweet!  
Oh! the delicious Fare of Bread and Cheese!  
Oh! how the Miser begs upon his knees!  
To get a Farthing does his miseries relate,  
And prove his Shipwreck by Certificate:  
And this is to be rich! and this is to be great!  
Wealth with such trouble and such care procured,  
Wealth so impossible to be secured  
From Fire and Thiefs, turns but to little Gains;  
Nothing can recompense eternal pains.  
C— n that rich poor man, can take no rest,  
With slavish Fears like Millstones on his breast;  
Must have three sturdy Fellows always on their guard,  
And for their use Engines and Arms prepared.  
Yet jealous Whims his Eyes still waking keep,  
Poor C— n cannot take a wink of sleep.  
There's no rude hand would touch the Cynicks Den,  
If burnt or broken by malicious men;  
He would another Tub to morrow make,  
Or out of this a stately Lodging take.  
This Alexander knew, and cursed his Fate,  
That cast his Lot so much below the State  
Of wise Diogenes, Diogenes the Great!  
Small was the Shell, great the Inhabitant!  
Who nothing had, and yet did nothing want!  
Happier than he that fain would before ever known,  
Monarch, and God, and make the World his own:  
Whose Glories would to Dangers soon betray,  
Whose Dangers would his Glories far outweigh.  
He that to Wisdom's Light conforms his Soul,  
Can never lose his way, nor miss the Goal.  
No Deity is wanting to the Wise,  
For Prudence is the best of Deities.  
Which he that single harbours in his breast,  
In her alone comprehends all the rest.  
Fortune! thy Godhead so implored below,  
Only to Fools and Madmen thou dost owe.  
Thou dost no Godlike Attributes partake,  
A Demy-Goddess of a Humane make!  
If any one will accept of my Advice,  
To know just what Ingredients may suffice  
To make up a good honest Livelihood,  
Too little by Pretenders understood:  
First ℞ q. s. of Meat,  
To keep out Cold and Hunger, freely eat  
Of temperate Socrates his wholesome Dish,  
And take an ounce or two of Cowly's Wish.  
Retire sometime from Company by stealth,  
For Meditation sake, and for your health,  
To Epicurus Garden, and there see  
Nature in every Variety.  
There every day some time for study should be spent,  
Eat freely of the only Fruit, Content.  
Nature and Wisdom always say the same,  
Nature and Wisdom here do differ but in name.  
Still thirsts your Soul as if your Heart would break,  
Another Julep then more usual make,  
Two thousand pound for a Pearl-Cordial take.  
Still can you make a Face? contract a Frown?  
As if you could not get your Pect'ral Potion down?  
Once more your former Cordial then repeat,  
And add four thousand pound to make it sweet.  
Still take you up a prejudice against this Receipt?  
Then all the Wealth that both the Indies boast,  
To this, were thrown away, and merely lost:  
Would never satisfy your damned excess,  
Nor in the least contribute to true Happiness.  
— Omnis enim res,  
Virtus, fama, decus, divina humanaque pulchris  
Divitiis parent! quas qui construxerit, ille  
Clarus erit, fortis, justus! etc.  
Horat. Sat. lib. 2. s. 3.   

An EPIGRAM. To Mr. H. Northcote of Exeter-Colledge, Oxon.  
The Happy Miser.  
WHy should we to this World our Souls enslave,  
That never yet true satisfaction gave,  
That has no happiness but in the Grave?  
She throws us Pleasures only to bereave,  
To decay Subject, Subject to deceive,  
They us, We them must once for ever leave.  
Our Title's good no longer than our Life,  
Our Friends inherit little else but Strife.  
In death the Miser's only happy found,  
Who goes t' enjoy his Treasure under ground.   

An EPIGRAM. In praise of John PigsPigs Diminutive Nose, in imitation of the Emperor Trajan's.  
To Mr. Frederick Colman.  
WEll— all the Dyal-makers are undone!  
Let Pig but turn his Nosle to the Sun,  
'Twill serve for both Steeple and Weathercock,  
And on his Teeth tell Travellers what's a Clock.   

Another out of Ammianus. To Mr. T. Woolley.  
Concerning John PigsPigs Mountainous Nose and Quicksilver Feet.  
WIth both his hands Pig cannot snight his Snout,  
But he must go near half a mile about;  
So long the Promontory of his Nose!  
So short, so slender, are his Petty-toes!  
Nor can he wind his horny Trunk with ease,  
No— nor, to speak the truth, hear himself sneeze.  
So far that Marrow-bone's distant from his Ears,  
He has not said, God bless me, for this fifty years.  
I'th' strength of such a Staff, Pig (as they talk)  
May well from London to Newcastle take a walk.   

To a young Lady reading the seventh Verse of the first Chapter of Proverbs.  The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge, etc. 
To Idera.  
WHilst the Contents of this one Verse  
So passionately you rehearse,  
In it we comprehended find  
The perfect Copy of your Mind.  
You teach us, and inform us too,  
What we should, and what you do.  
This is your Noon, our early Dawn,  
In miniature your Picture drawn.  
Compendious History of your Life:  
In Virtue your victorious strife:  
Like wrestling Jacob, whilst you halt,  
You make us blush at our Revolt.  
Here in this Looking-glass we see  
The Beauties of your Soul, what we  
Like you, and for your sake desire to be.  
We came, and heard, and were undone!  
With earthly flames the Fire begun,  
When heavenly too conspired to join  
United Forces, humane and divine:  
High Winds more dangerous than they;  
In vain our Engines then we play:  
When the chief Castle is burnt down,  
'Tis more than time that we surrender up the Town.   

To his Valentine Hemiera, Madam A. R.  
WEll▪— Fortune! prostrate at thy feet  
I'll do my Penance in a Sheet;  
For want of sight I called thee blind,  
All thy Revenge was to be kind.  
Amongst the Lots upon thy Throne,  
Thou Omnipresent satst alone.  
I laid my trembling hand on all,  
And as I took them, let them fall.  
But confident in thee my Guide,  
That which did shrinking from me slide,  
I gently pressed, and it complied.  
With this encouragement I draw,  
But when the happy Name I saw,  
Ye Gods! with what amazement struck!  
I kissed my Valentine and blest my Luck?  
A. first was offered to my sight,  
With a sweet relish to invite  
My over-eager Appetite.  
My Soul resolved on life or death,  
Of an auspicious ALPHA full, took breath.  
Then to suck Honey out of Love,  
To the ripe Rose did next remove.  
Her she robbed of all her Red,  
And on her fragrant sweetness fed.  
My ravished Soul her station took  
Here, and durst no further look.  
R was the Centre of my Heart:  
R my only vital part:  
R pleased and satisfied my taste:  
As Roses beautiful, as Lilies chaste.  
Pythagoras may his y admire,  
'Tis R that sets my Heart on fire:  
R never yet came out of time;  
R is my Reason and my Rhyme.  
R so sweetly runs along,  
R the burden of my Song.  
But since R at a distance only darts a Smile,  
Which at a distance must recoil;  
My Vow I first will send, before I bring  
In person a Religious Offering.  
Here this I absent lay before her Shrine,  
Kisses by proxy to communicate my design,  
Remember Easter, and Good Morrow, Valentine.   

To Idera. Who would not be seen to steal a Look from Duserastes, by turning her back.  
Malo me Galatea petit lasciva puella,  
Et fugit ad salices, & se cupit ante videri.  Vir. Bucol. Ecl. 3. 

1.  
WHy, Cupid, thus at hide and seek?  
Why all those Blushes on your Cheek?  
Are you ashamed that privilege to give,  
That man should see your face, and live?  
Or would you at a distance keep,  
And never kiss Endymion but asleep?   

2.  
Are you afraid that should your Sun shine bright,  
Whilst Duserastes only prays for Light,  
My dazzled Eyes with too much glory blind,  
Earth and myself should hardly find?  
Or that I should to Phaeton's Wish aspire,  
To set my little World on fire?   

3.  
Why so cruel? why so coy?  
Never, never to enjoy?  
Have we profaned Love's Deity all this while,  
Ah, Madam! now to steal a Smile?  
This is with time to keep Virginity,  
And take the measure of Eternity.    

To Hemiera.  
Utraque formosa est: operosae cultibus ambae:  
Artibus in dubio est haec sit, an illa, prior.  
Pulerior hâ illa est, haec est quoque pulcrior illâ:  
Et magis haec nobis, & magis illa placet.  
Quid geminas, Erycina, meos sine fine dolores?  
Nun erat in curas una puella satis?  Ou. Amor. lib. 2. eleg. 10. 

1.  
TEll me, individual Pair!  
Beyond a Mediocrity of Fair!  
Whose Beauties Heaven can scarce improve;  
Whom I was born to love:   

2.  
How shall I divide my Heart?  
Tell me, ye that have there a double part.  
Division multiplies my pains;  
Distraction lays more weight upon my Chains.   

3.  
When stately Idera ay see,  
I think of Jove's high love for Semele:  
Love that in Thunder and in Lightning came;  
Oh! my Soul burns to die by such a flame.   

4.  
Hemiera, by Nature kind,  
Has Idera's face wrought in her mind.  
Her sweet temper melts my Soul:  
Which Idera's imperious Eyes control.   

5.  
Idera with a haughty Air,  
Affects to be thought something more than fair.  
Hemiera is as good, as Idera's great:  
High, courtly Idera! made for me and State.   

6.  
Hemiera's melancholy Face  
Has less Charms, but more of Grace:  
Does both my Pity and my Love,  
Those Springs of my Affections move.   

7.  
Idera's comely Winter's pride,  
With Hesperian Fruits supplied;  
Other proud Summers dare not vy,  
Nor in her presence wear their Livery.   

8.  
Hemiera's Autumn's youthful Blood  
Does sooner blossom, sooner bud,  
Than other Springs with April-showers,  
Dissolved into ubiquity of Flowers.   

9  
Idera on point of Honour stands,  
My Soul by right of conquest she demands:  
All that of myself is mine,  
I to Hemiera resign.   

10.  
But if Idera, with disdain,  
Would make me fear, not love her, 'tis in vain:  
She'll repent, when 'tis too late:  
I'll sooner undergo Saguntum's Fate.   

Me mea disperdat nullo prohibente puella,  
Si satis una potest: si minus una, duae.    

To P. P. being to run a Race after Dinner.  
SHarp Gourmandizer! heavy-heeled Racer! run  
With nimble Chaps; and to supply them, eat  
A hearty Meal with your defective Feet:  
By this exchange the Race is easily won.   

An Epigram out of Alphaeus Mitylenaeus. To Mr. Humphrey Lind.  
Mediocrity.  
WE envy not, Philaphelus! the Great,  
Nor would pull down their Pinnacles of State:  
Nor prop them up, projecting to aspire:  
A Competency only we desire.  
Yet Poverty we would not hug as such,  
Lest ne quid nimis we should love too much.   

Another. To Mr. Denham.  
Diogenes in his Kingdom.  
WHen the old Cynics shade with Croesus met,  
He smiled to see the meager Monarch fret;  
And thus accosted him— But why so pale?  
What, does the Yellow Jaundice still prevail?  
No— Croesus! no— for all your earthly store,  
You, called to an account, not I, am poor.  
All that I had, here I have with me brought,  
You've travelled to another World with nothing fraught.   

An EPITAPH on old Oliver.  
To Mr. Andrew Snapes.  
LIe light, thou Earth, on Noll' s soft Noddle;  
His Corpse in Putrefaction coddle.  
Lie light, that Dogs may smell and rave  
To scratch the Tyrant from his Grave:  
That Dogs may lay his Carcase bare,  
And Messes of his Mummy tear.  
Dogs his polluted Jelly sup,  
And dig the Devil's Relics up.   

A Greek EPIGRAM. A short Life and a sweet. To his dear Friend Mr. Edw. Taylour.  
MY Fortune-tellers this ill Caution give,  
Oh! 'tis sad news, I have not long to live.  
So say my Stars and they, but what care I?  
Sooner or later, all must die.  
But let us stay and drink before we go,  
'Tis a way I never went, and do not know.  
Bacchus is well acquainted with the Road,  
And never goes this Stage without a load.  
On such a Horse if I below can ride,  
Why should I go on foot without a Guide?   

To Mr. Henry Palmer, going to Sea.  
THrow not my life away, of your own free,  
'Tis tender Mother Earth, but Stepdame Sea.   

To Mr. Butler.  
A Greek EPIGRAM.  
I In the flower of my days was poor,  
Now Age comes creeping with unwelcome store.  
Unhappy still! I can't myself enjoy:  
My hopes of Heaven two Extremes destroy;  
And will not let me my desires fulfil,  
Then want of Power, now a want of Will.   

To his dear Friend Mr. Will. Percival. That Poetry is Witchcraft.  
WIth Legion sure the Muses are possessed,  
That play the Devil in every inspired breast.  
What Epidemic Plague runs in men's Veins?  
What an eternal dribbling of the Brains?  
My greatest Enemy I'd wish no worse,  
Than th' Itch of Scribbling, and a Poet's Curse.   

Antipater's Epitaph upon Homer.  
To Mr. John Penneck.  
HEre lies (with reverence to his sacred Name)  
The Hero's Herald, and the Trump of Fame,  
The World's Poetic Tongue, the Muse's Flame.  
The Prophet of the Gods, and Greece's Sun,  
Homer that comprehends them all in one.   

To Mr. Nat. Smith.  
On a covetous old Miser, a religious Gripe.  
W— the Miser's Treasurer, old and grey,  
For fear of want, would make himself away:  
His House in order set, he falls to Prayer;  
Then makes his Will, and leaves himself sole Heir.  
But what a pity 'tis his labour's lost,  
At least a Halter will a Farthing cost.  
No— he had rather Hell's Election wait,  
Than buy a Hanging at so dear a rate.   

To Mr. King.  
A Greek Epigram against the Astrologers.  
HOW canst thou, Astrius, Heaven and Earth survey?  
Thou little crumb of a small lump of Clay!  
First know thyself, thy own Dimensions find,  
And take the narrow compass of thy Mind.  
For if thou canst not measure such a Clod,  
What wouldst thou do with all the wondrous works. of God?   

To Mr. Hen. Fane.  
POor foolish Dick, stung by his Brother Gnat,  
Jumped out of Bed to fetch old Proctor's Cat.  
Mouser, though a brave Soldier, lost his sport,  
For Mouser could not speak the Language of the Court;  
Nor understand what formal Priscian said  
In Babel's Tongue, though otherwise well bred.  
With that Don Quixot's Rival would engage  

* Gingerbread Gentleman; this is applicable either to his shapes, or the old story of his Weekly-Allowance, which was a Gingerbread pair of Gloves, and a Gingerbread Ring.  Gingerbread Gentleman in warlike rage,  
Rapt out a terrible dimidiate Oath,  
And in his own defence, Sir, challenged both:  
His Rapier out of rusty Scabbard drew;  
But Puss, who his undaunted Courage knew,  
All on a sweat, down Stairs like Lightning flew.  
Nor shall he so escape by all the Gods,  
(Says Sancho Pancho Dick) for two to one is odds.  
Spaniard tied neck and heels he laid upon his back,  
And hung him by his Whiskers on the Rack.  
Friend Gnat! (quoth he) though now I'm almost spent,  
Yet thy affront I cannot but resent.  
All night I'll make thee at a distance keep,  
Put on revenge when I put off my sleep.  
This said, as merciful as he was stout,  
Knight Errand put his 
* Such as his Worship made his boast, the King and his Father only burnt.  Royal Candle out.  
(Candles Traditional, so long, so large, so white,  
Worthy to give the King and Dicky light;  
Worthy to make a 
† On his Birthday at night he cut a pound of Candles in halves, and setting them in a Ring, light them, and danced round them, singing a Hymn to his Muse Clio, whom he worships in the form of a waxen Cow, and sacrifices to her, to the end she may inspire him more fully.  Fairy-ring on Birth-day-night.  
Fit Torches for a Sacrifice to Clio,  
A heavenly Muse made of a waxen Io.)  
And then a Hymn Poean the Champion sang,  
Defied Gnat, Bug, or Flea, all the Backbiting Gang.  
Afraid that they should hear, in Whispers said, Good Night!  
And hugged himself to think they could not see to bite.   

An EPIGRAM out of Plato.  
To Madam Amara.  

I Lais! once a heavenly Whore!  
But now those happy days are over!  
Sweet Lais! Divine Lais! now no more.  
This Looking-glass to Venus give,  
My too true Representative:  
Since what I am I would not see,  
Since what I was I cannot be.    
Me verò primum dulces ante omnia Musae  
(Quarum sacra fero ingenti perculsus amore)  
Accipiant.  Virg. 
FINIS.