TO THE SOCIETY OF THE BEAUX ESPRITS. A Pindaric Poem.  
By the Author of the late satire against Woman.  
Licenced  
March 5. 1686/ 7.  
RO: L'ESTRANGE.  
LONDON: Printed for Joseph Knight and Francis Saunders at the Blue Anchor in the Lower Walk of the New Exchange, 1687.   

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 Coat be shown,  
That has 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 own You much, and blush I can so little pay.  
Sir, I am, etc.   

TO THE SOCIETY OF THE BEAUX ESPRITS. A Pindaric Poem.  

I.  
IF Poets when they undertake  
A Glorious lofty Theme,  
That does some Heroe'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,  
That are my Theme must aid me too:  
If your Assistance does my Labour bless,  
I shall not doubt Success;  
For while I writ to Men,  
That are 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.   

II.  
No tedious ways y'ave taken, not 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 some dull 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 pathless 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.   

III.  
No; you did better fix your Aim,  
And to the Honour of your Name,  
At once achieve a lasting Fame:  
When first you did your Forces join,  
When first you did your mingled Lustre twine,  
In that bright Orb in which you shine,  
Even Envy must allow,  
You merited Applause almost as much as now.  
When 'twas your pleasure to enrol  
In your famed List some worthy Soul,  
Not with the Major, but the General voice,  
You still proceeded to the 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 from selfish Members free.  
No Triflers 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 Lawyers Wiles,  
The Soldiers Brags, and the Town-Strumpets Smiles,  
The Fops gay dress that sets up for a Beau;  
With all that think they're Wits, and are not so.  
These were the Genii, these the Soul;  
And such as these compose the whole.   

iv  
Thus constituted, your bright Progress you begun,  
And 'tis a wondrous pace y'ave run:  
For to that pitch of Glory y'are arrived,  
As men of Sense admire;  
Yet you stop not, but still aspire,  
More honourable still, 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 Trap to catch themselves,)  
ne'er vex or wonder at those Turns of Fate,  
That make so many Knaves and Coxcombs great;  
Does upstart 〈◊〉 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 cheating 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;  
(And yet, to him that nicely marks,  
A Dog keeps more Coherence when he barks.)  
Thus do 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;  
And all the rest is long Oblivion, and eternal Night.   

V  
Nor is your Time misspent in Parchment Jar,  
The Hellish Bustle of the Bar,  
Where the loud prattling 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,  
And 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.  
That 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;  
Who but dear Jack? and Billy, who but He?  
Consult afresh, to raise their Client's Strife  
And make it last as long as Life:  
And yet they know the Law was meant  
What's wrongful to redress,  
To free the Poor and Innocent,  
And make their sufferings less.  
For Law were Heavenly, if't were rightly used;  
But best things grow the worst when they're abused:  
That this is so, is plain;  
For who e'er was in Law, that had not Reason to complain?  
How could Grays-Inn, or how the Temple rise,  
(Such pompous Piles, as even outbrave the Skies,  
And seem a Dwelling fit for Deities,)  
If all the Cash which such a Charge sustained,  
Had righteously been gained?  
Let 'em then 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 if not well versed in Law.   

VI  
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-Corp 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 wilful Bondage before Freedom choose,  
Bondage so heavy to be born.  
Such Brutes! They would let all the Poor  
Rot and perish at the door,  
ere they'd relieve 'em with a single Mite;  
Yet spend 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:  
Yet think not what Fate will at last befall,  
Or who stands waiting by to snap up all.  
At the Groomporters, so,  
I've seen some Fops impatient for the Throw,  
Win their Three Hands and pay,  
And still keep on their Play▪  
Till between what is won and lost,  
(Dame Fortune, like a Ball at Tennis, tossed,)  
The Box has half the Cash engrossed:  
Still they push on, nor mind the impendent ill;  
The Purse will empty, as the Box does fill.  
And so too have I read  
In living Lines, though the famed Authors 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,  
These Tongue-Antagonists, 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.   

VII.  
Nor stop you here; The Velvet-Quack,  
That wears a Leash of Lives upon his back,  
Feels your Resentment like the rest,  
For him alike disgust expressed.  
Nor does his grave Disguise,  
(Which he affects to make us think he's wise,)  
Preserve him from the Notion of a Cheat,  
That grows by purging and by poisoning great.  
How negligent they are too well 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, the Drug-compounder too,  
(Who, Leach-like, cleave to the poor Patient close,  
And suck their Purses full 'ere they break lose;)  
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 Murderer's Skill.   

VIII.  
Unhappy and preposterous Man!  
(For from thyself this Ruin first began;)  
Of all created Things  
None are so cursed as Thee!  
So cursed by their Simplicity!  
The feathered and the four-foot 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 made a thousand Keys,  
To open that one Lock, which ends his Days.  
Or if Sword, Fire, the Plague, and Tempests fail,  
They're not Quack-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.   

IX.  
No less do you despise  
The dull Astrologers gross Absurdities,  
Who through their Telescopes poor on the Skies,  
To Calculate Nativities,  
And find out Fools and women's Destinies:  
When such a one may scape being Hanged or Drowned;  
When Spirits walk, where Treasure may be found,  
At Peru, under Ground.  
When Comets do appear,  
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, Chimeras, 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:  
For how should they tell Fortunes, when 'tis known  
They are so ignorant of their Own?  
Or dive into the Intrigues of France and Rome,  
That know not what one Hour will produce here at Home?  
Can those into Fates dark Recesses see,  
And find out 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?   

X.  
In the same File with those, you do  
The wou'd-be-Virtuosi's Place,  
Tho' to speak Truth, they don't deserve the 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,  
Has in his Magnifying-Glass  
Stuck up a Crab-Louse, and does pry  
Upon't with such a heedful Eye,  
You'd think 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 the Name:  
Then into their Extraction they inquire  
And prove 'em Cousin-germen, if not nigher.  
Another does to Montpellier repair  
To bring home bottled Air;  
Extremely good to let lose 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  
Live 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 Astrologers,  
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?  
Would serious Men that saw 'em labour thus,  
And waste whole Years to be Ridiculous,  
Would such their Actions by right Reason scan,  
They'd find no other Brute so dull as Man.   

XI.  
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 Faults,  
And those employ my present Thoughts.  
How many wild Opinions have took Birth  
From Man, that lumpish Son of Earth?  
That blindly gropes on in the Dark,  
For all their Works express,  
The best of 'em but speak by guess.  
No wonder they shoot wide, that cannot see the Mark.  
Here one, the first and wisest, did not know  
But that this mighty Frame was always as 'tis now,  
And did on its own 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;  
These Atoms which (he says,) all sorts of Union past,  
Leaped 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 Schoolboy's Top;  
While all the Heavenly 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.   

XII.  
No less contradictory are all  
Their Notions of the Soul;  
So hard, so difficultly solved,  
And with so many wild Perplexities involved,  
The more we unravel, weare 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;  
As dark, and as abstruse is what they say  
Of Mankind's final good,  
As little understood:  
Here one does place it, and another there;  
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.   

XIII.  
Pardon me, generous Souls, I have digressed too long;  
Yet this Digression has not done you wrong:  
For while I show the Follies you despise,  
The Lion's skins that you pluck off, and find  
What sordid Creatures lurk behind;  
Cowards and Coxcombs, who in that disguise,  
Woven be courageous thought, and wise;  
While this I tell, Unbyast Men will guests  
By the vain Paths you eat,  
In what a noble Track 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 merit may a worthy 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 raced,  
Till the loud Trumpets general blast,  
And Nature, Death, and Time, have breathed their last.   

XIV.  
First, your Religion shall be shown;  
Tho' Zealots may, perhaps, think you have none.  
All vain Disputes you do avoid;  
Disputes, with which, of late, w'have been so cloyed:  
But chief 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 that makes the Atheist flear 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?   

XV.  
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 side you eat.  
And just as the kind Sun  
(That cheers you while he shines,)  
Has changed the Shadows, and declines,  
You I arrive safely at your happy Inn,  
When others the long Journey but begin:  
Lost and benighted, on they stray,  
And perish in their Doubt, 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.   

XVI.  
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, unfelt, the vicious Patiented ease;  
Discover his lose Deeds, and frantic Thoughts,  
And laugh him to a loathing of his fau't.  
Your Wit, which, while y'are talking, those that hear  
Can wish they were all Ear;  
So eagerly they do each Word devour!  
So winning and surprising is its Power!  
Not taken up on Trust, no plated Brass,  
But current Coin that every where will pass;  
From painful Learning, and Experience drained,  
And not without much Toil and Study gained.  
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, and his awful Port,  
That meets so much servile regard at Court,  
It justly damns, and makes a May-game sport.  
No barren Jests, or Clinches ere from you take Birth,  
'Tis Mirth to You to see Fools make it Mirth.   

XVII.  
When met, with grave Discourse you first begin,  
chaste, Moral, Learned and Wise,  
Such as all useful Knowledge does comprise,  
And even 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 eagle's Eye,  
Before whose powerful Rays, the gloomy Phantoms fly.   

XVIII.  
While thus you hold Discourse, the Gobblet's crowned,  
And twice or thrice does nimbly move around:  
Care, that disturber of our Rest,  
That grown habitual to the Breast,  
And hardly ever leaves what it has once possessed;  
Even that cursed Fiend at such a Time takes wing,  
You hardly think there's such a thing.  
Yet nothing impious 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, and by 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.   

XIX.  
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,  
Tho' 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 scorn to 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 Glory 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.   
FINIS.   

A Catalogue of Poems and Plays, Printed for H. Herringman, and sold by Joseph Knight, and Francis Saunders.  

In Folio.  
BEaumont & Fletcher's Plays.  
Shakespear's Plays.  
Sir. William Davenant 's Plays.  
Earl of Orrery's 4 Plays.  
Sir Rob. Howard's 4 Plays.  
Mr. Cowley's Poems.  
Earl of Orrery's Poems on the  
Festivals of the Church.  
Mr. Killegrew's Plays.  
Mrs. Philip's Poems and Plays.   

In Quarto.  
Mr. Dryden's Plays in 2 vol. viz.  
Indian Emperor.  
Royal Martyr.  
Mock-Astrologer.  
Granada 2 parts.  
Sir Martin Marr-All.  
Marriage A-la-Mode.  
Love in a Nunnery.  
All for Love.  
Maiden-Queen.  
Wild Gallant.  
Rival-Ladies.  
Tempest, altered by him  
Amboyna.  
Aurenge Zebe.  
State of Innocence.  
Of Dramatic Poesy, an Essay.   

By Mr. Witcherly.  
Love in a Wood  
Gentleman Dancing-Master.   

By Sir George Etheridge.  
She Would if She Could.  
Sir Foplin Flutter.  
Love in a Tub.   

By Mr. Shadwell.  
Sullen Lovers.  
Humorist.  
Psyche.  
Virtuoso.  
Royal Shepherdess.  
Epsom Wells.  
Libertine.  
Timon of Athens, altered by him.   

By Sir Charles Sidly.  
Mulberry Garden.   

By Several Persons.  
Adventures of Five Hours.  
Love in the Dark.  
The Usurper.  
The Coffeehouse.  
The Roman Empress.  
The Mayor of Queenborough.  
The Woman's Conquest.  
The Amazon Queen.  
Sir Francis Drake.  
Peleus and Thetis.   

Poetry in Octavo.  
Lord Brooks Remains.  
Sir Robert Howard's Poems.  
Mr. Howard's British Princess.  
Esq Ayre's Lyric Poems, being Translations out of several Authors.  
Sir John Sucklin's Poems.  
Sir John Denham's Poems.  
Sir Richard Fanshaw's Pastor Fido.  
Mr. Waller's Poems.  
Dr. Donn's Poems.