POEMS Chiefly consisting of SATYRS AND Satirical Epistles.  
By ROBERT GOULD.  
LICENCED. jan. 8th 1688/9.  
LONDON, Printed, and are to be sold by most Booksellers in London and Westminster. MDCLXXXIX.   

TO THE Right Honourable JAMES, EARL of ABINGDON, etc.  
My Lord,  
IN all Ages the greatest and wisest of Mankind have been the Patrons of Poesy; They have taken the Authors into their Converse, and their Works into their Bosoms, and both in the one and the other have not failed of an agreeable, and, oft, a Divine Entertainment: But neither of these is to be expected from Me, or my Writings: These Poets might pretend their Merit to the Favour and Protection of their Patrons; Whereas, I must consider your Lordship's Condescension to me merely as an effect of your Goodness, which, because it would have me do well, gave me Encouragement, though to do well was not really in my Power: However, when Virtue and Truth were my Subjects, I never failed to exert my Endeavours. You found me, my Lord, an Orphan, without Fortune or Friends, and have raised me to both; I have had the smiles of many Persons, because they knew I had your Lordship's; Your Approbation was the Stamp that made me pass almost Unquestioned, though, at the same time, you knew, or at least I was conscious to myself, the Metal was not right Sterling. Nor has your Lordship only raised me, and left me there, but settled upon me such a competence as has fixed my Ambition. Showing the World you are of the same mind of Timon in Shakespeare, 'Tis not enough to help the feeble up, But to support him after.  
But I am not the only proof, by many, of your Lordship's Bounty; 'tis of a more diffusive Nature than to be so narrowly confined: No Man that ever had the Honour of being a Retainer to your Lordship, but has known it in a high degree; To be admitted your Menial is, in effect, a Maintenance for Life: And what may the good Servant expect when even the bad (such as myself) meet with Rewards so unproportioned to any Merit they can pretend by their Service? Neither are these Showers of Liberality reigned only on your Domestics; Strangers, as well as they, have their share. The Widow, the Fatherless, and the Poor, are the continual Objects of your Charity; amidst affairs of the highest moment (in which y'are now employed) you have a thought that stoops to the Relief of the Wretched. Our Divine Herbert tells us, — All worldly Goods are less Than that one good of doing kindnesses.  
This is a Principle you live up to in all its Latitude; for, certainly, your Lordship may pass under this general Character, that never any Man was known to you but to his Advantage. The Oath Pindar enjoins his Muse (in Praise of Theron Prince of Agrigentum) might with equal Justice be said of your Lordship: 
Swear in no City e'er before,  
A Better Man, or greater Soul was born;  
Swear that Theron, sure, has sworn  
No Man near him should be poor;  
Swear that none e'er had such a graceful Art,  
Fortune's Free Gifts as freely to impart  
With an unenvious hand, and an unbounded Heart.  Cowley.  
The Respect I bear to Gratitude and Truth, and the unfeigned Duty I owe your Lordship, would not suffer me to pass by making this Declaration, which possibly may be no derogation or lessening of your Fame, if what I have written happen to live to Posterity: They will then see (bad as this Age is) there was some Virtue extant, that there was one just Theme, at least, for Panegyric amidst our numerous Subjects for satire. And, indeed, it must be a sublime Pen that does your Lordship Right; who were one of the very first that appeared in the glorious Occasion of redeeming us from the Merciless Jaws of Popery and Slavery, and once more make the reformed Religion flourish in its primitive Purity, as delivered to us by the holy Apostles, before Innovation and Superstition had crept in, and the grand Impostor trampled upon Crowns and Mitres. Piety and not Power is the Rock on which the Church should be founded.  
The Fisher to convert the World began,  
The Pride convincing of vainglorious Man;  
But soon his Follower grew a Sovereign Lord,  
And Peter's Keys exchanged for Peter's Sword,  
Which still maintains for his adopted Son  
Vast Patrimonies, though himself had none;  
Wresting the Text to the old Giant sense,  
That Heaven, once more, must suffer violence.  Denham. 
'Tis indisputable, Popery, for many Years, has been the source of all the Troubles and Divisions among us: And nothing less than we have felt, could be expected from the restless Temper and diligent Malice of our Adversaries. We have now a new Example (though the old ones, methinks, might have served) That Nature, Piety, Brotherly Love and Charity, with all the Sacred Ties that constitute Christianity, are of no more strength to them, than Sampson's Cords when his Harlot said, The Philistines are upon thee. Had things run on in that Channel they had cut for 'em, we are not sure the Blood had till now been running in our Veins. But 'tis to be hoped our Fears of the introducing that Persuasion are over— It remains we should be thankful for our Deliverance, Honour our Deliverers; and endeavour, by the Living up to the Religion we profess, that Heaven would grant a Continuance of it to us. But to be signal upon this Account, is not the only glory of your Lordship; your Life is but one continued Series of Honourable Actions, which from the first, as well as at the late Crisis of Affairs, have been known to the Public, and every where discoursed to your Advantage: Abingdon is a sound that has reached every Ear: If Poets may presume so far, I could methinks prophecy, that in after days no name will be more generally celebrated: They will even then be secured by what has been done now; and seeing their Safety, Ease and Plenty, with a long Uninterruption of their Religion, Liberty and Property, sprung from such as your Lordship, who stood in the Breach when so bold a Blow was struck at the Fundamental Constitution of our happy Established Government, they must, consequently, reflect on your Memoires with double Veneration. The Poets, too, of those Times will not be ingrateful, but to your Issue describing the Gallantry of their great Progenitors, make 'em endeavour to tread in the same tract of Glory. Nor indeed should I pass by this subject myself, but that 'twill be discretion to decline it, since I know I am incapable of doing it Justice; and for that Reason waving it, will be as great a kindness as the little Modesty I have, ever did me; for I am, now at last, thoroughly satisfied of my inability of performing any thing well in Poesy: And if a hearty Protestation of leaving off Writing in that way, and betaking myself to those Studies that may make me more useful in the Station your Lordship has placed me, will give me a better Title to your Lordship's Protection than any I can yet boast of, I shall not doubt to approve myself,  
My Lord, Your Lordship's Faithful, humble, And entirely Devoted Servant, Robert Gould.   

PREFACE.  
I Should say something, methinks, in relation to the Papers I here publish; and truly the first thing I shall say is, that I do not conceive they deserve that trouble: However, that the Reader may be inclined to forgive some of the many Faults he will be sure to meet with, I must inform him they were all writ in an Age that has some Pretence to a Pardon; as also without those advantages of Learning, necessary for the management of such studies; the Greek and Latin Poets being, in their Original Tongues, wholly unknown to me. This is a kind of Confession that would have grated some Men to have published, but 'tis Truth, and that takes away a little from the reproach on't, though I hope 'twill be thought none, since the avoidless Circumstances I have been in denied me all access to the bettering myself by Letters, the necessary and daily Provision for an honest subsistence taking up my Time; and no Man can be Disposer of his Fate, a supreme hand governs. Notwithstanding, I must declare I found admittance into the best and most refined Conversation; But Conversation, 'tis allowed, is not able to make a Poet, though, indeed, it may improve him: There should be a Foundation laid in the University, which also should be mellowed and polished by Travel and Correspondence, for that gives us a clearer Inspection into Men, and their variety of Dispositions; without this, to speak plain, there will appear some of the Rust of the College in a Man's Manners and Intellect: A Man of general Knowledge is not to be made so there; merely for a Divine it may do indifferent well, yet 'twere better they knew the World more, without which they cannot truly teach us to despise it. Beside all this, there should be some skill in the Modern as well as Learned Languages, and a good Study of Books (some of all Authors) to resort to at Pleasure; for nothing but that which makes a truly accomplished Gentleman, can make a good Poet: and to push the Parallel home; as one born a Gentleman, unless his Education illustrate his Extraction, is more contemptible than the vilest Peasant: so a Poet, though so by Nature, will prove himself to be little better, unless Art and Judgement are ready at hand, to give the last touch and gracefulness to his Writings, and make that a finished Piece, which before was but a Sketch, or Rough-Draught of the Fancy. A Man must have an equal Portion of both, though of different Species they must be made one Individual, like the Hermaphrodite in Ovid, without which nothing can be produced that will bear the Test of Ages.  
'Twas this the Ancients meant; Nature and Skill  
Are the two Tops of their Parnassus Hill.  
Thus Sir John Denham (who, indeed, in his Cooper's Hill has reached those Two Tops he there speaks of; and if the most Excellent things deserve most Imitation, certainly no Man ought to write in English without laying down that Poem as his Pattern; there we see of what our Language is capable, Life, Sweetness, Strength and Majesty.) And Mr Waller, whose Works claim the same Veneration, tells us, 
Though Poets may of Inspiration boast,  
Their Rage, ill governed, in the Clouds is lost;  
He that proportioned Wonders can disclose,  
At once his Fancy and his judgement shows.   
And in the late Admirable Essay upon Poetry by the Earl of Mulgrave.  
As all is dullness when the Fancy's bad,  
So, without judgement, Fancy is but mad.—  
— Reason is that substantial useful part  
That gains the Head, while t'other wins the Heart.  
Ben Johnson, too, le's us know in his Elegy upon Divine Shakespeare, 
That, though the Poet's Matter Nature be,  
His Art must give the Fashion; and that He  
That means to write a Living Line must sweat,  
And (without tiring) strike the second Heat  
Upon the Muse's Anvil,—  
Or for the Laurel he may purchase scorn;  
For a good Poet's made as well as born.   
And, in short, the difficulty of being a good one is so very great, 'tis scarce attainable even by the well Learned; for an Excellent Scholar may be a bad Poet; how hard is it then for one that is no Scholar to be a Good Poet? And indeed the Consideration of the Disadvantages I laboured under, which made it impossible for me to be so, ought, in Discretion, to have made me lain down my Pretensions to that Art, as soon as taken up, and not have followed the Violence of an Inclination, which though pleasing to myself, might make me Obnoxious to the just and sharp Raillery of the Critics; as the late Famous Earl of Rochester naturally expresses it: 
Your Muse diverts you, makes the Reader sad,  
You fancy y'are inspired, he thinks you mad;  
Consider, too, 'twill be discreetly done  
To make yourself the Fiddle of the Town.   
And certainly there is no worse Fate upon Earth than being laughed at.— But if the Reader will forgive what is amiss, I will never give him any fresh Occasion for that Favour; for here I renew my Promise (made to two great Men) of yielding up all my Engagements to that Study, together, if the Critics please, with the very Name of a Poet, which I confess I do not deserve; Resolving seriously never more to write a line, unless in command to those I dare not disobey; though even there I am so far secured, that no man of sense will think it worth the while to lay such an Injunction upon me, and I pay no observance to Fools. Yet, methinks, I comfort myself with this, that by leaving off scribbling betimes, the most malicious can but say I have thrown away the spare Intervals of five or six youthful years, which is in some sort atoned, in that I show the World 'tis possible for a Poet to lay aside Versifying, and incline to Business. However, thus far I may justly boast, that I am the first that ever, under thirty Years of Age, took a voluntary leave of the Muses.   

THE TABLE.  

POEMS chiefly consisting of Satyrs and Satirical Epistles.  

SONG I.  FAtal Constancy 
Page 1   

SONG II.  No Life if no Love 
3   

SONG III.  Pity, if you'll be pitied 
4   

SONG IU.  The reasonable Request 
5   

SONG V.  The Hopeless Comfort 
6   

SONG VI  The fruitless Caution 
7   

SONG VII.  The Wanderer fixed 
8   

SONG VIII.  The unwilling Inconstant 
9   

SONG IX.  Nothing wanting to Love 
10   

SONG X.  The Result of Loving 
11   

SONG XI.  Prescription for Falsehood 
12    

Love-Verses.  
The Captive 
13  To Caelia desiring his Absence 
14  The Prayer 
ibid.  An Expostulation for discovered Love; which yet could not be concealed 
15  The vain Pursuit. To a Lady that desired him to write to her in Verse 
17  Love and Despair 
18  The Hopeless Lover▪ In a Vision to Caelia 
19  Sylvia in the Country, 1682. 
25  Sylvia, lukewarm 
26  Sylvia perjured 
27    

Miscellanies.  
To my Lord E. Eldest Son to the Marquis of H. upon his Marriage and Return 
31  To the Earl of Dorset and Middlesex, etc. upon his Marriage with the Lady Mary Compton 
33  To Sir Edward Nevil Baronet, upon his Marriage 
35  To my unknown Brother, Mr R. R. hearing he was happily married 
36  To G. G. C. Esq upon the Report of his being dead 
37  To P. A. Esq on his Poems and Translations, etc. 
38  To Mr. G. F. then in the Country. Writ in 1681. 
39  To the Countess of Abingdon 
41  To my Lady Anne Bainton, on the 28th of April, 1688. 
43  To Mrs. H. Key 
47  Absence 
50  Prologue designed for a Play of mine 
53  On the new Edition of Godfrey of Bulloign, 1687. 
 The true Fast. A Paraphrase on the 58th of Isaiah. 
56  The Harlot. A Paraphrase on the 7th of Proverbs 
60  To Madam G. with Mrs. Phillips' Poems 
65  To Madam Beaw. Occasioned by a Copy of Verses of my Lady Ann Bainton's 
66  Instructions to a young Lady 
(66)    

Funeral Elegies  
To the Memory of Mr. John Oldham 
67  To the Memory of Edmund Waller Esq 
69  To the Memory of Colonel Edw. Cook 
71  To the Memory of Mrs. M. Peachley 
73  Urania. A Funeral Eclogue, to the pious Memory of the Incomparable Mrs. Wharton 
75  Alcander. A Funeral Eclogue, sacred to the Memory of Sir G. G. Baronet 
82    

Pindaric Poems.  
To the Society of the Beaux Esprits 
101  To the Earl of Abingdon, etc. 
121  To the Memory of our late Sovereign Lord King Charles II. 
125    

Satyrs.  
Prologue to the following Satyrs and Epistles 
131  Love given over; or a satire against the Pride, Lust, and Inconstancy, etc. of Woman 
141  A satire against the Playhouse 
161  A satire upon Man 
195  A satire upon the Laureate 
227  A Consolatory Epistle to a Friend made unhappy by Marriage; or, A Scourge for ill Wives 
237  Jack Pavy, alias Jack adam's 
255  To Julian Secretary to the Muses, a Consolatory Epistle in his Confinement 
279  To the much honoured D. D. Esq sent him with the satire against Woman 
282  To the Ingenious Mr. J. Knight 
287  To my Lord of Abingdon, etc. 
293  To the Reverend Mr. Francis Henry Cary, etc. upon my fixing in the Country 
301     

POEMS Chiefly consisting of SATYRS AND Satirical Epistles.  

SONG I. Fatal Constancy.  

(1.)  
CIara charming without Art,  
The wonder of the Plain,  
Wounded by Love's resistless Dart,  
Had over-fondly given her Heart  
To a regardless Swain:  
Who, though he well knew  
Her Passion was true,  
Her Truth and her Beauty disdained;  
While thus the fair Maid,  
By her Folly betrayed,  
To the rest of the Virgins complained.   

(2.)  
Take heed of Man, and, while you may,  
eat Love's Deceitful Snare;  
For though at first it looks all Gay,  
'Tis ten to one y'are made a Prey  
To Sorrow, Pain and Care:  
But if you love first  
Y'are certainly Cursed,  
Despair will insult in your Breast:  
The Nature of Men  
Is to slight who love them,  
And love those that slight 'em, the best.   

(3.)  
Yet, let the conqueror know my mind,  
Ingrateful Celadon,  
That he will never, never find  
One half so true, or half so kind,  
When I am dead and gone:  
But, as she thus spoke,  
Her tender Heart broke;  
Death spares not the fair nor the Young:  
So Swans when they die  
Make their own Elegy,  
And breath out their Life in a Song.    

SONG II. No Life if no Love.  

(1.)  
CAelia is chaste, yet her bright Eyes  
Are Motives to desire,  
Each Look, each Motion does surprise,  
And lasting Love inspire:  
Her smiles would make the Wretch rejoice,  
That ne'er rejoiced before;  
And O! to hear her charming Voice,  
Is Heaven, or something more!   

(2.)  
And thus adorned, where e'er she turns,  
Fresh Conquests on her wait;  
The trembling, Restless Lover burns,  
Nor can resist his Fate.  
Ah! Caelia, as thou'rt fair, be kind,  
Nor this small Grace deny;  
Though Love for Love I never find,  
Yet let me Love, or Die!    

SONG III. Pity, if you'd be pitied.  

(1.)  
WHY, Caelia, with that coy Behaviour  
Do you meet Amintor's Flame?  
Why deny him every Favour,  
That so much adores your Name?  
Adores it, too, with such a Passion,  
Fervent, lasting and Divine,  
That would from all Hearts draw Compassion,  
All, but that hard Heart of thine.   

(2.)  
Gods! Why thus d'ye waste your Graces?  
Why thus Bountiful in vain?  
Why give Devils Angels Faces,  
First to please, and then disdain?  
Where ever was a Beauteous Creature  
That bore lightning in her Eye,  
But to her Lover showed ill Nature,  
And could smile to see him die?   

(3.)  
'Tis true, at last, heavens Indignation,  
Causeless hatred to Reprove,  
Makes her dote with equal Passion  
On some Youth, averse to Love;  
One that, regardless, sees her languish,  
Like a withering Lily pine—  
O pity than Amintor's anguish,  
Or that Fate may soon be thine!    

SONG IU. The reansonable Request.  

(1.)  
FOR pity, Caelia, ease my care;  
The scorn your Eye does dart,  
Swifter than Lightning pierces Air,  
Runs to my trembling Heart,  
The Pangs of Death are less severe  
When Souls and Bodies part:  
But Death I've oft invoked, and shall again;  
For what fond wretch would on the Rack remain,  
And have no use of Life but still to live in pain?   

(2.)  
I not presume to beg a Kiss,  
Twoved heighten my Desire;  
And a kind looks a happiness  
That would but mount it higher;  
Nor yet your Love, for that's a Bliss  
Where I must ne'er aspire:  
No, this is all that I request, and sure  
A smaller Boon was never begged before,  
Do but believe I love you, and I ask no more.    

SONG V. The Hopeless Comfort.  

(1.)  
NOT though I know she, fond, lies  
Clasped in my Rival's Arms,  
Can free my Heart, or keep my Eyes  
From fixing on her Charms!   

(2.)  
Tell me, ye Powers that rule our Fate;  
Why are frail men so vain,  
With so much Zeal to wish for that  
They never can attain?   

(3.)  
Some Comfort 'tis I'm not alone,  
All are like me undone;  
And that which does, like Death, spare none,  
Why should I hope to shun?    

SONG VI The Fruitless Caution.  Amintor. Caelia. Am. 

TAke heed, fair Caelia, how you slight  
The Youth that courts you now;  
For though fresh Charms, like dawning Light,  
Still flourish on your Brow,  
Yet fairest Days must know a Night,  
And so, alas! must Thou:   

In vain, in vain  
You'll then complain,  
In vain your Scorn and Cruelty bemoan;  
For none can prove  
So dull, to love,  
When Age approaches, or when Beauty's gone.   Caelia. 
Cease, Fond Amintor, cease your Suit,  
For 'tis but urged in vain;  
Who'd sow where they can reap no Fruit  
But Anguish and Disdain?  
Your whining Passion I despise,  
And hearken to't no more  
Than the deaf Winds to Seamen's cries  
When all the Billows roar:  
For if when Youth and Beauty's gone  
I must be scorned of Men,  
I'll now revenge, ere Age come on,  
My Persecution then.   

SONG VII. The Wanderer fixed.  

(1.)  
e'er I saw Silvia, I, with ease,  
Could find out many that could please;  
With Beauty fraught and free from Pride;  
To gain their Loves I could have died!  
But when I first your Eyes did view,  
Straight to my Heart swift Magic flew:  
Before your sweet obliging Air,  
So fine your Shape, and Face so fair,  
All others Charms did disappear,  
And were no longer what they were!   

(2.)  
So of the Stars that gilled the Sky,  
They've reverence paid from every Eye;  
Not one but does deserve our Praise,  
Not one but does our wonder raise,  
Not one but what is gay and bright,  
Able, alone, to Rule the Night;  
Yet, though so bright and glorious, they  
All, in a Moment's time, decay,  
Grow dim and seem to die away,  
When once Aurora opens day!    

SONG VIII. The unwilling Inconstant.  

(1.)  
THough She's so much by all admired,  
That even cold Age is with her presence fired;  
Yet, by some more Resistless Art,  
You raze her Image from my heart,  
Which nothing, nothing else but Death could part!   

(2.)  
Say quickly (O enchanting Maid!)  
By what strange witchcraft I am thus betrayed?  
Since She to whom I've sworn is true,  
I should a high Injustice do,  
To place what only she deserves, on you.   

(3.)  
O try, thou who, without control,  
Hast shot thy glorious Form into my Soul,  
Whose Eyes as soon as seen subdue,  
O try to make me hate thee too;  
But that, alas! is what you cannot do.    

SONG IX. Nothing wanting to Love.  

(1.)  
YES, Silvia, I was told but now,  
While on your Breast I lay  
My Head, and thus obsequious bow,  
I fool my Fame away;  
That Glory while I thus do join  
My Lips and glowing Cheeks to thine,  
Starts wide, and cries, She'll ne'er be mine.   

(2.)  
Let the false World true Passion blame,  
And heavens best Gift despise;  
I'd rather be the Fool I am,  
Than, without Love, be wise:  
Fame, Glory, and what ere we find  
That captivates th' Ambitious mind,  
I have 'em all, if thou art kind!    

SONG X. The Result of Loving.  

(1.)  
CAeli● is cruel; Silvia, Thou,  
I must confess, art kind;  
But in her Cruelty, I vow,  
I more repose can find:  
For O thy Fancy at all Game does fly,  
Fond of Address, and willing to comply.   

(2.)  
Thus he that loves must be undone;  
Each way on Rocks we fall:  
Either you will be kind to none,  
Or worse, be kind to all.  
Vain are our Hopes, and endless is our Care;  
We must be Jealous, or we must despair.    

SONG XI. Prescription for Falsehood.  
YOU that have loved, and too soon believed,  
You that have loved, and been deceived,  
No more complain,  
For Grief is vain,  
But make Music with your Chain,  
A sort of Melancholy Joy;  
Nor rashly blame  
The perjured Dame  
That did your Peace destroy:  
Though they the Paths to Falsehood tread,  
They yet but follow as they're led,  
They do but as their Mothers did;  
Flatter, smile, deceive, betray,  
By certain Instinct go astray:  
But e'er since Eve,  
We may perceive  
'Twas those that bore 'em showed the way:  
Then blame 'em not; but mourn with me  
That Females, fair  
As Angels are,  
Should so destructive be,  
And have so old a claim to Infidelity.  
The end of the Songs.   

LOVE-VERSES.  

The Captive.  
LOng I had laughed at the vain name of Love,  
Too weak to charm me, and too dull to move;  
It ne'er could make a Conquest of my heart,  
Freedom and that were one, and were too fond to part;  
Freedom, without whose aid even Life would tyre,  
And, ere it reached th' allotted Goal, expire:  
But ah! too soon I found that Blessing gone,  
Whose Loss, I fear, I must for ever mone●  
I saw her and no more, one pointed view  
Softened my flinty Breast, and pierced it through and through.  
O who can love's resistless Darts, control,  
That, through our Eyes, so soon can reach the Soul!  
Yet Liberty, I'll not thy Loss deplore;  
I loved my Freedom well, but love this Slavery more:  
For though stern Caelia's Captive I remain,  
And stoop my Neck to Love's Imperial Chain,  
There's a strange nameless Joy incorporate with the pain.   

To Caelia desiring his Absence.  
YES, now you have your Wish, but Ah! be kind  
To the poor Captive Heart I leave behind;  
For though I go, yet that with Thee remains,  
Proud that 'tis Thine, and triumphs in its Chains:  
For all the Beauties that are now unblown,  
When in their gaudiest prime they shall be shown  
And kneeling to be loved, I'd not my Flame disown;  
Though by that time perhaps thy charms might waste,  
And the gay bloom of smiling Youth be past.  
Yet you inflexible, obdurate prove,  
And ●y, 'Tis false, 'tis feigned, not real love:  
O cease those thoughts, and cease to be severe;  
For by thyself, thy awful self, I swear,  
I love too well, and must with grief confess,  
Those Men much happier that can love thee less.   

The Prayer.  
HEar me, O powerful Charmer! e'er my Breath  
Is stopped by the ungentle hand of Death;  
ere my quick Pulse has ever ceased to beat,  
And from my Heart drained all the vital heat;  
ere on my Tomb you stand and drop a Tear,  
And cry, The hapless Youth had not lain here,  
If I had been less rigid and severe;  
'Twas my cold Frowns that winged his timeless Fate;  
Too soon he loved, and I believe too late!  
Hear me, I beg (if truth may beg for Grace)  
Let not thy Heart belly thy Angel's Face:  
Thy Face is with Compassion clothed around,  
With mildness and with smiling mercy crowned;  
If not there, where is Pity to be found?  
Kind Glances from thy Eyes for ever move,  
And kindle all Beholders into Love  
O let me, then, beseech your gentle Ear,  
For once, to stoop to your low Vassal's Prayer.  
Which is no more, but that you would not hate  
That Passion which your Beauty did create.  
I do not ask your Love, or, if I do,  
He does but ask your Love that will be true.   

An Expostulation for discovered Love; which yet could not be concealed.  
Cursed be the time when first my Soul inclined  
To say, 'twas Love of her oppressed my mind.  
Cursed too, the Wretch that did the Message bear,  
That made her tender Nature grow severe,  
And plunged me, hopeless, deeper in Despair,  
And cursed myself (if there a Curse remain,  
If yet there be a Plague beyond disdain)  
That did the Inauspicious lines indite,  
That banished me for ever from her sight,  
When, were I to see Heaven itself, 'twould be with less delight!  
O Slave! O wretch, hopeless, forlorn, undone!  
I grasped at Joy and pulled my ruin on.  
Did I not hear her talk and see her move?  
Her negligence itself was fuel to my Love:  
She sung, she danced, conquered without control▪  
And every motion flashed upon the Soul,  
Forced it, with Charms o'er-powered, to retire,  
Which, when recovered, did enhance desire,  
And made me more adore and more admire!  
All this with Silence I had still enjoyed,  
But my too forward Zeal all this destroyed.  
O Slave! O Wretch!— yet why should I complain?  
By Fate compelled, I have revealed my pain,  
And so should do, were it to do again:  
Long smothered Flames at last will force their way,  
And, when once Master, will no more obey.   

The vain Pursuit.  
To a Lady that desired him to write to her in Verse.  

CHloe, when you are pleased Commands to lay,  
Though 'twere on Kings, they'd readily obey;  
Much more may I then, so much less than they.   

But Ah! I fear, my humble Verse will move  
You rather to despise it than approve,  
For I can write of nothing else but Love.   

Of nothing else, 'tis my eternal Theme,  
That flows, still, with an unexhausted stream  
In all I say, or do, or think, or dream.   

Sometimes I take my Book and go to Prayer;  
But Love, fond Love, even interrupts me there,  
And turns my vain Devotions into Air.   

Yet, though so true to Love, I ne'er could find  
No Balm of comfort for my wounded mind;  
There's not a Star in Heaven but what's unkind!   

For the hard she that I am doomed t' obey,  
From my pursuit for ever flies away,  
And Fate itself's too weak to bribe her stay.   

Shadows that Fleet before us o'er the Plain,  
Follow as fast when we come back again,  
But she ne'er turns, and cannot be o'ertane.   

This is the riged Fate I'm forced to bear;  
And tell me, Fair one, is it not severe,  
That so much Love should meet so much despair?   

Despair, the bitter Bowl, which, I've heard tell,  
Does to the Brim with such strong Poison swell,  
As makes the Furies lash themselves in Hell.   

Her Name I will conceal; my Reason why,  
Because she shall not blame me when I die,  
That one so low should have a thought so high.    

Love and Despair.  
IN vain I write, in vain I strive to move  
Her whose stern nature is averse to love:  
Ah Cruel Nymph! Ah most regardless Fair!  
Still scorning, smiling at my restless care.  
'Tis said, the glorious World and all above  
Was raised from Chaos at one word of Love:  
Through the wide Wast blest order swiftly flew,  
And wild Confusion changed her griefly hue,  
Discord by her own Offspring was forsaken;  
And the glad Spheres their constant motion took,  
And with a joint consent for ever march  
Their mighty rounds over the spangled Arch:  
From Love's eternal sway there's nothing free;  
'Tis strange, then, Caelia, there is none in Thee,  
But sure there is, though not designed for me.  
And, to say truth, my hopes must needs be frail  
When Interest more than Passion does prevail,  
And vulgar breath kick up the sacred scale:  
Besides (what plainer proof of steadfast hate?  
She says she scorns, and what she says is Fate:  
For if'twere possible she should be kind,  
Her very Eyes, ere this, had told her mind;  
But Ah! instead of Love, when I gaze there,  
In plain, broad Characters I read, Despair!  
Despair then wretch, nor longer strive to move  
Her whose stern Nature is averse to Love.   

The Hopeless Lover;  
In a Vision to Caelia.  

'tWas now the Time when all remains of day  
By the thick shades of night were chased away;  
Silence and gentle sleep filled every Breast,  
And Nature's self seemed to retire to rest:  
Nothing but Fancy (for she ever wakes,  
And, unconfined, her roving Journey takes  
O'er Hills, o'er Dales, o'er flowy Meads and Lakes;  
And sometimes mounts aloft where Angels dwell,  
And in a trice shoots down from thence to Hell,  
There all the tortures of the damned does view,  
And almost makes us think we feel 'em too.)  
Nothing beside was free; and 'twas her will  
To show the Pastimes of her antic skill:  
Wrapped deep in sleep I lay, the Scene was drew,  
And this was that presented to my view.   

I looked, and lo! I saw a Nymph, as fair  
As Guardian Angels in Idea are;  
So soft her Carriage, and her Eyes so bright,  
Their Lustre did supply the absent light.  
Charmed with the dazzling object, and amazed,  
I eagerly on the sweet Vision gazed:  
But witness for me Heaven, for you know best  
What Admiration seized my trembling Breast,  
When drawing nigh to take a stricter view,  
(Not thinking that the Beauteous form I knew)  
I found 'twas Caelia, causer of my smart,  
Caelia, the cruel Empress of my heart;  
Whose Eyes, methought, at my approach shot flame,  
Armed with that fatal Weapon, sharp disdain;  
Backward I started, Horror seized my heart,  
And stabbed it round in every vital part;  
Nor had I strength to bear the painful wound,  
But fainted, and fell speechless to the ground;  
And lost had been beyond Fate's power to save,  
Had not these words recalled me from the grave.   

Amintor, rise, give Ear to what I speak;  
I bring the Cure, the only Cure you seek:  
Despair no more (the bane of all delight)  
Shall break your peace by day, your rest by night,  
But, chased by me, take everlasting flight:  
Up then, to meet thy coming joy prepare,  
And think me now as gentle as thou'st thought me fair.   

Revived with these kind words I upward sprung,  
But Fear had yet barred utterance from my Tongue:  
A thousand doubts rolled in my troubled Breast,  
While I stood trembling to expect the rest;  
Kind though she seemed, her Eyes commanded Death,  
And my pale fate hung hovering o'er her Breath.   

Dear Youth, continued she, the scorn I've shown  
Was only to confirm you more my own;  
For, if your Passion was unfeigned and pure,  
I knew all trial 'twould with ease endure:  
'Twas this to be assured of, made me feign  
All the sharp rigours of unjust disdain;  
And who, alas! will blame me, that reflects  
How many of our frail believing Sex  
Are ruined, lost, caught in the worst trapan,  
By the fair specious Arts of faithless Man;  
How oft ye vow y'are our eternal Slaves,  
Then Tyrants grow and drive us to our Graves:  
When once possessed for what you feigned to burn,  
You treat us with disdain, neglect and scorn,  
And mighty Love to rude contempt does turn:  
Such thoughts as these made me with caution move,  
And on a sure foundation build my Love;  
For who e'er gained it, I well knew would find,  
'Twas not the Passion of a fickle mind,  
Changing as Tides, and wavering with the Wind,  
But fixed like Fate from whence its Essence came,  
Ever to last, and always be the same:  
And so, Amintor, so to you I give  
A Heart, which for you only wished to live.   

Charmed with the tuneful sound her Language bore,  
I now was lost in Joy, as in despair before:  
Not the least sign of sorrow did remain,  
This one blessed moment cancelled all my pain:  
So a new entered Saint through Heaven does range,  
And so does wonder at his happy change.  
At last, recovered from the Trance, I spoke,  
And in these words the pleasing silence broke.   

Thou truest Image of the Powers above,  
For they, like you, will frown on him they love;  
But when through much Adversity he has past,  
Like you, they bounteously reward at last;  
For Perseverance gains their love divine,  
And Perseverance too, has gained me thine.  
Thou'st saved me from despair and raised me higher  
Than my most towering wish e'er durst aspire.  
O how shall I enough thy worth declare!  
How sweet! how soft! how merciful and fair!  
Description droops when I'd thy praise relate,  
And Language fails beneath the ponderous weight.  
O strange reverse!— Oft have I sent my cries,  
Through yielding Air, up echoing to the Skies:  
How oft in each thick Melancholy Grove  
Have I sat mourning my improsp'rous Love?  
How oft did I to senseless Trees complain?  
Whose whistling leaves whispered back grief again:  
Hard stones of Adamant even seemed to hear,  
And, in Compassion, oft would drop a Tear;  
But harder you ne'er wept, or lent a pitying Ear.  
So moving was each tender sigh and groan,  
Even Philomela has ceased her midnight moan,  
And thought my melancholy strains more piteous than her own.  
‛ Unkind, Relentless Caelia, would I cry,  
‛ Must I thus scorned and thus unpitied die?  
‛ Would she vouchsafe one smile to ease the Slave,  
‛ I'd go without reluctance to the Grave;  
‛ But she denies me that; what then remains  
‛ But with one stroke to free me from her Chains?  
‛ In Death the Lover's eased from all unjust,  
‛ Her pointed Frowns can't reach me in the Dust.  
Such were the words my wild despair let fall,  
But this blessed moment has o'er paid 'em all.   

Thus I, methought, my Passion's progress mourned,  
When, Caelia, weeping, this reply returned.  
Amintor, how shall I your Peace restore?  
Or how reward the Pangs for me y'ave boar?  
My Love, I fear, is a return too small;  
Take with it then my Life, my Soul, my all!  
All! (cried I)— By Heaven the Gift's so great,  
As even in Angels might Desire created,  
And make 'em wish they mortal were, like me,  
T' enjoy so fair an Excellence as thee!  
Who if I ever cease t' adore and love,  
May darted vengeance brand me from above,  
And, if 'tis possible, to plague me more,  
Plunge me in sorrow deeper than before.  
What then, Dear Charmer, what remains but this?  
What? but to rush on our approaching bliss;—  
But first, we'll seal the Contract with a kiss.  
But, Ah! no sooner had the cursed sound  
Of those last words unwary utterance found,  
But the fair Vision took her unseen flight  
And swiftly vanished through the shades of night.  
Awaked, I started up and gazed around,  
But not one glimpse of the dear shadow found,  
'Twas gone! 'twas gone! and with it fled away  
All the dear hope I had of future Joy!   

Eternally relentless Powers above!  
Must all my constant sighs so fruitless prove  
As not to pierce the heart of her I love?  
Must I for ever be (O cursed State!)  
The wretched mark of her obdurate hate?  
Must I for ever in these pangs remain?  
Doomed to love on, yet doomed to love in vain▪  
But, 'tis your will, and I must not complain.  
Yet, O ye Powers, had you been my Friend  
So far, to've let the Vision known no end,  
That raptured with Imaginary Charms,  
I might have slept whole Ages in her Arms;  
Of all th' unnumbered Joys you have in store  
For Virtue, nothing could have pleased me more:  
But Ah! when we expect a sure relief,  
To find we are but deeper fixed in grief,  
Is of all human Curses, sure, the chief;  
For know, O Caelia, O disdainful fair,  
I must still love thee, though I still despair.    

Silvia in the Country, 1682.  
AS in that Region where but once a year  
The Sun does show himself and disappear,  
Leaving no glimpse behind, but just to see  
All Comfort flies away as swift as he;  
Through the dark Plains wild Echo's hoarsly ring,  
And Lions roar where Birds were used to sing;  
If by hard chance some wretch is left behind,  
(For 'tis a Climate shunned by human kind.)  
He must endure an Age of lingering pain,  
ere the bright Lamp of Heaven returns again.  
So, till you left the Town, 'twas all clear day,  
But night, perpetual night, now y'are away.  
Like him, alas! (his Northern Climes among)  
Your stay is short, but, O! your absence long.  
And O! how long so ere it is designed,  
That kill absence will afflict my Mind;  
Nor me alone, for all that know you, mourn,  
And all invoke the Gods for your return.  
But why, alas! do I offend your Ear  
With that which you, perhaps, disdain to hear?  
Or wish you back in this ill Town again,  
The vast Exchange of all things lewd and vain;  
When you so much the happier lot enjoy,  
Free from those storms which here our Peace destroy;  
No State-Plots there disturb your blissful hours,  
But every moment is worth ten of ours;  
Where the harmonious Choir in Copses sing  
Their Airs Divine, and prophecy of Spring;  
Where Nature smiles and yields you all things rare,  
At least she, sure, must smile now you are there.  
No, rather let me wish myself with you,  
And to that wish I'll add this other too,  
That you'd be gracious to an amorous Youth,  
Nor let him suffer Martyrdom for Truth.   

Silvia, Lukewarm.  
NOw, while I languish on your gentle Breast,  
(That Pillow where my Cares are hushed to rest)  
While our plump veins are full of youthful fire,  
And nature able to make good desire;  
Why, at this Season, in Love's choicest prime,  
Should you believe, that I indulge a crime  
To urge enjoyment? which you rather ought  
To think th' effect of Passion, than a fault:  
Think, dearest Charmer, how the Minutes fly,  
And the preventing spite of Destiny;  
Our vigorous days, alas! will soon be gone,  
And Impotence and Age come swiftly on;  
Let us not then thus waste the precious time,  
'Tis that, O Silvia, that's the greatest crime,  
For as that fails, as that consumes away,  
Who knows too but our Passions may decay?  
Enjoyment will preserve the Flame entire,  
For that's the fuel that maintains the Fire,  
That's Love indeed, the rest is but desire;  
That is the Oil that makes the Colours last,  
While Paints in Fresco fret away and waste:  
For pity then change your half-yielding mind,  
To be but kind in part is much unkind;  
Lukewarm Indifferency I cannot bear,  
Such tedious Hopes are worse than quick Despair.   

Silvia, Perjured.  
SHE has, ye Gods, forgot the Vows she made,  
And, conscious, flies the wretch she has betrayed!  
But, if she's yet not past the power of Love,  
If Constancy have Charms, or Verse can move,  
I'll fetch thy Virtue back, forgetful fair,  
And prove that plighted Oaths are something more than air;  
In that sad Language I'll my wrongs impart,  
So lively will I paint my bleeding heart,  
Even thou thyself shalt blush, and think it strange  
It should be capable of such a change!  
Yes, fair perfidious Maid, 'twill make thee pause,  
To see all this and know thou art the cause:  
For by your Falsehood, to soft Peace a Foe,  
I'm raised to the extremest pitch of woe,  
From whence surveying all the numerous fry  
Of Men, I see not one so cursed as I.  
Did Angels know my truth as well as you,  
Even they would wonder Man should be so true,  
But wonder more thou shouldst unfaithful prove▪  
To such an inexhausted fund of Love.  
You know, and I shall ne'er forget the time,  
(If Love was Virtue then, why is it now a crime?)  
When I lay raptured on your panting Breast,  
Raptures not lawful here to be expressed;  
When by the awful powers above you swore,  
Nay, by our mutual love, and that was more,  
That to me only you your heart resigned,  
And for my sake rejected all Mankind:  
Did I not there, too, vow the same to you?  
You heard me, and your own bright Eyes di● view.  
How zealously I looked on Heaven above,  
Wished it unkind to me if I proved false to love▪  
Have we not since too often done the same?  
With fresh endearments fed th' eternal Flame?  
Eternal!— No, 'twas momentany, slight,  
A short-lived Meteor, a glaring light,  
A blaze, an Ignis fatuus of the night;  
By which thou'dst led me over Bush and Thorn,  
Drilled on by hope, and driven back with scorn:  
Sure thou dost think thou at Love's Auction art,  
And dost, by Inch of Candle, parcel out thy heart;  
Thy Flame so far from lasting, I even doubt  
Thou dost but light it up to put it out,  
Or sing us purblind Moths that fly about.  
Destructive Sex! for as thou usest me,  
So each Man's used by some perfidious she.  
Cruel, or false y'are all; and he is blest,  
He only, that excludes you from his Breast,  
Nor lets your Tarrier Love dislodge his rest.  
O would kind Heaven my ancient peace restore,  
That Liberty which I contemned before,  
Away, I'd cry, with Love, and think of it no more.   
The end of the Love-Verses.   

Miscellanies.  

TO My Lord E. Eldest Son to the Marquis of H.  
Upon his Marriage and Return, etc.  

PArdon, my Lord, if a poor Poet, one  
That is not, nor deserves not to be known,  
Presume not only (hardened in his Crime)  
To greet your safe Return with doggerel Rhyme,  
But wish your future Years may this atone,  
And Bless no other Country but your own;  
Which, as it grieved to want your Lustre here,  
Envied its shining in another Sphere.   

Many there are that travel Foreign parts,  
They say, to know the Manners, Men and Arts;  
But 'stead of leaving their own dross behind,  
Bring back a dross, too course to be refined,  
Affected Body and affected Mind:  
For such Accomplishments what need we roam,  
Thanks to our Stars, these may be had at home.  
But you, my Lord, have nobler Conduct shown,  
And brought from the French Court what will adorn our own;  
A Virtuous Wife! a thing so rare to see,  
Even Holy Writ mentions but two or three:  
To her own Native Soil she bids adieu  
For dear Religion, and her Dearer You;  
Nor has she lost, but in your Arms will find  
Sublimer Blessings than she leaves behind:  
For early y'ave the chase of Fame begun,  
Nor are, but by a Father's name outdone,  
He, when three parts of four in darkness lay,  
Broke the thick Scales and made us see the day,  
And drove our Fears and jealousies away;  
False Fears and jealousies, those useful things  
That Knaves insinuate when they'd ruin Kings:  
His Noble Image we in You may find,  
Lively in Person, livelier in your mind,  
For both have climbed the Mountain's top, there sit,  
He Judge of Wisdom, You the Judge of Wit.    

TO THE Earl of Dorset and Middlesex, etc. upon his Marriage with the Lady Mary Compton.  
OF all men His is the most pleasing Life,  
That Heaven has favoured with a Virtuous Wife;  
She loves him with a chaste, but cheerful Flame,  
And in all changes still will be the same;  
She brings him home Content, and shuts out strife,  
Content, the Cordial that does lengthen Life:  
This Fate, my Lord, is yours, 'tis you have found  
This Miracle, with true perfection Crowned:  
Her Youth's adorned in Nature's freshest Charms,  
Her Youth she brings, unsullied, to your Arms:  
Nor is Heaven only to her Person kind,  
She is as nobly furnished in her mind:  
Good Natured, Pious, Affable to all,  
Meek as the Turtle Dove that has no Gall,  
And free from Pride as Eve before the Fall:  
Ah had she been in her first Mother's room,  
Sure Paradise had not been lost so soon!  
But as the Treasure's vast which you possess,  
'Tis your own Right, your Merit claims no less.  
You to whom Nature kindly does impart  
All that can please the Eye, or charm the Heart.  
Should our Apollo his pretensions quit  
Of being sacred Precedent of Wit,  
With th' Acclamations of the general Voice,  
You would succeed, at least, you'd be the Poet's Choice.  
To judge of Poesy some make pretence,  
Damn what does please, and praise what gives offence,  
But all your approbation stamps goes currant off for sense.  
Yet though your Judgement we so much admire,  
Your Charity does lift our wonder higher!  
'Tis not for nought propitious Heaven does bless  
All that you undertake with such success:  
Even that rough Sea where most Adventurers fail,  
That Bay of Biscay that tears every Sail,  
Has favoured you with an Auspicious Gale,  
And brought you safe to the delightsome shore,  
The golden Worlds of Love's eternal store,  
Where unconcerned you sit, and daily see  
The Wrecks of Marriage, from the danger free▪  
For where the sacred Tie of Love does join  
With that of Marriage, there the Knot's divine;  
There Life like an untroubled stream does flow,  
No murmuring sound or perturbation know,  
But, Crowned with daily Blessings, glides away  
With an almost insensible decay.   

To Sir Edward Nevil Baronet, upon his Marriage.  
NOW, Sir, when your good Angel does rejoice,  
And looks down pleased upon your happy choice,  
When Love and Beauty dressed in all their charms,  
Give up their only Darling to your Arms,  
It may be thought Impertinence in Me,  
To grate your Ears with worthless Poesy;  
For while Love's sacred Music charms the sense,  
All other sounds are harsh and give offence;  
And yet, alas! though conscious of my crime,  
I still go on; a Slave condemned to rhyme.  
'Tis grown almost a Miracle to see  
Two Natures formed by Nature to agree;  
Your lovely Bride, chaste, Courteous, Noble, Good,  
And you, Sir, Eminent in Worth as Blood,  
Just, Loyal, Brave;— but let me say no more,  
Nor for a secret tell what all could tell before.  
Hail then, blessed Pair! your Race of Love's begun,  
And may you still be eager to love on;  
May Pleasure flow, and, because all must taste  
What sorrow is, may sorrow ebb as fast,  
That this first day may be a Prologue to the last:  
May long Life bless you, and a health as long;  
And may you, too, be fruitful while y'are young,  
That from your Loins a Loyal Race may spring,  
T' adorn their Country, and to serve their King.   

To my unknown Brother, Mr. R. R. hearing he was happily Married.  
'TIS, sure, the fairest Branch of Nature's Law  
To love all men, even those we never saw;  
By the same Rule, it follows we should still  
Rejoice at their good Fate and mourn their ill,  
Even general Charity thus much should do;  
But I've a nearer Tie to grieve, or Joy for you:  
Thy Sister, still indulgent to my ease,  
And good, as she were only made to please,  
Suspends my Care, and silences my grief,  
Which, but for her, had never hoped relief;  
Ingrateful then, ill natured should I be,  
Did I not wish as good a Spouse to thee,  
Did I not wish, that she whom you have chose  
May make her chief diversion thy repose;  
For Virtuous we will think her, though unknown,  
Even in thy Choice her Worth and Wit are shown:  
What could inspire thee with a Lover's care,  
Must needs be something very chaste and Fair.  
O may you long be happy in her Arms,  
You never want for Love, nor she for Charms,  
But smoothly glide along the stream of Life,  
A tender Husband and Obedient Wife;  
And O may never Jealousy destroy  
Your Peace of Mind, and clog your rising Joy:  
May even the World to thy own wish agree,  
The World, which has too often frowned on me.   

To G. G. C. Esq upon the Report of his being dead.  
WHen to my Ears the dismal Tidings flew,  
And my own Fears had made me think 'twas true,  
A silent sorrow on my Soul did seize,  
And filled my Breast with such sad thoughts as these.  
Ah! why should mortal Man on Life depend,  
Which once, and none can tell how soon, must end?  
Even he who was but now all blithe and gay,  
Cheerful as April's Sun, and fresh as May,  
Whom every grace adorned and doted on,  
In the full bloom of Life is dead and gone!  
Cropped from his Stalk his vernal sweets decayed!  
So flourished Jonah's Bower, and so did fade;  
Nor could that loss th' impatient Prophet bear,  
He beat his Breast, and grieved even to despair:  
Ah! how can I then mourn enough for thee,  
Who always wert a Jonah's Gourd to me,  
A shelter from the storms of Poverty?  
Yet, Witness Heaven, it is not only gain,  
The loss of so much worth I most complain.  
Honour he prized, and has this Honour gained,  
'Twas ne'er by an ignoble action stained;  
Nor was his Wit of a less sterling Coin,  
He owed it not to Blasphemy, or Wine.  
Ah! Why, ye Powers! why was his Morn so bright,  
If you designed so soon to banish light,  
And bring on gloomy death, and endless night!  
But, lo! while thus I did indulge my grief,  
The happy news arrived that gave relief:  
A gust of Joy ran through each vital part,  
Flamed in my Eyes and revealed in my heart!  
He lives! I cried,— die those that wish him ill,  
He lives! the great young man is with us still;  
He lives! that word shall dwell upon my Tongue,  
He lives! shall be the burden of my Song,  
He lives! and 'tis my Prayer he may live long.   

To P. A. Esq on his Poems and Translations, etc.  
THE sacred Wreath of Bays is worn by few,  
Scarce in a hundred years by one, or two,  
Yet from that hope we must not banish you;  
You, who so well and with so strong a wing,  
Of love and the bright charms of Beauty sing:  
Thy Version does th' Original refine,  
Though oft 'tis rough in that, 'tis always smooth in thine.  
To thee the Languages so well are known,  
We may, with Justice, call 'em all thy own;  
And by thy learned converse even presume  
At Madrid, Paris, Portugal, or Rome,  
Thou art as true a Native as at home.  
Hadst thou at Babel been, and, but allow,  
Thou'dst understood the Tongues as well as now,  
In vain had Heaven their Structure overthrew,  
Thou'dst made 'em carry on the Work anew,  
Their different Dialects hadst reconciled,  
And made all regular when all was wild.  
Ah Friend! it grieves me that at such a time,  
When all that's learned or good, is thought a crime,  
Thou shouldst be doomed to the hard fate of rhyme.  
So base, ill natured are our Critics grown,  
They will damn any thing but what's their own:  
These lines of thine, which well deserve to live,  
And have what praise Judicious Men can give,  
Must not, though nicely written, hope to be  
From their ungoverned, Lawless Censure free;  
But let not that disturb thee, though they frown,  
Insult, despise thy Works, or cry 'em down,  
For Resignation is the mark of Grace,  
And Persecution shows the chosen Race.   

To Mr G. F. then in the Country. Writ in 1681.  

AH Friend! Oft have I wished myself with you,  
Walking among the Meads and pregnant Fields,  
Now in sweet Dales, and then on Hills to view  
How every Spring fresh streams of pleasure yields:  
Where true content so very seldom found,  
(If any where) eternally does dwell;  
Where all the store of Nature does abound,  
To feast the Eye, the Ear, the Taste and Smell:  
But, Ah! reserved for some more rigid fate,  
I'm doomed to a perpetual Bondage here,  
Just in the Bosom of a murmuring State,  
Where Tumults reign as in their proper sphere.  
The greatest Storms are soon overpast,  
They do but make a Visit and away;  
But here the wrack eternally does last,  
And without Intermission Night, or Day.  
Were't possible to mount among the Clouds,  
When Thunder does with greatest fury rave;  
Compared with London they were peaceful shrouds,  
Still as a Calm, and silent as the grave.  
Nor wonder at it; Murder, Schism, Debate,  
Treach'ry, Revenge, with thousand Mischiefs more,  
Make a more loud Report than angered Fate,  
When Winds below and Heaven above does roar:   

Ah loving Friend! how happy should I be,  
Were I removed as far from the lewd Town as thee?    

To the Countess of Abingdon.  
IF to commend and raise true Virtue high,  
To fix its Station in the Starry sky,  
To clothe it gay and make it flourish long,  
Be the best subject for a Poet's Song;  
Then, Madam, I may hope you will excuse  
This dutiful presumption of the Muse:  
For since in that bright tract so far y'ave gone,  
And with unwearyed swiftness still keep on:  
Something we ought to your vast Merit raise;  
What all Mankind admires, 'twere impious not to praise.  
Long the fair Sex under reproach have lain,  
And felt a general, oft a just disdain:  
But you redeem their Fame; in you we find  
What Excellence there is in Womankind!  
Of some bright Dames w'have been by Poets told,  
Whose Breasts were Alabaster, Hair of Gold,  
Whose Eyes were Suns, able to guide the day,  
In which ten thousand Cupids basking lay,  
And on their Lips did all the Grace's play:  
Flowers sprouted, and th' obsequious Winds did bring  
Arabian Odours and around 'em fling;  
Where e'er they came 'twas everlasting spring!  
Their Voices even the Rivers stopped to hear;  
Not singing Angels, when they tuned a sphere,  
Made softer Music, or more charmed the Ear!  
This we thought Fiction all; but, seeing You,  
We own 'tis possible it might be true.  
So finely tempered, and so nobly formed,  
With so much sweetness, so much Grace adorned!  
If aught like Angels we can see below,  
It is to You that Happiness we owe!  
None sees you that, unwounded, can retire,  
He knows his error, but he must admire:  
Yet though he loves, he dare not hope your Grace,  
For your chaste heart is spotless like your Face.  
Had you but lived in the blessed days of old,  
What Stories had the Antic Poets told?  
It had been doubly then an Age of Gold:  
The Goddesses had (though in Beauty rare)  
No more contended which had been the Fair,  
But with a joint consent resigned the Ball,  
Ashamed your Lustre should eclipse 'em all.  
Succeeding Times (for they shall know your Fame)  
Will have just Cause to celebrate your Name;  
Blest with a noble Issue, 'tis your doom  
For this Age to provide, and that to come:  
Those Beauties than shall shine, now in their Spring,  
And the then Poets of their Praises sing,  
Like you in every outward Gift complete;  
And may, ye Gods! their Virtues be as great:  
A Race of Hero's too that Age shall know,  
Who by their Deeds will their Extraction show,  
Add lasting Honours to the Bertie's Fame,  
And with fresh Laurels crown that Noble Name.  
Happy the Children sprung from virtuous Wives;  
Thrice happy those to whom that Fate arrives!  
The bright Example, through Life's vicious maze,  
Does guide 'em in the path that leads to praise.  
A Virtuous Wife! but such, alas! there's few,  
And in the Van your Merit places you.  
A Virtuous Wife! which who e'er does attain,  
Has got the chiefest good, the richest gain,  
No greater Blessing can the Gods bestow  
When they'd oblige a Favourite below.  
A Virtuous Wife! which Heaven and Earth regards,  
And Heaven and Earth, too, bounteously rewards;  
For she'll in both Worlds meet the highest doom,  
Honour in this, Glory in that to come.   

To my Lady Anne Bainton, on the 28th of April, 1688.  
'TWas night, and, with a weight of grief oppressed,  
Though wearied with much toil, I took no rest;  
All wrapped in Melancholy thought I lay,  
Wished 'twould be ever dark, or soon be day:  
But Heaven, still mindful wretched man to ease,  
Inspired me with a pleasing thought, when nothing else could please;  
A thought which all around did joy display,  
And drove the anxious throng of cares away:  
So, in a Dream, oft Fancy to us brings  
A thousand frightful Images of things,  
Confused, but at the opening of the Eye  
Their shapes dissolve, the airy Phantoms fly.  
Gods! straight I cried, why lie I longer here?  
When Pleasure's nigh, why thus indulge my care?  
Up, then, and to high Heaven Devotion pay  
For the return of this Auspicious Day,  
The day that gave fair Adorissa Birth,  
And with another Lucreece blest the Earth:  
chaste Adorissa, high in heavens esteem,  
The Grace's Darling, and the Muse's Theme!  
Which every Pen to write, and every Ear  
With an uncommon Joy inclines to hear!  
While in her Conduct we see, fairly writ,  
Her Mother's Heavenly Modesty, her Father's powerful wit!  
As thus I spoke, Aurora's cheerful ray  
Brought the glad Tidings of returning day,  
The Larks did mount, their morning Carols sung,  
To heavens wide Arch the tuneful Echoes rung:  
And now the Sun let lose the Reins of light,  
And ne'er before, methought, appeared so bright;  
No gloomy Cloud did interpose between  
His Beams and us, nor rising Fog was seen:  
The Winds were hushed; only a balmy breeze,  
With amorous Wings, fanned perfume through the Trees.  
Lo! here, cried I again, when all around,  
Above, below, a general Joy I found,  
Nature herself, to show we well admire,  
Puts on her gorgeous Robes and Spring attire,  
That we may say, her gentlest looks she cast  
To grace this day and bless it as it past.  
Never, O Grateful Goddess! was it known  
Thy Glories were more proper to be shown.  
For, O! what Charms can in that Sex abound  
That's not in the more charming Adorissa found?  
Her Virtues, which the nicest Test will bear,  
Her easy, flowing, yet commanding Air,  
A temper, which no trifling will abide,  
Sweet without Art, and stately without Pride;  
How all she does becomes her, such a Grace!  
Such lovely Motions! such a lovely Face!  
Though young herself, yet how in Judgement old,  
Are things too full of wonder to be told.  
These, Madam, were my Thoughts, but while you stay  
To read 'em, you throw precious time away,  
And mar the better Pleasures of the Day;  
The Guests, Impatient, long you should appear,  
And I should err to keep you longer here.  
Now strike up Music, let the Virgin's feet  
With equal Harmony your Measures meet;  
And you, fair damsels, give delight the rain,  
Though often tired, take breath and to't again:  
But, O kind Youths, let not the Nymphs, though fair,  
Make you fix Adoration only there;  
O give not Cupid all, let Bacchus have his share.  
So, to the top fill up the flowing Bowl,  
Come, he that spills lest has the greatest Soul:  
Let no dull snivelling Coxcomb balk his Glass,  
But if he will not drink, dismiss the Ass;  
Ill fare the man that will, at such a time,  
Think Dancing, Love, Delight, or Drink a crime:  
What if they call us Sots, so let 'em do,  
Your Sober Sot's the dullest of the two.  
O Solomon! thou never spok'st amiss,  
If time for all things, now's the time for this.  
Fill round again, to the large Brim fill up,  
'Tis Adorissa's Health, unlade the Cup;  
But prithee, though y'are merry, don't forget  
The Poet;— Wine's his best pretence to wit.  
But whither does the Muse intent her flight?  
Or has the Jilt forgot to whom I write?  
Or I am drunk indeed? turned giddy with delight.  
Howe'er it is, Madam, I'm confident  
'Tis all obedience, 'tis all humbly meant.  
Permit me, then, to hope you will forgive  
These lines, and condescend to let 'em live;  
The Poet's Friend, whenever y'are pleased to smile,  
You wing our Fancy and improve our stile.  
Wherefore this April's Sun shall cease to warm,  
Your Spouse to Love, and your own Eyes to charm.  
ere I decline (indulgent to your Fame)  
To write your Praise and celebrate your Name.  
Long may you in your Partners Arms be pressed,  
With the same Ardour that you first carest,  
When the dear man came panting to your Breast.  
May you see many of these days return,  
And all the while have not one cause to mourn:  
And O! (which will be more than double Joy)  
May your next Birthday prove the Birthday of a Boy!   

To Mrs H. Key.  
FAir is your Sex, but, Ah! so faithless, they  
Indeed deserve what we in satire say:  
But some among the rest, a very few,  
Like Diamonds in the dust, attract our view;  
Among which number sparkling like a Star,  
You shine above the rest, and spread your lustre far.  
Ah Noble Maid! but in thy Age's noon,  
And make perfection all thy own so soon!  
Showing thy Sex (and O that more would please  
To trace thy steps) they may be good with ease;  
That Virtue not a Scarecrow to affright, (light:  
But soft as kindling love, and mild as dawning  
Indeed our Teachers with their Haggard looks,  
And dozed with poring upon Musty Books,  
Say 'tis a Blessing even the best can't gain,  
But with an Age of Patience, Toil and Pain;  
O, why should they make rough what you have made so plain?  
But while of these Impediments they tell,  
They but discourage those that would do well,  
Unwing their mounting thoughts, which else might fly  
A towering height with yours and reach the ample sky:  
'Tis granted that Temptations still abound,  
But whom seduce? the rotten, not the sound:  
Gold charms in vain, in vain the Siren sings,  
To one that does contemplate higher things;  
That sees the Goal, and with a sober pace,  
(For some run fast and tyre) keep on and win the race.  
Ill fare the rigid Dame and wrinkled Face,  
As far from common sense as Sin from Grace,  
That think none can be wise or good, but those  
That whine and cant, and snuffle in the Nose,  
And wear, by choice, unfashionable clothes:  
But decent Ornament, though such abase,  
Instead of a reproof does claim our praise:  
Why should that Female be thought vain, or proud,  
That loves to be distinguished from the crowd?  
The crowd (not Sin should be avoided more)  
Those two legged Bruits, more senseless than the four.  
Yet that a mean should be observed is true,  
And 'tis as sure that mean's observed by few:  
The Servant should not like her Lady dress,  
(She may let her Impertinence be less)  
Nor Drabs of the Exchange, of base report,  
Be tricked like a fine Lady of the Court:  
In Quality there's many things allowed,  
Which, in a meaner State would be too proud;  
Though oft in Quality, itself, we see  
A strange Corruption of this Liberty:  
Extravagance in dress is the abuse,  
And that, in no degree, admits excuse.  
The Merchant's tawdry Spouse does most affect  
That costly wear the better-bred reject;  
Such will have rich attire, and when that's done,  
They're awkardly and flauntingly put on:  
Just as a Bully's know by full-mouthed Oaths,  
So the Cit's Wife by ill-chose tawdry clothes;  
Which yet, to make it worse, the senseless Elves  
Think best, and for their fancy hug themselves.—  
But thou art to the happy mean inclined,  
Even in thy outward dress we see thy inmost mind,  
So much of Modesty it dazzles sight,  
And renders thee our wonder and delight:  
Fine, not coquetish, as if too much care  
Were used in dressing; then thy gentle air  
(Neither too stiff, nor, which is worse, too free,  
But just what true deportment ought to be)  
Mixed with thy pleasing Converse, is a Charm  
That would give Statues Life, and make cold Hermits warm.  
Happy for Womankind, as Happy too  
For us, were all your charming Sex like you;  
Would they Behaviour from your Conduct learn  
Dress well, but make high Heaven their chief concern:  
But Ah! Mankind would then too happy be,  
And Heaven has showed us, in Creating Thee,  
Such Worth's a thing we must but seldom see;  
For, unlike thee, most of thy Sex, we find,  
Not made to Pleasure, but to plague Mankind.  
Vain are our Youths to let thee, then, so long  
Live in thy Virgin State— but 'tis themselves they wrong:  
Or else unkind art thou, that wilt not take  
Th'Addresses, which without dispute, they make;  
For they have Hearts Impression to receive,  
And you have Eyes to Conquer and Enslave!  
Yes, yes! I see 'em at your Footstool kneel,  
I hear 'em sigh, and with a pang reveal  
That Love they did with greater pangs conceal!  
O be ned Inexorable, but incline  
To Pity— Love's a Passion all Divine!  
Make some one happy, and reward his care,  
And ease the rest by giving 'em despair.   

Absence.  
THree years, Almira, has our Souls been joined,  
For what's true Love but mingling of the mind?  
To say weare the same flesh is far too low  
T'express the Faith we to each other show:  
Even Friendship burns but faint, not worth a name,  
When 'tis compared with our more mutual flame,  
And not so well deserves Immortal Fame.  
In thy dear Arms my Cares were always eased,  
Nor could I ever grieve when you were pleased;  
Still so concerned, so studious of your good,  
For every tear you shed my Heart wept blood.  
Nor was your Passion, dear Almira, less,  
Too strong to warp, too mighty to express,  
A languishing, a lasting, lambent flame,  
Bright as thy Eyes, untainted as thy fame,  
Fresh as the dawn when first Aurora springs,  
And soft as Down upon an Angel's Wings  
Such was our Love, so we, entranced, did live,  
Contented, and what more had Heaven to give?  
Blest were these hours, and Ah! they swiftly flew,  
But who e'er kept soft pleasure long in view?  
For since our Hearts were one by mutual vow,  
We never knew what absence was till now;  
Ne'er knew what 'twas to wander all alone,  
Lie by a murmuring Brook on Moss, or Stone,  
And make the listening stream attend our moan,  
With sharp complaint the neighbouring Air to wound,  
And tyre kind Echo with the mournful sound;  
ne'er knew what 'twas at dead of night, distressed,  
(When silence does invite the World to rest)  
With sighs abrupt to think on our late Joy,  
Which we once thought ill Fate could not destroy;  
Ah foolish thought! let none hereafter be  
So fond to assure themselves Felicity;  
If we, in whom unsullied Love did reign,  
Could not be privileged from hateful pain,  
For others to expect a kinder Fate is vain.  
Not through past Ages can a pair be found,  
Whose truth deserves more nobly to be crowned,  
Or will in after Days be more renowned.  
To lay down Life for her dear sake I love,  
Though great, were far too small my Faith to prove;  
I could, nor doubt I but your love's like mine,  
Endanger even my Soul to rescue thine,  
Nor does in this aught that's profane appear;  
For Heaven would not be Heaven, were not Almira there;  
Though I enjoyed what could on Man befall,  
All that in this world wise men happy call,  
Absence from thee would turn those sweets to gall.  
Think than thou lovely Partner of my heart,  
Lovely I call thee, lovely without Art,  
Lovelier than those that lie in Princes Arms;  
For she that's virtuous has ten thousand Charms.  
O think if absence can such woe create,  
What 'tis I suffer from relentless fate!  
Unhappy should we be, indeed, and know  
No ebb of grief, but a perpetual flow,  
If unkind Fortune longer should conspire,  
With inauspicious hands, to cancel our desire:  
But, thanks to Heaven, their kindly Influence  
Our Stars begin, in pity, to dispense:  
For the time's nigh that will redeem our harms,  
And bring us, blest! to one another's Arms.  
Fly then, ye minutes, you that grace the van  
Be quick as thought, and lead the following on;  
And you succeeding moments ('tis no crime  
When once you enter the career of time)  
That you the sooner may our Peace restore,  
Push on the sluggards that took flight before.  
And thou, my Soul, no more at Fate repine,  
No longer blame decrees that are Divine;  
Compose thy Griefs against thy Joys return,  
For when thou art at rest, Almira will not mourn.   

Prologue designed for a Play of mine.  
OF Poets living poorly oft you tell,  
But you may wonder how they live so well:  
How many vain Fops do there daily sit,  
Tricked like my Lady's Monkey, in the Pit,  
That would be poorer if they lived by Wit?  
Not that the Poets have so vast a store,  
But they might, very well, dispense with more:  
Of late, indeed, what e'er they want in sense,  
Is made up with Poetic Impudence;  
No Trophies to the good or great they raise,  
But Fool and Knave they over-whelm with praise.  
They feed on Flattery, and it keeps 'em strong;  
So Maggots get best Nutriment in Dung▪  
These are the things our wretched Poets do,  
Yet most of ye would be thought Poets too.  
There hardly was an Age e'er known before,  
Virtue was less in use and Verses more.  
Courtier and Peasant equally possessed,  
Write, and 'tis hard to tell which writes the best;  
For, when examined, we are sure to see  
But little Reason and much Ribaldry:  
Nay even the Women of this Frantic Age  
Think they're inspired with Poetic rage;  
If any vain, lewd, loose-writ thing you see,  
You may be sure the Author is a she.  
The Lawyer, too, does versify amain,  
But falls, by starts, to his own Trade again;  
For Knavery, that Functions, fertile clime,  
Is far more difficult to leave than rhyme;  
Once of that Tribe you can be just no more,  
They're thorough tainted, rotten to the core.  
The Fluttering Spark that has loved Chloris long,  
As his last hope, attacks her with a Song,  
And with ten whining lines does charm her more,  
Than with ten thousand whining words before;  
Songs will prevail, in spite of virtue's rules,  
For that vain Sex is still most kind to Fools:  
All these pretend to Wit, but, still 'tis shown,  
The way they strive to prove it, proves they've none.  
Our Author by this rhyming Fiend possessed,  
Does put in for a Fool among the rest;  
For Fools e'er now (he says) have written Plays,  
Nay more than that, Fools have had good third days;  
He therefore begs, and he'll desire no more,  
Show him the Favour they had heretofore;  
He'd feign be thought a Fool upon that score.   

On the new Edition of Godfrey of Boulogne, in 1687.  
LOng this stupendous work has lain obscured,  
From gloomy Times a long Eclipse endured:  
But now it rises like a Cloudless Sun,  
And brings as great a Tide of glory on.  
Hail, Heavenly Poem! while these strains we hear,  
The Soul does mount into the ravished Ear,  
Diverts our Anguish and suspends our Care!  
So wondrous are the Actions here enroled,  
And in such high harmonious numbers told!  
See here, you dull Translators, look with shame  
Upon this stately Monument of Fame;  
And, to amaze you more, reflect how long  
It is, since first 'twas taught the English Tongue;  
In what a Dark Age it was brought to Light,  
Dark? no, our Age is dark, and that was bright.  
Of all those Versions which now brightest shine,  
Most (Fairfax) are but Foils to set off thine:  
Even Horace can't of too much Justice boast,  
His unaffected easy style is lost;  
And Ogilby's the lumber of the stall;  
But thy succinct Translation does atone for all.  
'Tis true some few exploded words we find,  
To which we ought not to be too unkind;  
For, if the truth is scanned, we must allow  
They're better than the new admitted now:  
Our Language is at best, and it will fail  
As th' inundations of French words prevail:  
Let Waller be our Standard, all beyond,  
Though spoke at Court, is foppery and fond.  
For thee too, Tasso, I a wreath would twine,  
If my low strain could reach the praise of thine:  
Homer came first, and much to him is due,  
Virgil, the next, does claim our wonder too,  
And the third Place must be conferred on You:  
Thy work is through with the same spirit fired,  
Will last as long and be as much admired.  
If lofty Verse undaunted thoughts inspire,  
And fill the Hero's Breast with martial Fire;  
May that 
* Lorraine.  great Chief, who does the Turk engage,  
Makes Armies tremble, and restrains their rage;  
May he (a scourge to Infidels unblessed)  
Take Pattern by the Warrior here expressed,  
And drive like him, with an avenging hand,  
Those unbelievers from the sacred Land,  
Free the great Sepulchre of Christ once more,  
And be what mighty Godfrey was before.   

The True Fast. A Paraphrase on the 58th of Isaiah.  
CRY, let thy Voice like the loud Trumpet sound,  
Through the wide Air diffuse it all around,  
To tell My People how their Crimes abound:  
And yet, alas! they seem to take delight  
To know my ways and study what is right,  
As if they did not trespass and rebel,  
They justify their Errors, and think all is well:  
Wherefore (say they) do we make tedious Fasts?  
Thou see'st not, still thy Indignation lasts;  
To mortify our Lusts why do we roam,  
And wander such a wicked way from home?  
Why such lean Penance do we undergo?  
Thou tak'st no knowledge, though thou all dost know.  
Hear me (O Rebels!) that can thus report,  
Do you not fast for wantonness and sport?  
Is it true Piety? Is it Remorse?  
No, no, A Ceremony made in course,  
Of neither Efficacy, Power, or Force:  
Under this thin disguise much sin you hide,  
Hypocrisy, Revenge and Cankered Pride;  
And Strifes, that you may have pretence to blame  
The wiser few that will not act the same,  
Participating in your guilt and shame;  
Such as the Nonsense of your Fasts detect,  
And clearly prove they are of no effect.  
But Fasts you call 'em, and you Fasts proclaim,  
When Luxury oft were a more proper Name;  
The Deep is ransacked, all her Treasures shown;  
For Flesh one day denied, the Sea is all your own:  
In vain with this loose Custom you comply,  
In vain for this you lift your Voices high,  
They come lame Intercessors to the Sky.  
Observe, O Stubborn Brood! your Maker's voice;  
Is this a Fast which I have made my choice?  
Is to afflict the mind, to sigh and moan,  
And drawl my name out in a Canting tone?  
Is it to sob and fawn with heads reclined,  
Like Bulrushes that bend before the wind,  
To dress in Sackcloth and the lash to feel,  
With all th' External Pomp of hare-brained Zeal?  
What stress upon such trifling will ye lay?  
Or can this be to me a Fast, or Acceptable Day?  
No, no, the Fast that pleases me is this;  
To lose the Bands of all that is amiss,  
To fly from wilful sin and every way  
In which th' unwary Soul is led astray,  
Release the heavy load, break every yoke,  
And free the wretched from th'Oppressor's stroke;  
To deal thy Bread to those that sit in want,  
And, to thy power, ready still to grant  
(For he that has but little, yet may be,  
By giving little, saved for Charity)  
To think not thy own House too good and great  
For Strangers to sojourn, and th' indigent to eat;  
To let the mourning Widow be thy care,  
To clothe the Naked that they be not bare  
In the Inclemency of Winter's Air;  
Not to detract, or be with Passion wild,  
But ever merciful and ever mild,  
Nor be a cruel Father to thy Child;  
Not to be Proud, or in Discourse profane,  
But free thy Lips from all obscene and vain:  
Reach but this Goal, and happiness you win;  
This is a Fast indeed,— A Fast from Sin.  
Then thou shalt be exempt from every pain,  
Thy health shall quickly come and long remain;  
All thy Good Deeds shall in the Front appear,  
And Glory shall attend 'em in the Rear:  
Then thou shalt call, and I will hear thee straight,  
Nor long shalt for a Gracious Answer wait:  
From dark Obscurity thy light shall rise,  
And take it's lofty Station in the Skies;  
The Sun himself shall hardly shine so bright,  
Hardly diffuse around a more refulgent light:  
Nay more (what better Fate can Man betid?)  
'Tis I myself, even I will be thy guide,  
I'll set thee in the Path, I'll show the way;  
O happy Man, that cannot go astray!  
In Famine thou shalt daily have supply,  
In tedious Droughts thou never shalt be dry,  
But like a watered Garden still be gay,  
Or Fountain rising in a Sunshine day,  
Whose Springs ne'er fail, but ever mount and play.  
The noble Structures razed by War and Time,  
Thy Sons shall build more sumptuous than their prime,  
But thine shall be the Glory, thine the Fame;  
The Age to come shall bless thy honoured name.  
Yes, this was he, th' united Voice shall cry,  
That the foundations laid, and raised the ruins high.  
And if to this thou add these Virtues more,  
I'll yet add other Blessings to thy store;  
If from all loose desires thou turn'st away,  
Not following Harlots on my Holiday,  
But think it honourable, pure, sublime,  
And take delight then to redeem the time,  
With Zeal and ardour wish its coming on,  
And, when 'tis with thee, that 'twould ne'er be gone;  
And all this while not walking thy own way,  
Nor after dull Enthusiasts run astray,  
Not speaking thy own words, but cleave to what I say;  
In the true Fast that I have named remain,  
(For tother's superstitious, fond and vain)  
Then thou shalt be my Darling, my Delight,  
Dear to my thought and pleasing to my sight;  
High I will lift thee and far spread thy Name,  
The Globe shall be too narrow for thy Fame,  
With me to Heaven I'll carry it along,  
An Endless Theme for the Celestial Song:  
All Nature's Products too thou shalt command,  
And feed upon the fatness of the Land;—  
'Tis I have spoke it, and my word shall stand.   

The Harlot. A Paraphrase on the 7th of Proverbs.  

YOung Man, let what I speak attention draw,  
Observe it as you would heavens strictest Law;  
Hear my Commands and wove 'em in thy heart,  
Make 'em both one that they may never part;  
Do this, you'll quickly find the good effect,  
But swift destruction follows the neglect.  
To Wisdom say, thou my fair Sister art,  
My Hope, my Guide, and Goddess of my Heart,  
Dearer than Life, with Life I'd sooner part;  
Discretion too thy near Relation call;  
Get these (O happy Youth!) and thou hast all;  
No better Gift can bounteous Heaven bestow,  
No safer Guard from human ills below:  
Envy may hiss, but she can do no harm,  
She flies, she dies before the powerful charm.  
Particularly, it will keep thee free  
From the loose Strumpet's specious Flattery,  
Whose words like Oil on Rivers glide along,  
Her words more tuneful than the Siren's Song;  
She makes Perdition pleasing with the Music of her Tongue:  
Keep, keep from her Inhospitable Coast,  
But once incline to hear her, you are lost;  
Regret, Remorse, Repentance come too late,  
Nought but a wonder can reverse your Fate;  
While on her wanton Breast your head you lay,  
For one thought that does cry, Rise, Come away,  
You'll have ten thousand pressing you to stay:  
But let the Wretch's Fate which here is shown,  
Incline you to be careful of your own.  
Just in the close and shutting up of day,  
When the last gleams were hurrying swift away;  
The Harlot's hour their subtle Trains to lay;  
As in my Window I stood leaning out,  
Pensive and thoughtful, gazing round about,  
Among the Youths (behold!) a Wretch I spied,  
Lose, foolish, vain, nor strove his guilt to hide,  
What should have been his shame he made his Pride;  
For to his Drab's Apartment he was bend,  
His glowing Cheeks discovered his intent;  
Pleased with the thought, he scarcely touched the ground,  
But, like a Mountain- Roe did leap and bond:  
But (lo!) she met him, coming forth to see  
For some kind Friend of her Fraternity;  
For any Fop had served as well as He:  
Those that are learned and known to gain by sin,  
Must trade as well without doors as within;  
At every Corner of the street they ply,  
To angle Coxcombs, which in shoals glide by,  
As soon as e'er the Bait appears in sight,  
Eager to be beguiled, the Gudgeons bite:  
Have you e'er seen (what time the Seasons yield  
Suck kind of sports) a Spaniel range the Field,  
And marked what pains he takes to spring his Game?  
Th' industrious ranging Drab is just the same:  
Thus, straight, the Youth she spies, and round him cast  
Her snowy Arms, she pressed, she held him fast,  
And with a warm Lascivious fierce embrace,  
Laid Cheek to Cheek and sucked him to her Face:  
Bare were her Breasts, and Careless her attire,  
Learned in the Art how to inflame desire,  
And kindle what was found too apt to take the Fire;  
Harlot throughout, each motion that she made  
Showed her true Punk, and perfect in her Trade:  
But after some fond looks and dalliance past,  
Thus the fair faithless tuned her Tongue at last.   

'Tis Peace (said she) 'tis Peace and Love I bring,  
This day I've paid my vows and made my Offering,  
And therefore came I forth; with thee to meet,  
Thus late, and thus alone, I rove the street;  
The dangers of the night not frighten me,  
At least, they vanish at the sight of Thee:  
Without thee what a tedious night I'd passed?  
And who knows too but it had been my last?  
Deprived of thee must have strange Tortures wrought,  
And plunged me deep in Melancholy Thought;  
But I have found thee, long I've wished it so,  
And it shall longer be before I let thee go.  
I've decked (my Love) I've decked my Bed with Flowers,  
Not sweeter were the Gods delicious Bowers;  
With costly Tapestry I have hung my room,  
Not richer ever stretched the Tyrian Loom;  
There Venus is in all her Postures wrought,  
And how Loves Pleasure she with hazard sought,  
Surprising to the Eye! transporting to the thought!  
Perfumed with richest Scents, such as inspire  
Gay Loves and melting joy, and soft desire!  
Come then, away, and take of Love our fill;  
In Passion, such as ours, there is no ill:  
Let aged Matrons rail, and Gownsmen preach,  
They are too wise to practise what they teach:  
Away! come let me plunge into thy Arms,  
Find you fresh Love, and I'll create fresh Charms:  
Come, till the Morning let us sport and play,  
Nor rise the sooner for its being day.  
Nor let the thought of Husband palls your joy,  
He's now far off upon a grand employ,  
Cash he has took long Charges to defray,  
And will not come till his appointed day;  
And O (ye Gods!) I wish he never may;  
My right in him I'd willingly resign,  
Millions of his embraces are but one of thine:  
But ah! the hours have Wings, away! away!  
Let not the precious time be lost when Love and Pleasure stay.   

With her fair Speech she forced him soon to yield,  
But force is needless when we quit the field;  
Too credulous, her Flattery he believed,  
Nor was he the first Fool that she deceived:  
She turns, he follows, nor his Joy conceals,  
Nor sees destruction dog him at the heels:  
As Oxen to the Slaughter (wretched State!)  
So on he walks, unmindful of his Fate;  
Or as a Vagrant to Correction goes,  
To lasting scorn he does his Fame expose:  
As Birds hast to the snare their food to find,  
And think not that their ruin is designed;  
So a Dart strikes him through, a fatal Knife,  
And lets him see he has fooled away his Life:  
Disease o'ertakes him, makes his health a prey,  
Meagre and wan he looks that once was gay,  
His Winter his December comes in May:  
Too late his Lustful error's understood,  
He feels her Poxed Embraces in his tainted Blood:  
With aches cramped, and strong Convulsions torn,  
Sciaticas too grievous to be born,  
Till the Gout comes, the pains of Hell scarce worse,  
And his last Breath evaporates in a Curse.  
Hear me (O Youth) and to my words attend,  
Despise 'em not because I am a Friend,  
But persevere in good, and glory crowns the end:  
Let not thy Footsteps to her Paths decline;  
She's worse than Devil though she seems divine:  
Strip her but of her Silk, her Patch and Paint,  
And see how fit she's then to make a Saint;  
Then mark her shrivelled Face and sallow Skin,  
Rank all without, and rotten all within:  
And yet, alas! (such Charms she does display)  
The rich, the noble, witty and the gay,  
The great, the strong, have been, by turns, her prey;  
Warriors themselves have by her Arts been slain,  
Have lain down by her, but ne'er rose again:  
Her House is the destructive path to sin,  
From whence there's no return when once y'are in,  
Down to the Courts of deepest Hell it goes:  
O don't thy Safety to this Rock expose!  
'Tis but a Kiss you gain, and 'tis a Soul you lose!    

To Madam G. with Mris Phillips 's Poems.  
ORinda's lasting Works to you I send,  
Not doubting but you'll prove her lasting Friend;  
Accept and lay her to your Breast, you'll find  
She's Entertainment for the noblest Mind,  
And to your Sex this lasting Honour brings,  
That they are capable of highest things:  
Her Verses and her Virtuous Life declare,  
'Tis not your only Glory to be Fair.  
How can you fail to Conquer, when your Darts  
Are double-pointed still that reach our Hearts?  
Wing'd with your Beauty, guided by your Wit,  
What mark so distant that they cannot hit?  
Darkness in vain would interpose between;  
With these advantages you wound unseen.  
But by what Magic has her Heavenly Song  
Lain from thy knowing view concealed so long,  
When not the Sun, who is the God of Wit,  
Makes more unwearyed searches after it?  
Great Shakespeare, Fletcher, Denham, Waller, Ben,  
Cowley, and all th' Immortal, tuneful Men  
Thou'st made thy own, and none can better tell  
Where they are low, and where they most excel,  
Can reach their heights when thou art pleased to write,  
Soaring a pitch that dazzles human sight!  
But O! when thou hast read this matchless Book,  
And from its excellence a Judgement took,  
What the fair Sex was then, thou, sure, wilt mourn  
To see how justly now they're branded with our scorn.  
Farces and Songs obscene, remote from Wit,  
(Such as our Sapph to Lisander writ)  
Employs their time; so far th' abuse prevails,  
Their Verses are as vicious as their Tails;  
Both are exposed; alike, to public view,  
And both of 'em have their Admirers too.  
With just abhorrence look upon these Crimes,  
And by thy chaste Example fix the Times;  
Right the wronged Age, redeem thy Sex from shame,  
'Twas so Orinda got her deathless Name;  
Thou art as fair, hast the like skill in Song,  
And all that thou dost write will last as long.   

To Madam Beaw. Occasioned by a Copy of Verses of my Lady Ann Bainton's.  
AS when the Blessed up to their Heaven are gone,  
And put their Fadeless Wreaths of Laurel on,  
How are they pleased to hear their Virtues there  
A Theme for Angels songs that met Reproaches here?  
No less amazed, nor less with Rapture fraught,  
Raised above Earth with the exalted thought,  
I stood, to hear my Praise, contemned by Men,  
Employ our Beauteous Adorissa's Pen!  
All that we Merit we but think our due,  
So but bare satisfaction can ensue;  
And Blessings hoped for half the Bliss destroy,  
For even the Expectation palls the Joy;  
But when unthought of, undeserved, they come,  
They give us transport, and they strike it home!  
So she, like Heaven, does her Rewards impart,  
Which fly beyond the Bounds of all desert.  
I now may boast I have Eternity;  
For, sure, what she does write can never die:  
Her Beauty may, perhaps, to Time submit,  
But Time must fall a Trophy to her Wit.  
Beneath her shelter, like a Shrub, I lie,  
And, safe entrenched, the envious Men defy;  
While, like the Mountain Cedar, she surveys  
The Plain, and whom she please does Crown with Bays:  
They cannot reach to her, nor dare reject  
(To her high worth preserving their respect)  
What she has deigned, to like and to protect.  
But while her Wit is in our Praises shown,  
Why is she so forgetful of her own?  
Why honour others, and neglect the claim  
To her undoubted Right, Immortal Fame?  
'Tis therefore, Fair One, that these lines you see,  
That on this subject you may join with me:  
You can both write, and judge of what is writ,  
A Priestess of the Mysteries of Wit,  
Though her own Modesty won't soar on high,  
But eclipse the Wings with which her praise should fly,  
Our Gratitude must not with that comply:  
We should, how e'er, attempt to do her right;  
The subject will instruct us to indite.  
Does not her Form, which we with Joy behold,  
Transcend Fictitious Goddesses of old?  
Yet Matchless though her Beauty be, her smile  
Is not more sweet and lively than her stile;  
Her Eyes themselves have not more moving charms,  
And even her Love not more Divinely warms!  
Sure from her Godlike Sire her Genius came,  
Who living warmed three Nations with his Flame:  
She, Phenix-like, soars from his Urn aloft,  
Her Flight as steady, and her Plumes as soft.  
Here we should all her other Gifts declare;  
(For of all else she has as great a share)  
Her Piety, unblemished Love and Truth,  
A Converse fined from all the Dross of Youth;  
A Faith unsullied to the Nuptial Bed,  
And strict Obedience to her lawful head.  
On Marriage do depend our Peace of Life,  
Our greatest good or ill springs from a Wife,  
Eternal Comfort! or eternal strife!  
Eternal Comfort, then, is Damon's Lot:  
But where one has it, Millions have it not.  
He only could deserve so great a good,  
Who in the Bud the Flower understood,  
And knew to what advantage 'twould be shown,  
When Spring was come, and all its Glories blown.  
A hundred Seasons may the Gods allow  
This Blessing to him, and she fair as now.  
But O! what Pen or Pencil can we find  
Able to paint the Beauties of her mind?  
Which opened to our view diffuse around  
A Flood of lustre that does sight confound,  
Forces the Muse her airy flight to stay,  
Which here must stop, or else must lose her way.  
So when from Heaven (and brighter than the Sun)  
A sudden Glory round th' Apostle shone,  
Too much refulgence did oppress his sight,  
And he fell blind amidst the blaze of light.   

Instructions to a Young Lady.  
Y'Are now, Asteria, on the public Stage,  
Live in ill Times, and a Censorious Age,  
But seen few years, yet like an Angel Fair,  
As great your Merit, great must be your Care.  
Be strict, if you'd have Reputation stay,  
The least neglect throws the rich Gemm away.  
Th' Hesperian Fruit, though by a Dragon kept,  
Was by a bold Hand gathered while he slept.  
The more your Beauty shines, it but gives light  
To the sharp Darts of prejudice and spite,  
To take their fatal aim, and hit the white.  
Beside, alas! though every Woman's frail,  
The fairest are most liable to fail:  
If fruit we choose, we take the loveliest first,  
The rest goes down, but not with such a gust:  
Think of Lucretia, then of Tarquin's lust.  
If Barefaced Violence does not prevail  
To work your Ruin, Flattery will not fail;  
But O! beware the smooth enchanting Tale.  
You know the Truth, the Snake's beneath the Flower,  
Avoid his Tongue and you avoid his Power.  
Let even the good with Caution be believed,  
For not to trust is not to be deceived.  
But who, alas! can scape sharp Envy's sting,  
That wounds up from the Beggar to the King;  
Nothing is free from its unlicens'd rage,  
Nor Innocence of Youth, nor Reverence of Age.  
Should Angels, as of old, from Heaven come down  
T' instruct, as then to scourge a Lustful Town,  
They'd find ill Tongues would slander spreadabout,  
And bring their heaven-born Purity in doubt:  
If this be so (as Truth 'tis to our shame)  
You can't with too much niceness guard your Fame;  
That to secure should all your thoughts employ;  
Hard to preserve and easy to destroy.  
Virtue, though ne'er so pure, may sullied be,  
She's made, or marred by Credibility;  
Tossed like a Ship, Opinion fills her Sails,  
And they all slacken as Opinion fails:  
That is the Sterling Stamp that makes her go,  
For you are Virtuous if we think you so:  
Strive then (nor is your labour spent for nought)  
When we think well of you, we may improve the thought.  
'Tis true, you'll say when Clouds as thick as night  
Obscure the Sun, yet in himself he's bright,  
Breaks through at last, and does exert his light;  
And Virtue, though oppressed, at last may rise,  
And with its cheerful Glories gild the Skies:  
But do not let this Answer be forgot,  
This may arrive, but much more likely, not.  
If we a Voyage take (and let Life's Scene  
Be that avoidless Voyage that I mean)  
Is it not better far still to be free  
From Reckless Storms, and heavens Inclemency,  
That no rough Waves should roll, no Winds should blow,  
But all be still above, and smooth below,  
Till we have gained the Port, in Harbour lie,  
And there, secure, their baffled rage defy?  
To be more plain; had we not better live,  
And take what Praise a grudging World will give,  
Let life glide gently on, an even stream,  
Free from ill Tongues and every wild extreme,  
Till to the Grave we go, and there enjoy  
That long repose which Envy can't destroy?  
Were it not wiser thus, than, by fond ways,  
Proud of our worth, pull down what we would raise?  
For virtuous we may be, but when respect  
We would assume for being so, it dwindles to neglect.  
Let it then be your study and delight  
Never to give the least pretence to spite;  
A Mad Dog, if not hooted, may not bite.  
But above all, Religion be your Care;  
Your Thoughts and Actions must be centred there:  
It must not be with a light Air received,  
For then as lightly it will be believed;  
The great Deceit is when weare by ourselves deceived.  
What Arguments so e'er some men may bring  
To make it seem a sour unlovely thing,  
When once embraced, you'll find it has more charms  
Than Love, or Wealth, or Power can usher to your Arms.  
Yet, have a care, for, to our lasting shame,  
All's not Religion that does bear the Name.  
'Tis not a hot dispute, or Zeal that's cold,  
Or Legends very false and very old,  
Dull, superstitions, such as sense destroys,  
And only fit for Chimney talk for Boys.  
Nor is it whining, when, with Maudlin Eyes  
weare told the grunting Spirit's just about to rise.  
That's true Religion that does make you strive  
To love your Neighbour, and the Poor relieve,  
To do no wrong, nor at no wrong connive,  
And all the wrong that's done you to forgive.  
Now Fair One let me this request obtain,  
That these Instructions you would not disdain,  
Because they're told you in a homely strain;  
Not but I know your Conduct has been tried,  
And that you'll find out Fame without a Guide.    

Funeral Elegies.  

TO THE Memory of Mr. John Oldham.  
BUT that 'tis dangerous for Man to be  
Too busy with Immutable Decree,  
I could, dear Friend, have blamed thy cruel doom,  
That lent so much to be required so soon!  
The Flowers with which the Meads are dressed so gay,  
Short-lived though they are, yet they live a day;  
Thou in the Noon of Life were't snatched away!  
Though not before thy Verse had wonders shown,  
And bravely made the Age to come thy own!  
The Company of Beauty, Wealth and Wine,  
Were not so charming, not so sweet as thine;  
They quickly perish, yours was still the same,  
An everlasting, but a Lambent Flame,  
Which something so resistless did impart,  
It still through every Ear won every Heart;  
Unlike the Wretch that strives to get esteem,  
And thinks it fine and janty to Blaspheme,  
And can be witty on no other Theme.  
Ah foolish Men! (whom thou didst still despise)  
That must be wicked to be counted wise!  
But thy Converse was from this error free,  
And yet 'twas every thing true Wit can be,  
None had it but, even with a Tear, does own,  
The Soul of Dear Society is gone!  
But while we thus thy Native sweetness sing▪  
We ought not to forget thy Native sting:  
Thy satire spared no Follies nor no Crimes;  
satire the best Reformer of the Times.  
While different Priests eternally contest,  
And each will have his own Religion best,  
And in a holy huff damns all the rest,  
Their Love to Gain, not Godliness is shown;  
heavens work is left undone to do their own.  
How wide shoot they that strive to blast thy Fame  
By saying that thy Verse was rough and lame?  
They would have satire their Compassion move,  
And writ so pliant, nicely and so smooth,  
As if the Muse were in a flux of Love:  
But who of Knaves, and Fops, and Fools would sing,  
Must Force and Fire, and Indignation bring;  
For 'tis no satire if it has no sting:  
In short, who in that Field would famous be,  
Must think and write like juvenal and Thee.  
Let others boast of all the mighty nine,  
To make their Labours with more lustre shine:  
I never had no other Muse but thee,  
Even thou were't all the mighty nine to me:  
'Twas thy dear Friendship did my Breast inspire,  
And warmed it first with a Poetic Fire,  
But 'tis a warmth that does with thee expire;  
For when the Sun is set that guides the day,  
The Traveller must stop, or lose his way.   

To the Memory of Edmund Waller Esq.  
THough ne'er so base, or never so sublime,  
All human things must be the spoil of time;  
Poet and Hero with the rest must go,  
Their Fame may higher mount, their dust must lie as low:  
Thus mighty Waller is, at last, expired,  
With Cowley from a vicious Age retired,  
As much lamented and as much admired!  
Long we enjoyed him: on his tuneful tongue,  
All Ears and Hearts with the same rapture hung,  
As if Heaven had indicted, and an Angel sung.  
Here the two bold, contending Fleets are found,  
The mighty Rivals of the wat'ry round;  
In Smoke and Flame involved, they could not fight  
With so much force and fire as he does write!  
Here Galatea mourns; in such sad strains  
Poor Philomela her wretched Fate complains:  
Here Fletcher and Immortal johnson shine,  
Deathless, preserved in his Immortal Line:  
But where, O mighty Bard! where is that he,  
Surviving now, to do the same for Thee?  
At such a Theme my conscious Muse withdraws,  
Too weak to plead in such a weighty cause.  
Whether for Peaceful Charles, or Warlike james,  
His Lyre was strung; the Muse's dearest Themes!  
Whether of Love's success, when in the Eyes  
Of the kind Nymph the kindling glances rise,  
When, blushing, she breathes short, and with constraint denies;  
Whether he paint the Lover's restless care,  
Or Sacharissa the disdainful Fair;  
(Relentless Sacharissa, deaf to Love,  
The only she his Verse could never move;  
But sure she stopped her Ears and shut her Eyes,  
He could not else have missed the Heavenly Prize)  
All this is done with so much grace and care,  
Hear it but once, and you'd for ever hear!  
His Labours thus peculiar Glory claim,  
As writ with something more than mortal flame:  
Wit, Judgement, Fancy, and a heat divine  
Throughout each part, throughout the whole does shine,  
The expression clear, the thought sublime and high;  
No fluttering, but with even wing he glides along the Sky.  
Some we may see, who in their Youth have writ  
Good sense, at fifty take their leave of wit,  
Chimaeras and Incongruous Fables feign,  
Tedious, Insipid, Impudent and Vain,  
The Hinds and Panthers of a Crazy Brain:  
But he, when he through eighty years had passed,  
Felt no decay, the same from first to last,  
Death only could his vigorous Flame overcast.  
Such was the Man whose loss we now deplore,  
Such was the Man, but we should call him more:  
Immortal in himself, we need not strive  
To keep his sacred Memory alive:  
Just, Loyal, Brave, Obliging, Generous, Kind;  
The English Tongue he to the height refined, his Legacy,  
And the best Standard of it leaves behind.   

To the Memory of Colonel Edward Cook.  
'TIs Virtue which alone supports the whole,  
For without that the World's without a Soul;  
Most certain, then, as it grows faint and weak,  
Th' eternal Chain decays, at last must break:  
When great Cook fell, the jarring Links did twang,  
And Nature sighed as if she felt the pang;  
Nor is it strange; For Virtue was his guide,  
And scarce before so much ere with a votary died,  
In War he was nursed up, Arms his delight,  
Courted in Peace, and as much shunned in fight:  
Death he had seen in various shapes, but none  
Could move him to be fearful of his own:  
Nor did old Age abate the martial Flame;  
'Twas always great, and always was the same.  
His Charity did equally extend  
To cherish the distressed, and serve his Friend.  
When he did good (and who his Life surveys  
Will find he did delight in't all his days)  
'Twas for the sake of good, and not for praise.  
Restless Ambition ne'er his thought employed;  
Peace and Conteet he sought, and those enjoyed.  
Merit he prized though 'twere in rags enshrined;  
He looked not on the Person but the Mind.  
His Judgement was unbyast, clear and strong,  
His Conversation pleasant, gay and young:  
But then his Mirth was still from Folly free;  
Take all profane from Wit, and that was he.  
And as when Tigers range the Woods for prey,  
And chance to meet a Lion in their way,  
Straight they forget their rage, and learn t' obey;  
So Atheous Men, though they blasphemed before,  
Awed with his Presence, their vain talk forbore:  
For Piety was still his constant Guest,  
And found its safest refuge in his Breast.  
Such was his Life— and now his Death we'll show,  
His Death, the greater wonder of the two!  
For when the fatal pangs were drawing on,  
And the last Sands were eager to be gone;  
When all his Friends lay drowned in tears of grief,  
Wishing, alas! but hopeless of relief;  
Even he alone his Change with Patience bore,  
Like all the Changes of his Life before:  
No labouring sound, no murmuring groan expressed,  
But died as weary Pilgrims go to rest.  
O Pity, pity, some more able Quill  
Had not adorned this Theme with greater skill;  
That Fame to late Posterity might tell,  
Few Men can live, but fewer die so well.   

To the Memory of Mrs M. Peachley.  
COme hither You who the fair Sex reproach,  
And basely rail at what you can't debauch,  
That in loose satire tell us of their Crimes,  
And say they are the grievance of the Times;  
Come hither all, while, in sad Funeral Verse,  
Peachley's Immortal Virtues I rehearse,  
That you may see how very much you err,  
Repent, and learn how to be good by her.  
Even in her Youth her early worth did show  
To what a vast proportion it would grow,  
When Faith had taught her all she was to know;  
On whose strong Wings she oft to Heaven would flee,  
And by it find what can, what cannot be,  
Better than all their vain Philosophy.  
Charming her Form, and matchless was her Mind,  
At lest 'twas something above Womankind.  
Trace her through all the Series of her Life,  
You'll find her free from Envy, Hate and Strife;  
A Duteous Child, and then a Virtuous Wife:  
A careful Mother next, and if we find  
Any regret for dying touched her mind,  
It was to leave her Angel-Brood behind;  
And not the love of Life: O hapless young!  
The World's a Maze where you will sure go wrong,  
Without the Clue of her Instructive tongue;  
She would have taught you when with cares perplexed,  
And lost in this World, how to find the next:  
O how shall we enough her Worth commend!  
So good a Christian, and so true a Friend,  
She'd take Offence, but never would offend!  
Well read in History, in Religion more;  
And had a Heart which ne'er forgot the Poor.  
Mourn, mourn, ye Graces, mourn your Darling's fall,  
The most exalted wonder of you all!  
To whose kind Breast can you for refuge run,  
Now she that gave you life is dead and gone?  
A great Example stands, to let us see  
" No pitch of Virtue from the Grave is free.   

URANIA. A Funeral Eclogue; TO THE Pious Memory of the Incomparable Mrs Wharton.  Damon. Alexis. Dam. 
ALexis, Why that Cloud upon your Brow?  
Has lovely Chloris lately broke her Vow,  
And the sad Tidings reached your Ears but now?  
It must be so, that, sure, must be the cause,  
That from your Eyes this bleeding deluge draws.  Alex. 
Were it no more but a frail Nymph unkind,  
It rather should divert than wound my mind;  
For he that grieves when such their Love estrange,  
As well may grieve because the wind will change.  
No, Damon, no; my Sorrows fetch their spring  
From a more sad, a more important thing:  
Were all my Life to be one mourning Day,  
Or could my Heart dissolve in Tears away,  
'Tis yet a Tribute for our loss too small,  
Our Loss, I call it, for it wounds us all!  Dam. 
Still to your Tears you call a fresh supply,  
And still, too, you conceal the reason why.  Alex. 
O! Is it possible thou shouldst not know  
The Fatal Cause that has unmanned me so,  
When Sorrow does triumph o'er all the Plain,  
And strikes the coyest Nymph and dullest Swain?  
These beat their Breasts, and t'other rend their hair,  
Like Lovers that are wedded to despair:  
Not more could be the cry, if the last doom,  
The dreadful change of Time and Place were come!  Dam. 
No longer in suspense, then, let me stay,  
But tell, that I may mourn as well as they.  Alex. 
Take then, O Damon! take the worst in brief,  
The worst! for it admits of no relief!  
Urania, Sweet Urania, justly famed,  
And never but with Adoration named,  
In whom were joined each Virtue and each Grace,  
These in her Mind, and t'other in her Face;  
Urania, in whose conduct we did find  
More than we could expect in Womankind;  
The happy Favourite of the mighty Nine,  
Whose Verse was still employed on Themes Divine;  
Even she— O heavens!—  Dam. 
I fear,— but yet— go on.  Alex. 
Then hear and burst with grief— she's dead and gone!  Dam. 
O kill Sentence! which I die to know!  
Alexis, prithee say that 'tis not so:  
But, see! thy Eyes run over! in them I view  
The fatal news y'ave told me is too true!  Alex. 
Too true indeed:— when I my thought advance,  
Reflecting on the turns of Fate and Chance,  
How many Accidents disturb our rest,  
How soon we lose the bravest and the best,  
How they no more are privileged from death  
Than even the vilest Insect that draws breath,  
Subject to worst of wrongs, oppressed with care,  
(Of which, Urania, thou hast had thy share)  
How swift, by heavens inevitable doom,  
They're snatched from hence and hurried to the Tomb,  
Leaving the wicked and the vain to waste,  
And glut on Blessings they could never taste;  
I hardly can the Impious thought forbear,—  
That Heaven of our concerns takes little care,  
Or that, at least, 'tis something too severe.  Dam. 
Alexis, do not blame Divine Decree,  
And the strict Laws of strong necessity;  
For since eternal justice cannot err,  
What that inflicts we should with patience bear:  
I need not tell you all must die e'er long.—  Alex. 
True Damon, but not all die while they're young:  
As for the Aged let 'em pass away,  
And drop into their Tenements of Clay,  
It does not trouble me; for they must go,  
Must feel the Sting of Death, and shortly too;  
But then the Youthful, Healthy, Gay and Strong,  
We may with Justice hope to live as long;  
And she, you know, was in her lovely noon,  
(O Heaven! that things so fair should fade so soon!)  
Not half her Glass (Ah brittle Glass!) was run,  
Not half her natural term of years was done!  
'Tis that—  Dam. 
Alexis, moderate your grief;  
'Tis in your power to give yourself relief:  
Think her (as sure she is) among the blessed,  
And has begun the Sabbath of her rest;  
Think she is free from all that World of woe  
Under whose weight she laboured here below,  
And you will find more reason to be glad,  
Than thus to be immoderately sad:  
Repine not then, Alexis, 'tis not well;—  
Yet, since y'are on this subject, prithee tell  
By what sad Fate the sweet Urania fell.  Alex. 
A mortal, but a linger Disease  
Upon the Spirits of her Life did seize;  
Her strength decreased, and every fatal Day  
Still took a part, till all was born away:  
Pale, wan and meager did her Cheeks appear,  
Though once a Spring of Roses flourished there:  
Thus long she lay with strong Convulsions torn,  
Which yet were with a Saintlike patience born;  
Till nature ceasing, rather forced to cease,  
Gave her a painful, yet a kind release.  
Go sacred Nymph! ascend the spangled Sphere,  
For it has long wanted thy lustre there!  
Faithful and loving to the last she proved,  
And better did deserve to be beloved:—  
Here Colon I could—  Dam. 
Mention not his Name,  
But let your subject be the Matchless Dame.  Alex. 
So many are her Virtues and so vast,  
And crowd upon my Memory so fast,  
'Tis difficult on what part to begin,  
And 'twill be hard to leave when once I'm in.  
Her Converse was from all that Dross refined  
That is so visible in Womankind;  
So very mild, so fraught with Innocence,  
I dare believe she could not give offence.  
By Practice she did virtue's path commend,  
And honoured all that were to worth a Friend:  
Her Ardour still to Heavenly things, did show  
She learned to be an Angel here below!  
Gentle to all, but to herself austere,  
Hardly a Day but was half spent in Prayer:  
'Tis heavens Injunction we should pray for those  
That are our mortal and inveterate Foes;  
Hard Lesson! hard to us, so prone to err,  
But 'twas a very easy one to Herald  
Her Charity did every where extend,  
For to be poor was to make her a Friend.  
The Muse's offspring all she did excel,  
In the great Poet-Art of writing well,  
Her charming strains did please the nicest Ear,  
And even the haughtiest Swains were proud to hear:  
Thirsis himself took notice of her Lays,  
And thought 'em worthy his Celestial Praise!  
Ah sweet Urania! of all Womankind,  
Where hast thou left one like thyself behind,  
Unless the chaste Mirana? who but she?  
Thy Virtuous Sister; For in her we see,  
Thou dear departed Saint, how much w'ave lost in Thee!  Dam. 
By heavens, Alexis, thou so well has shown  
The Virtues of the Nymph for whom you moan,  
In such sad numbers told the fatal cause  
That from your Eyes this bleeding Deluge draws;  
I've caught it too, plunged in the same extreme,  
Nor blush to weep upon so just a Theme!  Alex. 
Such pious grief Heaven cannot but forgive,  
That lets the Virtuous in our Memories live.—  
But, see! if now thou dost some tears let fall,  
There goes a sight that will engross 'em all!  
The sweet Urania (ah too rigid doom!)  
Bianca▪ Virgins born to her eternal home!  
See with what mournful Pomp the Scene appears,  
The Swains all Speechless, and the Nymphs all tears:  
Instead of Flowery Wreath, with Chaplets crowned,  
Their Temples are with Funeral- Cypress bound,  
Though they are silent, yet their looks impart  
A lasting Anguish and a bleeding Heart!  
Ha! Damon! see! on the sad Bier displayed,  
Where all the Riches of the Earth is laid!  
You sigh! alas! you know you sigh in vain,  
You'll never more behold her tread the Plain!  
No more you'll hear that soft harmonious voice,  
Which none yet ever heard but did rejoice!  
For ever ceased are all her matchless lays!  
Heaven has closed up the Volume of her days!  
O Grief! that I can think on the chaste Dame,  
" Think that she's dead, and not become the same!  Dam. 
Cease, Dear Alexis, lest it should be said  
We failed in our last Office to the dead:  
Let's follow then the Mourners gone before;  
It cannot add to our affliction more:  
To see her laid in Dust, that Boon we'll crave,  
And strew sweet Flowers upon her honoured Grave.   

ALCANDER. A Funeral Eclogue. Sacred to the Memory of Sir▪ G. G. Baronet.  Doron. Amintor. 
THE Sun was set, and the obsequious Night  
Had nigh extinguished all remains of Light,  
When poor Amintor, with his head reclined,  
A pensive Visage and a troubled Mind,  
His Flocks neglecting, to the Grove retired,  
Alone, nor any Company desired;  
True Mourners still the dark recesses crave,  
Most pleased with those that are most like the Grave.  
Doron who all that day had marked his grief,  
And filled with hope to give him some relief,  
Followed the weeping Swain, who, seeing, spoke;  
But first he sighed as if his Heart were broke.  Amin. 
Doron, Methinks this lovely, gloomy shade  
Seems only for despair and sorrow made:  
The cheerful Sun darts here no rosy beam,  
But all is sad and silent in extreme;  
The Melancholy place deserves a Melancholy Theme:  
Let us, then, talk of the uncertain State  
Of human Life and the swift turns of Fate;  
For who on frail Mortality does trust,  
But limns the water, or but writes in dust.  Dor. 
Look through blue glass, and the whole prospect's blue;  
Through sorrow's Optic this retreat you view,  
And that does give it the same tincture too:  
When Caelia first you saw 'twas in this place;  
Caelia, the chastest of the charming race,  
All Truth writ in her mind, all Beauty in her Face:  
Not one of all the Shepherds of the Plain  
That sighed for the fair Maid, but sighed in vain,  
She still frowned on, regardless of their pain:  
You only gained her Favour, and 'twas here  
First the disdainful Nymph vouchsafed an Ear;  
She heard you, so much Wit and Truth were shown,  
You melted her to Love, and made her all your own:  
And still as lovingly the Myrtles twine,  
As if her snowy hands lay pressed in thine,  
And all the Choir of Birds stood mute to hear her Voice divine.  
'Tis you than that are changed; and O! if what  
My boding fears suggest I may relate,  
In your despairing looks I read Alcander's wretched Fate!  Amin. 
Doron, you have it right, alas! 'tis so,  
He's gone where (soon or late) we all must go!  
〈…〉, whom we ever shall deplore,  
For ever gone whom we did all adore,  
Alcander, dear Alcander is no more!  
No more! O bitter word! O hateful sound!  
What two-edged Sword can give a deeper wound?  
What Poniard, Poison, what envenomed Dart  
Can find a quicker passage to the heart?  
They wound but one way, this through every poor:  
No more! O bitter, hateful word, no more!  Dor. 
Amintor cease— but who can reprehend  
Those Tears wept o'er the grave of such a Friend?  
How many down death's steep Oblivion roll,  
Thought on no more than if they'd had no Soul?  
Ill, sure, they've lived, and met a wretched lot,  
That are so soon eternally forgot:  
It shows much worth, a generous heart and kind,  
When gone, to leave some mourning Friends behind.  Amin. 
If grieving for the dead, in aught set forth  
Their private Virtue, or their public worth,  
It, both ways, does sufficiently proclaim  
Alcander's Bounty, Friendship, Love and Fame:  
For O! who ever touched Death's fatal shore,  
Of all the Millions that are gone before,  
Whose dear converse was missed, or mourned for more:  
In me, O Doron! read (and you may see  
His loss in no small measure touches me)  
How all his Friends (and no one Man had more)  
Lament his absence, and his loss deplore!  
With Grief transported, Grief that knows no bound,  
They fall extended on the rigid ground,  
Expostulating with relentless Fate,  
That deals so hardly by the good and great,  
Disdaining to give respite to their moan;  
But, with a joint consent, all sigh and groan,  
All weep for poor Alcander, dead and gone!  Dor. 
How can it choose but move the hardest heart,  
To think that Honour, Piety, Desert,  
Are most obnoxious to the fatal Dart?  Amin. 
Frequent Examples we may daily view,  
That what y'ave said, O Doron, is too true!  
For O! to my Confusion, now I find  
Death makes distinction, takes the just and kind,  
And nought but Knave and Coxcomb leaves behind;  
And they live on the time that nature gave,  
Till, tired with Life, no longer time they crave,  
And upon Crutches creep into the grave:  
But such as dear Alcander soon take flight,  
Their rosy morning soon eclipsed in night,  
That was so cheerful, vigorous and bright!  
And O! since once we must resign our breath,  
Since once weare doomed to feel the sting of death,  
Would I his fatal Minute had supplied;  
That he might still have lived, I willingly should ha' died:  
No less by me could on the public fall;  
His loss does for the public sorrow call,  
And will be surely heard, and surely mourned by all!  
To serve his Country still his care did tend,  
That with his Sword and Council to defend;  
No Man was ever more his Country's Friend!  
But he is gone, he's gone! and let us mourn,  
Gone to the Grave, and never must return!  
To the dark Grave, to the wide gloomy shade,  
Where, undistinguished, good and bad are laid!  
O Eyes! run over, and take of Grief your fill,  
Let every Tear be sharp enough to kill!  
Let every groan come from my Heart, and show  
'Tis torn with the Convulsive Pangs of woe!  
O Cheeks! henceforth no sanguine Colour come  
To open view, but pale usurp the room,  
Such a true pale as all the World may know,  
Such a true pale as may distinctly show  
The fatal cause from whence the sad effect does flow!  
Let from my Lips the livid tincture fly,  
Like Evening Rays before a gloomy Sky,  
And a dark ashy hue throughout be spread,  
Dusked over like the visage of the dead!  
Yet when all these with one joint mind condole,  
To show how great my grief is in the whole,  
They'll yet want power to paint the anguish of my Soul!  Dor. 
When I just now your sorrow did commend,  
I did not mean a sorrow without end:  
The dead claim nothing but our present grief,  
While Nature does exert her power in chief;  
For they that die well give us this relief;  
They're free from Horror, Sorrow, Pain and Care,  
Envy, Disgrace, Resentment and Despair,  
With all the numerous Catalogue of ills  
That Plague us here, and crowd the Weekly Bills:  
For spite of all that's urged in Life's defence,  
And all the Pleasures that depend on sense,  
There's no true Pleasure till we go from hence.  
Beside, what is more vain than to lament  
Immoderately for what we can't prevent?  
Not all our sighs, our Tears, though ne'er so great,  
Though spent at never so profuse a rate,  
Can change th' unalterable Doom of Fate;  
We must resign when Heaven does give the call;  
Cedars where that does lay the Axe, must fall.  Amin. 
That all must die is true, beyond debate,  
But some may die too soon, and some too late:  
When good men leave us, what e'er term you use,  
Though Heaven may gain, we wretched Mortals lose:  
There brightest Spirits but small lustre add,  
Here they shine out, and would direct the bad;  
Like Israel's Guide, in a Corporeal shroud,  
By night our Pillar, and by day our Cloud.  
How many are there, Infamous to name,  
That strive to set the Nation in a flame,  
Blood their delight, and Civil strife their aim?  
He wisely saw which way the stream would force,  
And raised the Banks to stop its violent course.  
O never let the Muse forget his Name!  
But lift it high, and give it lasting Fame;  
Describe his Actions, which claim vast esteem,  
For, sure, there ne'er was a more copious Theme!  Dor. 
" That task does properly belong to you;  
" You best can be to his high merit true:  
" He was your Friend; I oft have heard you tell,  
" Fond Mother's scarce love their firstborn so well.  
You then that knew him, and have skill in Song,  
Proclaim his Virtues, or you do him wrong.  Amin. 
" My Oaten-Reed no lofty Notes can raise,  
" And lofty Notes alone can reach his praise:  
" Yet, though I'm short in power, accept the will,  
" And let my Love atone my want of skill.  Dor. 
" Be still ye Winds, let not the gentlest breeze,  
" With winding labyrinth, murmur through the Trees;  
" Even Philomela thy charming grief forbear,  
" Thou'st long pleased us, now lend thyself an Ear;  
" Let all below, above, and all around us hear!  
" While in sad strains Amintor does relate  
" Alcander's glorious Life, and wretched Fate!  Amin. 
Thou'st heard, O Doron! of our fatal Broils,  
Our harassed Country, and intestine toils;  
How the proud Subject, in a cursed hour,  
Assumed the sacred Reins of Sovereign Power:  
By unjust force a numerous Host was raised,  
The Patriots of Rebellion loved and praised:  
Enthusiasm, Schism, Spite and Rage,  
And all the Agents of a Barbarous Age  
Broke loose at once, and levelled at the Crown,  
To raise themselves by pulling Justice down:  
'Twas for our Sins, which now took general Birth,  
Th' Almighty poured his Viols on the Earth:  
May we no more such desolation find!  
But more deserve, and Heaven will be more kind.  
Here brave Alcander, on this bloody Stage,  
Found work t' employ his Virtue and his Rage:  
And, that his Loyalty might first be tried,  
He took the Royal, and the Suffering side.  
In all Attempts still prodigal of blood,  
Nor valued Life lost in a Cause so good.  
Where horror and where danger thickest lay,  
Through, like a Storm, forced his impetuous way.  
Let Edge-hill's Fatal Field his worth declare,  
Success in Conduct, and his Name in War;  
Nor only He, but there, with Courage fraught,  
His Father, Uncles, and his Brothers fought:  
O Loyal Family! O Ancient Name!  
The sound repeated fills the blast of Fame!  
The Royal Martyr saw, and had regard,  
Saw his vast worth, and gave him due reward.  
But ah! in vain he fought, in vain fought all,  
For Heaven decreed the pious Prince should fall;  
In vain all means were tried, Art, Conduct, Force,  
Were all too weak to stop the Torrent's course;  
Down fell the Banks, the Deluge entered fast,  
Till all was lost, all overwhelmed at last!  
Thus Blood and Usurpation raised their head:  
And with the rest our brave Alcander fled,  
To see what pity strange Lands would afford,  
And mourned in Exile for his murdered Lord,  
Nor saw one happy moment till he saw his race restored:  
Here was a short amends for all his pain,  
For a whole Family of Hero's slain.  
Th' auspicious Prince, returned, benign, August,  
Looked on his wrongs, advanced him into trust  
And never was a Subject known more just!  
But who, alas! can long a Favourite be?  
Or ride safe in the Courts inconstant Sea?  
A Sea, indeed, where few rough Tempest's blow,  
But numerous Rocks and Quicksands lurk below,  
And make vain all the Care a Pilot can bestow:  
For Life no certain Station can afford,  
And Envy wounds much deeper than the Sword.  Dor. 
The wisest and the bravest ne'er could be  
From the vile Tongues of black Detractors free;  
And rising Virtues, as they mount the Sky,  
They daily watch and shoot 'em as they fly.  
As the returning Light expels the dark,  
And points the Archer out his certain mark,  
So good men, by their radiant Acts made bright,  
Stand but a fairer Butt for rage and spite.  
A Prince's favour dangerous glories bring;  
In every Malcontent it puts a sting;  
By such the Favourite is despised, debased,  
The good he does the public goes unpraised,  
Still the more hated as he's higher raised:  
Kings see not this; for it is hard to see  
Through the nice subtle Veil of Flattery;  
Dissimulation wears an airy screen,  
And, like a Deity, does walk unseen:  
When the Court Parasite does thus prevail,  
Bear all before him with a smiling gale,  
The Worthy, Honest, Loyal Man must fail;  
Exposed to black Aspersions, public hate,  
And oft must stoop to an Inglorious Fate,  
Of this hard Truth let wretched Strafford tell,  
He, who when all cried Justice! Justice! without Justice fell.  Amin. 
Darkened a while, but not quite overcast,  
'Twas but a faint Eclipse and soon was passed:  
Alcander's Virtue was too bright to lie  
Long shrouded under odious Calumny,  
But, like the Sun, for a short time retired  
Behind a Cloud, broke out, and was admired.  
And let me here to their Confusion tell,  
Their lasting shame that ought to've used him well.  
(An honour ne'er conferred but on the brave)  
He bore his Prince's favour to his grave;  
Firm in his grace he stood and high Esteem;  
And here again renews the mournful Theme!  
When glory seemed to court him with her smiles,  
And give him peace after an Age of Toils;  
When all around him 'twas serene and bright,  
And promised a long Jubilee of light,  
Then! then his Eyes to close in Death's eternal night!  
And, which does yet for much more sorrow call,  
By a mean accident ignobly fall:  
Not in the Field, where sterling honour's sought,  
And where, with blood, he had that honour bought;  
Not in his King's and his dear Country's cause,  
Destroying those that would subvert the Laws;  
But, God's! by such a chance, as well does show  
How little to that trifle Life we owe,  
How transitory the best gift below!  
Nor worth one half, we, to preserve it, pay,  
That is, in spite of all our care, so quickly snatched away!  
O Life! O nothing! for y'are both the same,  
Or, if you differ, 'tis but in the name:  
'Tis equal to be what we nothing call,  
As to be sure we shall to nothing fall.  
Add to all this his firm, unshaken mind,  
To the fixed Pole of Glory still inclined:  
A Carriage graceful and a Wit sublime,  
A Friendship not to be impaired by Time;  
A Soul sedate, with no misfortune moved,  
And no Man was with more misfortune proved.  
Death he ne'er feared in its most ghastly form,  
In Slaughter, Blood, and Cities took by storm;  
Now he caressed him with a cheerful brow;  
Welcome at all times, but most welcome now!  
O had you heard him, ere he did resign,  
With how much Zeal he talked of things divine,  
You would have thought, so sweet his dying Tongue,  
While he discoursed descending Angels sung;  
Waiting his better part with them to bear;  
Which now, let loose, through the vast tract of Air,  
Pierced like a Sunbeam to its native sphere.  Dor. 
There let him rest;— and let the thought, my Friend,  
That he is happy thy Complaints suspend—  
But come, 'tis time, we now should homeward steer;  
And, to be plain, 'tis but cold comfort here.  
The mould is damp, the wind perversely blows;  
And Night, far spent, invites us to repose.  
Come, let me raise thee by the Friendly Arm:—  
What? still in Tears? and has my Voice no charm?  Amin. 
Yes, I will go, but think not of repose,  
My heart's too full to let my Eyelids close:  
No cheerful thought shall in my Breast find room,  
But Death and Man's inevitable doom:  
Nor Rest will I invoke, unless it be  
That Rest that shakes off dull Mortality;  
When following him that is passed on before,  
I lay me down to sleep and wake no more.   
The End of the Funeral Elegies.   


Pindaric Poems, TO THE SOCIETY OF THE Beaux Esprits.   

TO Fleetwood Sheppard, Esq.  
SIR,  
I Need not here the Servile path pursue,  
By doing what most Dedicators do;  
Lay out their Patron's Virtues on a Stall,  
Like Pedlar's Ware, to please the Crowd withal,  
And be despised by the judicious Eye,  
Which does but look and loath, and pass regardless by.  
Your Merit speaks itself; a Poet's care,  
In lofty praise, would be superfluous there.  
What need that Man in a Fool's co●● be shown  
That hath one very graceful of his own?  
I wave that Subject then, your generous mind;  
Wit, judgement, Converse, and what else we find  
So loved, admired, and courted by Mankind;  
And humbly at your Feet this worthless Tribute lay;  
I owe you much, and blush I can so little pay.  
I am, Sir, Your much Obliged Servant, R. Gould.   

Advertisement.  
FOR the Reader's clearer understanding, I am to inform him, that the word [Beaux-Esprits] as hear used, has no relation to the Beaux-Esprits, or Vertuosis of France; but means barely what the word in that Language imports in its simple signification; which is, fine, good, or true Wits: The Poem being written to a Society of Ingenious Gentlemen, whom the World has honoured with that Distinction. Not but they might, without Arrogance, have assumed to themselves that Title, as being Men whose charming Conversations have rendered 'em the delight and Ornament of the Age; it being thought no small Honour, even by the most Accomplished, to be admitted of their Number. What more relates to 'em follows in the Poem; which, though it does not particularise their Endowments, may serve to let the World see how sublime a piece a better hand would have made upon the subject. But for my Insufficiency, I beg their Pardon: this being my first Essay in Pindaric, and likely to be the last; since nothing that can, or, at least, has of late been writ in this kind, is comparable to what that Admirable Poet has done, who first retrieved and made this stately way of writing familiar to us; and indeed has performed so much, as cuts off all hope of like success to any that now do, or shall (I prophesy) hereafter attempt it: for though he has imitated Pindar without the danger that Horace presaged should befall the Man should dare to do it: 'tis vain for us (without the same portion of Genius) to mount that unruly Steed, whose guidance required even all the strength and skill of so great and so celebrated an Author.   

Pindaric Poems, TO THE SOCIETY OF THE Beaux Esprits. ODE.  

(1.)  
IF Poets when they undertake  
Some happy, lofty Theme,  
That does their Hero's worth immortal make,  
And fix it in the foremost rank of Fame;  
So firm, 'tis hard to say if Fate  
Or that will bear the longer date;  
If they invoke some God to be  
Propitious, and infuse  
Life, Spirit, Warmth and Vigour in the Muse,  
That through the whole may brightly shine,  
And show they're guided by a hand Divine;  
What Power, what Deity  
(You learned Society!)  
Must be invoked by me?  
'Tis You, great Souls, 'tis You,  
Whose Fame I sing, must aid me too:  
If your assistance does my labours bless,  
'Twere vain to doubt success:  
For while I write to Men,  
Themselves such Masters of the Pen,  
Solid, Judicious, Wise,  
That search the dark retreats where error lies,  
And pluck off the Disguise;  
While such I praise, shame, if not skill,  
Will my desire fulfil;  
'Tis hard on such a Subject to write ill.   

(2.)  
No tedious ways y'ave taken, no Meander's traced;  
Well knowing, they  
That will be obstinate and go astray,  
And leave the easy for a rugged way,  
Are but the more remarkably disgraced:  
As sordid Chemists with much toil and pain,  
Labour of Body and of Brain,  
Wear out their wretched days  
In solid Poverty and empty praise;  
And all to find (such Notions do they start)  
What neither is in Nature nor in Art  
In vain they strive that passless Rock t' explore,  
Where they have seen so many split before,  
And lost on that Inhospitable shore.  
Castles they still build in the Air;  
Rapt with the Bliss  
They shall possess  
In their new Golden Worlds, the Lord knows where!  
But after all, we see  
(In spite of their stupidity)  
When their whole Life is in expectance past,  
Drilled on by Hope, and flattered to the last;  
Instead of the famed Stone of which they're proud,  
That Gewgaw in whose praise they've been so loud,  
Meet the Resemblance only and an empty Cloud.   

(3.)  
No; You have better fixed your aim,  
And, to the Honour of your Name,  
Acquired a just and lasting Fame:  
" When first you did your Forces join,  
" When first you did your mingled lustre twine  
" In that bright Orb where now you shine,  
" The Envious must confess,  
" Though great the Praise we gave, you did deserve no less.  
When 'twas your Pleasure to enrol  
In your famed List some worthy Soul,  
With one joint Mind and Voice:  
You made the generous Choice;  
For whom one Recommended, all the rest  
A like esteem expressed,  
And shot their Friendly Souls into his Breast:  
Which proves the Body's purity,  
From Factious and Self-Interest- Members free▪  
No whiffling Fops you did admit,  
retailers in the Trade of Wit;  
No Farce-Companions, that, with awkard Mien,  
Court every Punk they meet, and every where are seen;  
No sordid Scribblers, whose unlicens'd Rhimes  
Add to our growing Crimes,  
And will, I fear, pluck down a Judgement on the Times:  
This fry was scorned:— to none  
Was the great Favour shown,  
But who brought equal merit of their own;  
Such as were worthy and believed  
The Honour Worthy they received:  
That loathed the crying Follies of the Age,  
And the lewd Scenes of the declining Stage;  
The Coward's calmness and the Bully's rage,  
The Statesman's Quibbles and the Lawyer's wiles,  
The Soldiers brags and the false fair One's smiles,  
The Spark's gay dress that sets up for a Beau;  
With all that think they're Wise and are not so:  
These were the Genii, these the Soul;  
And such as these compose the whole.   

(4.)  
Thus constituted, your bright Progress you began;  
Short is the time and far the space y'ave run!  
For to that pitch of glory y'are arrived,  
As all the foremost Arts admire;  
Yet you stop not, but still aspire;  
Unlike the Greshamites, who have their Fame survived,  
You are the more revered as you grow longer lived.  
You make it not your business to pry  
Into the dark-wrought Snares of Policy,  
Made Intricate by Juggling Elves,  
And is a Maze to lose themselves:  
Ne'er vex, or wonder at the turns of State  
That makes so many Knaves and Coxcombs great,  
Does upstart Mushrooms raise  
Till they, like Meteors, blaze,  
And make the Lavish Poets wanton in their praise;  
This styles 'em Noble and this Just,  
And tells how well they have discharged their trust,  
Though they raised all their store,  
By peeling of the public and the poor,  
As by Estates, soon got, weare sure they must.  
Another does their Eloquence approve,  
As if their Tongues dropped from above,  
And swear, like Orpheus' Harp, they make the Forests move:  
Yet to the man that nicely marks,  
A Dog keeps more Coherence when he barks:  
Thus they flourish;— but anon  
The storm of Fate comes on,  
They're proved false Metal, and they must be gone;  
And that which now appeared so bright,  
Has in a moment lost its glaring light,  
Eclipsed by black reproach and everlasting night.   

(5.)  
Nor is your time misspent in Parchment-Far,  
The Hellish Bustle of the Bar,  
Where the loud tough-lunged Tribe wage an eternal War;  
A War while there:— high words are raised,  
Their Pedigree and Virtues blazed:  
That is the Issue of a first-rate Clown,  
That wore his Leathern-Breeches up to Town;  
This is a Pimp to Causes, such a Cheat,  
He'd pawn his Soul for a five-shilling Treat:  
This has a Conscience steeled, and this a Face of Brass,  
And he that looks so gravely is an Ass:  
Yet when they next meet they agree,  
(Litigious Treachery!)  
Consult afresh to raise their Client's strife,  
And make it last as long as life:  
Yet they well know the Law was meant,  
What's wrongful to redress,  
To free the Poor and Innocent,  
And make their sufferings less.  
How could Grays-Inn, or how the Temple rise,  
(Such pompous Piles as e'en outbrave the Skies,  
And seem a dwelling fit for Deities;)  
If all the Cash, which such a charge sustained,  
Had Righteously been gained?  
Let Lawyers than talk what they please,  
Banter, Buz, and lie for Fees,  
We see which way they draw;  
And safely may assert,  
(And all unprejudiced will take our part)  
No man can be a thorough Knave that's not bred to the Law.)   

(6.)  
But as you eat and hate  
These Caterpillars of the State,  
That ravage on the Spring just as they please,  
And leave the Barren after-crop to other Sciences;  
So you laugh too at those  
(For they deserve not pity but your scorn)  
That madly run into the dangerous Noose,  
And painful Bondage before freedom choose—  
But Asses are for slavery born:  
Such Bruits! They would let all the poor  
Rot and perish at the door,  
ere they'd relieve'em with a single Mite;  
Yet wast Estates to propagate their spite:  
Would give a Million, without grudge,  
To Pettifoggers, Rooks and such,  
Just for the dear delight to make another spend as much:  
Reflecting not what will, at last, befall,  
Or who stands waiting by to sweep up all.  
At the Groom-Porter's, so,  
I've seen the Fops impatient for the throw,  
Win there three hands and pay,  
But leave not off their play,  
Till, between what was won and lost,  
Fortune from one to tother tossed,  
Wise Niel has half the Cash engrossed;  
Still they push on, nor mind th' impendent ill,  
The Purse will empty as the Box does fill.  
And so too have I read  
In living lines, though the famed Author's dead:  
The Frog and Mouse were once at mortal strife,  
And each in equal hazard of his life;  
The Kite who saw the vain contest,  
(And, by the way,  
Lawyers, like them, are Birds of prey)  
To give a warning to the rest,  
And make their senseless feud a jest,  
Devours 'em both, ends the dispute.  
Dull Souls! whom such Examples can't confute.   

(7.)  
Nor stop you here; the Velvet-Quack  
That wears a Leash of Lives upon his back,  
Feels your Resentment like the rest,  
For him a like disgust expressed:  
Nor does the grave Disguise  
(Which he affects to make us think he's wife)  
Preserve him from the Notion of a Cheat,  
That grows by purging, and by poisoning great:  
How negligent they are we see,  
And careful of our Lives what need they be,  
That both ways, live or die, will have their Fee?  
By Indirection thus they raise their store;  
Keep their gay Lackey, Coach and Whore,  
And Fops of Quality can do no more.  
As for Religion, what they have, they feign,  
'Tis not consistent with their way of gain,  
'Twould make 'em charitable paths pursue,  
Which they that will be rich can never do.  
Their Spawn, Th' Apothecary, too,  
Who Leech-like cleave to the poor Patient close,  
And suck their Purses full ere they break loose,  
With their damned, long, unconscionable Bills,  
Bring in as many Pounds as they deliver Pills:  
Thus Fools, with Villains wilfully complying,  
Are made to pay for dying:  
Nay some leave 'em large Legacies by Will,  
And, even in Death, admire their Murd'rer's Skill.   

(8.)  
Unhappy, foolish, wilful Man,  
Preposterous! from thyself thy Woes began:  
Of all created things none are so cursed as Thee,  
So cursed by their Simplicity:  
The Feathered and fourfooted kind,  
Without those helps we boast to find,  
Endure heavens wrath, Excessive heat and cold,  
Yet grow, according to their Natures, old;  
Nor are among themselves at strife,  
How to abridge the little span of Life,  
Which of itself, alas! is quickly gone,  
And flies too fast to be pushed faster on:  
But Man, vain Man has found a thousand Keys  
To open that one Lock that ends his Days;  
Or if Sword, Fire, the Plague and Tempest fail,  
They're not Physician-proof, he'll certainly prevail.  
O for a Western Wind that may  
To the Red-Sea these numerous Locusts bear,  
A greater Curse than those of Egypt were:  
They but a while brought Desolation;  
But these are fixed a standing Plague to scourge the sinful Nation.   

(9)  
Nor less do you despise  
The dull Astrologer's Absurdities,  
That through their Telescopes poor on the Skies,  
To calculate Nativities,  
And find out Fools and Woman's Destinies:  
When such a one may escape being hanged, or drowned;  
When Spirits walk, where Treasure may be found;—  
At Peru, under ground.  
When Comets hang in Air,  
With swinging Tails and blazing Hair,  
To what part of the World they threaten Plague and War.  
What all our senseless Dreams import  
(Dressed in a thousand various shapes,  
Centaurs, Chimaeras, Bulls and Apes)  
When Fancy is disposed her Airyship to sport.  
And thus, with their twelve Houses, and their Schemes,  
Run into more Ridiculous Extremes,  
Than Poets, Fools and Madmen in their Dreams;  
How can Another's Fate by him be known  
That's Ignorant of his Own?  
Or how reveal th'intrigues of France and Rome,  
That knows not when a Parliament will be called here at home?  
Can those into Fate's dark Recesses see,  
And find what is to be,  
That shall forget (to prove how far they stray)  
What their own selves did Yesterday?  
To tell what is to come how dare they boast,  
That can't retrieve the slightest Image memory has lost?   

(10.)  
In the same File with these you do  
The Virtuosos place;  
Though, to speak truth, they don't deserve that Grace:  
Who is it that can see  
Their Magazines of Trumpery,  
And how preposterously they're all employed,  
And not, at the first view, be cloyed?  
Here one, that thinks he is no Ass—  
(And 'tis but thought— but let it pass)  
Has in his Magnifying Glass  
Stuck up a Crab-louse, and does pry  
Upon't with such a heedful Eye,  
You'd swear some horrid Prodigy,  
Or a new World were just upon Discovery;  
Yet all the while shall have no other aim,  
Than just to see, as 'tis divulged by Fame,  
If it be like the Fish that bears that name:  
Then into their Extraction they inquire,  
And prove 'em Cousin Germane, if not nigher.  
Another does to Montpelier repair,  
To bring home bottled Air;  
Extremely good to let loose here,  
A Pint enough to purify a Shire.  
A third will send for Water from the Rhine,  
Only to make comparison between  
The Thames and that, which of the two's most light,  
Or which will freeze the thickest in a night.  
Others aver, the Mites in Cheese  
Like in a Monarchy, like Bees,  
Have civil Laws and Magistrates,  
Their Rise, their Periods and Fates,  
Like other Human Powers and States;  
And, by a strange, peculiar Art,  
Can hear 'em sneeze, discourse and fart:  
These Men by right should be Ass-trologers,  
And hold Acquaintance with the Stars,  
Happy for doubting Man 'twould be;  
For they that have such Ears, what is't they may not see?   

(11.)  
Nay even Philosophy is not exempt  
From meriting contempt:  
'Tis true, its Excellencies are  
Above all other Learning far;  
That but a Glow-worm, this a Star;  
Yet 'tis not wholly privileged from fau't,  
And those employ my present thoughts.  
How many wild Opinions have took Birth  
From Man? that lumpish Son of Earth  
That blindly groaps on in the dark:  
For all their works express,  
The best of 'em but spoke by guess,  
No wonder they shoot wide that cannot see the mark▪  
Here one, the first and wisest, did not know  
But that this All was always as 'tis now,  
And did on its Power depend,  
As Self-Existent, and would never end.  
Another (as if just waked from a Trance,  
And seen the Atoms in their Antic Dance;  
Those Atoms, which he says, all sorts of Union past,  
Leapt into Form, and made a World at last)  
Asserts 'twill perish, as it came, by chance.  
A third the Earth is fixed, and all above,  
Sun, Moon and Stars for ever round it move.  
Others call this in doubt,  
And say the Earth is whirled about,  
By a Finger and a Thumb at first set up,  
And spun e'er since just like a School-boy's Top,  
While the superior Orbs of light  
Stand gazing on, and wonder at the sight.  
Some, that the Moon's a World, and add withal  
This Globe on which we tread, this ponderous Ball,  
(A fine task to discuss!)  
Is but a Moon to that, as that to us.   

(12.)  
As Contradictory are all  
Their Notions of the Soul;  
So hard, so difficultly solved,  
And with so many wild perplexities involved,  
The more w' unravel w' are the less resolved:  
So a benighted Traveller that strays,  
And comes to have, at once, his choice of many ways,  
(For what is human Wisdom but a Maze?)  
Stands reasoning with himself and doubtful long,  
Chooses, and wanders further in the wrong.  
Quite as abstruse is what they say  
Of Mankind's final good,  
As little understood;  
Here, one does place it, and another, here,  
And all the while, alas! they grasp but Air;  
For certain happiness we ne'er can know;  
A Jewel 'tis too glorious to be worn below.  
How senseless and how vain a thing is Man?  
That, with his little span,  
Pretends the height and depth, and breadth of Providence to scan!  
Attempts to grasp whole Nature in his hand,  
Whose smallest part he ne'er can understand!  
From hence my Muse, with conscious awe, retires,  
And all she cannot comprehend, admires.   

(13.)  
Pardon me, generous Souls, I have digressed too long,  
But my Digression has not done you wrong;  
For while I show the Follies you despise,  
The Lion's Skin that you pluck off, and find  
What sordid Creature lurks behind;  
While this I tell, Impartial Men will guests,  
By the degenerate Paths you eat,  
In what a noble tract you run,  
And by the Vice you hate, the Virtues you possess;  
Your Virtues, which, by me,  
If you assist, shall be  
Delivered down to all Posterity.  
Here, therefore, I again your aid require,  
That with fresh Spirit you'd the Muse inspire,  
That while through airy, untraced ways I fly,  
And nothing see but Sky,  
I to your Worth may a just Tribute bring;  
And keep the towering Pegasus on Wing,  
Till it has fixed your Name  
Among the happiest Favourites of Fame;  
From her Records ne'er to be razed,  
Till the loud Trumpet's general blast,  
And Nature, Death and Time have breathed their last.   

(14.)  
First, your Religion shall be shown;  
Though Zealots may, perhaps, think you have none.  
All vain Dispute you avoid,  
(Disputes with which, of late, w' have been so cloyed)  
But chiefly those, that tend  
This Faith t' oppose, or that defend;  
For such can never have an end.  
For while there wants a measure to decide  
The right from wrong, the difference must abide:  
True, Scripture is sufficient, and would do't,  
But that, alas! is Mute;  
And this will wrest it one way, that another,  
And, knowing this, why keep they such a pother?  
The Points in Question I'll not here  
Pretend to darken, or to clear,  
But leave 'em to the holy, wrangling Men;  
Such jargon would defile a Poet's Pen:  
Yet this, without a Perspective, I see,  
Their Interest, Prejudice and Pride, will ne'er let 'em agree;  
Each day the difference grows more wild,  
And all the Parties are resolved not to be reconciled.  
Thus, to their everlasting shame,  
They fix a scandal on the Christian name,  
And tarnish the bright Lustre of its (else unspotted) Fame.  
'Tis this which makes the Atheist fleer and laugh,  
And, equally, at all Religion scoff;  
For how (they'll say)  
How can we choose but go astray,  
When even our Guides themselves take each a different way?  
And these damn those, without Reprieve,  
For not believing what they can't believe?   

(15.)  
But you, Illustrious Souls, see this,  
See all, and know that all's amiss;  
And very wisely trace  
The moderate Path, and keep the moderate pace;  
While violent men, dazed in their rash career,  
Fall from their aim, and meet the ills they fear:  
But, Carrier-like, you cheerfully jog on,  
(Yet not so slow to mire,  
Nor yet so fast to tyre)  
And the extremes of either hand you shun:  
And just as the kind Sun,  
(That cheers you while he shines)  
Has changed the shadows and declines,  
You'll arrive safely at your happy Inn,  
When others the long journey but begin:  
Lost and benighted, on they stray,  
And perish in their Doubts before 'tis day.  
In short, Faith's necessary Rules are few,  
And you those Rules pursue;  
And a good Man has little else to do.   

(16.)  
Your Morals too with your Religion fit,  
And both are suited to your Wit:  
Your Wit! which does deserve immortal praise,  
A Wreath of Stars instead of Bays.  
Your Wit! which can at once instruct and please,  
And give the vicious Patient timely ease;  
Discover his loose deeds and frantic thoughts,  
And laugh him to a loathing of his fau't:  
Your Wit! so charming, those that hear  
Could wish they were all Ear;  
No sooner they admire,  
But some new rapture lifts their wonder higher!  
Not taken up on trust, no plated Brass,  
But Currant Coin that every where will pass:  
From painful Learning and Experience drained,  
And as with labour got, so with delight retained.  
No glaring Meteor that makes us gaze,  
And spends itself all in a blaze,  
But, like the Sun, a lasting source of light,  
Which, though it must decline, 'tis but to rise more bright.  
Your Wit! which never values Man the more  
For Wealth and Power,  
Or what his lewd Ambition does devour;  
His Pride, Vainglory, awful Port,  
Which meets so much regard at Court,  
It justly damns and makes a May-game sport.  
No barren Jest, the Carman's Mirth,  
Or Clinches e'er from you take Birth;  
But all you speak is nervous, strong,  
And soft as Philomela's Song,  
While Fools, unknowingly, advance,  
And if they're Witty, 'tis th' effect of Chance.   

(17.)  
When met, with grave Harangues you first begin,  
Such as from Kings might just attention win:  
Show us how far w' have been misled  
Both by the living and the dead:  
Free us from Prejudice and Lies,  
Nonsense, Impossibilities,  
And Wolves in Sheep's disguise,  
With all the Snares Malice and Zeal have laid,  
By bringing our own Reason to our aid:  
Our Reason, still in danger tried,  
And always proved a faithful guide:  
Reason, the Polar Star  
That does discover Happiness from far,  
Straiten the Crooked Path, found by so few,  
Contract the space and set all Heaven in view.  
A Pilot that can through Life's Ocean steer  
As safe in Storms, as if the Skies were clear:  
While those who stupidly believe,  
And pin their Faith upon a Zealot's sleeve,  
Are still with doubts and kill Fears perplexed,  
This hour of one persuasion, none the next:  
But Reason, dressed in Adamantine Arms,  
Does end the frightful Charms;  
All subtle shifts descry,  
With its sharp-sighted Eagles' Eye,  
Before whose powerful Rays the gloomy Phantoms fly.   

(18.)  
While thus you hold discourse, the Goblet's crowned,  
And twice or thrice does nimbly move around:  
Care, that disturber of our rest,  
That grows habitual to the Breast,  
And hardly ever leaves what it has once possessed,  
Even that cursed Fiend at such a time takes wing,  
And Envy drops her sting:  
Yet nothing idle, or profane,  
Lewd, Ridiculous, or vain,  
Nothing is spoke but what the Nuns might hear,  
Were they much chaster than they are.  
With you Mirth's clothed in its true, genuine shape,  
Not like an Ass, an Owl, or Ape,  
But in the same garb it was dressed by Ben.  
There's as much difference between Mirth as Men.  
And now you Envy not even Kings themselves,  
Nor all the under-fry of courtly Elves;  
Who, like the Moon, their borrowed lustre owe,  
And Tradesmen are the Suns that make 'em glitter so.  
The troubles of Mortality you view,  
(Those numerous, and its Blessings few)  
The evil that o'er Mankind brooding sits,  
That fattens Fools and starves the Wits:  
What Fears and jealousies are broached by Knaves,  
Believed by Cowards, Pimps and Slaves:  
And since true pleasure flits and will not stay,  
You this way take a draught without allay;  
And make the dull Fatigue of Life fly pleasantly away!   

(19)  
What Honours then, you mighty few,  
Ought here to be conferred on you;  
That make Life pleasant, and improve yourselves in knowledge too?  
What Trophies to your Fame must we erect!  
And O! what wonders may we not expect,  
Though distant now, brought home within our view,  
By Men so qualified as you?  
That, even at your first setting out, can be  
So worthy of a History!  
But that I know you will not raise  
A Monument in your own praise,  
I should presume to ask  
Some one of you to undertake that task:  
For where, alas! where else can there be found  
A Sprat, your Grandeur to resound?  
Where else a Cowley, in his lofty Verse  
Your Glories to rehearse,  
And to the Heavenly Arch make the loud Echo bound?  
Your Glory, which, like the fixed Star, would shine,  
And as propitious be,  
To all that want a guide, as He,  
Had this great Subject been adorned by any Muse but mine.    

To the Earl of Abingdon, etc. ODE.  

AS when some humble, labouring Swain  
Is favoured with a large increase of grain,  
Strait to the Gods he sends his Prayer  
Through the obsequious Air,  
More swift than the winged race themselves can flee;  
For nothing is so swift as Piety:  
With no less hearty Zeal, my Lord, to you  
My Praises I acknowledge due;  
For all the Bounties you dispense,  
And with an Influence  
So far diffused and free,  
It even extends to me!  
Disdain not, then, that Praise (my Offering) to receive,  
For that, alas! is all that I can give;  
But then the World shall see  
I'll never cease to pay you that, till I shall cease to be.   

(2.)  
Were I in Ricot's happy shade,  
Where no State-noise the Rites of Peace invade;  
But every Morn does still fresh Pleasure bring,  
And Plenty flows with an unbounded Spring;  
Where Horses neighing, and the cheerful sound  
Of Huntsman, Horn and Hound,  
Echoes a grateful Harmony to all the Country round.  
Or when your sportful Lavington we name,  
The jocund Scene is much the same:  
There only 'tis where Nature is with Art at strife;  
Both are ambitious to excel,  
And both have done so well,  
That 'twould be hard to tell  
Which of 'em's most adorned with Beauty and with life!  
Such haunts as these might, possibly, inspire  
My Breast with a Poetic Fire,  
And set those thoughts on wing,  
Which now but faintly fly and hoarsely sing.   

(3.)  
No longer, Clio, on the Mansions live,  
Though they deserve more praise than thou canst give,  
(As situate in a happy soil,  
And blest with Flora's earliest smile)  
But view the Hospitality within,  
And a new flight begin;  
For that's a Theme where thou may'st ever dwell,  
And every day have something new to tell:  
A Theme which had great Pindar's greater Son  
Been but so happy to have known,  
Through every Village 'twould have rung,  
The sole delight of every Tongue,  
Through every Meadow, every Grove,  
Where Shepherds seal their Vows of Love,  
Through every populous City, every Cell,  
And every where, where virtue's known to dwell;  
Nay to the Clouds it Echoing would have flew;  
What less when his the Song and the great Subject you?   

(4.)  
Nor had his vast Career  
Or stopped, or tired here:  
Your Godlike Sire's high worth he would have sung,  
Who, while he lived, was blest by every Loyal Tongue:  
He would have told, inspired with the Heroic thought,  
How great his Conduct and how well he fought;  
How like a Bulwark by his Prince he stood,  
When 'twas found Treason to be great, or good;  
And, spite of Death and Time's devouring Jaws,  
Have crowned his memory with deserved applause:  
So great the Warrior, and so just his Cause!  
From thence, Triumphantly, have fled  
To the Production of your fertile Bed;  
In whom already does appear,  
(And 'tis the Spring that crowns the following Year)  
Their Father's Courage and their Mother's Charms;  
A Guard from future harms:  
And here again fresh thoughts would spring,  
How they might one day serve their Country and their King.  
For that untainted Blood which from your Veins does flow,  
Can produce nothing but what's truly so.   

(5.)  
Nor had your Wisdom and your Piety  
Been past neglected by;  
And least of all your steadfast Loyalty;  
Which stood the powerful Faction's late Impetuous shock,  
Unshaken as a Rock:  
Upon smooth Seas we may with safety steer,  
For there the Pleasure does surmount the Fear;  
But hard and dangerous 'tis, to gain the Port,  
When Winds and Waves with equal Fury roar,  
And make those stately Barks their cruel sport,  
They seemed to court before:  
Such is the Sea; nor was our storm at Land,  
By yours and other Loyal Hands repressed,  
Less dangerous to withstand.  
All this he gladly would have done  
In Verse as lasting as the Sun;  
While, at an humble distance, I  
Had blest the happy Muse that would have soared so high!    

Sacred To the Memory of our late Sovereign LORD King CHARLES' the Second.  

ODE.  
EAch Man has private Cares enough  
To make him bend, to make him bow;  
Ah! how then shall we bear the general Sorrow now!  
Unless we die with Grief, what Sanction can we bring  
Sufficient for the loss of such a gracious King!  
Peace, like a Mountain-stream, from him did flow,  
And watered all us humble Plants below,  
And made us flourish too;  
Yet Peace himself but seldom knew.  
Too rigid, Ah! too rigid is the Fate  
That on indulgent Monarches wait!  
While for the Public good, the Public weight they bore,  
As they're Supreme in Power, so they're Supreme in Care:  
Theirs is the Toil, theirs is the pain,  
Ours is the Profit, ours the gain;  
And this was proved in Charles' Reign:  
Think, Britain's, think, how oft he has broke his sleep,  
Entrenched on his few hours of needful rest,  
To make us free, to make us blest,  
And, if you are not Marble, you must weep!   

(2.)  
Long as our stubborn Land he swayed  
(Ah that w' had all so long obeyed!)  
Our stubborn Land a Paradise was made:  
Indulged by his enlivening smiles,  
(The Glory of all other Isles)  
We did in Safety, Ease and Plenty live,  
Enjoyed all Privileges He could give:  
Till sated with continued Happiness,  
Like Devils, we conspired to make it less.  
False Fears and jealousies Knaves did create,  
And, once more, strove to plunge the State  
In all the miseries it felt from forty one to Eight  
Here did our pitying Monarch timely interpose,  
And saved us from ourselves— for who else were our Foes?  
On those whom goodness could not awe,  
He let loose justice and the Law;  
His justice probed our festered wound,  
His justice healed and made it sound,  
From Exile called our banished right,  
(Good Angels and good Men's delight)  
And made us happy in our own despite!   

(3.)  
Not opening Buds more certain Tidings bring  
Of the approaching Glories of the Spring,  
Than his least Action spoke him King!  
He talked, he looked, he trod,  
And had the Air, the Port and Manage of a God  
These Wonders in his Person all might find;  
But who can tell the wonders of his mind?  
How Wise! how Just! how Mild! how Kind!  
In Exile, Danger, Want and Strife,  
In all the various Changes of his Life,  
Before, and when he reigned,  
His troubles were with Saintlike Constancy sustained:  
And great and numerous was the store;  
His Martyred God, and Martyred Father, only suffered more:  
His Favours too, like theirs,  
Did to his deadliest Foes extend,  
Forgave as fast as ill Men did offend,  
And when he had forgave, would prove a Friend:  
What greater proof of Clemency  
Could Heaven itself express?  
'Twas Virtue, Goodness, Mercy to excess!   

(4.)  
If aught that's excellent, or brave,  
Could privilege their Owners from the Grave;  
He, like Elijah, to his Bliss had fled,  
And never mingled with the dead:—  
But Man was born to die!  
And though the Prophet might the easier Passage find,  
Our Pious Sovereign left his Dross behind,  
And went to Heaven more pure and more refined.  
There rest, blessed shade, from all the sorrow free,  
From all the Treachery,  
From all the Infidelity,  
That did attend thy painful Progress of Mortality:  
There rest:— while the poor Melancholy Bards below  
Though they can ne'er pay all they owe,  
At least, their Love and Duty show,  
And, in sad Funeral-Verse, embalm  
Their ever haypy Patron's name;  
Not that it needs it— for 'twould live  
Without th' Assistance Poets give.    
The End of the Pindaric Poems.   

SATYRS.  

PROLOGUE. To the following Satyrs and Epistles.  
TO that Prodigious height of vice w' are grown,  
Both in the Court, the Theatre and Town,  
That 'tis of late believed, nay fixed a rule,  
Who ever is not vicious is a Fool;  
Hissed at by old and young, despised, oppressed,  
If he be not a Villain, like the rest:  
Virtue and Truth are lost— search for good men,  
Among ten thousand you will scarce find ten.  
Half Wits conceited Coxcombs, Cowards, Braves,  
Base Flatterers, and the endless Fry of Knaves,  
Fops, Fools and Pimps you every where may find,  
" And not to meet 'em you must shun Mankind.  
The other Sex, too, whom we all adore,  
When searched, we still find rotten at the core,  
An old, dry Bawd, or a young, juicy Whore;  
Their love all false, their Virtue but a name,  
And nothing in 'em constant but their shame.  
What Saty'rist, then, that honest can sit still,  
And, unconcerned, see such a Tide of ill,  
With an impetuous force, overflow the Age,  
And not strive to restrain it with his rage?  
On Sin's vast Army seize, Wing, Rear and Van,  
And, like Impartial Death, not spare a Man?  
For where, alas! where is that mighty He,  
That is from Pride, Deceit and Envy free,  
Or rather, is not tainted with all three?  
Mankind is Criminal, their Acts, their Thoughts;  
'Tis Charity to tell 'em of their fau't,  
And show their failings in a faithful Glass;  
For who won't mend that sees he is an Ass?  
And this design 'tis that employs my Muse,  
This for her daily Theme she's proud to choose;  
A Theme that she'll have daily need to use:  
Let other Poets flatter, fawn and write,  
To get some Guinnys and a Dinner by't;  
But she could ne'er cringe to a Lord for meat,  
Change sides for Interest, hug the City-cheat,  
Nor praise a prosperous Villain, though he's great:  
Quite contrary her Practice shall appear;  
Unbribed, Impartial, pointed and severe:  
That way my Nature leans, composed of Gall;  
I must write sharply, or not write at all.  
Tho' Thyrsis wings the Air in towering flights,  
And, to a wonder, Panegyric writes;  
Though he is still exalted and sublime,  
Scarce to be marched by past or present time;  
Yet what Instruction can from hence accrue?  
'Tis flattery all, too fulsome to be true.  
Urge not (for 'tis to vindicate the wrong)  
It causes Emulation in the young,  
A thirst to Fame, while some high Act they read,  
That spurs 'em to the same Romantic deed;  
As if some powerful magic lay in Rhimes,  
That made men braver than at other times.  
'Tis false and fond:— Hero's may huff and fight,  
But who can merit so as he can write?  
To hold a Glow-worm is the morning Star,  
And that it may, with ease, be seen as far,  
Were most ridiculous, so wide from truth,  
It justly would deserve a sharp reproof.  
That wretch is more to blame, whose hireling Pen  
Calls Knaves and Coxcombs, wise deserving men,  
Says that the vicious are with virtue graced,  
judges all just, and all Court-Strumpets chaste.  
If to be praised does give a man pretence  
To Glory, Honour, Honesty and Sense,  
Cromwell had much to say in his defence;  
Who, though a Tyrant, which all ills comprise,  
Has been extolled and lifted to the Skies:  
While living (such was the applause they gave)  
Counted High, Princely, Pious, Just and Brave,  
And with Encomiums waited to the Grave.  
Who then would give this— for a Poet's praise?  
Which, rightly understood, does but debase,  
And blast that Reputation it would raise.  
Hence 'tis (and 'tis a Punishment that's fit)  
They are condemned and scorned by men of wit:  
'Tis true, some Foplings nibble at their Praise,  
And think it great to grace the Front of Plays;  
Though most to that stupidity are grown,  
They wave their Patron's praise to write their own;  
Yet they but seldom fail of their Rewards;  
And, Faith, in that I cannot blame the Bards;  
If Coxcombs will be Coxcombs, let 'em rue,  
If they love Flattery, let 'em pay for't too;  
'Tis one sure method to convince the Elves;  
They spare my pains and satyrize themselves.  
In short, nought helps like satire to amend:  
While in huge Volumes motley Priests contend,  
And let their vain Disputes ne'er have an end,  
They plunge us in those Snares we else should shun;  
Like Tinkers, make ten holes in mending one.  
Our dearest Friends, too, though they know our fau't,  
For pity, or for shame conceal their Thoughts,  
While we, who see our failings not forbid,  
Loosely run on in the vain Paths we did:  
'Tis satire, then, that is our truest Friend,  
For none before they know their Faults can mend;  
That tells us boldly of our foulest crimes,  
Reproves ill manners, and reforms the Times:  
How am I then too blame, when all I write  
Is honest rage, not prejudice, or spite?  
Truth is my aim, with truth I shall impeach,  
And I'll spare none that come within its reach:  
On then, my Muse, the World before thee lies,  
And lash the Knaves and Fools that I despise.     

Love given over: OR, A satire Against the Pride, Lust and Inconstancy, etc. OF WOMAN.  
Writ in the Year 1680.   

TO THE Right Honourable CHARLES, EARL of Dorset and Middlesex, etc.  
My Lord,  
THE Widow's Mite cast to the store,  
Was more than all, for she could give no more;  
The Rich, indeed, might daily Presents bring,  
As flowing from an inexhausted Spring:  
I say not this that you should partial be,  
Or think this more, because it came from me,  
But only, that I am as poor as she:  
As poor, I mean, in Sense, as she in Coin;  
Nor is that Mite originally mine:  
'Tis true, a Mite is, in itself, but small,  
But vast the store that gives a Mite to all:  
You are that Store, my Lord, whose boundless mind,  
In judgement firm, in Fancy unconfined,  
Distributes Rays of Sense to all Mankind.  
It is but just then (as the Gods inspire  
Earth's sordid Clay with their Celestial Fire,  
Which, whensoe'er the dull Mass finds a Grave,  
Returns again to the same God that gave)  
I should that little, All I have, restore;  
But blush to think that 'tis improved no more.  
I am, My Lord, Your Lordship's Faithful, And most humble Servant, R. Gould.   

Advertisement.  
THE pious Endeavours of the Gown have not proved more ineffectual towards reclaiming the Errors of a vicious Age, than satire (the better way, though less practised) the amendment of Honesty and good Manners among us: Nor is it a wonder, when we consider that Women (as if they had the Ingredient of Fallen-Angel in their Composition) the more they are lashed, are but the more hardened in Impenitence: And as Children, in some violent Distemper, commonly spit out those cherishing Cordials, which, if taken, might chase away the Malady, so they (inspired, as 'twere, with a natural averseness to Virtue) despise that wholesome counsel, which is religiously designed for their future good and happiness. judge, then, if satire ever had more need of a sharper sting than now, when he can look out of his Cell on no side, but sees so many Objects beyond the reach of Indignation. Nor is it altogether unreasonable for me (while others are lashing the Rebellious times into obedience) to have one fling at Woman, the original of Mischief. I am sensible, I might as well expect to see Truth and Honesty uppermost in the World, as think to be free from the bitterness of their Resentments; But I have no reason to be concerned at that; since, I'm certain, my design's as far from offending the good (if there are any among them that can be said to be so) as those few that are good would be offended at their Reception into Bliss, to be there crowned with the happy reward of their Labours. As for those that are ill, if it gall them, it succeeds according to my wish; for I have no other design but the amendment of Vice, which if I could but, in the least, accomplish, I should be well pleased, and not without reason too; for it must needs be some satisfaction to a young, unskilful Archer, to hit the first mark he ever aimed at.   

Love given over; OR, A satire Against WOMAN.  
Writ in the Year 1680.  

AT length from Love's vile slavery I am free,  
And have regained my ancient Liberty:  
I've shaken those Chains off which my Bondage wrought,  
Am free as Air, and unconfined as thought:  
For faithless Silvia I no more adore,  
Kneel at her Feet, and pray in vain no more:  
No more my Verse shall her fled worth proclaim,  
And with soft Praises celebrate her name:  
Her Frowns do now no awful Terrors bear;  
Her Smiles, no more, can cure, or cause despair.  
I've banished her for ever from my Breast,  
Banished the proud Invader of my rest,  
Banished the Tyrant-Author of my woes,  
That robbed my Soul of all its sweet repose:  
Not all her treacherous Arts, bewitching wiles,  
Her sighs, her tears, nor her deluding smiles  
Shall my eternal Resolution move,  
Or make me talk, or think, or dream of love:  
The whining Curse I've banished from my Mind,  
And, with it, all the thoughts of Womankind.  
Come then, my Muse, and since th' occasion's fair,  
Against that Sex proclaim an endless War;  
Which may renew as still my Verse is read,  
And live when I am mingled with the dead.   

Woman! by heavens the very name's a Crime,  
Enough to blast and scandalise my Rhyme!  
Sure Heaven itself (entranced) like Adam lay,  
Or else some banished Fiend usurped the sway  
When Eve was formed, and with her ushered in  
Plagues, Woes and Death, and a new World of Sin:  
The fatal Rib was crooked and unev'n,  
From whence they've all their Crablike Nature given,  
Averse to all the Laws of Man and Heaven.   

O Lucifer! thy Regions had been thin,  
Were't not for Woman's propagating Sin:  
'Tis they alone that all true Vices know,  
And send such Throngs down to thy Courts below:  
Nay there is hardly one among 'em all,  
But Envys Eve the Glory of the Fall:  
Be cautious then and guard your Empire well;  
For should they once get power to rebel,  
They'd surely raise a civil War in Hell,  
Add to the pains you feel, and make you know  
W' are here above as cursed as you below.—  
But we may thank ourselves: is there a Dog  
Who, when he may have freedom, wears a Clog?  
But slavish Man, the more imprudent Beast,  
Drags the dull weight when he may be released:  
May such (and ah! too many such we see)  
While they live here, just only live to be  
The marks of scorn, contempt and infamy.  
But if the Tide of nature boisterous grow,  
And will rebelliously its Banks overflow,  
Then choose a Wench, who, (full of lewd desires)  
Can meet your Flames of Love with equal Fires;  
She only damns the Soul; but an ill Wife  
Damns that, and with it all the Joys of Life:  
And what vain Blockhead is so dull, but knows  
That of two ills the least is to be chose?  
But now since Woman's Lust I chance to name,  
Woman's unbounded Lust I'll first proclaim:  
And show that our lewd Age has brought to view,  
What Sodom, when at worst, had blushed to do.  
True, I confess, that Rome's Imperial Whore  
(More famed for Vice than for the Crown she wore)  
Into the public Stews, disguised, would thrust,  
To quench the raging fury of her Lust;  
And by such Actions bravely got her name  
Born up for ever on the wings of Fame:  
Yet this is poor to what our Modern Age  
Has hatched, brought forth, and acted on the Stage:  
Which, for the Sex's Glory, I'll rehearse,  
And make that deathless as that makes my Verse.   

Who knew not (for to whom was she unknown?  
Our late Illustrious Bewley? (true, she's gone  
To answer for the numerous ills sh'as done;  
For if there is no Hell for such as she,  
Heaven is unjust, and that it cannot be)  
As Albion's Isle, fast rooted in the Main,  
Does the rough Billows raging force disdain,  
Which, though they foam, and with loud terrors roar,  
In vain attempt to reach beyond their shore;  
So she, with Lust's enthusiastic rage,  
Sustained all the salt Stallions of the Age:  
Whole Legions did encounter, Legions tired,  
Insatiate yet, still fresh supplies desired.  
Prodigious Bawd! O may thy memory be  
Abhorred by all, as 'tis abhorred by me!  
Thou foremost in the Race of Infamy!  
But Bodies must decay, for 'tis too sure,  
There's nothing from the Jaws of time secure:  
Yet when she found that she could do no more,  
When all her Body was one putrid sore,  
Studded with Pox and Ulcers quite all over;  
Even then, by her delusive, treacherous wiles,  
(For Woman 'tis that Woman best beguiles)  
She enroled more Females in the List of Whore  
Than all the Arts of Man e'er did before.  
Pressed with the ponderous guilt, at length, she fell  
And through the solid Centre sunk to Hell:  
The murmuring Fiends all hovered round about,  
And in hoarse howls did the great Bawd salute;  
Amazed to see a sordid Lump of Clay  
Stained with more various, bolder Crimes than they:  
Nor were her Torments less; for the dire Train  
Soon sent her, howling, through the rolling Flame,  
To the sad Seat of everlasting Pain!  
Creswel and Stratford the same footsteps tread;  
In Sins black Volume so profoundly read,  
That, whensoe'er they die, we well may fear,  
The very Tincture of the Crimes they bore,  
With strange Infusion will inspire the dust,  
And in the Grave commit true acts of Lust.   

And now, if so much to the World's revealed,  
Reflect on the vast store that lies concealed.  
How, oft, into their Closets they retire,  
Where flaming Dil— does inflame desire,  
And gentle Lap— d— s feed the amorous fire.  
How cursed is Man! when Brutes his Rivals prove,  
Even in the sacred business of his Love!  
Unless Religion pious thoughts instil,  
Show me the Woman that would not be ill,  
If she, conveniently, could have her will?  
And when the mind's corrupt, we all well know  
The Actions that proceed from't must be so:  
Their guilt's as great who any ill would do,  
As theirs who, actually, that ill pursue;  
That they would have it so their Crime assures;  
Thus, if they durst, all Women would be Whores.  
At least (and 'tis what all Men will allow)  
Most would be so that yet seem virtuous now.   

Forgive me, Modesty, if I have been,  
In any thing I've mentioned here, obscene.  
But ah! why should I ask that Boon of thee,  
When 'tis a doubt if such a thing there be?  
For Woman, in whose Breast thou'rt said to reign,  
And show the glorious Conquests thou dost gain,  
Despises thee, and only courts the name:  
(Sounds, though we can't perceive 'em, we may hear,  
And wonder at their Echoing through the Air)  
Thus, led by what delusive Fame imparts,  
We think thy Throne's erected in their hearts,  
But w' are deceived, as, I'faith, we ever were,  
For, if thou art, 'tis sure thou art not there.  
Nothing in that black Mansion does reside,  
But rank Ambition, Luxury and Pride:  
Pride is the Deity they most adore;  
Hardly their own dear selves they cherish more:  
Survey their very looks you'll find it there;  
How can you miss it when 'tis every where?  
Some, through all hunted Nature's secrets trace  
To fill the furrows of a wrinkled Face,  
And after all their toil (pray mark the Curse)  
They've only made that which was bad much worse:  
As some, in striving to make ill coin pass,  
Have but the more discovered that 'twas brass.  
Nay those that are reputed to be fair,  
And know how courted, how admired they are;  
Who, one would think, God had formed so complete,  
They had no need to make his Gifts a cheat;  
Yet they, too, in Adulteration share,  
And would, in spite of nature, be more fair.  
Deluded Woman! tell me, where's the gain  
In spending time upon a thing so vain?  
Your precious time! (O to yourselves unkind!)  
When 'tis uncertain y'ave an hour behind  
That you can call your own: for though y'are fair,  
Charming and kind as Guardian Angels are,  
Adorned by Nature, fitted out by Art  
In all the glories that delude the heart;  
Yet tell me, tell, have they the power to save?  
Or can they privilege you from the Grave?  
The Grave which favours not the rich, or fair;  
Beauty with Beast lies undistinguished there.   

But hold— methinks I'm interrupted here  
By some vain Fop I neither love, nor fear;  
Who, in these words, his weakness does reveal,  
And hurts that wound which he should strive to heal.   

Soft, Sir, methinks you too inveterate grow,  
And more your Envy than Discretion show.  
Who'd blame the Sun because he shines so bright,  
That we can't gaze on his refulgent light,  
When, at the selfsame time, he cheers the Earth,  
And gives the various Plants and Blossoms Birth?  
How does the Winter look, that naked thing,  
Compared with the fresh glories of the Spring?  
Rivers adorn the Earth, the Fish the Seas,  
Flowers and Grass the Meadows, Fruit the Trees,  
The Stars those Fields of Air through which they ride;  
And Woman all the works of God beside!  
Yet base, detractive Envy won't allow  
They should adorn themselves: then pray, Sir, now  
Produce some Reasons why y'are so severe;  
For, Envious as you are, you know they're Fair.   

And so were Sodom's Apples, heretofore,  
But they were still found rotten at the Core.  
Nature, without dispute, made all things fair,  
And dressed 'em in an unaffected Air:  
The Earth, the Meadows, Rivers, every Flower,  
Proclaim their Maker's boundless Love and Power;  
But they as they were made at first remain,  
And all their ancient Lustre still retain.  
Nothing but vain, Fantastic Woman's changed,  
And through all mischiefs various Mazes ranged:  
Yet, that they're Beautiful is not denied;  
But, tell me, are th' unhansom free from Pride?  
No, no; the straight, the crooked, ugly, fair,  
Have all, promiscuously, an equal share.  
Thus, Sir, you see how they're estranged and strayed  
From what, by Nature, they at first were made.  
Already many of their Crimes I've named;  
Yet that's untold for which they most are famed:  
A Sin, tall as the Pyramids of old,  
From whose aspiring top we may behold  
Enough to damn a World:— what should it be,  
But (Curse upon the Name!) Inconstancy?  
O tell me, does the World those Men contain,  
(For I have looked for such, but looked in vain)  
Who ne'er were drawn into that fatal snare?  
Fatal I call it, for he's cursed that's there.  
Inspired then by my Fellow-Sufferers wrongs,  
(And glad I am the task to me belongs)  
I'll bring the Fiend unmasked to human sight,  
Though hid in the black Womb of deepest night.  
No more the Wind, the faithless Wind, shall be  
A Simile for their Inconstancy,  
For that sometimes is fixed; but Woman's mind  
Is never fixed, or to one point inclined:  
Less fixed than in a Storm the Billows are,  
Or trembling Leaves the Aspen Tree does bear,  
Which ne'er stand still, but (every way inclined)  
Turn twenty times with the least breath of wind.  
Less fixed than wanton Swallows while they play  
In the Sunbeams, to welcome in the Day;  
Now yonder, now they're here, as quickly there,  
In no place long, and yet are every where.  
Like a tossed Ship their Passions fall and rise;  
One while you'd think it touched the very Skies,  
When straight upon the Sand it groveling lies.  
Even she herself, Silvia th' loved and fair,  
Whose one kind look could save me from Despair,  
She, she whose Smiles I valued at that rate,  
To enjoy them I scorned the Frowns of Fate;  
Even she herself (but ah! I'm loath to tell,  
Or blame the Crimes of one I loved so well;  
But it must out—) even she, swift as the Wind,  
Swift as the Airy Motions of the mind,  
At once proved false and perjured, and unkind!  
Here they, to day, invoke the Powers above  
As Witnesses to their Immortal love;  
When, lo! away the airy Fantom flies,  
And e'er it can be said to live, it dies:  
Thus, all Religious Vows and Oaths they break  
With the same ease and freedom as they speak.  
Nor is that sacred Idol, Marriage, free;  
Marriage, which musty Drones affirm to be  
The Tie of Souls as well as Bodies! nay,  
The Spring that does, through unseen Pipes, convey  
Fresh sweets to life, and drives the bitter dregs away!  
The sacred Flame, the Guardian Pile of Fire  
That guides our steps to Peace! nor does expire,  
Till it has left us nothing to desire!  
Even thus adorned, the Idol is not free  
From the swift-turns of their Inconstancy:  
Witness th' Ephesian Matron;—  
Who to the Grave with her dead Husband went,  
And closed herself up in his Monument;  
Where on cold Marble she lamenting lay;  
In sighs she spent the night, in tears the day,  
And seemed to have no use of Life, but mourn it all away:  
The wondering World extolled her faithful mind,  
Extolled her as the best of Womankind!  
But see the World's mistake, and, with it, see  
The strange effects of wild Inconstancy!  
For she herself, even in that sacred room,  
With one brisk, vigorous onset was o'ercome,  
And made a Brothel of her Husband's Tomb!  
Whose pale Ghost trembled in its sacred shroud,  
Wondering that Heaven th' impious act allowed;  
Horror in robes of darkness stalked around,  
And through the frighted Tomb did groans resound;  
The very Marbles wept; the Furies howled,  
And, in hoarse murmurs, their amazement told:  
All this shook not the dictates of her mind,  
But, with a boldness suited to her kind,  
She made her Husband's Ghost (in death a slave)  
Her necessary Pimp even in his Grave.  
What need I fetch these Instances from old?  
There now live those that are as bad and bold,  
Of Quality; young, vigorous, lustful, fair,  
But, for their Husband's sakes, their Names I spare.  
Are these (ye Gods!) the Virtues of a Wife,  
The peace that crowns a matrimonial Life?  
Is this the sacred Prize for which we fight,  
And hazard Life and Honour with delight?  
Bliss of the day, and Rapture of the night!  
The Reins that guide us in our wild Careres?  
And the Supporter of our feeble years?  
No, no, 'tis contradiction; rather far,  
They are the cause of all our Bosom-War;  
The very source and fountain of our Woe,  
From whence Despair and Doubt for ever flow;  
The Gall that mingles with our best delight,  
Rank to the taste and nauseous to the sight;  
A days, the weight of care that clogs the Breast,  
At night, the hag that does disturb our rest:  
Our mortal Sickness in the midst of health,  
Chains in our Freedom, Poverty in Wealth:  
Th' Eternal Pestilence and Plague of Life,  
Th' original and Spring of all our strife:  
These, rather, are the Virtues of a clamorous Wife!   

O why, ye awful Powers, why was't your will  
To mix our solid good with so much ill?  
But you foresaw our Crimes would soar too high,  
And so made them your Vengeance to supply:  
For, not the wild, destructive waist of War,  
Nor all the endless labyrinths of the Bar,  
Famine, Revenge, Perpetual loss of health;  
No, nor that grinning Fiend despair itself,  
When it insults with most Tyrannic sway,  
Can plague, or torture man so much as they!  
But hold; don't let me blame the Power's divine,  
Or, at the wondrous works they made, repine;  
All first was good, formed by th' eternal will,  
Though much has since degenerated to ill:  
Even Woman was, they say, made chaste and good,  
But ah! not long in that blessed State she stood;  
Swift as a Meteor glides through air she fell,  
And showed, to love that Sex too much, is one sure way to Hell.  
Beware then, dull, deluded Man, beware;  
And let not vicious Women be the snare,  
To make you the Companions of'em there:  
Scorn their vain smiles, their little arts despise,  
And your content at that just value prize,  
As not to let those ravenous Thiefs of Prey,  
Rifle and bear the sacred Guest away:  
'Tis they, 'tis they that rob us of that Gem,  
How could we lose it were it not for them?  
Avoid 'em, then, with all the gaudy Arts  
They daily practise to amuse our hearts;  
Avoid 'em as you would avoid their Crimes,  
Which, like a Torrent loose, overflow the Times.   

But now should some (for 'tis too sure we may  
Find many Coxcombs that will own their sway)  
Should such revile the wholesome Rules I give,  
And, in contempt of what is spoke, still live  
Like base-souled Slaves, and Fetters choose to wear,  
When they may be as unconfined as Air,  
Or the winged Racers that Inhabit there;  
May all the Plagues an ill Wife can invent  
Pursue 'em with eternal Punishment:  
May they— but stay, my Curses I forestall,  
For in that one I've comprehended all.—  
But say, Sir, if some Pilot on the Main,  
Should be so mad, so resolutely vain,  
To steer his Vessel on that fatal shore,  
Where he has seen ten thousand wracked before;  
Though he should perish there, say, would you not  
Bestow a Curse on the notorious Sot?  
Trust me, the Man's as much to blame as he,  
Who ventures his frail Bark out, wilfully,  
On the rough, rocky, Matrimonial Sea;  
Selfish, his Breast is with vain hopes possessed,  
For why should he speed better than the rest?    

THE PLAYHOUSE. A satire.  
Writ in the Year 1685.   

TO THE Right Honourable CHARLES, EARL of Dorset and Middlesex, etc.  
My Lord,  

Denied the Press, forbid the Public view,  
This Trifle for a Refuge flies to You;  
To You, my Lord, in whom we well may see  
What a true English Nobleman should be:  
Firm to his Honour, to his Prince sincere,  
Kind to desert, and think it worth his care;  
But to the servile Flatterer, severe:  
'Tis him we ought to fear of all Mankind;  
He's never without mischief in his mind:  
The sweetest words still hide destructive Gall,  
For 'twas a gaudy outside damned us all:  
But such you scorn, their Poison can repel;  
Yet, spite of your Example, Fools will use 'em well.   

Who strives by noble ways to raise his name,  
And makes true worth the Centre of his aim,  
Can never miss of an established Fame:  
He marks the Vices that disgrace the Age,  
Flutter to Court and flourish on the Stage,  
Does shun 'em too; silence the Knavish Tongue,  
And rescue injured Honesty from wrong.  
This is the Man to whom our Praise is due,  
And this Man treads in the same Path with You.   

There hardly e'er was known so good a thing,  
But felt the subtle point of Envy's sting;  
She seldom vents her rage on worthless Game;  
Good Actions and good Men are still her aim:  
But here we may (and speak it too with Pride)  
Say more of You than all Mankind beside,  
YE are Envy-proof! and so is all ye have writ;  
For no Man e'er was so presuming, yet,  
To fix a brand on your unquestioned Wit:  
So good! I durst even hope you will excuse  
This rude address of my unpolished Muse;  
What greater proof? who, in return, will raise  
Her Wings above the usual pitch to sing her Patron's praise.   

Your Actions still their Parent-Soul confessed,  
And showed they took birth from a Gallant Breast:  
A Breast which all the full-blown worth displays,  
That can transmit a name to after days:  
A generous temper and untainted mind;  
A Conversation pleasant and refined,  
Made up of all the Charms that can delight Mankind!  
Courage enough to quell the Age's Crimes,  
And firmly Loyal in Rebellious Times:  
Then 'tis, he, who a heart unshaken brings,  
Is touched, found right and fit for glorious things,  
Stands Bulwark in the Gap, and even obliges Kings.   

Reflecting on all this, how dare I bring  
To your strict view so mean an Offering?  
Yet, since truth made me write, perhaps you may  
In its perusal throw an hour away:  
For here, my Lord, you'll meet with Knaves chastised,  
Buffoons and Bullies equally despised:  
Strumpets not spared, whatever is their degree;  
If bad, what is their Quality to me?  
Ill Plays and Doggrel Poets damned in shoals,  
With their devout admirers, Coquets, Fops and Fools:  
But this, perhaps, might make its value less,  
And for the Public thought too fit a Dress;  
For to write truth is one sure way to be denied the Press.   
I am, My Lord, Your Lordship's most humble And Devoted Servant, R. Gould.   

THE PLAYHOUSE. A satire.  

OF all the things which at this guilty time,  
Have felt the honest Satyr's wholesome Rhyme,  
The Playhouse has 'scaped best, been most forborn,  
Though it, of all things, most deserves our scorn.   

I then, inspired with bold, Satiric rage,  
A sworn Foe to the mercenary Stage,  
(And yet a Foe no further than to show  
The World what weed in that rank Soil does (grow)  
Will strip it bare of all the gay attire  
Which Women love, and Fools so much admire.   

Ye biting Scorpions (for I've heard of such,  
And as for Spleen I cannot have too much)  
Aid me, I beg you, with inveterate spite,  
Instruct me how to stab, each word I write;  
Or, if my Pen's too weak this Tide to stem,  
Lend me your Stings, and I will write with them:  
Each home-set thrust shall pierce Vice to the heart,  
And draw the blood out in the mortalest part.  
That the proud Mimics, who now Lord it so,  
May be the public scorn where e'er they go,  
Their Trade decay, and they unpityed starve;  
A better Fate than most of 'em deserve.   

First to the Middle-Gallery we'll go,  
(The Prologue to the Vice you'll find below)  
Where reeking Punks like Summer Infects swarm,  
And stink like Polecats when they're hunted warm:  
Their very Scents cause Apoplectic Fits,  
And yet they're thought all Civet by the Cits.  
(But that's not much, for, the plain truth to tell,  
They're without Brains, why not without their Smell?)  
Here, every Night, they sit three hours for Sale,  
With dirty Nightrail, and a dirtier tail:  
If any Gudgeon bites, they have him sure,  
For nothing Angles Blockheads like a Whore.  
To keep their Masks on is their only way,  
For going barefaced would but spoil their Play;  
Their Noses sharp as Needles, Eyes sunk in,  
A wrinkled Forehead, and a parchment Skin:  
A Breath as hot as Aetna's sulphurous Fire,  
And yet not half so hot as their desire.  
The Physic each, at times, has swallowed up  
Would stock the King's Apothecary's Shop.  
Who e'er does grapple with these Fireships,  
May taste the Mercury upon their Lips.  
Wonder no longer that, in France and Rome,  
They have the knack to poison with perfume;  
Our Strumpets now, those Factresses for death,  
Will do't with one puff of their morning breath.  
If drunk with Nants (as, by their smell, you'd think  
They never tasted any other drink)  
It mainly adds to what I've said before,  
And makes 'em glory in their guilt the more;  
Then let 'em have their will, and you shall see  
How wild a thing unbounded Bitch will be:  
No Pen can write, no human wit can think  
The lewdness of a Playhouse Punk in drink;  
Inspired by Lust's Enthusiastic rage,  
She'd prostitute herself even on the Stage,  
Strip naked, and, without a thought of shame,  
Do things Hell's blackest Fiend would blush to name.  
Yet such as these our brawny Fops admire;  
The fittest fuel for so hot a fire.  
A Woman's ne'er so wicked, but she can  
Find one as wicked, or much worse, in man,  
To satisfy her Lust, obey her will,  
And, at her beck, perform the greatest ill:  
These ride not Strumpets, but are Strumpet-rid,  
Like Dogs, they'll fetch and carry if they're bid.  
But now I talk of Dogs, did you ere meet  
A proud Bitch and her Gallants in the street,  
Mongrel, Shock, Mastiff, Spaniel, blithe and gay,  
And mind how they foam, pant and lick their prey,  
How ceremonious, with what courtly Art  
They make address? each tenders down his heart,  
And if Bitch snarls, they take it in good part:  
This is an Emblem of our Gallery Ware,  
The Scene you may see, nightly, acted here.  
How e'er I must give Dog and Bitch their due,  
They are the better Creatures of the two,  
But Bawdy only for a Season; here  
The Leach'rous Commerce does hold all the Year.  
About one jilt a hundred Fops shall crowd,  
So talkative, impertinent and loud,  
That who e'er hither comes to see the Play,  
For what they hear, might as well stay away.  
After a long, insipid, vain Amour  
Between some fluttering Officer and Whore,  
To some Hedge-Tavern they direct their way,  
(Known only to such Customers as they)  
To end th' Intrigue agreed on at the Play:  
There they roar, swear, huff, eat and drink at large,  
And all at the Heroic Cully's charge;  
Till, drained both Purse and back, he does retire,  
And within three days find his Blood on Fire.  
This is the sum of all the Playhouse Jobs,  
Begin in Punk and end in Mr. Hobs.  
If he would find the Nymph that caused his moan,  
He toils in vain, the Bird of night is flown;  
For, by the way, so sharp they are at sinning,  
They change their Lodging oftener than their Linen.  
Yet not this warning makes the Sot give over;  
He must repeat the dangerous Bliss once more,  
But still finds harder usage than before.   

Hence 'tis our Surgeons and our Quacks are grown  
To make so great a Figure in the Town;  
They heap up an Estate by our Debauches;  
Our keeping Strumpets makes them keep their Coaches:  
Their Consorts are so splendid and so gay,  
You'd think 'em Queens, for they're as 〈◊〉 as they:  
None go so' Expensive as such Vermi●● Wives▪  
For the worst Gown they wear 〈◊〉 Lives.  
What horrid things are these? 〈…〉 the Stage  
That makes these Infects gain upon the Age.  
There 'tis offenders sow that fertile crime  
Of which these reap the harvest in short time  
There's many of 'em, for their single share,  
Pocket at least five hundred pound a year;  
Nor is it strange, so spreading is this Crime,  
They'll have seven score a fluxing at a time;  
Of which, perhaps, by Heavenly Providence,  
Seven may Recover, and creep faintly thence,  
So lean, thin, pale and meager, you'd swear  
Ghosts have more Substance, though they're nought but air.  
So cunning too are these Pox-Emp'ricks grown,  
Live ye, or die, they'll make the Cash their own,  
Expensive Malady! where people give  
More to be killed than many would to live!  
Some get Estates by other deaths, but here  
The very dying does undo the Heir.  
O that the custom were again returned,  
That Bodies might on Funeral Piles be burned;  
For I believe the Poison that the Sun  
Sucks from the ground, and through the air does run,  
Giving all catching Plagues and Fevers birth,  
Are Steams that are exhaled from Pocky Earth:  
From whence the Town may be concluded cursed,  
For here few die but are half rotten first.  
But e'er from this Bitch-Gallery I descend,  
I've more to say, and beg you to attend.  
For 'tis of late found a notorious truth,  
Court-Ladies, in their heat of Lust and Youth,  
Sail hither, muffled up in a disguise;  
And by pert carriage and their sharp replies,  
Set all the Men agog, who straight agree  
They must be Harlots of great Quality;  
So lead 'em off to give their Lechery vent,  
For 'tis presumed they came for that intent:  
Indeed, if they're examined, they will say,  
They only meant to take a strict survey,  
If Whores could be so lewd as they report:—  
And that they might as well have known at Court▪  
But they're but flesh, and 'tis in vain to rail,  
Since any thing that's flesh, we know, is frail.   

Keep, keep you Citizens your Wives from hence,  
If you'd preserve their Native Innocence:  
You else are sure to live in Cuckold's row:  
What Precedent is there that lets you know,  
Our Wives by coming hither Virtuous grow!  
That Plays may make 'em vicious, truth assures;  
Especially, if they're so prone as yours.  
The London-Cuckolds they all flock to see,  
Are pleased with their own Infidelity.  
In vain you counsel give; what can reclaim  
A Woman wholly given up to shame,  
In whom there is no Faith, no Truth, no trust,  
And whose chief care is to indulge her Lust?  
For when once tainted, once inclined that way,  
The Devil may as soon recant as they;  
To sure Destruction wilfully they run,  
See the vast Precipice, and yet go smiling on.   

Tired with the Gallery, 'twill now be fit  
To steer down to the Boxes and the Pit:  
Where such a flood of Vice invades my Eyes,  
Such a fantastic fry of Vanities,  
I know not on what one to fasten first,  
No more than I can tell which of 'em's worst.  
Here painted Ladies, there gay-Coxcombs throng,  
Who, in a soft Voice, charm 'em with a Song;  
Their own, you may be sure, for none but such  
Can write what could delight that Sex so much.  
Some few French words (which plainly does express  
Their Wit is as much borrowed as their dress)  
Does set 'em up for Poets; their whole time  
Is but one dull Fatigue of Love and Rhyme.  
These are the women's Men, their Demy Gods,  
For Ladies and Fop-Authors never are at odds.   

Not far from hence, another whining Beast,  
While he makes love, does make himself a jest;  
With a low cringe, for that he knows will please;  
Grins out his Passion in such terms as these:  
Madam! By heavens you have an air so fine,  
It renders the least thing you do divine!  
We dare not say you were created here,  
But dropped an Angel from th' Aetherial Sphere!  
Ten thousand Cupids on your Forehead sit,  
And shoot resistless Darts through all the Pit:  
Before your Feet, see, your Adorers lie,  
Live, if you smile, and if you frown, they die!  
Even I, your true predestinated Slave,  
Rather than meet your hate would meet my Grave:  
Ah pity then, bright Nymph, the wound you gave!  
Thus sighs the Sot, thus tells his amorous tale,  
And thinks his florid nonsense must prevail:  
Bows and withdraws; and straight, to prove his love,  
Steals up and courts the Fulsom Punks above.  
Mean while the Nymph, proud of her Conquest, looks  
Big as wreathed Poets in the Front of Books;  
Surveys the Pit with a Majestic Grace,  
To see who falls a Victim to her Face;  
Does in her Glass herself with wonder view,  
And thinks all that the Coxcomb said was true.  
Hence 'tis that every vain, fantastic chit,  
Does get the better still of Men of Wit;  
For they can't Flatter as these Triflers do,  
And without that, without Success they woe.  
Speak truth to our fine Ladies now adays,  
You'll meet with Indignation, not with praise,  
For they hate nothing more; it calls 'em plain,  
Deceitful, idle, foolish, fond and vain.  
Wit, in a lover, they of all things fear,  
For witty Men well know what trash they are:  
But a starched, whiffling, pert, dull, noisy Ass,  
With them for Courtly, airy, wise does pass,  
Courageous, generous, affable, what not?  
Though Heaven, at first, designed him for a Sot.  
Such little Infects still are swarming here,  
Buzzing dull Jests each in his Lady's Ear;  
Then laugh aloud, which now is grown a part  
Of janty breeding, and of Courtly art:  
The true sign of the modish Beau Garson,  
Is chattering like a Lady's lewd Baboon;  
Showing their teeth to charm some pretty Creature;  
For grinning, among Fops, is held a Feature.  
Nor is this all; they are so oddly dressed,  
You'd think God meant 'em for a standing Jest,  
Aped into Men for pastime to the rest:  
Observe 'em well, you'll think their Bodies made  
To wait upon the motion of the Head:  
Their Cravat-strings and Perukes so refined,  
They dare not tempt their Enemy, the Wind:  
Of the least slender puff each Sot afraid is,  
It kills the Curls designed to kill the Ladies.  
So stiff they are, in all parts tied so straight,  
'Tis strange to me the blood should circulate.  
But leaving these Musk-cats to public shame,  
I'll turn my Head, and seek out other Game.   

In the Side-box Moll H— n you may see,  
Or Coquet Moll, who is as lewd as she:  
That is their Throne; for there, they best survey  
All the salt Sots that flutter to the Play.  
So known, so courted, in an hour, or less,  
You'll see a hundred of 'em make address;  
Bow, cringe and leer as supple Poets do,  
When Patron's Guineas first appear in view:  
While they, promiscuously, their smiles let fall,  
And give the same encouragement to all.  
Harlots, of all things, should be most abhorred,  
And in the Playhouse nothing's more adored:  
In that lewd Mart the rankest trash goes off,  
Though they're so rotten that 'tis death to cough;  
Though on their Lungs Ulcers as thick take place,  
As fiery Pimples on a Drunkard's Face.   

Discharged of these, let's look another way,  
And mind those Fops that seldom mind the Play.  
A harmless jest, an accidental blow,  
Touching their Cuffs, or treading on their Toe,  
With many other things, too small to name,  
Does blow the Sparks of Honour to a flame;  
For such vile trifles, or 〈…〉 Drab,  
They roar, they swear 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, lug out and stab,  
No mild persuasion 〈◊〉 these bruits reclaim;  
'Tis thus to night, to morrow 'tis the same.  
Murder's so rife, with like concern we hear  
Of a Man killed as baiting of a Bear.  
All people now (the Age is grown so ill)  
Before they go to a Play should make their Will;  
For with much more security, a Man  
Might make a three years' Voyage to japan.  
Here others, who, no doubt, believe they're witty,  
Are hot at Repartee with Orange-Betty;  
Who, though not blest with half a grain of sense,  
To leven her whole lump of Impudence,  
Aided by that, she always is too hard  
For the vain things, and beats 'em from their guard:  
When fearing that the standers by may carp,  
They laughing, cry, egad the Jade was sharp;  
Who would ha' thought we should have come off thus?  
Or that she should out-pun, out-banter us?  
Yet these vain Ophs would think it an offence,  
More than all human Wit could recompense,  
If, in the least, we doubt their having sense.  
Were self-conceited Coxcombs what they thought,  
They would be Gods, and be with Incense sought;  
But 'tis a truth, fixed in the standard Rules,  
Your wou'd-be-wits are but the Van of Fools.  
Were such e'er balanced to the Worth they bore,  
A Game-Cock's Feather would outweigh a score.  
But I am tedious, and that fault I'd shun;  
With these wise Fools 'tis time then to have done.   

Next we attack those tuneful Owls of night,  
That in vain Masquerade place all delight.  
Here, wisp'ring, into close consults they run,  
To know where best to meet when Farce is done:  
Th' agree; and out one of 'em steals before  
To bespeak Music, Supper, Wine and Whore.  
There they all soak till Midnight; when they're drunk,  
They sally forth, each Puppy with his Punk,  
Top-ful of mischief, through the Town they run,  
And no ill thing they can do, leave undone.  
If Tradesman and his Consort walk the street,  
And with these Bullies and their Harlots meet,  
He must give place, or else be sure to feel,  
Deep in his Lungs, some Villain's fatal steel:  
Villain, I say, that for a cause so small  
As not t' uncap, or taking of the Wall;—  
But ah! much oftener for no cause at all,  
Can those poor Innocents' of Life disarm,  
That neither thought, designed, or wished 'em harm.  
Like any Hero these will foam and fight,  
When they're urged on by Strumpet, or by spite;  
But if the King, or Country claim their aid,  
The Rascal Cowards hide and are afraid:  
Not one will move, not one his Prowess show;  
They stand stock still when Honour bids 'em go.   

But back, my Muse, let's to the Playhouse steer,  
We have not yet half done our business there.  
A thousand crimes already w'ave exposed,  
A thousand more remain, not yet disclosed:  
On boldly then, nor fear to miss your aim;  
Don't want for rage, and we can't want for Theme.   

Here a Cabal of Critics you may see,  
Discoursing of Dramatic Poesy;  
While one, the wittiest too of all the Gang,  
(By whom you'll guests how fit they're all to hang)  
Shall entertain you with this learned Harangue.   

They talk of ancient Plays, that they are such,  
So good, they cannot be admired too much:—  
I think not so.— But in our present days,  
I grant w' have many worthy of that praise:  
The Cheats of Scapin, one, a noble thing;  
What a thronged Audience does it always bring?  
The Emperor of the Moon, 'twill never tyre;  
The same Fate has the famed Alsatian Squire.  
Even Ievon's learned piece han't more pretence  
Than these to Fancy, Language, and good Sense.  
And here, my Friends, I'd have it understood  
W' have a nice Age, what pleases must be good:  
Again, for Instance, that clean piece of wit,  
The City Heiress, by chaste Sapph writ,  
Where the lewd Widow comes, with brazen face,  
Just reeking from a Stallion's rank embrace,  
T' acquaint the Audience with her slimy case.  
Where can you find a Scene deserves more praise,  
In Shakespeare, johnson, or in Fletcher's Plays?  
They were so modest they were always dull;  
For what is Desdemona but a Fool?  
Our Plays shall tell you, if the Husband's ill,  
Wives must resolve to make him be so still;  
If jealous, they must date revenge from thence,  
And make 'em Cuckolds in their own defence.  
A hundred others I could quickly name,  
Where the Success and the design's the same;  
For the main hinge they turn on is t' entice,  
Enervate goodness, and encourage Vice;  
And that the Suffrage of both Sexes wins:—  
But see the Curtains rise, the Play begins.   

Thus the vain Sot holds forth; the other Sparks  
Hug and applaud him for his wise remarks;  
Swear that such things must make the Audience smile:—  
By Heaven 'tis a fine Audience the while!  
How much has Farce of late took on the Stage?  
But Farce suits best with the fantastic Age:  
If Farce made Poets which 'twill never do,  
Even Hains and Honorio— d might be Poet's too.  
In short, our Plays are now so loosely writ,  
They've neither Manners, Modesty, or Wit.  
How can those things to our Instruction lead  
Which are unchaste to see, a Crime to read?  
The Youth of either Sex this Path should shun,  
Or they may be, insensibly, undone:  
'Tis hard for th' unexperienced to escape  
Destruction, dressed in such a pleasing shape:  
It gilds their Ruin with a specious bait,  
And shows 'em not their Crime till 'tis too late;  
Too late to turn their vain Career, and find  
Their Ancient Innocence and Peace of mind,  
Compared to which all Worldly joys are Wind.   

Yet I'd not have you think I'm so severe  
To damn all Plays; that would absurd appear:  
I love what's excellent, hate what is ill,  
Let it be composed by whom it will.  
Though a Lord write, if bad, I cannot praise;  
Nor flatter Dr— dn, though he wear the Bays.  
Or court fair Sapph in her wanton fit,  
When she'd put luscious Bawdry off for Wit.  
Or pity B—ks in tatters, when I know  
'Twas his bad Poetry that clothed him so.  
Or commend Durf Durf —y to indulge his Curse;  
Fond to write on, yet scribble worse and worse.  
Nor Cr— n for blaming Coxcombs, when I see  
Sir Courtly's not a nicer Fop than he.  
Or think that Ramires— ft for wise can pass,  
When Mother Dobson says he is an Ass;  
That damned, ridiculous, insipid Farce!  
Or write a Panegyric to the Fame  
Of Sh—dl, or of starving Set— 's name,  
Who have abused, unpardonable things,  
The best of Governments and best of Kings—  
But thee, my Otway, from the Grave I'll raise,  
And crown thy memory with lasting praise:  
Thy Orphan, nay thy Venice too shall stand,  
And live long as the Sea defends our Land.  
The Pontic King and Alexander, Lee  
Shall, spite of madness, do the same for thee.  
But truth I love, and am obliged to tell  
Your other Tragic Plays are not so well,  
Not with that Judgement, that exactness writ,  
With less of Nature, Passion, Fancy, Wit:  
Yet this, even in their praise, can't be denied,  
They are, of most worth all our Plays beside:  
Excepting the Plain Dealer (nicely writ,  
And full of satire, judgement, Truth and Wit:  
In all the Characters so just and true,  
It will be ever loved, and ever new!—)  
And we must do the Laureate Justice too:  
For OEdipus (of which, Lee, half is thine,  
And there thy Genius does with Lustre shine)  
Does raise our Fear and Pity too as high  
As, almost, can be done in Tragedy.  
His all for love, and most correct of all,  
Of just and vast applause can never fail,  
Never; but when his Limberham I name,  
I hide my Head and almost blush with shame,  
To think the Author of both these the same:  
So bawdy it not only shamed the Age,  
But worse, was even too nauseous for the Stage.  
If Witty 'tis to be obscene and lewd,  
We grant for Wit in some esteem it stood;  
But what is in it for Instruction good?  
And that's one end for which our Bards should write,  
When they do that, 'tis then they hit the white;  
For Plays should as well profit, as delight.  
His Fancy has a wondrous Ebb and Flow,  
Oft above Reason, and as oft below.  
His Plays in Rhyme (which Fools and Women prise)  
May be called Supernatural Tragedies:  
His Hero still outdoes all Homer's Gods,  
For 'tis a turn of State when e'er he nods.  
Thus, though they prate of Time and Place, and Skill,  
For five good Plays you'll find five hundred ill.  
Fly then the reading this vain Jingling stuff,  
Such fulsome Authors we can't loathe enuff.   

But, if in what's sublime you take delight,  
Lay Shakespeare, Ben and Fletcher in your sight:  
Where Human Actions are with Life expressed,  
Virtue extolled, and Vice as much depressed.  
There the kind Lovers modestly complain,  
So passionate, you see their inmost pain,  
Pity and wish their Love not placed in vain.  
There Wit and Art, and Nature you may see  
In all their stateliest Dress and Bravery:  
None e'er yet wrote, or e'er will write again  
So lofty things, in such a Heavenly strain!   

When e'er I Hamlet, or Othello read,  
My Hair starts up, and my Nerves shrink with dread:  
Pity and fear raise my concern still higher,  
Till, betwixt both, I'm ready to expire!  
When cursed jago, cruelly, I see  
Work up the noble Moor to Jealousy,  
How cunningly the Villain weaves his sin,  
And how the other takes the Poison in;  
Or when I hear his Godlike Romans rage,  
And by what just degrees he does assuage  
Their fiery temper, recollect their Thoughts,  
Make 'em both weep, make 'em both own their fau't;  
When these and other suchlike Scenes I scan,  
'Tis then, great Soul, I think thee more than Man!  
Homer was blind, yet could all Nature see;  
Thou were't unlearned, yet knew as much as He!  
In Timon, Lear, The Tempest, we may find  
Vast Images of thy unbounded mind;  
These have been altered by our Poets now,  
And with success too, that we must allow;  
Third days they get when part of thee is shown,  
Which they but seldom do when all's their own.   

Nor shall Philaster, the Maid's Tragedy,  
Thy King and no King, Fletcher, ever die,  
But stand in the first rank that claim Eternity:  
Yet they are damned by a pert, modern Wit;  
But he should not have censured, or not writ:  
To blame good Plays, and make his own much worse,  
Though I shall spare him, does deserve a Curse:  
'Tis true, he can speak Greek, but what of that?  
It makes men no more wise than Riches fat.  
This Maxim than ought ne'er to be forgot,  
An arrant Scholar is an arrant Sot.   

Thee, mighty Ben! we ever shall affect,  
Thee ever mention with profound Respect;  
Thou most Judicious Poet! most correct!  
I know not on what single Play to fall;  
Thou didst arrive t' an Excellence in all.  
Yet we must give thee but thy just desert;  
Thou'dst less of nature, though much more of Art:  
The Springs that move our Souls thou didst not touch:  
But then thy judgement, care and pains were such,  
We ne'er yet, nor e'er shall an Author see,  
That wrote so many perfect Plays as thee:  
Not one vain humour thy strict view escapes,  
All Follies thou hadst dressed in all their proper shapes.  
Hail, sacred Bards! Hail, you Immortal three!  
Y'ave won the Goal of vast Eternity,  
And built yourselves a Fame, where you will live  
While we have Wits to read, and they have praise to give.  
'Tis somewhere said, our Courtiers speak more wit  
In Conversation than these Poets writ:  
Unjust detraction, like its Author, base,  
And it shall here stand branded with disgrace.  
Not but they had their failings too, but then  
They were such fau't as only spoke 'em men,  
Errors which Human Frailty must allow;  
But ah! who can forgive our Errors now?   

If Plays you love, let these your Thoughts employ,  
It is a Banquet that will never cloy;  
chaste, Moral Writers, such as wisely tell  
The happy, useful Art of living well:  
How you may choose a Mistress, or a Friend,  
On which the comfort of our lives depend:  
How you may Flatterers, Knaves and Bawds avoid,  
By which so vast a portion of Mankind's destroyed.  
Unlike the Authors that have lately writ;  
Who in their Plays such Characters admit,  
So vile, so wicked, they should punished be  
Almost as much as Oats for Perjury:  
Between 'em both they have half-spoiled the Age,  
He has disgraced the Pulpit, they the Stage.   

Think ye vain scribbling Tribe of Shirley's fate,  
You that write Plays, and you, too, that translate;  
Think how he lies in Duck-lane Shops forlorn,  
And ne'er so much as mentioned but with scorn;  
Think That the end of all your boasted skill,  
As I presume to prophesy it will,  
Justly, for many of you write as ill.  
Change, change your Bias, and write satire all,  
Convert the little Wit you have to Gall:  
Care not to what a Bulk your Writings swell,  
What matter is't how little, so 'tis well?  
Then turn your chiefest strength against the Stage,  
Which you have made the Nuisance of the Age;  
Strive that judicious way to get applause,  
And remedy some of the ills you cause:  
Lash the lewd Actors— but first stop your nose,  
It is a stinking Theme, may discompose  
All but yourselves— almost as bad as those.  
Let this thought screw you to the highest pitch;  
They keep you poor, and you have made them rich;  
Toiled night and day t' increase their ill got store,  
And who do they despise and laugh at more?  
But make you dance attendance, Cap in hand,  
That once, like Spaniels, were at your Command;  
Would cringe and fawn, and who so kind as they,  
If you but promised they should have their Play▪  
But since Hart died, and the two Houses joined,  
What get ye? what encouragement d'ye find?  
Yet still you write and sacrifice your ease;  
Your Plays too shall be acted, if they please.  
Let nothing then your sense of wrong assuage,  
The Muse's Foes should feel the Muse's rage:  
But still confine yourself to truth, for that  
Is the main mark satire should levelly at,  
Go not beyond; no base thing must be done,  
Let justice and not malice lead you on:  
To please, for once, I'll give you an Essay,  
And in so good a cause am proud to lead the way.   

Prepare we then to go behind the Scenes,  
And take a turn among the copper Kings and Queens.  
Here 'tis our Callow Lords are fond of such,  
Which their own Footmen often scorn to touch.  
Are these fit to be loved, to be embraced?  
Goats are more sweet, and Monkeys are more chaste.  
Yet, by denial, they'll inflame desire,  
Till the hot Youth burns in his amorous fire,  
Then wantonly into their Shifts retire;  
Spurred on by lust, the Dunce pursues the Dame,  
Where, nightly, they repeat the fulsome Game.  
But talking of their shifts I mourn, my Friend,  
I mourn thy sad, unjust, disastrous end;  
Here 'twas thou didst resign thy worthy Breath,  
And fell the Victim of a sudden Death:  
The shame, the guilt, the horror and disgrace,  
Light on the Punk, the Murderer and the Place.—  
How well do those deserve the general hiss,  
That will converse with such a thing as this?  
A ten times cast off Drab, in Venus' Wars  
Who counts her Sins, may as well count the Stars:  
So insolent! it is by all allowed  
There never was so base a thing, so proud:  
Yet Covetous, she'll prostitute with any,  
Rather than wave the getting of a penny;  
For the whole Harvest of her youthful Crimes  
She hoards, to keep herself in future times,  
That by her gains now she may then be fed,  
Which, in effects to damn herself for bread.  
Yet in her Morals this is thought the best;  
Imagine then the lewdness of the rest.   

An Actress now so fine a thing is thought,  
A Place at Court less eagerly is sought:  
When once in that Society enroled,  
Straight by some Reverend Bawd you'll hear 'em told:  
Now is the time you may your Fortune raise,  
And spark it, like a Lady, all your days:  
But the true meaning's this. Now is the time,  
Now in your heat of youth, and Beauty's prime,  
With open Blandishment and secret Art,  
To glide into some keeping Cully's heart,  
Who neither sense nor Manhood understands,  
And jilt him of his Patrimonial Lands;  
Others this way have grown both great and rich:  
Preferment you can't miss and be a Bitch.—  
This is the train that soothes her swift to Vice,  
So she be fine, she cares not at what price;  
Though her lewd Body rot, and her good name  
Be all one blot of Infamy and shame;  
For with good rigging, though they have no skill,  
They'll find out Keepers, be they ne'er so ill.  
How great a Brute is Man! a Nymph that's true,  
Lovely and Wealthy, nay and Virtuous too,  
(Of which, alas! we know there are but few)  
Even such they can despise, throw from their Arms,  
And think a thrice fluxed Player has more Charms.  
A greater Curse for these I cannot find,  
Than wishing they continue in that mind.   

Now for the Men, and those, too, we shall find  
As vile, as vain, as vicious in their kind.  
Here one who once was, as an Author notes,  
A Hawker, sold old Books, Gazettes and Votes,  
Is grown prime Vizier now, a Man of parts,  
The very loadstone that attracts all Hearts,  
In's own conceit that is, for ne'er was Elf  
So very much Enamoured of himself:  
But 'tis no matter, let him be so still,  
It gives us the more scope to think him ill.  
No Parts, no Learning, Sense, or Breeding, yet  
He sets up for th' only Judge of Wit.  
If all could judge of Wit that think they can,  
The arrantest Ass would be the Wittiest Man.  
In what e'er Company he does engage,  
He is as formal as upon the Stage,  
Dotard! and thinks his stiff comportment there  
A Rule for his Behaviour every where.  
To this we'll add his Lucre, Lust and Pride,  
And Knav'ry, which, in vain, he strives to hide,  
For through the thin disguise the Cankered heart is spied.  
Let then his acting ne'er so much be prized,  
'Tis sure his converse is much more despised.   

Another you may see, a Comic Spark,  
Aims to be 
* A Famous Comedian.  Lacie, but ne'er hits the mark.  
Yet that he can make sport must be confessed,  
But, Echo-like, he but repeats the Jest.  
To be well laughed at is his whole delight,  
And, i'faith, in that we do the Coxcomb right:  
Though the Comedian makes the Audience roar,  
When off the Stage the Booby tickles more.  
When such are born, sure some soft Planet rules;  
He is too dull even to converse with Fools.   

A third, a punning, drolling, Bant'ring Ass,  
Cocks up and fain would for an Author pass.  
His Face for Farce nature at first designed,  
And matched it too with as Burlesque a mind,  
Made him pert, vain, a Maggot, vile, ill-bred,  
And gave him heels of Cork, and brains of lead.   

To speak 'em all were tedious to discuss,  
But if you'll take 'em by the Lump, they're thus:  
A pack of idle, pimping, spunging Slaves,  
A Miscellany of Rogues, Fools and Knaves;  
A Nest of Lechers, worse than Sodom bore,  
And justly merit to be punished more:  
Diseased, in Debt, and every moment duned;  
By all good Christians loathed, and their own Kindred shunned.  
To say more of 'em would be loss of time;  
For it, with Justice, may be thought a Crime  
To let such Rubbish have a place in Rhyme.   

Now hear a wonder that will well declare  
How extravagantly lewd some Women are:  
For even these men, base as they are and vain,  
Our Punks of highest Quality maintain;  
Supply their daily wants (which are not slight)  
But 'tis, that they may be supplied at night.  
These in their Coaches they take up and down,  
Publish their foul disgrace o'er all the Town,  
And seem to take delight it should be known;  
And known it shall be, in my pointed Rhimes  
Stand Infamous to all succeeding Times.   

It would be endless to trace all the Vice  
That from the Playhouse takes immediate rise  
It is the unexhausted Magazine  
That stocks the Land with Vanity and Sin:  
As the New River does, from Islington,  
Through several Pipes supply even half the Town▪  
So the Luxurious lewdness of the Stage,  
Drained off, feeds half the Brothels of the Age.  
Unless these ills, then, we could regulate,  
It ought not to be suffered in the State.   

More might be said; but by what's said, we see  
'Tis the sum total of all Infamy,  
And thence conclude, by flourishing so long  
It has undone Numbers, both Old and Young;  
That many hundred Souls are now unblessed,  
Which else had died in Peace, and found eternal rest.   
The End of the satire against the Playhouse▪   

A satire UPON MAN.  
Writ in the Year 1688.   

TO THE Right Honourable CHARLES, EARL of Dorset and Middlesex, etc.  
My Lord,  
THE best Excuse the Author of a Dedication can make his Patron, is, in my judgement, to assure him he shall not be troubled with his future Impertinence. I have oft presumed upon your Lordship's Goodness, and can no otherwise make amends than by protesting this is the last time I shall offend you in this Nature. Poetry has hitherto been my Diversion; I must take care it does not encroach upon my better Judgement, and oblige me to make it my business: in order to it, I here take a solemn and lasting leave of it: Your Lordship has set the Example. In your Youth Poesy, sometimes, snatched a moment or two from your other Diversions, and never, indeed, did so small time produce so lovely an Issue; Whatever you writ was full of that Fancy, Wit and Judgement, which made, and does yet make your Conversation, of all things, most desirable and charming: but now grown to an age mature, more solid and sublime things are become the Favourites of your choice and study. Poetry should never be entertained in a Man's Bosom, she may sometimes be admitted to make a Visit and away; her constant converse is vain and trivial: What Cowley says upon another occasion, I could, methinks naturally adapt to my present thoughts of Poetry; 
My Eyes are opened and I see  
Through the transparent Fallacy.   
Indeed, my Lord, to be always versifying, is to be always wasting the most precious Gift of Heaven, our Time, without so much as the pretence of Gain for an Excuse: But say that a Man were worthy of praise, and that his Writings really deserved it; yet that Chameleon diet is a little too thin for a Poet's constitution; though I must confess, if 'twere possible to live upon Air, our Modern Rhimers would find out the secret. But since 'tis not, 'tis time, my Lord, to take my leave of an unkind Mistress, and not with them dote on till I am in danger of starving.  
I am, My Lord, Your Lordship's most humble And much obliged Servant, R. Gould.   

Advertisement.  
I Have endeavoured in this Poem to write as bold Truths as I could, and, I hope, without offence to good Manners; Though some may imagine I have swerved from it in the Characters at the latter end of the satire: But I would have the Critic know, that if there are really such Persons as be there described, they ought to have the Reprehension there given: for where Folly and Knavery are so visible, I will be so much a Leveller as to believe there aught to be no Respect of Persons. Twoved be very unhappy for Rich Men, and a privilege, I think, they ought not to boast of, if their Birth, or Wealth, should exempt 'em from being told of their Errors. However no Man's Reputation is injured; for, as I have said in the satire, (which to judicious Men will justify the honesty of my Intention.) 
Tho' I shall lash their fau't, I'll spare to name,  
I but expose their Follies, not their Fame.    

A satire UPON MAN.  

I Who against the fair Sex drew my Pen,  
With equal fury now attack the Men;  
Whom, if I spare, on me the Curse befall,  
Of being thought the vilest of 'em all.   

Ye injured Spirits of that Virgin-train,  
Who by unfaithful Lovers once were slain,  
Cropped from your Stalks, like Flowers, in all your prime,  
To languish, fade and die before your time:  
In vain the Nymph was faithful to her Mate,  
Your truth could not protect you from your Fate;  
Your truth, too cold to melt th' obdurate mind  
Of Man, whose Nature is to be unkind:  
If you, chaste shades, e'er condescend to know,  
Enthroned above, what Mortals do below;  
If still you can your Earthly wrongs resent,  
And with the perjured Wretches lasting punishment,  
Assist my Muse in her Satiric flight;  
Lend her but rage, and she shall do you right.   

Man is my Theme— but where shall I begin,  
Where enter the vast Circle of his Sin?  
Or how get out of it, when once I'm in?  
Man! who was made to govern all things, yet  
No other Brute is governed with so little wit:  
So oddly tempered and so apt to stray,  
There's not a Dog but's wiser in his way:  
Thinks he sees all things, but so dim his Eye,  
He's furthest off, when he believes he's nigh.  
Pretends to Heaven your Footsteps to convey,  
Then raises Mists, and makes you lose your way.   

Slave to his Passions, every several lust  
Whisks him about, as Whirlwinds do the dust:  
And dust he is indeed, a senseless Clod,  
That swells and struts, and would be thought a God.  
So selfish, insolent and vain, whenever  
In his gilt Coach the Pageant does appear,  
He must be thought just, generous, wise and brave,  
Though a known Coxcomb, and a fearful Slave.  
This shows us Fortune, in her giddy mood,  
Rains bounty every where, but where she should,  
To merit false, and all that's good and brave,  
But ever faithful to the Fool and Knave.  
Good Heaven! that such should have so little sense,  
Yet, at the same time, so much Impudence,  
To think they bear more value than the rest,  
Because they swear more, and go better dressed;  
Yet so it is, the gaudy Coxcomb's prized,  
And the brave, threadbare, honest Soul despised.  
How vain is Man, and how perverse his will?  
That may be good, and by his choice is ill.   

Where e'er Self-Interest calls, he's sure to go,  
But never matters where 'tis just, or no:  
Justice he laughs at, thinks there's no such tye,  
So lives, so, like a Beast, designs to die.  
As greater Fish upon the lesser prey,  
As Wolves on Sheep, that from the Shepherd stray,  
So Man on Man pour out their rage and spite,  
Make violence and rapine their delight,  
Till with revenge they've gorged their Appetite.  
Not bounded by Divine, or Humane Law,  
Too proud to humble, and too strong to awe.  
They break the Bars nature herself has laid,  
And every sacred Privilege invade.  
New Worlds of Vice he daily does explore;  
His Sea of Villany's without a shore.  
Even while he sleeps his dreams are full of blood,  
And, waking, he resolves to make 'em good:  
Or say against their Treachery you provide,  
It is but having Power on their side,  
And that does still to the same Centre draw,  
Corrupt the Judge, and murder you by Law:  
Witness the Crew that, late, exulting stood,  
And washed their impious hands in Royal Blood:  
If from their Subject's rage Kings are not free,  
What must the Wretch expect of mean degree?  
Not in an Age he sees a happy hour,  
Virtue and Poverty are Slaves to Power;  
And oft, to satisfy the Tyrant's Lust,  
(Hard fate! that 'tis so dangerous to be just!)  
Are forced to bend and crawl, and lick the dust.  
How vain is Man, and how perverse his will,  
That may be good, and chooses to be ill?   

Deceitful, slothful, covetous and base,  
A Devil's Intellect, an Angel's Face:  
When e'er he smiles, 'tis then you should beware,  
To your assistance summon all your care,  
Some specious Villainy lies lurking there:  
Which oft is dressed in such a bright disguise,  
The dazzling Lustre does deceive the wise,  
And wise men, too, are Villains oft themselves;  
What Pilot so expert to escape these Rocks and Shelves?  
Even Friendship, which of old gained lasting Fame,  
Is, in these latter times, nought but a name:  
Who calls you Friend avoid, unless you know  
Substantial Reason why he should be so:  
In that disguise all Villainies are done,  
In that disguise they're hardest, too, to shun.  
Husbands, who is it makes your Consorts Whores?  
Your Friend, none else can come within your doors.  
Who is it proves to Oath and Bond unjust?  
Your Friend, your Enemies you never trust;  
Or if you do, ye are very far from wise,  
And Knave and Fool we equally despise.  
Who is it does your secret Soul betray,  
And bring your darkest thoughts to open day,  
Who is it, but your Friend? in whose false breast  
You fond thought they would for ever rest.  
The Heart of Man is to itself untrue,  
And why should you expect it just to you?  
Friendships, at best, are but like Brush-wood fire,  
Shine bright a while, and in a blaze expire.  
How vain is Man, and how perverse his will?  
He may be good, and by his choice is ill!   

Who protests most let him be least believed,  
For 'tis by such w' are sure to be deceived.  
Even I myself once thought I had a Friend,  
For boundless was the love he did pretend:  
Riches he did not want, he rolled in Coin,  
Which he oft swore was no more his than mine:  
He would do nothing without my advice,  
Friendship's best sign, for no true Friend is Nice.  
I too adored him with so bright a Flame,  
Angel to Angel could but do the same.  
At his approach all lesser Joys took flight,  
Even Women I contemned; he was the light  
That ruled the day, they did but rule the night.  
And that too oft— upon his gentle Breast  
My Cares, and every anxious thought took rest.  
It happened once that I was low of store;  
(It is no wonder Poets should be poor)  
In this afflicted State, 'twas no small Bliss  
I was assured of such a Friend as this:  
On him, said I, on him I may depend,  
I cannot need so much, as he will lend;  
He will be proud his Constancy is tried:—  
I asked him, and, by Heaven, I was denied!  
And ne'er since then will he so much as greet,  
Nay not take notice of me when we meet;  
But, when he sees me, turns away his Eye,  
Or with proud scorn does walk regardless by.  
Traitor to Friendship! may thy spotted Name  
Stand branded here with everlasting shame.  
But 'tis no wonder, search and you will find  
The same Ingratitude through all Mankind:  
Not Madmen, when they're in their raving fit,  
Nor the pert Fop, that would be thought a wit,  
Reciting Poet, or Illiterate Cit;  
Not fluttering Officers, at Midnight drunk,  
That scour the street in the pursuit of Punk,  
Nor ought, be it as horrid as it can,  
Is more avoided than the Borrowing Man!  
How vain is Man, and how perverse his will,  
That may be good, and chooses to be ill?   

Reader, I write not this to make thee lend,  
Unless y'are sure 'tis to a real Friend,  
If you doubt that, hear not what he entreats;  
For one that's honest there's ten thousand cheats:  
Why then should any be so vain to trust,  
When 'tis such odds, the Debtor proves unjust?  
A Friend's a Friend, and so he should be used,  
But think two Men your Friends, you'll be abused.  
The Vows of Men are of the britlest kind,  
Lighter than Child's Bubbles drove by wind,  
Vary all Colours, blown so thin and weak,  
As if, like them, just made for sport to break.  
How prone to promise, and how false of heart  
Women best know, for they have felt the smart:  
What Female ever had the happiness  
To find her Lover all he did profess?  
Much for Inconstancy that Sex is famed;  
But now in their own Mother Art they're shamed;  
The Swains, the Tyrant, and the Nymph is blamed:  
Most to be feared when he does sigh and whine;  
Much he does talk, but little does design,  
And thinks them Devils whom he calls divine:  
Knows he's unfaithful, yet will swear h's true,  
Nay, which is worse, call Heaven to vouch it too;  
But 'tis all Lust, spoke when his blood is warm,  
And the next Face he sees does end the charm.  
How vain is Man, and how perverse his will?  
He may be good, and chooses to be ill.   

No Vice so distant, but within his view,  
Nor Crime so horrid, which he dares not do.  
Treason's a Trifle, 'tis a frequent thing  
To hear the saucy Subject brave his King;  
Give him worse Terms than Tinkers in their Ale  
Throw on a Trull, too liberal of her Tayl.  
Adultery a venial slip, no more;  
Now grown a Trade, what e'er 'twas heretofore;  
For some there are (O whither's Virtue fled!  
O strange perversion of the Nuptial Bed!)  
That by Venereal Drudgery get their daily Bread.  
Murder and Pox so common, none can be  
Admitted Gentleman o'th' first degree,  
Till he has thrice been clapped, and murdered three.  
Incest but laughed at, made a Buffoon jest;  
A Sister now, as G— has oft confessed,  
Is even as good a Morsel as the best.  
Even Sacrilege and Rifling of the dead  
(By impious hands torn from their sheets of lead)  
Meets Praise; nay some, though hard to be believed,  
Have stolen the Plate in which they'd just before received.  
In short, so much Man's violence prevails,  
Our Churches must be made as strong as jayls.  
But you'll object that such as these, we find,  
Are Scoundrels, and the fag-end of Mankind,  
Beneath our satire— search the Highways then,  
There you'll be-sure to meet with Gentlemen:  
But being well born makes ill men the worse,  
Decayed, their next relief's to take a Purse.  
Villains that strip the needy Peasant bare,  
Deprived of that he got with toil and care;  
Ravish poor helpless Women, barbarous Act!  
Then stab 'em, lest they should reveal the Fact.  
But what they lightly get they spend as fast,  
Their Lives in dissolute Embraces waste,  
Till they are caught, adjudged, their Crimes confessed,  
And then unpitied die— and so die all the rest.  
How vain is Man, and how perverse his will,  
That may be good, and chooses to be ill?   

Thrice happy those that lived in Times of old,  
What they call Brass was, sure, an Age of Gold,  
When Man by active Games was hardy made;  
Even War was then an honourable Trade:  
By that they strove t' immortalize their Name,  
Nor did they miss of their intended Fame:  
Through Hills they hewed and dived through Seas of blood,  
Were prodigal of life for their dear Countries good.  
Factions than strove not to subvert the State,  
As they do now, and as they've done of late:  
They were not plagued with jealousies and Fears,  
A Priest could not set Nations by the Ears:  
Religious Wars and Brawls they did contemn,  
We fight for that, yet have much less than them.  
Thus Honour, Truth and justice was their aim;  
Their Sons saw this and learned the way to Fame.  
How unlike them are we? that train our Youth  
To trade, that is the impertinence and sloth;  
In no one thing ingenious and complete,  
But rubbing of a Counter, and to cheat.  
Send 'em, fond Parents, out against the Turk,  
Though idle here, they will not there want work,  
It is a glorious Cause, and let 'em roam;  
Better to die abroad, than cheat to live at home.  
How vain is Man, and how perverse his will,  
That may be good, and chooses to be ill?   

But Trade, you'll say, ought not to be despised,  
That has, and is even now by Princes prized,  
Keeps Millions in employ, who else would know  
What strength they had, and into Factions grow,  
Disturb the Public Peace; Nothing so rude  
As an untamed, ungoverned Multitude:  
Nay more, by trade Cities grow rich, and rise  
In a short time to Emulate the Skies—  
They do, indeed, and we may know as well,  
'Tis riches makes 'em murmur and rebel:  
Those Crowds whom you pretend their Trade deters  
From launching into civil strife and jars,  
Made that a cause of our Intestine harms,  
For 'tis their chief pretence to take up Arms;  
If they grow poor, straight, with a joint consent,  
They lay the fault upon the Government,  
When 'tis false dealing among one another;  
One half of Mankind lives by starving t' other.  
In Gross, or in Retail, for both ways meet,  
And make this Truth their Centre, Trade's a cheat.  
What difference is there, pray, between the Man  
That cuts my throat, and who does what he can,  
By specious guile, to grasp away my store,  
And, to grow rich himself, would make his Father poor?  
Doubtless, though the other seems the more accursed,  
The secret, trading-Villain is the worst.  
So of Religion, the bold Atheist, who  
Says there's no God, though impious and untrue,  
Is better than the Hypocrite, whose Zeal  
Is but a Cloak the Villain to conceal.  
How vain is Man, and how perverse his will?  
He may be good, and chooses to be ill.   

But here I must, with Indignation, show  
What Crime from seeming sanctity does flow,  
Would you a Rascal be of the first Rate,  
And make a noted Figure in the State,  
Pretend Religion, 'tis a sure disguise,  
Makes Fools adore you, and even blinds the wise.  
Do you for high preferment lie in wait,  
As being Trustee of some large Estate;  
Labour to seem but Pious and Devout,  
And from a thousand they shall pick you out,  
Leave to your Management the whole affair,  
Which is, in short, the Ruin of the Heir.  
Are ye a Scholar? nay, or are you not?  
Put on a Gown, and to old Beldame's trot,  
Or gouty Burgesses that have the rot;  
Who by their Crazyness know Death draws near,  
And then grow holy only out of fear:  
For had they health, they'd still be what they were.  
Go but to these, set up a holy Cant,  
Be impudent withal (a Gift we grant  
Which your Religious Strowlers seldom want.)  
Their hearts shall yern, and straight augment your store,  
While their poor Neighbours perish at the door.  
In short, there's nothing, be it ne'er so ill,  
To Ravish, Cheat, Forswear, to Bugger, Kill,  
But, if 'tis veiled with a Religious dress,  
Is meritorious, Virtue, Godliness.  
But that the will of Heaven we plainly find,  
Fixed and imprinted deeply on the Mind,  
And Reason tells us, Heaven will have regard  
To scourge bad men, and give the good reward;  
So many errors has Religion shown,  
And its Professors so irreverent grown,  
I should e'en think him happiest that had none.  
How vain is Man, and how perverse his will?  
He may be good, and by his choice is ill.   

Yet Heaven forbid we should include 'em all,  
Because most of 'em slip, and many fall;  
The tainted Members 'tis we here condemn,  
Our pointed Satyr's only aimed at them.  
Howbeit we shall not too nicely pry  
Into their Feasting, Drinking, Lechery;  
Nor tell how lazily they lead their Lives,  
And how they train their Daughters and their Wives;  
How they, by their Example, vicious grow,  
For 'tis by them they're taught the ills they know:  
These, and what other faults they have beside,  
Their Foppery, Peevishness, Self-love and Pride,  
I shall pass over in Silence, and will be  
More Charitable than they would to me:  
A Gift much praised by them, as little sought;  
But who did ever practise what he taught?  
The Zealot and th' Enthusiastic Fry  
Should feel the lash of our severity,  
But they are such a Frantic sort of Elves,  
I spare them too: beside, they flog themselves.  
Begging their Pardon I have been so free  
To let the suffering World their failings see,  
I hasten on (though I much more could add)  
To mention other Grievances as bad.  
Justly the satire may indulge her rage,  
For never was a more licentious Age.   

The Men of business, of all sorts, come next,  
Who seem to take a Pride to be perplexed:  
Contentious, Restless, never out of strife,  
But make a Drudge, a Hackney Jade of Life.  
Much they design, but scarce know where, nor when,  
And tyre themselves in plaguing other men;  
So very active in their own disgrace,  
A Dog ought to be pitied in their Case.  
Here one, forsooth, sets up to regulate  
whatever is amiss in Church and State;  
With endless chat, and scarce a grain of sense,  
Mixed with a shuffling sort of Impudence,  
Asks himself Questions which he ne'er can solve,  
And what he strives to unperplex, does but the more involve.  
In Coffeehouses others wast their time,  
Yet Idleness they'll tell you is a crime.  
These Dolts have such a natural itch to prate  
Of Council, Parliaments and tricks of State,  
Regardless of their Families they roam,  
And while they gape for news abroad, can let 'em starve at home.  
Now for your Pander, whom, if you but scan,  
You'll find to be a very busy Man;  
We'll therefore put him in among the rest;  
And, though his Nature's damnable confessed,  
Of all the busy Men he is the best.  
Your Harpey Lawyer, too, that deepmouthed throng,  
Who live by what undoes most Men, the Tongue;  
Even they, for that vile Tribe I'll never spare,  
Like th' Innkeeper must come in for their share.  
Justly the satire does indulge her rage,  
For never was a more Licentious Age.   

One of these Creatures once was pleased to be  
So loving as to tell me, Poesy  
Was but an idle, empty, airy thing,  
That, for small profit, much contempt would bring:  
By Fools and Women, true, said he, 'tis prized,  
But by the men of Business still despised;  
The sober Party, who know what is best,  
And still are pushing on their Interest.  
Business does lead to wealth a thousand ways,  
Let that employ thy thought; and strive to raise  
A Stock of Money, not a Stock of Praise:  
What the World says it matters not a T— d  
You see we thrive with every Man's ill word.  
Will Praise pay House-rent, or maintain a Wife?  
That worse than Plague, and Hell of human Life.  
Will Praise secure a Poet from a jail?  
Will Praise protect him when his moneys fail?  
Leave then this jingling, scribbling itch of Rhyme,  
And in some gainful art employ thy Time.   

I thank you, Sir, cried I, though what y'ave said,  
Considered, is too bitterly inveighed  
Against an Art so excellent and rare,  
Which Heaven inspires, and Kings are pleased to hear!  
The Deity was once adored in Verse,  
Which best and loudest could his wondrous works rehearse;  
Prose is too weak that ponderous weight to raise,  
Too hoarse to sing a bounteous Maker's praise;  
Who, when all things were Chaos, with a word  
Order to wild Confusion did afford,  
And from their various seeds, in discord hurled,  
Raised Sun, Moon, Stars, and a new glorious World.  
Moses, David's, Deborah's Writings prove,  
Nothing below meets more regard above:  
True, 'tis now oft perverted and ill used,  
And its Perverters justly are accused,  
But where is the good thing that's not abused?  
Yet since for business and the love of Gain  
You'd have me leave the blessed Poetic strain,  
And court your own dear Idol, Interest,  
What method is it you commend for best?   

The Law, replies the Wretch, what thing is there,  
If rightly scanned, that can with Law compare?  
What thing so soon can give you Wings to soar?  
A power to curb the Rich, and spur the poor?  
Pamper your Carcases while thousands starve,  
Thousands that better than ourselves deserve,  
And Lord it over those you ought to serve:  
Nay these are but the light and trivial things,  
It makes you question even the Right of Kings,  
Mounts you upon the Public Steed with ease,  
And run th' unwieldy Beast which way you please.  
Law is a spacious and a fertile Field,  
Which if well cultivated 'tis and tilled,  
Prodigious is th' increase that it does yield.  
What thing so soon the ready Cash advances?  
And leaves to Aftertimes so fair Inheritances?  
No matter whether got by right, or wrong,  
You see their Issue does enjoy it long.  
How much of the Nobility have sprung  
From us, the bold Antagonists of the Tongue?  
Who e'er was made a Lord, what Annals show it?  
Because he, or his Father was a Poet?  
A little grinning Fame indeed you get,  
But had you ten times more you'd hardly eat;  
In Butler's wretched Fate we see what 'tis to live by Wit.  
Leave therefore writing Madrigals; and then,  
No doubt, you'll thrive as well as other men.   

Troth, Sir, said I, y'ave spoke enough to make  
Too many their good Principles forsake:  
How e'er, I hope, it will not influence me,  
Your Choice be Law, let mine be Poesy:  
Yet take my thanks for the advice y'ave gave;  
I am not yet disposed to be a Knave.   

Severe, to human thinking, is the Fate  
That upon true, unbyast Natures wait:  
Dare to be honest, and you'll surely be  
One of the Votaries of Poverty:  
But done't repine— there are some Joys in store  
For him that's very honest, very poor:  
'Tis true, he does not lie on Beds of Down,  
Nor with a Sett of Flanders course the Town;  
Keeps not Six Lackeys, that it may be shown,  
He does not dare to trust himself alone;  
Drinks not the choicest Wines, nor does he eat  
The most delicious, or most Costly meat;  
Keeps not French Cooks to chatter at the poor,  
Nor lets his strength be soaked up by a Spongy Whore:  
To this Man's share though none of this does fall,  
Yet he has that which does o'erballance all,  
A Sober, quiet Conscience, free from stain,  
Which the rich Epicure does wish in vain;  
In vain he'd think there is no future State,  
He feels his load of Sins, and sinks beneath the weight.  
While honest Men— but whither do I steer?  
Why talk of Honesty that is so rare?  
So seldom thought of, and in bulk so small,  
'Tis doubtful if there's such a thing at all.  
Search City, Camp and Court, find, if you can,  
That Prodigy, a Real Honest Man;  
Let me but see him, let me know his Name,  
And it shall be the whole discourse of Fame,  
Above the Clouds I'll raise it, set it high,  
And give it certain Immortality:  
In the mean time, till such a one is found,  
(And he that searches, first, must walk much ground,  
For aught we know the Universe around.)  
Justly the satire may indulge her rage,  
For never was a more Licentious Age.   

Go to the Country, if you think to see  
The old, famed, Primitive Simplicity;  
A Temperate sort of People, Grave and Wise,  
All Folly's hate, and all Excess despise,  
You'll be deceived; for you shall quickly think,  
Both poor and rich were all baptised in drink;  
Eternal Sots! when the Brown-Bowl's in use,  
YE add better meet a baited Bear broke lose:  
Then for Tobacco, every Alehouse there,  
Would Suffocate ten Coffeehouses here.  
Take'em from talking of Hawks, Horses, Dogs,  
And you'll find them but little more than Hogs;  
A stupid, obstinate, Illiterate Race,  
Their Maker's oversight and Man's disgrace:  
In Converse, of all things, most like a Bear,  
And have just such another charming Air.  
Nay even the better sort are much the same,  
Scarce Souls enough to actuate their Frame,  
And have of Christian nothing but the Name:  
Yet when their Ale dull Notions does create,  
Shall think 'tis only they can steer the Helm of State.  
Plaindealing is a thing they all profess,  
But of all sorts of Creatures none have less:  
Under the specious Veil of Innocence  
(That things so foul should have that fair pretence)  
They shall overreach the honest and the wife;  
For who'd suspect a Cheat in that Disguise?  
Against the Town for ever they inveigh,  
And yet are quite as vicious in their way.  
Justly the satire does indulge her rage,  
For never was a more Licentious Age.   

Let not the tawdry Town be here too proud,  
Or think her Follies and her Faults allowed,  
Because, as yet, the Muse has silent been;  
But she but waits her time to draw the Scene:  
The Scene she draws— and now you have a view  
Of every Villainy that Man can do,  
An abstract of all Vices, old and new;  
A Fund Immense, that won't exhausted be  
Till Time has shot the Gulf of round Eternity.  
No Crime's a Stranger here, here all abound,  
And none so bad but have Protection found.  
To tell 'em singly were a task as vain  
As in a shower to count the drops of rain;  
Yet thus far we premise as to the main,  
That should a serious Man waste some few days  
At Taverns, Brothels, Parks, Spring-Gardens, Plays,  
And take the pains, impartially, to mind  
The Vanities and Vices of Mankind;  
Their bragging, prattling, dancing, damning, drinking,  
Giants in talk, and less than Dwarves in thinking;  
Their Projects, lewd Discourses, and Amours,  
Their wanton City-Wives, and stinking Suburb Whores;  
Pimps, Poisoners, Padders, and half-witted Lords,  
Bribed judges, damned upon their own Records;  
In Courts of Justice, little Justice had,  
Knights of the Post, and other Knights as bad.  
Should he these Monsters see, and many more,  
(For we might easily augment the store)  
What could he think? what could he thence deduce,  
But Sodom was revived, or Hell broke loose?  
His Hair with Horror stiffened, he would say,  
We merited the Flames as much as they,  
And that the Devils went before but to prepare our way.  
Justly the satire does indulge her rage,  
For never was a more Licentious Age.   

But that which most surprises me, is when  
I nicely mind the difference of men;  
All wide from one another in their will,  
Alike in only this, that all are ill;  
All ill, but then each takes a several way,  
And chooses his by-path to go astray.  
'Twill here be proper then to fix remarks  
On some particular, and noted Sparks,  
Whose crimes conspicuous made, in public shown,  
May make us less indulgent to our own.  
Yet, though I lash their faults, I spare to name,  
I but expose their Follies, not their Fame.  
Justly the satire does indulge her rage,  
For never was a more Licentious Age.   

See, first, a Wretch of a preposterous make,  
In seeking Honour, Honour does mistake:  
Reason, which o'er the Passions should command,  
He does not, or he will not understand.  
If in discourse you don't with him comply,)  
Or say he treads but in the least awry,  
Damn me, he cries, d'ye think I'll take the lie?  
And out he lugs his Whiniard, all beware,  
For in his rage the Brute will nothing spare,  
His Honour is engaged in the affair.  
Chapman his Busy D'amboys paints him right,  
" Who thought perfection was to huff and fight:  
But brutal Courage is from valour far,  
A glow-worm this, and that the morning Star,  
Still sure to be the first where Glory calls,  
But never stains itself with Tavern-Brawls:  
Thus though he boasts himself of ancient Line,  
He dont deserve to eat the Husks with Swine.   

Here one, who by his Age and grave Aspect,  
You'd think should all vain trifling things reject,  
Le's his last sands run out in her embrace  
Who has traduced and brought him to disgrace:  
Long kept by him, she in his Bosom slept,  
And now by her the sordid Cully's kept,  
Forced, like a Slave, to dig the Mine for Ore,  
Which he profusely buried there before.  
O why, ye Gods, should Felons punished be?  
Why scourged and used with such severity,  
And this much greater Criminal go free?  
And not with O— in public made appear,  
And have his annual whipping thrice a year.   

Another Fop may lead a happy Life,  
Clasped in th' Embraces of a Virtuous Wife;  
For, sure, if any such are known to Fame,  
She, above all, deserves that sacred Name:  
Yet he, unkind, unmindful of her Charms,  
Which even might tempt cold Hermits to her Arms,  
Forgets his Quality to scour the streets,  
And picks up every Midnight Drab he meets,  
The very scum and refuse of the Stews,  
Which even no other Bruit but Man would use;  
Fulsom without, and Medlar-like within,  
A Bag of rotten Bones wrapped in a sallow skin.  
Thus, careless of his safety, he does roam,  
And brings a load of foul Diseases home,  
Taints the fair Spring, and, to record disgrace,  
Gets nothing but a pocky, ritling Race.   

Reversed to him, a fourth, whom Fate has joined  
To one that's the disgrace of Womankind:  
A jilt whom every Hackney, as it roul'd,  
In certain signs th' Intriegue within has told:  
Common as th' Elements of Earth and Air,  
Even Coachmen have, by turns, enjoyed her for their Fare.  
In 
* One that disperses Lampoons.  Iulian's sacred Volumes you may find  
Her Universal Passion for Mankind;  
How, when and where she met her numerous prey,  
And how many she has sent tired away;  
Not satisfied with an European Face,  
Has drawn an Indian Lecher to her foul embrace,  
And rather had with Devil taint her breed,  
Than miss receiving his polluted Seed.  
But he, kind Husband, to her Vices blind,  
Thinks her the only Virtue of her kind:  
In vain he's told, in vain he sees she's light,  
For he had rather trust her than his sight.  
Laughed at by all, he snuggles to her Breast,  
And there dissolves supinely into rest,  
And dreams of what vast Treasure he does stand possessed.  
With some this Wretch may for a wise man pass,  
But, for my part, I write him down an Ass.   

Now for a Chitt, who the fair Sex to woe,  
Washeses, perfumes, and grows a Woman too:  
Six hours are daily spent, Time, heavens best Blessing,  
All thrown away, in painting, patching, dressing:  
And when all's done, a Baboon is as pretty,  
A Wolf as civil, and an Owl as witty.  
Effeminate Coxcomb! may it be thy Curse,  
(And Heaven itself can scarce inflict a worse)  
Still to dress on, be by loose Strumpets prized,  
And every worthy knowing Man despised.   

Next, view an Oph that's not yet quite of age,  
What pains he takes to waste his Heritage;  
And that enuff Extravagance may be shown,  
He spends it all before it is his own:  
For every Hundred now (rare way to thrive)  
Agrees at one and twenty to give five,  
Beside the Interest, which, alas! alone  
Soon eats a good Estate even to the Bone.  
Thus, quickly ruined, to the Sea he goes,  
And finds the Winds and Waves are less his Foes,  
Than when he here was his own Pleasure's Slave,  
A Jest to Fools, a Prey to every Knave.   

Opposed to him, a seventh does bend his mind,  
In all he does, to cheat even all Mankind.  
His love of gain is grown to such a pitch,  
He rather would be damned than not be rich:  
Yet heaps this Wealth, through all this Toil does run,  
To get Preferment for a Sottish Son;  
Who by his Sire's seven thousand pound a Year,  
And Marrying of a Bastard, grows a—   

An Eighth who in his Youth had all the Arts  
Of Conversation, to allure our Hearts;  
Women contemned, thought 'em a sort of Toys  
Fit to converse with Monkeys and with Boys,  
And laughed at Hymen, and his slimy joys;  
And did, even in his greener days, presage,  
He would accomplish wonders in his Age:  
Yet now, alas! his amorous fit comes on,  
Just as his Spirit and his vigours gone,  
Makes whining Songs the Lady's hearts to move,  
And melts, effeminately, all to love;  
Throws by his Books, and burns with Cupid's rage,  
Now in his doting, and his dying Age.   

Next comes an Idiot, Dice his dear delight,  
Sleeps all the day, and Games at Niel's all night:  
A greater Slave to play, and drudges more  
Than the poor Miscreant that tugs the Oar:  
His Offices neglects, Friends, Children, Wife,  
And loves a shaking Elbow more than Life:  
Nay the vile Wretch, when all his Money's gone,  
Shall drill away five hours in looking on.  
You that have skill to scan all sorts of Vice,  
Tell me what Charms lie in a Bail of Dice?  
That Men forget their Honour and their ease,  
To dote on such opprobrious trash as these.  
So when a Child does cry, give it to play  
A piece of gold, and straight 'tis thrown away,  
But if you'd have its Tears and Snubbing eased,  
Shake but a Rattle and the Brat is pleased.  
I shall not tell what Mortgages they make,  
How many large Estates now lie at stake,  
Sunk by degrees, and mouldered quite away,  
All to maintain a Servile Lust of Play:  
Of all their Patrimonies, not enuff  
Left to maintain a constant stock of snuff.   

Another, who has been deep bit by Play,  
Has left it to grow lewd another way:  
Drink is his God, so he might have his swill  
Of that, he would not take Damnation ill.  
Six Bumpers in a hand must walk their round,  
And not a Creature budge, or quit his ground,  
Till overgorged, at last, they're forced to yield,  
And to all-conquering Bacchus leave the Field:  
Then all the Afternoon they lie and snore,  
They th' Inferior Swine, and he their Patron Bore:  
At night he wakes, and rallies up his men,  
And to their full Pint Glasses fall again.  
'Tis then such happy Notions he le's fall,  
As does with wonder charm the Ears of all.  
Who ever says he speaks one word of Sense,  
Ought to be Pillor'd for his Impudence.  
In Brawny Exercise he takes delight,  
To see Fools wrestle, Butcher's Mastiffs fight,  
And hugs himself with the Bear-Garden sight.  
Unhappy those that must on him depend,  
His Drunkenness and Loser hours attend;  
I'd rather be his Dog than be his Friend!   

A Elev'nth a Buffoon, if you please, a Wit,  
Though how a Buffoon and that Term will fit,  
Has all along been undecided yet:  
By frequent use, he's come at length to be  
A Master of the Art of Blasphemy:  
That's his Employ, by that he gets his Bread,  
For that adored, respected, courted, fed;  
All sacred things traduces, makes a Jest,  
And that abuses most that is the best.  
If he should chance to see a Pigeon roast,  
He'll bid the Cook go baste the Holy Ghost.  
To please great men is the vain Talker's aim,  
He thinks their favour is sufficient Fame:  
But this Reproof of mine he will despise;  
No Men err more than those that think they're wise,  
Nor none sees less where their main error lies:  
Let him then have our pity, not our scoff,  
That damns himself to make lewd Coxcombs laugh.   

To make 'em up a dozen, see a T—rd,  
A senseless Ape by Miracle preferred;  
And from a Footboy, Fortune's usual sport,  
Raised to a First-rate Minion of the Court▪  
To see this Brute forget what he has been,  
So bare, his very Nakedness was seen,  
The Wind blew through him, the cold ground his Bed,  
Water his Beer, and Turnips was his Bread;  
To see him on a May-day-Muster ride,  
Pampered with Impudence, and swelled with Pride,  
What a cold look he does cast down on those  
Even by whose Bounty to that height he rose:  
Would not all this inspire a Worm with spite?  
Would it not make the arrantest Withers write?  
Study new ways to Gibbet up his Fame;  
A lewd, ingrateful Wretch, and past all sense of shame.   

To close up all, the humble, Civil—  
Shall grace these Worthies, and bring up the rear,  
Wicked enuff we grant to have led the Van,  
But for that Office not enuff a Man:  
Yet Soldier he has been, has born the Name,  
Nor are his Actions quite unknown to Fame:  
For once she does record he should have fought;  
(How dear, alas! is Reputation bought?)  
But using much Agility, he fell  
Just as his Sword, as the Spectators tell,  
Had sent his stout Antagonist to Hell.  
Yet losing, he came off with Honour bright,  
Daring to fall was more than 'twas to fight;  
For Hero's, willingly, may meet with Blows,  
What Hero, willingly, would break his Nose?  
But, to be serious; in this Wretch you'll find  
A lazy Body and a vicious Mind,  
A Slave, yet would insult o'er all Mankind.  
Fawned to grow powerful, and when powerful grown  
Did higher aim, and thought to mount a—  
But flung from thence, and loaded with disgrace,  
He fawned himself again into his Place.  
Stops at no ill his Interest to advance,  
But leads his lewd desires an endless dance.  
Wealthy, yet ever crushing of the Poor,  
So stingy, with a Kick he pays his Whore.  
For benefits received makes no return;  
T' oblige him is the way to meet his scorn:  
To those that fear him haughty and severe,  
But meanly cow'rs to those that he does fear.  
With gogling Eyes, and a red, Cock't-up Nose,  
(Charms which he thinks no Female can oppose)  
A Cutthroat smile, and an ungraceful Air,  
He still pretends his Conquests o'er the Fair.  
Falstaff throughout, an Orthodox compound  
Of all ill Qualities that can be found.  
O when he dies, to celebrate his Name,  
And fix a lasting Trophy to his Fame,  
This Epitaph shall grace the Hero's Grave:  
Here lies a Fop, Food, Temporizer, Slave,  
A Lecher, Glutton, Coward and a Knave.  
Hear me, ye Poet afters of the Times,  
Who ought, with me, to lash our growing Crimes,  
And make the best use of your Doggerel Rhimes.  
Look back a little on the nauseous Tribe  
The Muse has had the patience to describe;  
See there to whom your Works you Dedicate,  
What abject Slaves you make appear in State:  
One is like dreadful Mars, another jove,  
A Third out-rivals the bright God of Love.  
Blockheads that you should rather blush to name,  
If in the least you did but care for Fame,  
Or had, among you all, a grain of shame.  
Unless y'are stupid, and resolve to be  
Abhorred and branded by Posterity;  
Forbear to flatter, and to court th' applause  
Of such as these, against Apollo's Laws.  
What Reputation can a Coxcomb give?  
Or will his sneering make your Labours live?  
No, no; then for his Praises do not care;  
In all you write be pointed and severe,  
And those that will not love you, make 'em fear.  
But here we end, which yet too soon may seem;  
For Knave and Fool is an Eternal Theme.   
The End of the satire upon Man.   

THE LAUREATE.  
A satire.   

THE LAUREATE. A satire.  
The ARGUMENT.  
Jack Squob's History in little drawn,  
Down to his Evening from his early dawn.  

APpear, thou mighty Bard, to open view,  
Which yet, we must confess, you need not do;  
The labour to expose thee we may save;  
Thou standest upon thy own Records a Knave;  
Condemned to live, in thy Apostate Rhimes,  
The Curse of Ours, and scoff of future times.  
Still tacking round with every turn of State;  
Reverse to Shaftsbury! thy cursed Fate,  
Is always at a change to come too late.  
To keep his Plots from Coxcombs was his care;  
His Villainy was masked, and thine is bare.  
Wise men alone could guests at his design,  
And could but guests, the thread was spun so fine;  
But every purblind Fool may see through thine,  
Had Dick still kept the Regal Diadem,  
Thou hadst been Poet Laureate to him;  
And long e'er now, in lofty Verse, Proclaimed  
His high Extraction, among Princes famed:  
" Diffused his glorious Deeds from Pole to Pole,  
" Where Winds can carry, and where Waves can roll.  
Nay, had our Charles, by heavens severe Decree,  
Been found and murdered in the Royal Tree,  
Even thou hadst praised the Fact; his Father slain,  
Thou call'st but gently breathing of a Vein.  
Impious and Villainous, to bless the blow  
That laid at once three lofty Nations low,  
And gave the Royal-Cause a total overthrow!  
What after this could we expect from thee?  
What could we hope for but just what we see?  
Scandal to all Religions new and old,  
A scandal even to thine, where Pardon's bought and sold,  
And mortgaged Happiness redeemed for transitory Gold.  
Tell me, for 'tis a truth you must allow,  
Who ever changed more in one Moon than Thou?  
Even thy own Zimri was more steadfast known;  
He had but one Religion, or had none.  
What Sect of Christian is't thou hast not known,  
And, at one time or other, made thy own?  
A Bristled Baptist bred, and then thy strain,  
Immaculate, was free from sinful stain:  
No Songs in those blessed times thou didst produce  
To brand and shame good manners out of use.  
The Ladies than had not one bawdy Bob,  
Nor thou the Courtly Name of Poet Squab.  
Next thy dull Muse, an Independent jade,  
On sacred Tyranny fine Stanzas made,  
Praised Noll, who even to both Extremes did run,  
To kill the Father, and Dethrone the Son.  
When Charles came in, thou didst a Convert grow;  
More by thy Interest than thy Nature so:  
Under his kindly Beams thy Laurel spread,  
He first did place that Wreath about thy Head,  
Kindly relieved thy wants, and gave thee bread.  
Here 'twas thou mad'st the Bells of Fancy chime,  
And choked the Town with suffocating rhyme.  
Till Heroes, formed by thy creating Pen,  
Were grown as cheap and dull as other men.  
Flushed with success, full Gallery, Box, and Pit,  
Thou branded'st all Mankind with want of Wit,  
And in short time were't grown so vain a Ninny,  
As scarce t' allow that Ben himself had any:  
But when the men of sense these errors saw,  
They checked thy Muse, and kept the Termagant in awe.  
To satire then thy Talon was addressed,  
Fell foul on all, thy Friends among the rest;  
Those that the oft'nest did thy wants supply,  
Abused, traduced, without a Reason why.  
Nay even thy Royal Patron was not spared,  
But an Obscene, a Sauntring Wretch declared.  
Thy Loyal Libel we can still produce,  
Beyond Example, and beyond Excuse!  
O strange return to a forgiving King!  
But the warmed Viper wears the sharpest Sting.  
Thy Pension lost, and justly, without doubt,  
When Servants snarl, we ought to kick 'em out;  
They that disdain their Benefactors Bread,  
No longer ought, by Bounty to be fed;  
That lost, you changed the Vizor, turned about,  
And straight a true-blue-Protestant crept out.  
The Friar now was writ, and some will say  
They smell a Malcontent through all the Play.  
The Papist too was thought unfit for trust,  
Called shameless, treacherous, profligate, unjust,  
And Kingly Power mere Arbitrary Lust.  
This lasted till thou didst thy Pension gain,  
And that changed both thy Morals and thy Strain.  
If to write Contradiction Nonsense be,  
Who has more nonsense in their works than Thee?  
We'll mention but thy Layman's Faith, and Hind;  
Who'd think both these, such clashing do we find,  
Could be the Product of one single mind?  
Here thou wouldst Charitable fain appear,  
Findest fault that Athanasius was severe;  
Thy pity straight to cruelty is raised,  
And even the Pious Inquisition praised,  
And recommended to the Present Reign:—  
" O Happy Countries, Italy and Spain!  
Have we not cause in thy own words to say,  
" Let none believe what varies every day,  
" That never was, nor will be at a stay?  
Once, Heathens might be saved, you did allow,  
But not, it seems, we greater Heathens now:  
The Loyal Church that buoys the Kingly Line,  
Damned with a Breath, but 'tis such Breath as thine.  
What Credit to thy Party can it be  
To have gained so vile a Proselyte as Thee?  
Strayed from the Fold, makes us but laugh, not weep,  
One of the Shabby, and the Scabby Sheep;  
We have but lost what 'twas disgrace to keep.  
By them mistrusted, and to us a scorn,  
For 'tis but weakness, at the best, to turn.  
True, hadst thou left us in the former Reign,  
'T had proved it was not wholly done for gain;  
Now the Meridian Sun is not more plain.  
Gold is thy God, for a substantial sum,  
Thou to the Turk wouldst run away from Rome,  
And sing his holy Expedition against Christendom.  
But to conclude, blush with a lasting red,  
(If thou'rt not moved with what's already said)  
To see thy Boars, Bears, Buzzards, Wolves and Owls,  
And all thy other Beasts, and other Fowls  
Routed by two poor Mice; unequal fight!  
But easy 'tis to conquer in the Right.  
See there a Youth, a shame to thy grey hairs,  
Make a mere Dunce of all thy threescore years.  
What in that tedious Poem hast thou done,  
But crammed all Aesop's Fables into one?  
But why should I the precious minutes spend  
On him that would much rather hang, than mend?  
No, Wretch, continue still just as thou art,  
thou'rt now in the last Scene that crowns thy part:  
To purchase favour, veer with every gale,  
And against Interest never cease to rail,  
Though thou'rt the only proof how Interest can prevail.   
The End of the satire upon the Laureate.   

A Consolatory Epistle TO A FRIEND Made unhappy by Marriage. OR, A Scourge for ill Wives.   

Advertisement.  
THough the following Poem, at first sight, may seem to point at some Particular Person, yet, to the Judicious, the design will appear to be of general Influence: for, notwithstanding 'tis a Description but of one lewd Woman, I have taken care to paint her so comprehensively ill, that there are very few but what may put in for a Child's share with her. From whence 'tis easy to guests, I shall be read by that Sex with some disgust: But let 'em have a care, for, if they are angry, I shall conclude (satire being a Glass that shows things just as they are) 'tis occasioned by seeing their own Deformity. If any should imagine this Scourge is chiefly designed for the Wife of Quality, 'tis rightly guessed; and I am apt to believe, as they behave themselves now adays, the sharpest thing, in this Nature, can be but seasonable: Yet, let not the meaner Spouse be too much delighted that she is favoured, for 'tis ten to one they may hear of me, in their turn— but 'tis fit their Betters should be served before them.   

A Consolatory Epistle TO A FRIEND Made unhappy by Marriage. OR, A Scourge for ill Wives.  

THat Man, my Friend, does tempt a dangerous Fate,  
That lists himself into a Marriage State.  
Where is that He so happy in a Bride,  
But oft does wish the fatal Knot untied?  
Qualms of Disquiet will oppress his thought,  
And make him see his Marriage was a faued.  
And if the happy find so bad success,  
They that have ill Wives, sure, must hope for less.  
Killing Vexations, Cares and sleepless Nights,  
Put a long stop to all their best Delights:  
And then with Grief they find (what greater ill?)  
They're wretched, and are sure to be so still.  
But 'twill be urged; if 'tis a Snare so great,  
What makes Men add Wings to their own ill Fate?  
And strive to meet misfortunes with such haste,  
Which of themselves, alas! come on too fast?  
But ah! set human frailty in your Eyes,  
Impossible we should be always wise!  
Or grant we could, this Sea has unseen Shelves,  
Where even the wisest oft are split themselves.  
And therefore I that Maxim disapprove,  
That those that join here, first, are joined above.  
If Marriages are made by heavens fixed will,  
O that some Doctor, with his Heavenly skill,  
Would tell why most of 'em are made so ill.  
Wretched Examples we may daily view;  
But its worst Influence was shed on You.  
In all things that could please a Woman, blest,  
Rich, Healthy, Young, and Witty as the best:  
Yet even these Gifts made your Misfortunes worse,  
Since they but charmed a Heart that proved your Curse.  
Good heavens! who then saw and heard her vow,  
Could think she'd ever be, what she is now?  
Her Carriage Impudent, perverse her Will,  
The scorn of Good Wives, and the worst of Ill!   

I'll take her, first, even in her Virgin State,  
Which she was all along observed to hate:  
And if from Dreams we may her Nature scan,  
She even in them would sigh and call for Man.  
The disobedience she to Friends did show,  
Told us, she'd play the same Game over with You.  
I know 'tis cruel to remind you' again  
Of wrongs y'ave suffered, and add pain to pain;  
But, if you will a while your thoughts suspend,  
You'll find, at least, I mean you like a Friend.   

You married her, and there your Woes began,  
'Twas your hard chance to be that hapless Man:  
Yet, if Joys by appearance might be guessed,  
There were few Men but thought you doubly blest.  
You loved her above thought, above control,  
Sooner than wrong her, you'd ha' wronged your Soul:  
And yet (so far her cunning did excel)  
It was believed that she loved you as well.  
Ah! what a Riddle is a Woman's will,  
That seems so good, and is, indeed, so ill?  
For soon she threw off Virtues, forced disguise,  
With which, a while, she strove t' amuse your Eyes;  
And then, to show which way she leaned before,  
We saw that she was rotten at the Core.  
Her roving thoughts were bounded by no Law,  
But lusted after every Man she saw:  
From thought she eagerly to action fled,  
And brought Pollution to a sacred Bed.  
Blinded by Love, all this you could not view,  
The last that did believe her false was You.  
Your sorrow here no Language can express,  
It grieved your Heart, and ah! what could it less?  
To see the charming Partner of your Youth,  
(Whose Breast you thought had been a Mine of Truth)  
Root up the Name of Virtue from her Heart,  
And boldly act an unexampled part.  
Assaulted by the Master Fiend of Hell,  
It was no wonder the first Woman fell;  
But this ten thousand times more Vice has shown  
Without Temptation, all the Fault her own.  
Even in this Exigence, you, yet, were Calm,  
Widened no Wounds, but rather poured in Balm:  
Good wholesome counsel you prescribed her still;  
Weak Physic to bring back a Wife from ill:  
Men, tho' they're wicked, stop oft in their Race,  
And oft reflect upon their dangerous Case;  
Though damned, they'll yet seem loath to be undone:  
But Woman, like a River, keeps due on;  
And like that River, if they stop her Course,  
Grows wild, and will not be restrained by force.  
For such rough means you cannot be accused;  
But she'd have been the same, had force been used▪  
To prove this, think how from your Arms she fled,  
And for a Lawless, left a Lawful Bed  
Concealed herself with an Incestuous Flame,  
Concealed herself, but she revealed her shame:  
While you, with heavy Eyes and Arms across,  
Were sighing, mourning, dying for the loss.  
Loss did I call it? 'twas so far from one  
It proved a Blessing, as I'll show anon.)  
But now, litigious grown, and past all awe,  
She plunged you in the Fetters of the Law,  
And backed by those who her ill cause maintained,  
She sued for Alimony, sued and gained:  
Thus Honesty may be oppressed with might,  
For Power does often make the wrong the right.  
Her hitting this mark pleased her very Soul,  
For 'twas her aim to live without Control.  
Here 'twas she bid adieu to true Renown,  
And turned up tail to every Ass in Town;  
Porter and Groom went undistinguished down:  
Where is the Man that hath not found her ill?  
Or where's the Man that may not, if he will?  
Ah foolish Woman! may she one day see  
How deep she has plunged herself in Infamy,  
And with true Penitence wash out the stain;—  
But— mischief on't— why should I pray in vain?  
For she's but hardened at the name of Grace;  
No blush was ever seen t' adorn her Face.   

As soon as e'er she wakes, it is her way  
To think how she may waste the following day.  
If to serve Heaven our precious time is lent,  
Each moment, that's in chase of sin misspent,  
Will one day blame us we that Treasure lose  
Which we might to such vast advantage use;  
If this be so, sure, her Account is long,  
That by mere choice does labour to do wrong.  
Well, now she'll rise, and to proclaim no less,  
Her Footmen are rung in to help her dress;  
A janty mode— for since from France it came  
(Brought over by a Female of great Fame)  
'Twere rude to give it any other Name.  
Hackney is called, Hackney her dear Alcove,  
(Where Coachmen, for their Fare, enjoy her Love)  
Hackney, on which, as o'er the Stones they go,  
She oft this high Encomium will bestow:  
Some love t' embrace on Couches, some i' th' Fields;  
I'm for the Bawdy-House that runs on Wheels,  
Where every Kennel does the Bliss enhance,  
And each kind jolts all Rapture and all Trance!  
Full of such thoughts she scow'rs it up and down,  
And, e'er night, visits all the Bawds in Town:  
The Company of this she does desire  
To sup with her; another's scent t' inquire  
For Coolers to allay her amorous fire;  
In vain, for she's to Tyrant Lust a Slave,  
Her barren Womb's Insatiate as the Grave;  
Barren, nor can it well be any other,  
She chokes the growth of one Seed by another.  
Well now 'tis Evening, and the Tavern's full  
Of Lady and her Train, Bawd, Pimp and Trull:  
Their Supper's called for, and a learned Harangue,  
(By one of the grand Females of the Gang,  
So very lewd she could not fail to please)  
Instead of Grace, is made in words like these.  
Let canting Sots at meals their folly show,  
And give thanks to a power they do not know:  
To Nature we our praise acknowledge due,  
The Patroness of Life and Lechery too:  
Our best Blood in her Quarrels we expose,  
She here repays us with that Blood we lose;  
With sparkling Wines infuses fresh desire;  
As fast as we quench, she renews the Fire.  
'Tis they tread false that dare our steps deride,  
Can we go wrong that have so sure a guide?  
No, no, what ever she dictates, we'll do,  
For all is lawful that she prompts us to.  
Let us not then think of a base retreat,  
Or be imposed on by a holy Cheat;  
She bids us taste of Man, as well as Meat.  
She ends, the Lady riggles her lewd Breech,  
And with a loud laugh, thanks her for her Speech.  
Imagine now (for 'twere too long to tell  
All the vain Table-Conference that befell)  
The Board is cleared, and free from care and thinking,  
With one consent, all of 'em vote for Drinking.  
And now you'd think the end of all were come,  
And Chaos and Confusion in the Room:  
A thousand various shapes the prospect fill,  
And every one, above expression, ill;  
Here you may see the amorous War begun,  
And, for a while, the rest all looking on,  
Till fired with thought to taste the same delight,  
They strip, and naked rush into the fight:  
And then such Scenes, such Postures are contrived,  
You'd swear old Sodom were again revived,  
And all the Chiefs of that accursed Crew  
Broke loose from Hell, to act their Crimes anew.  
Tired, the Reck'ning's called, and, more or less,  
Host, Hostess, Drawers meet the same success,  
They're kicked down Stairs with many a bitter Curse,  
And think they're favoured if they're used no worse;  
And after all's turned to a mere Bear-Garden,  
They go off ranting, and not pay a farthing.  
And then in Man's clothes, like some hot-brained Blade,  
She sallies through the Town in Masquerade:  
Bounces, like Bellmen, against every door,  
And roars out a good morrow with Rogue and Whore.  
In all her walk no Window can escape,  
For mischief's her delight in every shape.  
In short, b' abusing nightly all she meets,  
Murder and Riot's common to our Streets.   

Now let unbyast Men judge, by these crimes,  
If she's not grown a grievance to the times.  
What satire with such Faults can be too rough?  
For my part, I can't write half sharp enough.  
Were my Ink Gall, and my keen Pen could stab,  
The World should see how I would maul this Drab.   

The Company she keeps is for her fit,  
All very lewd, with very little Wit.  
But chiefly one, I must, perforce, applaud,  
One who all men can tell was born a Bawd,  
Procured as soon as spoke; in Hyde-Park nursed,  
Her Infant Vice did sprout and flourish first.  
Letters she would convey from Coach to Coach,  
And every day set lewd Intrigues abroach;  
" In her alone 'twas natural to debauch.  
As soon as ever she was turned of ten,  
Successively, she'd tyre as many Men:  
Nay, if her Actions by her Age we measure,  
They prove her Whore e'er she could taste the Pleasure.  
Now rotten grown, each pocky symptom shows  
She's like to drop in pieces as she goes.  
This modest Creature, this Black-Angel Saint,  
She has installed her Bosom Confidant:  
And the chief Reason why she this prefers,  
Because her Vice goes hand in hand with hers.  
Early they entered the Venereal chase,  
And hitherto they're equal in the race,  
Swift they begun, and still they keep their pace.  
To lie, detract, talk Bawdy and Blaspheme,  
Employs their time, they scorn all other Theme.  
The Oaths that Bullies barter at a fray▪  
Or eager Gamesters when they lose at play,  
Are nothing, when we them with those compare,  
Which, in their Cups, flow from this Friendly Pair.   

Bullies she keeps, too, void of sense and shame,  
With five-foot Swords to vindicate her Fame:  
Good heavens! that she should think of a good Name!  
All Rabble-Rascals, born of Parents base,  
Their Pedigree is blazoned on their Face.  
Vain, rude, ill-bred, the scandal of their kind,  
And therefore fit for the ill Fate they find;  
Which is to waste their health with her a-nights,  
And their base blood in needless brawls and fights.  
What Brutes are these! that can so busy be,  
To take great pains, to get great Infamy?   

But hitherto, my Friend, you'll only find  
I've shown how she degenerates in her mind,  
Her Person in the Change, too, has its share;  
You'll find as great an alteration there:  
Bloated all over, her Hyde can hardly hold her,  
Neck shrunk, her Head does lean upon each shoulder,  
Her Face carbuncled, Nodes upon her Skin,  
Which shows there's rank Contagion lodged within.  
Compared with that which to your Arms she came,  
Neither her Soul nor Body are the same:  
Yet thus deformed, a Dog would loathe to meet her,  
She makes out fresh enquiry for a Keeper;  
In vain, she'll ne'er succeed do what she can;  
The only Woman, since the World began,  
That's even too vile to match herself in Man.   

But here, perhaps some People may object,  
I've used a Friend's Wife with too course neglect;  
I ought to pity her, if not respect.  
But I would fain know of these senseless Elves,  
That thinks so very wisely of themselves,  
If when a Favour rages in the Blood,  
The Doctor's pity does the Patient good.  
These are, forsooth, so tender of her Fame,  
Rather than blame her Faults they Cloak her shame;  
While I that pity not, a better Friend,  
Show her herself, and teach her how to mend.   

By this time, I presume, all are inclined  
To think you the most wretched of Mankind,  
And past hope of relief— I answer, no;  
Nay more than that, so far from being so,  
Among the Fry of Husbands, there's but few  
That know so much Tranquillity as You.  
The shaft is blunt that was so sharp at first;  
And 'tis some Comfort to be past the worst.  
No jealous pangs, with anguish, you conceal,  
The most inveterate Sting that Man can feel;  
For, certainly, it is less pain to know  
A Wife is False, than to believe she's so.  
Nay you are safer than th' unmarried are,  
For they are still in danger of the snare:  
Their misery is to come, but yours is past,  
Yours but a while, and theirs may ever last.  
But some will say, ye are still at vast expense—  
'Tis true, but then your Peace does spring from thence.  
The separate maintenance you yearly give,  
separate from her, makes you in safety live.  
The more you think the more this thought will please;  
You give her money, and she gives you ease:  
And where's the Man, so ill in love with Life,  
But would do more to have it freed from strife?  
How many Men of Honour could I name  
That would give thousands, were their Case the same?  
For an ill Wife will stick where she is thrown;  
Few beside you can say, The Bird is flown.  
Tell me not you might meet some Heavenly Dame,  
That loves you with a chaste and fervent Flame,  
Whose Charms to endless Pleasure do invite;  
And she has robbed you of the vast delight.  
What Man! what run again into the Snare  
Where you were caught so lately? Have a care:  
Of your dear Reputation be more nice,  
There's no excuse for him that marries twice;  
Especially, if his first Wife were bad,  
For she proclaims him moped, the second, mad.  
But why all this? y'ave tried the dangerous Main,  
And are too wise to trust your Fate again.   

Compared with yours, how wretched is his plight  
That's joined with a Lascivious Hypocrite?  
Who, still professing good, is ill by stealth;  
Wastes his Estate, and undermines his health;  
Yet, all the while, laughs in the Dotards Face,  
And thinks her wickedness is his disgrace?  
Though your good Woman, of the two, is worse,  
Yet t'other to the Man's the greatest Curse.  
For ever free from such salacious guile,  
You live in Peace, and at the Monster smile.  
Enjoy your Book, your Bottle, and your Friend,  
Three of as choice Companions Heaven can send.  
These are the Blessings that attend your Life,  
For which, in some sort, you may thank your Wife.  
For if she had continued with you still,  
Your Cure had been above the reach of skill:  
The Sweets which now you taste had turned to Gall,  
And wanting sweet content you'd wanted all:  
Which now, y'are sure, she never can destroy,  
But see a Prospect all made up of Joy.   
The End of the Scourge for ill Wives.   

Jack Pavy, Alias, jack adam's.   

TO THE Right Honourable JAMES, EARL of ABINGDON, etc.  
My Lord,  
WHen I was last at Lavington, I had the good Fortune to see the Extraordinary Person to whom the following Epistle is subscribed; and from an occasional saying of your Lordship's, took the hint of the Poem, which, therefore, I now here present to your Lordship. Some will, for their own Interest, think it a Paradox, and some, I could hope methinks, will not. However, at worst, if the Argument fail in the Main, the judicious and Lovers of Truth, will, by the way, find so much Vanity and Knavery discovered, as may perhaps, incline 'em to forgive me. But, above all, if it please your Lordship, 'twill be my greatest satisfaction, having resolved for the future (next my Devotions to Heaven) to make that the chief study of,  
My Lord, Your Lordship's infinitely obliged, And most humble Servant, R. Gould.   

TO JACK PAVY, etc.  

'TIs true, dear jack, thou'rt of all sense bereft,  
And canst not tell thy right hand from thy left,  
Observest no Seasons, Reason, Right, or Rule;  
In short, thou art, indeed, a Natural Fool.  
And hence some Men so insolent we find,  
To think thee the most wretched of Mankind:  
But I, who all along have took delight  
To speak plain Truth, and vindicate the right,  
Must tell thee thou'rt abused:— No man can be  
More happy, more the Care of Heaven than Thee.  
Your Standard Fool, the Fool we should despise,  
Is he that is a Fool and thinks he's wise.   

And first, for a foundation, I would know  
What Man can be entirely blest below,  
If not as dull as thou:— The Turns of Fate,  
Promiscuously, on all the wiser wait.  
Grief, horror, shame, distrust, despite and fear,  
Extend to all, each has so large a share,  
That who has lest has more than he can bear.  
Either his best Diversions quickly cloy,  
Pray on themselves, and so themselves destroy,  
Or some sharp cross cut short his mounting joy:  
In vain he toils for Pleasure, 'twon't be found,  
But flies the Searcher, like enchanted ground,  
And in a maze of sorrow leads him round and round.  
Well then, that Man is happiest, who in this  
Vain World lives free from Care, and in the next in Bliss,  
Who neither knows, nor cares, nor can do any thing amiss:  
This is thy Fate, and this thy Soul will save,  
For Heaven requires no more than what it gave,  
Lays on our minds restraints we well might bear,  
Were we less wise, and thy kind Fate our share.  
But grant there are some Men devout and good,  
(As Gracious Heaven avert but that we should!)  
Grant Virtue is, alone, their strictest care,  
And that they've all a human frame can bear;  
Nay grant from every anxious thought they're free,  
(Which is even an Impossibility)  
They, in this World, can be but blest like thee:  
But in the next thy Joys will far transcend  
What they can hope, or by good Deeds pretend.  
For since by merit Heaven can ne'er be gained,  
Happiest, by whom 'tis with least sin attained;  
Then happiest Thou, to whose share it does fall,  
Blessed to be without being Criminal,  
Which even the Wisest never could attain;  
Th' Attempt shall be rewarded, but th' Attempt is vain   

Our Parent, jack, the first Created Man  
(If Mysteries Divine we may, with safety, scan,)  
While yet in perfect Innocence he stood,  
Could not, perhaps, boast so sublime a good  
As is on thee (heavens greater Favourite) bestowed.  
Thy State of sweetness is unmixed with Gall;  
Thou standest, and art not liable to fall:  
In solid dullness fixed, no Charms, no Art  
Of Beauty makes Impression on thy Heart.  
The faithless Sex could ne'er thy Fancy move,  
thou'rt Adamantine Proof against the shafts of Love.  
That Conquering God could never vanquish Thee;  
He's blind, thou didst not care if he could see.  
At no proud Dowdy's Feet thou e'er didst lie,  
And pine and sigh, and grieve and weep, and die;  
As some, who, like the Heathen heretofore,  
First make the Deity, and then adore.  
A light Demeanour and a painted Face,  
No Wit, no Virtue, with much silks and lace,  
Pass with such Fops for a Resistless Grace.  
In short, the Bawds persuasions and her wiles,  
With the kind Nymphs almost resistless smiles,  
Are lost on thee, steadfast thou dost remain;  
Should Eve attempt to charm thee, 'twere in vain.  
Ah! had old Adam been as dull, as good,  
Eden had not been lost, and Man had stood!   

Ambition, which disturbs the Statesman's rest,  
ne'er gains the least Admission to thy Breast.  
Without a pang thou canst see others rise,  
And take their glorious Station in the Skies;  
See 'em look back with a disdainful Eye  
On those, whose Bounty gave 'em Wings to fly:  
Without concern, again, thou see'st 'em come  
From their vast height to an ignoble Doom;  
Like Stars they glitter and as swift decline,  
But ne'er, like them, must rise again to shine.  
Mistaken Men! that labour to be great,  
That still contribute to their own deceit,  
And will not see through the Transparent Cheat.  
Pride is a Sin too obvious to conceal,  
It puffs the Heart as Butchers do their Veal;  
Looks fair without, but probe the hidden Mind,  
The Imposthume breaks and mixes with the wind.  
By it's own self, Narcissus like, 'tis prized;  
But cursed is he that is by all, but his own self, despised.   

Nor in the War thou labourest for a Name,  
By cutting Throats to get Immortal Fame:  
Search through the Race of Brutes, and you will find  
There's none that preys so much upon his kind  
As we, that boast of an Immortal Mind.  
Cities are tumbled down, and Temples raced,  
And the chief works of God the most defaced:  
Nor is there any hope these Feuds should cease  
Till we are all like Thee; then all would be at Peace.   

In thee no Covetous Desires we find,  
That griping, restless Colic of the Mind.  
Devil with Devil damned firm Concord hold,  
But Man will disagree; are bought and sold,  
Prove Faithless, Perjured, Merciless for Gold.  
Here one, bewitched with the base itch of Coin,  
Hides it as deep as first 'twas in the Mine.  
Still dunning all to whom he has money due,  
But you must stay, if he owes aught to You.  
Against nought else but want of Cash does pray,  
Dreams on't all night, and hugs it all the day,  
Yet (sordid Wretch!) can carry none away.  
Envious of Mankind's good, he'll angry be,  
His Neighbour is more fortunate than he:  
Nay, if thy Wife a moderate Beauty bear,  
He'll curse his Fate, his own is not so fair.  
This Plague for ever is to thee unknown;  
Rich in thy Rags, thou lettest each Man in Peace enjoy his own.   

Envy in vain thy Quiet would devour,  
Her Rage is impotent, and weak her power:  
She finds her Foe too fearless to attack,  
Goes cursing off, and grins as she looks back.  
The silly Sex, indeed, she does entice;  
For Envy, chiefly, is a Female Vice:  
Rather than not Revenge they'll Witches grow;  
But while around their hurtful Charms they throw,  
They're cursed above, and double damned below.   

Mark but the Course of things, and you must own  
Most men do that they'd rather let alone:  
Thinks on his present state with wat'ry Eyes;  
Still prone to change, with every wish complies,  
And fain would be the thing his Fate denies:  
Roving Desires perplex his labouring thought,  
Still seeking, and still missing what is sought:  
Against the stream of Disappointment strives,  
In vain, for back th' impetuous torrent drives,  
And makes him, to his loss and torture, see  
He's still Obnoxious to Incertainty:  
Tossed, like a Bubble, to and fro he rolls,  
And every trifle his resolve controls:  
Wretched all ways, though Fortune frown or smile,  
There is no end of his incessant toil;  
And all, alas! to have his Bantlings fed;  
But see the Curse impendent o'er his head,  
He that moils lest has the most share of Bread.  
The Trading Cit, smooth tongued, demure and sly,  
Who never swears, unless 'tis to a lie,  
Gets more one Day by bantring off false Ware,  
Than serves the needy Labourer a Year;  
He gets, indeed, but cursed is ill got store;  
Rather than so be Rich, let me, ye Gods, be poor.   

Here One his dozen Voyages performs,  
Breaks through rough Waves, and combats Winds and Storms;  
And thus he drudges many tedious Years;  
The Master wrecked at home with wretched Fears,  
Thinks on the Winds, the Rocks, the Sands and Pirates of Algiers:  
Expects 'em long, at last, perchance, they come  
Without their Lading, Tempest-beaten, home.  
Thus, for a bootless Voyage, he is hurled  
" From Pole to Pole, and slaved about the World.  
But say he gains (as many, we confess,  
Succeed, that don't deserve the least success)  
What lasting, what substantial pleasure can  
Attend this wealthy, careful, restless Man▪  
What satisfaction can he compass here,  
That one can't have for fifty pound a Year?  
Out of his many Dishes (which I'd shun)  
He eats no more than I do out of one:  
Though his Vaults full of Bagrag and Moselle,  
Though of old Hock and Chios he does tell;  
I have my Bottle, and that does as well.  
But after all his outward pomp and show,  
Though high his Pride, his Credit may be low;  
For oft such men, even to our Cost found true,  
Have died in Debt, which (though a Poet) I would scorn to do.   

For Rents here Fopus to the Country goes,  
Which when received, thinks all he meets are Foes,  
And looking downwards starts at his own Nose;  
Fears his own shadow dogs him with design  
To cut his Throat, and take away his Coin.   

In the mean time, observe the jangling Clown  
Trudge as fast up as the gay spendthrift down:  
'Tis Term, and he has business at the Hall,  
Which is to hear some Pettyfogger bawl:  
Litigious Crew! a Monkey, or Jack Daw  
Has as much sense, why not as much of Law?  
Thus with a Serjeant's Cant, and a smooth dash  
Of his Clerk's Pen, he's bantered out of Cash.  
Then home returns his Pocket to recruit,  
And knows not Money does prolong the Suit.  
So when y'are feeing your Physician still,  
You do but bribe the Brute to keep you ill.   

Another's to be married with all speed;  
But first there must be drawn some tedious Deed,  
In which more caution's used, than if he were  
Making his Will, or naming of an Heir:  
A Jointure's settled (Let her laugh that wins)  
A thousand pound a year to buy her Pins.  
Unthinking Wretch! that puts it in the Power  
Of an ill Wife to hasten his ill hour.  
But say at first she were both chaste and true,  
What is't so much per annum will not do?  
Many, that have been thought divinely good,  
For less have dipped their hands in Husband's blood.  
This thought, at last, works busy in his brain;  
Drudge on, fond Ass, why shouldst thou now complain?  
Be still Obsequious, give her no offence,  
Lest she takes pet, and sends thee packing hence.   

There an Attendance Dancer of the Court,  
To the Levees and Couchees makes resort:  
Where in more shapes he does his Body screw,  
Than those that dance through Hoops, or Smithfield Tumblers do.  
Yet all the while has sense enough to tell  
Flattery's a Crime, and that he does not well.  
Now to a Bishop he devoutly bends,  
Next to an Atheist the same Zeal pretends;  
Now to a Beef-eater he cringes low,  
Now to some new rigged Bawd, or tawdry Beau,  
And to ten thousand that he does not know:  
And all this while so talkative, you'll see  
His tongue is quite as pliant as his knee.  
Coward throughout, loves none, embraces all,  
And thus endowed is cherished at Whitehall.   

Here to the Park an Amorous Coxcomb hies,  
To meet his Love among the Butterflies,  
Which there abound, and swell into a Crowd,  
Pert, Pocky, Poor, Impertinent and loud:  
Coming, he finds his Rival in her hands,  
Her smiles, and all she has at his Command:  
Then rates himself he ever should believe  
A perjured thing, whose Nature's to deceive:  
Curses his Fate, nor will put up his wrongs,  
Till with cold steel the tother probes his Lungs.   

Another Buffoon, cherished by the great,  
Burlesques the Scriptures, and Blasphemes to eat:  
Nor is this Court-bred Humour strange, or new,  
For who knows Fan—w, knows it to be true.  
Thus he drives on, unmindful of the Foe,  
Nor sees the brandished Sword above, nor dreadful Steep below.   

Thus goes, and thus will ever go the Times,  
Each Age improving on their Father's Crimes:  
Sin has abounded since the World begun,  
And we (on whom the dregs of time is come)  
Are casting up the mighty, total sum.  
So exquisite in Villainy weare grown,  
To blast our Neighbours Credit we expose our own:  
No Man a safe Retreat from ills can know,  
Abroad, or, else, at home he finds a Foe;  
Abroad ill Tongues, at home Thoughts prone to sin;  
Knav'ry without, and Passions reign within.  
Or Anger robs him of his Darling Rest,  
Or jealousy does rage within his Breast;  
Unhappy Man that's with that Fiend possessed!  
Distended on the Rack, there to remain  
Whole Ages, is a yet more moderate pain.  
O horrid Doom! O worse than Hellish Life!  
But he deserves it that will have a Wife.   

While thou, supine, liest in soft Pleasure's Arms;  
And only such as Thou can find she has lasting Charms.  
Though the wide World with War and slaughter's vexed,  
thou'rt undisturbed, secure and unperplext:  
When dreadful Comets in the Skies appear,  
thou'rt not concerned what they portend us here  
Didst thou but live (as long shall live thy Fame)  
Till the last general Conflagration came,  
Thou wouldst but laugh and warm thee at the Flame.  
Thou for to morrow never dost prepare,  
Nor art a Slave to earn thy Bread with Care:  
By certain Instinct taught, thou eatest and drinkest,  
Nor, though thy Fare be course, on better Dainties think'st.  
Still satisfied with what's before thee set,  
Nor just at twelve, or one condemned to eat.  
Waitest not till all thy meat is overdrest,  
Expecting some long-rising, lazy Guest:  
Free from all Ceremony thou dost live;  
None does expect it from thee, and thou none dost give.   

See here a Mother mourning for her Boy  
Late, all her future hope, and Earthly joy;  
Tearing her Hair, and with Affliction wild,  
Will not be comforted, or reconciled;  
Unhappy Mother, but O happy Child!  
Free from the Woes with which thy Parents strive,  
Whose cruel kindness wish thee still alive.  
Another here for his dear Father mourns,  
In vain, alas! the Grave makes no Returns:  
Thinks Heaven unkind, that the old man hast passed  
Some fourscore Winters, and must die at last;  
When, if we'll own Age weak, and sorrow strong,  
It is a wonder he could live so long.  
A Third you'll see sit whining for his Wife,  
His Earthly Heaven and Comfort of his Life;—  
Yet living, she ne'er failed to give him strife.  
This touches not thy Breast; thy Father's gone  
And Mother, yet who ever heard thee moan?  
Thy Resignation such, so free from blame,  
It even deserves a more exalted Name;  
An Angel's Patience could but do the same!   

Observe the Man who has all Sin engrossed,  
And see if he is not the Man, who most  
Pretends to Wit; but any Fool may see,  
So plain, 'tis almost obvious to Thee,  
How his Pretext and Conduct does agree.  
So eager all that's wicked to retain,  
You'd think he would not spare the Fools a grain.  
A very Bugbear, so licentious grown,  
He is the Standard scandal of the Town.  
Who more a Fop? and, which is worse, who more  
A Cully to the Dice, nay worse, a Cully to the Whore?  
Who, of all men, more pestered with ill Nature?  
Who more obnoxious to the Sting of satire?  
Who more a Drunkard? who a greater Prater?  
Who at Plays sooner, and at Churches later?  
If this is Wit, e'er such a Wit to be,  
Who would not, if 'twere possible, be more a Fool than thee?   

Contents a Blessing; Let us search around,  
And see, then, where that Blessing's to be found.  
No Riches like Contentment, there 'tis meant  
One may be wealthy, and not be content:  
If Riches cannot make a happy Man,  
To human apprehension, nothing can.  
In short, the Rich, the Poor, the Peasant, Cit,  
Still aim at something, which they have not yet,  
And still at something more, if that should hit.  
'Tis hard, perhaps impossible, to find  
One that has all things suited to his mind:  
Something will be amiss, and must be so;  
For to want nothing, would be Heaven below.  
Yet some will think to have it here, and some  
In search of it around the Globe will roam;  
Alas! it may be sooner found at home.  
She lives not in the Court, or noisy Town,  
But shuns the gilded Roofs, and Beds of Down,  
And Robes of State, the Ermines that do hide  
Hypocrisy, Debate, Revenge and Pride.  
In short, we'll all to this Conclusion bring;  
If not with thee, there is not such a thing:  
For true Content, impartially defined,  
(And in thy Breast we see the Blessings joined)  
Is perfect Innocence, and lasting Peace of Mind.   

How much, alas! of our short time we wast  
In seeking, what we never get at last,  
The true Religion? or, at least, so get,  
As to live up to the strict Rule of it.  
But one Foundation does our Saviour yield,  
But ah! how many Pinnacles we build?  
Some, guided by false Pastors, go astray;  
Blinded are such, or will not see their way.  
Others need not be driven on the Shelves,  
Foes to the Compass, they will wreck themselves.  
Some will have the unfailing Chair their Guide,  
When any Chair would do as well beside,  
And some the private Spirit, which is Pride.  
Tomes of Dispute about the World are spread;  
The living still at variance with the dead:  
And after all their shifts from this to that,  
Their unintelligible, endless Chat,  
Nor we, nor they can tell what 'tis they would be at.  
While thus their different Tenants they maintain,  
The Atheist thinks that all Religion's vain,  
A Pious Cheat, ripened, at last, to Law,  
To shame the Crowd, and keep Mankind in awe.  
Indeed some preach for praise, and some for gain,  
And some delight in Notions dull and vain,  
And some in Texts abstruse which Angels can't explain;  
'Tis not for Age itself, much more for Youth,  
From such vast heaps of Chaff to sift the sacred truth.  
Thus while we in an anxious Laby'rinth stray,  
Without a Clue, and doubtful of the way,  
Giddy with turning round, we fall to Death a Prey:  
Away weare hurried, all our Life a Dream,  
Or slept away, or spent in the Extreme.  
Thou art, dear jack, from this hard Fate exempt,  
'Tis thou deserv'st applause, and these Contempt;  
This jargon thou not mark'st, or dost not know;  
Thou without this dost mount, with this we sink below.   

The Epicureans could not feign their Gods  
More blest than Thee; for in their bright abodes,  
In full Fruition of themselves, they lay,  
And made Eternity one sportive Day:  
Careless of all our petty Jars on Earth,  
Which they not minded, or but made their Mirth.  
So thou, in thy exalted Station placed,  
Enjoyest the present Minute ere it wast,  
Thoughtless of all to come, forgetting all that's past.   

Tell me thou man of Knowledge, who hast read  
What Cicero, Plato, Socrates have said,  
With all the Labours of the Mighty Dead;  
Inform me, when the fatal hour comes on,  
And the last sands are hastening to be gone,  
What signifies your Wisdom? do you know  
What the Soul is, or whither 'tis to go?  
Are not your Minds with dreadful Visions fraught?  
Are you not lost in the Abyss of thought?  
But, which is meaner yet, can human wit,  
Can all in Pulpits taught, in Authors writ,  
Make you, contentedly, resign your Breath,  
And free you from the slavish Fears of Death?  
An Insect's chattering, or a Dog that howls,  
Your merry Crickets, and your midnight Owls,  
Makes ye imagine Heaven has sealed your doom,  
And summons you to your eternal home:  
On every thought the Spleen strict watch does keep,  
And rides your Haggard Fancy in your sleep.   

Tell me, deny th' Assertion if you can;  
Is not my natural Fool the happier Man?  
Remorse he feels not, which the best must feel,  
Though guarded with a sevenfold shield of steel;  
And well he feels it, for who feels it not  
Has, of the two, a yet more wretched Lot.  
The Stings of Conscience (and some Authors say  
Hell Flames are not more violent than they;  
Nay, which is yet far bolder, some will tell  
There is no other, needs no other Hell)  
This Plague thou art not troubled with; thy Breast  
Is with a constant calm of Peace possessed,  
That Wings thee smoothly on to Everlasting Rest.  
No noisy storms of Nature on the deep  
Break thy repose, which the same state does keep,  
Alike, if Winds are still, or if they blow,  
And shatter all above, and loosen all below.  
No Clangor frightens thee, or beat of Drum,  
Or Visions of the dismal day of doom,  
When, trembling, some awake and cry, 'tis come! 'tis come!  
With rolling, Haggard Eyes, they gaze around,  
And think they hear the last, loud Trumpet sound.  
Startest not in Dreams, when, labouring with short Breath,  
We think weare plunging down the Precipice of Death,  
When Vapours rise, and dreadful thoughts instil  
Of hissing Fiends, and Fears of future ill:  
Thou dost not with such dozing Dolts comply,  
Nor in this worse than dying posturely;  
For to fear Death's more irksome than to die:  
Free from these horrid Apprehensions found,  
Thy Peace is lasting, and thy Rest is sound.  
Let thoughts of Death the Coward Restless keep;  
To die's no more than to drop fast asleep,  
To rest from endless toil, and wake no more  
To find those ills that tortured us before.   

What wouldst thou say, dear jack, couldst thou but mind  
The shifts, the tricks and slavery of Mankind?  
What wouldst thou say were't thou to walk the street,  
And mark the two legged Herd you'll daily meet?  
To see some passionately hug and kiss,  
And when past by, put out their Tongues and hiss;  
Some creep like Snails, and some like Monkeys walk,  
Some all hum drum, and some eternal talk;  
Some dressed in Silks, and some in double Frieze,  
And some with Foot-thick Rolls upon their Knees:  
Wert thou to see 'em drink to an excess,  
But little Reason, yet will make it less,  
And when intoxicated, draw and stab,  
And cling like a lined Bloodhound to their Drab:  
Were't thou three hours i'th' Theatre to sit,  
And hear the Fools clap Bombast off for Wit,  
Farce for true Comedy; and the good sense  
That Manly speaks, run down for Impudence:  
Were't thou behind the Gaudy Scenes to go;  
(The former Age loved sense, and we are all for show)  
There see the Fops to Leonora bending,  
Like twenty fawning Spaniels on one Bitch attending:  
Or shouldst thou there a base-born Mimic see,  
Hugged and Adored by Coxcombs of Degree,  
With nothing but his hardened Impudence,  
To recommend him for a Man of sense;  
Observe his haughty Port, and towering looks,  
That peddled once for Bread, and sold old Books;  
T' observe him scorn, flushed with a little pelf,  
Those that were ever better than himself;  
How big he looks, when any honest Pen  
Does tell how much he's loathed by worthy men;  
But vain's his Anger, impotent his Rage,  
His Valour all is shown upon the Stage;  
His Tongue is sharp, and in abuse delights,  
But blunt must be the Sword with which he fights.  
Or shouldst thou, for diversion, take the pains  
To go and see the Prisoners in their Chains;  
What Wretches, doomed to Durance, thou wouldst meet  
In Kings-Bench, Bridewell, Newgate and the Fleet;  
The Bench where many won't come out that may,  
And lesser Knaves that would, are forced to stay:  
Bridewell, where Vagrants must work out their Crime;  
The Galley Slave has a more hopeful time.  
Newgate, where Villanie's ne'er out of Vogue;  
Pimp, Padder, Palliard, Parricide and Rogue,  
Like Swine, are penned up battling in their dung,  
And with a mouldy Shoe, and mournful Tongue,  
Angle for Farthings as you pass along:  
What wouldst thou say too, shouldst thou go to Court,  
Where all our empty, Pageant-Fops resort,  
Each scorned by all, each making all his sport;  
There see the Ladies, with their high-heeled Shoes,  
Walk as their Hips were fastened on with Scrues;  
See'em thrust out, taught by some bawdy Mother,  
Their Buttocks one way, and their Breasts another;  
Ten times a Minute mending their attire,  
And mount their Topknots a yard high, or higher.  
Or shouldst thou see how many wait in vain,  
And hope Preferment none but Knaves attain;  
See Titles bought by Fops unlearned and Base:  
But Honour is as hard to get as Grace;  
For that's not so derived from Sire to Son,  
Much more with Money bought, or Flattery won:  
Show me the Man (for which the Times be praised)  
Who by his own Intrinsic Worth was raised:  
Just to serve Turns of State, put in and out,  
Him that is now carest, anon they flout;  
High Office is a constant Slave to doubt.  
shouldst thou see all this, jack, and from thy Heart  
The Truth and nothing but the Truth impart,  
Wouldst thou be any thing but what thou art?  
No, no; thou rather wouldst thank Providence  
For easing thee of the Fatigues of Sense.  
The Knight, Sir Guy, who overcame an Host,  
Was not so dreadful then, as now a Knight o'th' Post:  
With thee his perjured Affidavits fail;  
Nor can the Flatt'rer's florid Cant prevail;  
Destructive both, to human quiet Foes,  
Th' Eternal Troublers of the World's Repose.  
From Feasts thou'rt also quit and Serenade,  
(By none but Apes and Amorous Coxcombs made)  
And being so, art free from Surfeits, Noise,  
Which our loose Gallants take for lasting joys.  
Free from the Watchman's Bills, and Bully's stab,  
And the Embraces of his Pocky Drab;  
And being so, art free from Purging, Sweeting  
At Spring and Fall, with blist'ring and blood-letting,  
Nodes, Shankers, Bubo's, Ulcers not forgetting.  
Nor art thou for thy Actions called t' account,  
Or for a word old Reverend Tripos Mount;  
Where many of our wisest men have swung,  
For want of the due Government of Tongue.  
Taxes and Gabells take no hold of thee;  
From all State-Impositions thou art free:  
Payest not Excise for wearing of a Head,  
Thy Hearth, or Oven, that does bake thy Bread.   

How well are they, then, guilty of our scorn,  
That say, 'twere better thou hadst ne'er been born?  
That look on thee with a Contemptuous Eye,  
And sneer and grin when e'er thou passest by?  
As if thou wert composed of courser Day,  
Or were not formed by the same hand as they.  
But 'tis not Thee, 'tis their own selves are shamed;  
Ought that Seraphic Folly be defamed,  
That is our Main security from all the ills I've named?   

The wiser Turks when, by kind heavens Decree,  
Nature produces such a Fool as Thee,  
Make him their Care, and as a Saint adore;  
Their Mahomet himself has hardly more:  
Think they're obliged to cherish, serve and love,  
What Heaven so kindly smiles on from above,  
And fixes in a State, free from the wiles  
Of Prince's Courts, and all Earth's fruitless toils;  
While they, obnoxious to their Tyrant's hate,  
Their barbarous Policy, and turns of State,  
Are made the Prey, Revenge and Sport of Fate.  
O let us then, like them, think thee the same,  
As worthy of the fond embrace of Fame,  
And to all future Times transmit thy glorious Name!   

Hail! awful Fool, thou mighty Idiot, hail!  
Thou conqueror against whom nor Men, nor Hell prevail.  
Thy Shield of solid Dullness but oppose,  
And straight thou see'st the Backs of all thy Foes;  
Impenetrable! for w' have tried it oft,  
Compared with it, even Adamant is soft!  
What e'er his Holiness may urge in Pride,  
While on the Necks of Monarches he does ride,  
Thy Dullness is a far more certain Guide;  
What e'er he boasts of an unerring sway,  
What e'er Monks teach, and hoodwinked Bigots say,  
HE has no pretence to Infallibility any other way.   

Great was the wise man's saying (he I mean  
That wise we call, Stallion of Sheba's Queen,  
And (beside Wives) three hundred Punks obscene:)  
And, truth considered, it must be confessed,  
Of all his Aphorisms much the best,  

* Eccles. Cham 1. Ver. 18.  Much Wisdom brings much Grief, and while we here  
This ponderous load of Flesh about us bear,  
He that increases Knowledge but increases Care.  
Which is as much as if his Ghost should rise,  
And thus the Text explain before our Eyes.  
I knew, while Living, all that Man below,  
In all his height of Wit, could boast to know;  
All that our mortal Fabric can receive,  
More than e'er Heaven, before, to Man did give.  
From the tall Cedars that on Mountains grow,  
Even to the humble Shrubs in Vales below;  
All Plants the Fertile Earth could e'er produce,  
I knew their several Natures and their use.  
To that exalted pitch my Knowledge flew,  
'Twas even unknown to me how much I knew:  
But having cast to what Account 'twill come,  
I find all Ciphers for the total sum.  
'Tis nothing, nothing! all that we can here  
Attain with utmost study, search and care,  
Is but to know (yet knowledge hard to gain)  
Our Care is fruitless, and our search is vain.  
Against proud Wisdom 'twere enough to say  
It raises doubts it never can allay,  
And, being Blind, presumes to show the way;  
Or if not wholly blind, with blinking Eyes  
Would pry into abstrusest Mysteries,  
And grasp Incomprehensibilities:  
Talks but at random, varying to Extremes;  
Fond of wild Notions, and fantastic Themes,  
More Incoherent than a Madmans' Dreams.  
Thus it betrays us to ten thousand ills,  
And, Tyrant like, it tortures e'er it kills:  
Want pinches, for while thus we Books adore,  
Our Cash grows less, and Knowledge ne'er the more:  
Meagre and wan they look, and sleepless nights  
Is the main Essence of their best delights.  
Eternal Jangle! who could ever find  
Two, though of one Religion, of one Mind?  
Here One on his dear Labours casts a smile,  
Another straight unravels all his toil,  
And shows how course the Grain, how lean the Soil:  
Another does the same by him; A Fourth  
Proves all the third has said of neither force, or worth.  
And thus the Game is played from hand to hand,  
And made a Medley none can understand.  
Wisdom's but trifling, then, well understood,  
And Folly is the only human good.   
The End of Jack Pavy, alias, Jack adam's.   

TO JULIAN Secretary to the Muses, A Consolatory Epistle IN HIS Confinement.  
DEar Friend, when those we love are in distress,  
Kind Verse may comfort, though it can't redress:  
Nor can I think such Zeal you'll discommend,  
Since Poesy has been so much thy Friend:  
On that thou'st lived and flourished all thy Time,  
Nay more, maintained a Family with Rhyme.  
And that's a mark which Dr— n ne'er could hit,  
He lives upon his Pension, not his Wit.  
Even gentle George, with flux in Tongue and Purse,  
In shunning one snare run into a worse.  
Want once may be relieved in a Man's Life,  
But who can be relieved that has a Wife?  
Ot— y can hardly Guts from jail preserve,  
For though he's very fat, he's like to starve.  
And Sing-song Dur Dur —y, placed beneath abuses,  
Lives by his Impudence, not by the Muses.  
Poor C— n too has his third days mixed with Gall;  
He lives so ill he hardly lives at all.  
Sh—l and S—le, who pretend to Reason,  
Though paid so well for scribbling Doggerel Treason,  
Must now expect a very barren Season;  
But chiefly he that made his Recantation;  
For Villain thrives best in his own Vocation.  
Nay Lee in Bedlam now sees better days,  
Than when applaused for writing Bombast Plays;  
He knows no care, nor feels sharp want no more;  
And that is what he ne'er could say before.  
Thus, while our Bards even famish by their wit,  
Thou, who hast none at all, didst thrive by it.  
Were't possible that Wit could turn a penny,  
Poets would then grow rich as well as any:  
For 'tis not Wit to have a great Estate,  
(The blind Effects of Fortune and of Fate)  
For oft we see a Coxcomb, dull and vain,  
Brim full of Cash and empty in his Brain.  
Nor is it Wit that makes the Lawyer prise  
His dagled Gown, but Knavery in disguise,  
To pluck down honest men that he may rise.  
Nor is it Wit that makes the Tradesman great;  
'Tis the compendious Art to lie and cheat.  
The base-born Strumpet too may roar and rail,  
But 'tis not Wit she lives by, 'tis her Tail.  
Nor is it Wit that drills the Statesman on  
To waste the sweets of Life, so quickly gone,  
In toiling for Estates, then, like a Sot,  
Die, and leave Fools to spend what he has got.  
Nor is it Wit for Whigs to scribble Satyrs,  
No more than for their Patriots to be Traitors;  
For Wit does never bring a Man to hanging,  
That goes no further than a harmless banging.  
How justly then dost thou our Praise deserve,  
That got thy Bread where all Men else would starve?  
And what's more strange, the Miracle was wrought  
By him that han't the least pretence to thought;  
And he that had no meaning to do wrong,  
Can't suffer, sure, for his No-meaning long;  
And that's the Consolation that I bring:  
Thou art too dull to think a treacherous thing,  
And 'tis the thoughtful Traitor that offends his King.   

TO THE Much honoured and my dear Friend, D. D. Esquire. Sent him With my satire against Woman.  

SOme Men do the Fair Sex so much adore,  
That to dispraise 'em makes 'em do●t the more:  
Spurred by blind Appetite they hurry on,  
Nor see the Precipice a Child might shun:  
So 'tis but Woman, all, they think, is well,  
Though she's the steep descent that leads to Hell.  
Slaves to a smile, for one commanding nod,  
The Profligates would even renounce their God.  
Nay some have set their whole Estates to sale,  
But to redeem a Prostitute from jayl.  
To such as these, a satire of this kind  
Would scarce their favour, or acceptance find:  
But you, Sir, made by your Misfortunes wise,  
Look on that Sex with more discerning Eyes,  
By sad Experience, and your Cost you know  
How little to that treacherous Sex we owe;  
Our Nature's bane, that give Wings to ill Fate,  
Which comes too soon, even when it comes but late.  
Traced from their Youth, when vicious deeds begin,  
Till they're grown old, mature and ripe in sin,  
They're all a Quicksand, dangerous, waist and wide,  
Where if we leave fond Passion for our Guide,  
weare soon o'ertaken and overwhelmed by an Impetuous Tide;  
Th' inevitable Fate nought can restrain:  
Who can withstand the anger of the Main,  
When Winds and Waves, with equal fury, roar  
And join their strength to beat us from the shore?  
Such is the Sea when Neptune's pleased to lower,  
And such are Women when weare in their Power,  
Sooth us with Calms at first, then, Tempest-like, devour:  
Now they're all coy, a Maiden blush you'll see,  
Which some fond Sparks mistake for Modesty;  
But Modesty they've none, and never had,  
He that believes 'em modest must be mad,  
Or else must be in Love, and that's as bad.  
Woe till your Heartakes, they shall still deny,  
But then their Conscience gives their Tongues the lie,  
For mere ill Nature (not want of desire)  
Makes'em seem cold when they're all flaming Fire.  
But gained, at last, with endless toil and cost,  
You'll quickly find your Expectations crossed,  
And your Imaginary heavens all, in a moment, lost.  
For the straight Gate a gap so wide you'll find,  
As if it had been leapt by all Mankind;  
Some well-hung Groom, clasped in his Brawny Arms,  
Cropped her First-fruits, and blasted all her Virgin Charms.  
But married, the poor Slave must be content,  
He sees his Doom, and does in vain repent:  
For she that was demure, now talks aloud,  
Impertinent, expensive, slothful, proud,  
At once involves you in a Maze of strife,  
And makes you, like a Packhorse, drudge for Life;  
Nor with old age does her perverseness cease,  
But watches your last gasp nor lets you die in Peace.   

O Hymen! boast no more thou giv'st us Joy,  
Thou rather dost all humane Peace destroy;  
When thou arriv'st, our Pleasures quit their ground,  
And numerous cares whirl us an endless round,  
And no dear Interval of rest is found,  
But all black Horror, Sorrow and Despair,  
All that the damned can feel, and all that Sinners fear!   

Well says the Text, and shows to Man much love,  
That in the glorious, peaceful Realm above  
There will no Marriage, fatal Marriage be,  
No Tie of Conjugal Society:  
For should those Matches hold, contracted here,  
'Twould make us stand of Paradise in fear,  
The very Essence of our Heaven destroy,  
And prove a place of pain, but none of joy..   

Happy were poor, deluded, lost Mankind,  
If they at first, or if they yet could find  
Some decent way to propagate their kind.  
Coition, but, methinks, I blush to name  
That Act, so oft committed to our shame.  
Have you e'er seen a Dog throw down a Dish  
Of any sort of Victuals, Flesh or Fish,  
And marked how sillily he sneaks away?  
His tail between his Legs, his guilt and shame display.  
Just such a thing is Man, when he comes cloyed  
From the salacious Punk he has enjoyed.  
A knowing Man, if such a risk he run,  
Must loathe himself, methinks, for what he has done.  
Yet after all, say it short joy does bring,  
It is attended with a lasting sting;  
And all that love t' indulge it, soon will see  
Th' abhorred effects of Goatish Venery.  
It rots the marrow and consumes the Brain,  
And all the Spirit of the Blood does drain,  
That should the Principle of Life maintain;  
Then fretful pale Consumption does succeed,  
And, of Diseases, all the meager breed.   

O Woman! Woman! every way our bane!  
Though still of Marriage we must most complain!  
Even Pox, by fluxing, is in part relieved,  
But fatal Wedlock ne'er can be retrieved!  
How many Men are sunk upon that score,  
That hope to see the dawn of Peace no more?  
The account is endless, and, O generous Soul,  
I wish I could not add you to the Roll:  
The Plagues of Marriage you, at large, possess,  
No Man has more, no Man deserves 'em less.  
But since 'tis so, and since 'tis, now, too late  
E'er to reverse the hard decrees of Fate,  
You'll show the Resolution of a Man,  
To bear your Cares as calmly as you can.  
And since to those that are oppressed with Grief,  
'Tis Charity t' endeavour their Relief,  
Accept th' enclosed, and lay it in your sight;  
It was designed to do the injured right:  
To read it may divert your pains a while,  
Suspend despairing thoughts, and, oft, inspire a smile.  
So they that pick our Pockets, if they're caught,  
And at the Cart's Tail suffer for their faued,  
Though we our Money lose, our Anger ends;  
To see the Rascals lashed does make amends.    

TO THE Ingenious, and my Dear Friend, Mr J. Knight.  
Writ in the Year 1685.  
WHile I am here in a rich fertile soil,  
Which even anticipates the labourers toil;  
A Country where substantial joys abound,  
And every season with fresh plenty crowned;  
Where the blessed Natives in firm health appear  
Till they have weathered out twice forty year,  
Yet live and die without a thought of care;  
While I remain in such a Clime as this,  
And take full Draughts of harmless, rural Bliss,  
I cannot but, with indignation, frown  
At what is your Delight, the vicious Town:  
The Town, which you extolev'n to the sky,  
But I would gladly know your Reasons why.  
Though you are blest with Honesty and Sense,  
What more can you say in the Town's defence  
Than Shepherds in their State of Innocence?  
Where free from noise, and all tumultuous strife,  
They make the best of an uncertain Life.  
Ambition's deadly Rock they wisely shun,  
Where most Aspiring Spirits are undone.  
Unnecessary things they ne'er require,  
Nor beyond Nature's wants stretch their desire.  
To hoard up heaps of wealth they little mind,  
'Tis sweet Content they seek, and that they find.  
Their Mistresses are brown, of Sunburnt hue,  
But then, to make amends, they're always true.  
Here when a Shepherdess does chance to wed,  
She comes, unsullied, to the Nuptial Bed;  
But a new Comet sooner will appear  
Than any Virgin found that does so there.  
Through your lewd streets salt Drabs in Legions go,  
The Strand has, every night, its Ebb and Flow.  
Nay, to the City the same Fate arrives,  
But there the Trade lies most among the Wives:  
The Husbands they get money by their Wares,  
The Wives are forced to give to put off theirs.  
Like the Court Lady's modesty explode,  
Keep brawny Stallions (which is now the mode)  
And scorn to go to Hell the vulgar road.  
O blessed Sex! O virtuous Womankind!  
That even in damning strive to be refined!  
I grant indeed that all strict knowing Men  
Detest their loose embraces, but what then?  
We see, 'tis obvious, there is a time  
Virtue may be surprised into a Crime.  
A thousand ways they have t' inflame desire,  
And fan the blood into a Lustful Fire:  
'Tis best, then, to be absent from the Lure,  
And here, 'tis only here we are secure:  
With us that Sex is free from all trapan,  
They blush if they but look upon a Man:  
But blushing Maids are out of Vogue with you;  
The Men there blush to see what Women do.  
Bastards, we know, with you are daily got,  
And 'tis as sure they daily go to Pot:  
No Privy's free; where they in ordure lie,  
Yet sweeter than their Mother's Infamy.  
If such a thing does chance to happen here,  
It is a Theme of Horror for a year:  
The sad Offender does receive her due;  
But there they live and glory in it too.  
There many dwell seven years, and, to their shame,  
They shall not tell what's their next Neighbour's name:  
But, in this point, here's a vast difference found;  
The honest Farmer's known seven Miles around.  
Divide your Town, one part in three are Slaves,  
The next and greatest, Mercenary Knaves,  
The third Buffoons, Pimps, Fops and Empty Braves:  
The last of which, though they roar, huff and damn;  
Search 'em, they're tame at bottom as a Lamb.  
As who swears most is least believed of all,  
So big words show the Courage to be small.  
Were these three numerous herds driven from their Folds,  
We may affirm, you would not meet three Souls,  
Three honest Ones, from Charing-Cross to Paul's.  
It may be urged, the Country is not free  
From many spreading Vices, sad to see,  
Particularly, that of Knavery.  
But where, alas! where is that Plot of ground  
In which no waist, no Weeds are to be found?  
Now, here to root 'em up we daily strive,  
At London care is taken they shall thrive:  
They flourish there, grow popular and great;  
That soil is never without Knaves of State.  
That this is so we boldly may express,  
Our late Divisions testify no less,  
When Royal Power was thought a senseless thing,  
And he most Popular, that cursed the King.  
Your Lawyers are Incorporate with these,  
For they, at all times, can be false with ease,  
Side on both sides, and damn themselves for Fees:  
And though they should redress and help the poor,  
Peel 'em quite bare, and make 'em suffer more  
Than twenty hard, sharp Winters did before.  
Though all this be deplorable and sad,  
The Grievance is, in other things, as bad.  
How many vain Fops buzz about the Court  
Like Butterflies, which nature made in sport?  
But should they pay the Tradesman what they owe,  
You'll find the Peacock turned into a Crow.  
Yet these are they who such strange charms impart,  
They glide unfelt into a Female Heart:  
To get whose love, much talk and little wit  
Are two sharp Darts that never fail to hit.  
Now Coxcombs are, we know, composed of these,  
And that's the reason they are sure to please.  
Such men that Sex admire, and well they may,  
For nothing but a Fop's so vain as they.  
Nor is this all that makes the Town our hate;  
The very drink itself's sophisticate:  
For your French Wines (and yet the trash does please)  
Are grown as dangerous as the French Disease,  
Stumed, mixed, adulterate, for nothing good,  
But sharpen and corrupt the wholesome blood.  
Not that I am a Foe to the rich juice,  
If it be right and free from all abuse,  
For it helps Fancy, makes it walk as high,  
(The Muse's Friend) as 'twould, without it, fly.  
But as the Age goes now, good Wine's as scarce  
As Truth in Friendship, or as Wit in Farce.  
Free from all this, and what ere else we find  
That shocks the peace and quiet of the mind,  
The happy Country Swains supinely lie,  
In the soft Arms of kind obscurity.  
Nor Death nor Poverty by them are feared,  
Against the worst of ills they stand prepared;  
For a good Conscience is the safest Guard;  
And that they ever have, as wronging none,  
And living on that little of their own;  
And very little is a boundless store,  
To him who, wisely, does desire no more.  
More Instances might easily be shown  
To prove the Country Life excelled by none;  
But I shall mention, at this time, but one,  
One fit to crown the rest, and that shall be  
Good House-keeping and Hospitality.  
The Gentry there can dine upon a Dish,  
Two or three Eggs, or some small scraps of Fish;  
You think they're frugal, but 'tis all a cheat,  
And this, in short's the truth of the deceit;  
They spend so much on Drabs, they are not able  
To live up to their Birth, and keep a Table:  
Hence you may guests how they relieve the Poor;  
Two or three Bones, perhaps, not a bit more,  
Which Footmen and the Dogs had picked before:  
Footmen, I say, for in this Courtly Age,  
Though they want Bread, they'll have an Equipage.  
But here 'tis seen, to their Immortal Fame,  
That Charity is not an empty Name.  
For to the needy they relief dispense,  
With a free heart and general Influence.  
No man can starve, if to the Bounty shown  
They add some little labour of their own.  
Consider but these Truths impartially,  
And I dont doubt but you will soon comply  
To think as lightly of the Town, as I.   

TO My LORD of ABINGDON, etc.  
My Lord,  

Pleased with the Fate that, from the noisy Town,  
To this Retreat of yours has charmed me down;  
And, at once, freed me from the City Foes,  
That are so troublesome to Man's repose;  
The Flatterers smiles and the false Friend's embrace  
(Fiend at the heart though Angel on his Face.)  
From Tradesmens Cheats, ill Poet's doggerel Rhimes,  
Which now are grown the grievance of the Times:  
To this, add that which does Mankind most wrong,  
The Harlot's Tail, and worse, the Lawyer's Tongue.  
The Lawyer who can be a Friend to none,  
False to our Interest, falser to his own;  
For if a future doom their Errors wait,  
Where is that One will pass the narrow Gate?  
The Text that says, a Camel may as well  
Go through a Needle, as the Rich escape Hell,  
Was meant of Lawyers; for the ill got store  
That makes one rich, has made three Nations poor.  
Had I a thousand Sons, e'er one should be  
A Member of that vile Society,  
I'd in the Temple hang him up, nay boil  
His Quarters, as a Traitor are, in Oil,  
To fright all future Villains from the Soil.  
Freed from all this, and pleased I now am here,  
Where the fresh Seasons breathe their vital air,  
And all the various Fragrancies dispense,  
That, with a grateful flavour, charm the sense,  
On tuneful rapture I my thought employ,  
And am even lost in a Poetic joy..  
As when a Lark, after a gloomy night,  
The Cloudless Morn indulgent to her flight,  
Stands glad a while, stretching her airy Wings,  
Then, with a sprightly vigour, upward springs;  
So fares my Muse, who, veiled in darkness long,  
While the Town Mists obscured her humble Song,  
Does now again her wont spirit resume,  
And with gay Feathers deck her airy Plume,  
Looks smiling all around for subject, where  
T' employ her utmost skill and nicest care,  
Some worthy Theme, that, with a prosperous wing,  
She, like the Lark, may mount, and mounting sing:  
But long she need not rove, her Game's in view,  
She approves my choice, and says it must be you:  
Whose Praises she has oft longed to rehearse,  
Her dear Maecenas, Patron of her Verse;  
To bless your Choice that here set up your rest,  
Where Innocence and Honesty's professed,  
And shun the Vice that does large Towns infest:  
Where the loose courtly Coxcombs waste their Days  
In Brawls, in jilting, Game and Bawdy Plays.  
While you, in nature prime and vigor's pride,  
The gaudy fry of Vanities deride,  
Temptation still have with firm Soul withstood,  
Nor think yourself too Noble to be good:  
But, with judicious choice, have placed aright  
In useful Authors your sublime delight:  
Such as of Heaven, of God and Nature treat,  
Religious, Philosophical and great;  
These with nice Judgement, and a piercing Eye  
You search, and into hidden causes pry,  
Nature explore, make abstruse notions plain,  
And find what men well learned have sought in vain.  
Ah would the Atheist seriously incline,  
Like you, to study things that are Divine;  
Observe how God's high Wisdom does disperse  
His powerful Genii through the Universe;  
How orderly Sun, Moon and Stars advance,  
Create the Seasons, in their various Dance,  
And show their Essence not the work of Chance,  
But that some Power first made, and is the Soul  
That actuates and maintains the mighty Whole;  
Would he but faithfully on this reflect,  
With just Confusion he'd his crime reject,  
And, when unprejudiced, by Reason see  
In the least spire of grass the Deity.  
But such you rather pity than deride,  
Led on by Sin, and hoodwinked by their Pride:  
To say they're Fools they'd think a gross abuse;  
Yet, if they've sense, alas! where's the excuse,  
That can put such a Gift to such a use?  
Than Beasts why are we better, but to know  
And contemplate the Power that made us so?  
Though living these let vain expressions fly,  
And to be Hero's thought high Heaven defy,  
They're sordid Cowards when they come to die;  
The boldest of 'em shrink; unhappy Men!  
'Tis well, indeed, they see their error then;  
But ah! that should not be left last to do,  
For late Repentance scarce is ever true.  
Happy the Man that to be Virtuous strives,  
And is prepared when the black hour arrives;  
Ten thousand Fears he daily does eschew,  
That, in wild shapes, the guilty wretch pursue;  
His Smooth-pac't-hours glide pleasantly away,  
His troubles vanish and his Comforts stay:  
For of all good with which Mankind is blest,  
That of a clear, untainted mind is best;—  
Which you enjoy; for all your Actions show  
The Fountain's Purity from whence they flow.  
In Converse charming, and in courage brave,  
A lasting Eyesore to the Fool and Knave:  
Not rapt with Pleasure, nor with grief depressed,  
But to your steady temper owe your rest.   

Honour is talked of much, and some men think  
' Stead of Embalming Names it makes 'em stink,  
As being oft but nasty popular Breath,  
A Fume in Life, and nothing after Death:  
And, to their shame, it in most men holds good,  
For Honour lives i'th' Mind more than i'th' Blood.  
What signifies it, though one boast he brings  
His Pedigree from Conquerors and Kings,  
If he debase the Stock from whence he springs,  
Strips merit bare, prefers the flattering Slave,  
And is himself a Coxcomb, or a Knave?  
If he be thus, let what will be his stem,  
There is more Honour in a Dog than him.  
He only is the Honourable Man,  
That ne'er does aught unworthy of his Name.  
In this Exemplar path, you bravely show  
How far a true Heroic Soul may go:  
And then, to make the sum complete, we find  
Your Noble Birth proportioned to your Mind;  
And they both shine the more, when with each other joined.  
By Honour such as this good deeds are nursed,  
For who has this can never be unjust;  
And Justice we in all you do may scan,  
Without which, what a Brutish thing is Man?  
How undeserving the high name he bears,  
That can do worse by's Fellow Creatures, than wild Beasts by theirs.   

Nor must we here forget (what ought to be  
Admired and praised by all) your Charity.  
On those that love the Poor, what Joys attend?  
But chiefly this, he makes his God his Friend!  
Who that had Charity e'er was a Slave?  
Or who e'er wanted the relief he gave?  
Let those, ye Powers, be poor themselves, that be  
Regardless of the Sting of Poverty:  
And, to be plain, what pity can they find  
From Heaven, that are so dogged to their kind?  
Has the rich man a greater God than they?  
Or can he boast he's made of finer Clay?  
'Twas Charity redeemed us from the Sin  
Which our first Parents Fall had plunged us in,  
Set us within the view of Heaven; and can  
We do no more at his Command that did so much for Man?   

In short, who can, like you, Rich Knaves despise,  
With dull Buffoons that get their Bread by Lies,  
And the yet duller Fops that think 'em wise;  
That hate the Town, the Mart of all false Ware,  
With all the Villainies that flourish there;  
Whom Tawdry Courts to Folly can't entice,  
Those Antic Schools of fashionable Vice:  
Before all this prefers his Country Seat,  
And relishes the sweets of his Retreat;  
‛ Thinks it a Blessing London cannot give;  
So lives, nay more, and so designs to live:  
That loathes the sordid flatterer, though he be  
Beloved by Kings, and Rascals of Degree:  
That strives to counter-act the Age's Crimes,  
And be a good Man in the worst of Times:  
Who fearless can do all these worthy things,  
We ought to prise above the wealth of Kings,  
The mighty Nine united Forces raise,  
And with a noble flight adorn their praise.   

Pardon, my Lord, that I have here so long  
Done both your Virtue and your Patience wrong:  
On One I have entrenched, but blame my faued,  
Nor have described the other as I ought;  
Yet, since you condescend t' indulge my Muse,  
What you encourage, you'll, perhaps, excuse,  
For kindly you on her endeavours smile,  
And with a Bounteous hand reward her Toil.  
O had I strength to balance my desire,  
Or would the God Heroick thought inspire,  
To your high Worth a lasting Fame I'd give;—  
Nor shall it die, if what I write does live.    

TO The Reverend Mr Francis Henry Cary, etc. Upon my fixing in the Country.  

THough all Afflictions that ill Fate can send  
Against our Peace of mind their battery bend,  
We have a Refuge, if we have a Friend;  
There we stand safe, his smiles our hearts revive,  
Suspend Despair, and keep our Hopes alive.  
Permit me then, if I may dare presume  
To think your Breast retains for me a room,  
Who not deserve that Friendship I implore,  
But will endeavour to deserve it more;  
Permit me, yet, to hope your pitying Ear,  
While, by my sorrows past, I paint my present care.  
Complaining, oft, brings the sad Soul relief,  
And is a kind of Sabbath to our grief.   

Young and scarce able yet to get my Bread,  
My pious Parents mingled with the Dead;  
Both happy now, free from Misfortune's power.  
Who did pursue 'em to their latest hour.  
Industrious, Careful, Frugal still they were;  
But 'tis not Toil, Industry, Art or Care,  
That always gets a Portion for the Heir.  
Ill Fate to their Endeavours was unkind;  
They ne'er accomplished what they oft designed,  
Nor left the Orphans a support behind,  
No method, how to live, no stay, no hold;  
Such was our Case— and Charity is cold.  
Money is still an Antidote to Woe,  
For that's a Friend, who ever is a Foe.  
Nay, which was yet an equal wretched Lot,  
The little I had learned was soon forgot:  
There was foundation laid for something good,  
But razed before its use was understood.  
So oft the first Bloom of the Spring is lost,  
" Nipped with the lagging rear of Winter's Frost:  
But, ah! there's hope, that will again revive,  
But Learning blasted once, no more will thrive.  
My springing years, alas! will soon be gone,  
The Winter of my Age comes rolling on:  
The Grass does wither, and rough Winds do blow,  
My head, alas! will soon be crowned with Snow;  
Even now the Soil's too bare for such a Plant to grow,  
Which ought to be well tendered while 'tis young;  
The Branches than spread wide, and it takes rooting strong.  
Thus, e'er I knew to hope, by Fortune crossed,  
Future Preferment and my Hopes were lost.  
Else I, perhaps, the Holy Badge had born,  
Which is by you with so much Honour worn,  
As does redeem it from the Atheist's scorn:  
At least, some gainful study I had made  
My choice, nor been to various wants betrayed.  
Just as the Lark does from the Hobby flee,  
So Man from Man in his Adversity:  
When plunged in Water, if they see we swim,  
Some pitying hand may pull us to the brim;  
But sunk, though all have skill, not one will dive,  
The hapless Wretch comes up no more alive:  
So when once poor, so tedious are supplies,  
There's scarce a possibility to rise.  
Thus, failing here, to servitude I ran,  
And was a Slave before I was a Man;  
A Slave to some of Arbitrary Will,  
Learned in the snarling Art of using Servants ill:  
As if the Hireling were of courser Day,  
Brown Earthen Ware; and of right China, they:  
China, indeed, kept only for a Show,  
‛ Tother's for use, and God would have us so.  
From thirteen Years to Thirty was I tossed  
In various Stations, and much time was lost,  
In various Stations, here unfit to name.  
" Servants of all degrees are but the same.  
Though some will flutter in their Lords cast clothes,  
The only Coxcomb that my nature loathes:  
Tricked up in all his Foppery, yet, alas!  
He's but a tawdry, threadbare selfish Ass,  
Abounds in Flattery, Nonsense, lies and noise,  
Despised by men of sense, and mocked by senseless Boys.  
The servile, Rakehell French in this excel,  
And we, as servile, Mimic 'em too well.  
Among these evils, Poesy, not least,  
Took full Possession of my Careless Breast,  
And did my talk, my thoughts, and very Dreams infest;  
And, as it served old Homer, heretofore,  
Lent me its helping hand to keep me poor.  
However, thus far I my Fate must prise,  
I saw the World, and did the World despise,  
Its Vices, Follies, and its Vanities.  
Some of my time was spent in Plays and sport,  
And some (my Stars would have it so) at Court,  
Where the lewd fry of either Sex resort;  
The Nices and the Flutters there abound,  
Empty in Sense, and therefore loud in sound:  
With Parrots, too, the trifling Dames keep touch,  
Their Wit as little, and their Chat as much.  
Some time i'th' Temple too I passed, among  
That noble Science Fencers of the Tongue;  
What honest Man would herd with such a throng?  
Should a poor Countryman in Termtime stand  
One hour to see 'em crowd along the Strand,  
He'd swear the Locusts had over run the Land.  
Thus, with strict Eyes, I every Vice did mark;  
Could tell who was the Punk, and who the Spark  
That, after ten in Summer, walked the Park:  
Could see a Playhouse Strumpet gull a Lord,  
And fluttring Captains run from a drawn Sword,  
And Statesmen laugh at breaking of their word:  
Did hear Vice Virtue, Virtue Vice declared,  
And so believed by the unthinking Herd;  
The flatterer put in trust, and who was just, Cashiered.  
Though placed myself but in an humble sphere,  
Yet could I mark abuses, see and hear;  
Nor did an Ass appear through all the Town,  
But if, indeed, a Coxcomb of Renown,  
But straight I cocked my Pen, and had him down.  
Thus Error, in its rise, I strove to quash,  
And where I spared the laugh, I gave the lash;  
Hoping, at last, the vicious would reclaim,  
And better grow, either for fear▪ or shame.  
But ah! at last, I found, in vain I writ,  
In vain I threw my Shafts, in vain they hit,  
No Reformation followed, vain my skill;  
Though every Dart was sharp enough to kill,  
Yet Folly, Fops and Knavery flourished still.  
This made me, from my Soul, abhor the place  
So prone to Vice, and so averse to Grace;  
Repined at Fate that did condemn me still,  
To what was most my scorn and irksome to my will;  
And oft petitioned that I might not be  
" A Vassal longer to Dependency.   

O Heaven! still would I cry, incline thine Ear  
To a long harassed Wretch's humble Prayer:  
Riches I do not beg, nor length of days,  
Which on the Vitals of the Judgement preys;  
Let me not languish till my Sense decays:  
But long ere second Childhood does come on,  
End Life's preposterous Journey, and be gone.  
This grant, I may be Master of myself;  
And live few years in peace, in ease and health;  
Nor longer in this hated Town abide,  
Where Factions, Biggotry, Profaneness, Pride,  
Adultery, Murder, Treason, Fraud are found,  
And whirl a lewd, fantastic, endless round.  
In some far-distant Village let me live;  
A little Income let thy Bounty give,  
A little, yet enough, and not to spare,  
For where there's too much cash, there's too much Care:  
A Beechen Bowl, the Honour of my Hall,  
Will serve to hold my drink, which should not be too small;  
Nor yet so strong as should the Senses steep  
In an unwholesome, and a Deathlike sleep,  
When waking, the loose Epicure, in pains,  
Finds Tumults in his head, and fire shoot through his veins.  
There would I sport with what the Season yields;  
Cold shades, and sunny Banks, and Flowery Fields,  
Green Meadows, chirping Birds, and purling Streams,  
These, with my Maker's praise, should be my daily Themes.  
There men are dressed in their own native shape,  
Not like Court Antics, or the City Ape;  
This clad in Silks, and, which would make one sick,  
The other wrapped in Furs, two handful thick:  
Cool Serge for Summer they convenient hold,  
And Frieze, a Fence against the Winter's cold.  
designly they ne'er do their Neighbours ill;  
The Golden Age is extant with 'em still.  
Their converse, free and innocent, does tell  
What our grand Parent was before he fell.  
Under his Vine each Man supinely lies;  
While o'er his head the fatal Arrow flies,  
That strikes th' ambitious in their full Career,  
And fills the anxious thoughts of Kings with care;  
Makes 'em despise the glories of a Crown,  
And lie upon the rack on Beds of Down.  
A plain Carriage, and an honest Soul,  
A Friendly Gammon, and a Cheerful Bowl  
Y'are sure to meet; Unknowing to deceive,  
They wear their inmost mind upon their Sleeve.  
If angry, as there's none from Passion free,  
They'll not dissemble that you may not see,  
But soon will let you know it, sooner will agree.  
Thrice happy who the Country's Peace does know;  
" 'Tis an Essay, a taste of Heaven below.  
O Blessed Life! and O ye' Immortal Powers,  
Here let me pass my few remaining hours,  
Redeem the time I've lost, e'er the wide Grave devours!   

Not without Tears, thus would I oft complain,  
Thus would I pray, nor did I pray in vain:  
Kind Heaven at last inspired my Patron's mind,  
Maecenas, still to Charity inclined,  
Maecenas, noble, generous, just and kind:  
Nor shall the grateful Muse forget his Name,  
Till Virtue cease to be the Theme of Fame:  
You know his Worth, too copious to be penned,  
The best of Masters, and the kindest Friend!  
His Bounty here has fixed my wand'ring thought,  
And, without ask, gave the thing he sought;  
Far from the City, far from noise and strife;  
An easy, frugal, temperate, studious Life.   

Now, Sir, you may conclude, I thought to find  
All human things adapted to my mind:  
The Country like Arcadia I believed:  
Ah! thus too long I thought, and was too soon deceived!   

In vain we toil and labour to be blest,  
And with a swarm of thoughts our minds molest;  
We grasp but Air when ere we reach at rest:  
The slippery Wanton sometimes comes in sight,  
But in a moment mounts and takes her endless flight;  
And in ascending cries, There is no Peace  
In City, Country, Waning, or Increase,  
Till weary Life does end, and all our Labours cease.   

By sad Experience, now, I find the Swain  
Is worse than Heathen, more a Slave to gain:  
His dullness but a politic disguise  
To cheat those Coxcombs that believe they're wise:  
Though not so fine, or florid as the Cit.,  
His brutish Cunning baulks the other's Wit.  
For, like the Town, the Country's Custom's Slave,  
More full of Fool, and quite as full of Knave:  
And though Vice here is not so frequent known,  
Because the Inhabitants are thinner sown,  
Yet let regard to Quantity be had,  
Drop Man for Man, and they are even as bad.  
Half void of Reason, and quite void of Shame;  
Before they know the Person, or his Name,  
They shall expose, and gibbet up his Fame.  
Since a good name's so precious, of all wrongs,  
The worst is suffering from malicious Tongues,  
Which prove all Tortures end not with our Breath;  
For an ill Tongue can wound us after Death.   

Now what Relief?— yes, I Relief may get,  
If I could trace th' Example you have set:  
For seldom, in that Function, have I found;  
In all things, One so Orthodox and sound.  
Could I, like you, be Master of my Will,  
Keep guard on every thought that's prone to ill;  
Be ever studious of the public Good  
(As every trueborn worthy Subject should.)  
Stand fast even now when Popery does prevail,  
And, but for such as You, would turn the Scale.  
Could I (were I as able in my store)  
With the same liberal hand relieve the Poor;  
Suppress all vain, inordinate desires,  
And clip the Wings of Love's fantastic Fires:  
THE Apostasy and Error be severe,  
And make the virtuous Man as much my care:  
Could I be thus, and still be cheerful, gay,  
And just (as Heaven avert but that I may)  
I need not value what the envious say;  
Dauntless I'd stand their rage, and take the Field;  
When Virtue's our Impenetrable Shield,  
The World, the Devil, Flesh and their loose Agents yield.   
FINIS.