POEMS, Upon several OCCASIONS, And, to several PERSONS. By the AUTHOR, of The CENSURE, of the ROTA.  
LONDON: Printed by Andr. Clark for William Hensman, at the Kings-Arms in Westminster-Hall. MDCLXXV.   

TO THE READER.  
THE Weakness of some Writers, is their Privilege, and they seem protected from Censure, because they are below it; as Dwarves, are excused from Quarrels, by their want of Stature. The Generous forbear them in Pity, and the Proud, in Scorn. Upon these Hopes, the Author concludes he is safe from the mighty Critics, who, he presumes, stoop not, but to shoot over his Head, while each of them damns his Author, and so starts up a Poet, as each Brave, that kills his Man in the Field, is dubbed a Knight.  
Occasional Addresses, He has not the Vanity to think longer-liv●d, then Monthly Flowers, which look gay, for a little Season, and please, but while they are fresh and keep their Scent. More he cannot wish, then that they should be smelled to, ere they are thrown away: And if you credit him not in this, He must for ever curse that Fate, which Poets, have in common with all other Liars; not to be believed by others, when they speak Truth, though the Wretches believe themselves, when they Lie.   

To His GRACE GILBERT, LORD ARCHBISHOP of CANTERBURY.  

SUch the old Patriarches were, with such a hand  
Led they their Flocks, and ruled the Holy Land.  
Such gentle Crosiers wielded they, when first  
Their tender Lambs and Proselytes they nursed;  
Guarding the Churches Pale by their strict sway  
From sacrilegious Thief and Beast of Prey:  
(Their Fences and Enclosures kept with toil,  
Secured their Diocese, or Fold, from spoil)  
Such once were they, when in their Groves they slept,  
And Company with none but Angels kept.  
They their bright Visions had at such an Age,  
And glorious things could from their Dreams presage.  
From these your Virtues are derived, and You  
(The Church's Patriarch and Apostle too)  
Sharing with them beside their ancient Seat,  
What Prim'tive is, Apostolic, or Great  
Kind Providence thus wisely had decreed,  
E'er yet she placed the Mitre on your Head,  
When she installed your Primate-Soul to heir  
The High-Priests Throne and Patriarchal Chair.  
To fit you for so Eminent a Scene,  
Your Consecration she performed within.  
Such deep Experience gave, as would surpass  
The Compass of a Patriarch's long-lived Glass.  
Their lasting Vigour too with this she joined,  
And unimpaired Abilities of Mind.  
The grave Authority of a Heathen Sage,  
With the clear Wisdom of Prophetic Age.  
Such Innocence as primitive Times might own,  
With Courage, such as would a Martyr crown:  
These Blessings all constellated in You,  
Proclaim, your great Ascent was but your due,  
No bribe of Fortune, or blind gift of Chance,  
Your Virtues Right, and your Inheritance.   

While th' Earth was wide, and Planters but a few,  
And that the World's first People slowly grew.  
The Lambs and Doves for Sacrifice increased,  
And multiplied much faster than the Priest.  
The Cath'lique Church, that is, the Circumcised,  
Was in a Family or two comprised.  
The Priestly Office and Paternal Care  
Descended from the Father to the Heir;  
He, th' holy Ephod wore, and did succeed  
Head of that Church, in which he first was bred.  
The Flock was little, and but small the Charge,  
The pastoral jurisdiction than not large.  
Your Lordship now is worthily possessed  
Of more than six High-Priests enjoyed at least;  
(Raised by degrees to such a Sacred Height,  
As Titus in his hundred Mitred Crect.)  
Your Charge is greater, but your Care no less,  
Your Heart's enlarged, as well as Diocese.  
Those fond Relations in the Church begun  
With the dear Names of Father and of Son,  
Live still; but since the Church increased her store,  
A greater Fam'ly 'tis, than 'twas before.  
Sure, when a Province at your Feet does fall,  
Your Love shows nobler in adopting all.  
So Abrams Church that with his Offspring grew,  
Kneeled for the Priest's and Parent's Blessing too.  
How great's that Love which in your soul takes place!  
That can a Province with that ease embrace  
As if it Lambeth were, and make it share  
A Father's Fondness and Domestic Care.  
Though from your Centre 'tis, that you dispense  
Your nearer and director Influence;  
You pierce those places that remoter be,  
And all parts heat, though not to that degree:  
Thus when the Sun to all the World gives Day,  
He warms all, yet not with an equal Ray.  
He paints the Flowers with a purple Light,  
And gilds the shining Mine with Looks more bright.  
On simpering Pearl he half a Smile does shed,  
And Rubies dies with half a Blush of Red.  
But darts a Beam far fairer than the rest,  
To ripen Spices, and perfume the East.   

Great Souls, and those for Public Rule designed  
Seem furnished out, and framed, to cheer Mankind;  
Extending still to fit their Sphere, they swell  
Till they the measure of their Circle fill:  
Still overflowing for the public Use,  
And pouring out what they can never lose;  
Emptying themselves, but yet no want confess,  
Cannot impair, nor cannot yet be less:  
Free as the Air, and unconfined as Light,  
Which all enjoy, and to which all have right;  
For should they wast, or could they be enclosed,  
Our Breath were sequestered, our Sight deposed:  
To you, that cannot be sealed up or spent,  
We all lay claim, as to an Element.  
All to your Love, or to your Care pretend;  
Hope you their Patron, or wish you their Friend.  
Or on your Bounty feed, and Favours live;  
Or from your Interest their support derive.  
Your Goodness cheers, or Greatness all protects;  
Lustre on these, or Warmth on those reflects.  
Thus diff'rently illustrious you appear,  
According to your different Character.  
So equal both your Honours, none can say  
Whether Bishop, or Baron does outweigh.  
Which does outshine, or more exalted show,  
The Coronet, or Mitre on your Brow.  
Brave in both Shapes, and glorious in each Sphere,  
The greatest Prelate, and the greatest Peer.   

Nor is your Life less comely, or less clean,  
In your Recess, than in the Public Scene.  
Those gay Adornments which every your Mind  
Are not with Robes put off, nor yet confined  
To the Show-day, and to no longer last  
Than the Solemnity, or Pomp once passed:  
When all dismissed, you lay aside your State,  
Your Train of Virtues hold their constant wait.  
The truly Gallant keep their Court within,  
And are attended by a Train unseen.  
Their Masques are secret, and their joys unknown;  
Their greatest Triumphs are, when all alone.  
What the best Prelates should be, that are You,  
(Their Orders Chief, and Orders Glory too)  
Your Practice all may into Precept draw,  
Your Life is Rule, and your Example, Law:  
A Pattern of that Doctrine others teach.  
You act their Knowledge, and by living, preach.  
So sacred is that Hand! which still assists  
In crowning Kings, or consecrating Priests.  
So large that Heart! of which no Measure lives,  
Unless your Theatre its Model gives;  
Both to succeed might claim (while we applaud)  
JUXON the Confessor, and Martyr LAUD.    

On the OXFORD Theatre.  

THose glorious Heights which Art of old did raise,  
Lived uncommended in their own first Days.  
While yet their Pinnacles did newly rise,  
And they possessed a new place in the Skies;  
The gazing Eyes of all they on them drew,  
Admiring slowly what as slowly grew.  
Their Fame they spread by being longer known,  
And growing older, doubled their Renown:  
This goodly Pile, born in the present Age,  
The Pens of after-Poets shall engage,  
Making their Verse immortal with its Praise,  
The Argument their Crown, and Theme their Bays.   

The silent Muses, conscious of their shame,  
Urge their Amazement to excuse the blame.  
They in astonishment and wonder lost,  
No more the glory of their Numbers boast.  
For what above the height of Verse does rise,  
And with best Poets Lines for lasting vies,  
Requires no Muse to celebrate its Name  
Itself does best to all itself proclaim.  
It's Eloquence their Silence does excuse,  
Poet itself, and to itself a Muse.  
A various Fate commuting each Extreme,  
theatres speak, while Poet's Statues seem.   

Greatness, as its due, this Respect may claim,  
Due to the Fabrick's and the Founder's Fame;  
That this Age should not hastily presume  
To write, what Story is of all to come.  
But when the Interval of Wonder's past,  
And the Amusement does no longer last;  
This Theatre that makes our Age admire,  
Succeeding ones shall in its Praise inspire.   

But had the beauteous Frame been reared of old,  
What Divine Tales the Wits had of it told!  
Then had we heard, how some Amphion played,  
And touched those Strings which the Foundations laid.  
While dancing Stones which did in Measures close,  
To various Sounds, in various Figures rose;  
Advancing still in comely Ranks, till all  
Did into Order and Proportion fall.  
Their Fairy Seats they had from this derived,  
And all their Scenes of Bliss like this contrived.  
This than had been, though with another name,  
The Palace of the Sun and House of Fame.  
Ovid had built, and shining Pillars placed,  
Where Virgil's Hand had rich plain Figures cast.  
Th' Egyptian Kings that with Embalming kept,  
Long uncorrupted in their Marbles slept,  
Their Royal Bodies in their Tombs enthroned  
With greater Pomp, than others have been Crowned:  
Though Living, they less nobly dwelled than Dead;  
Had here, their crowned Heads more richly laid.  
This had been numbered with the blessed Abodes  
Of Oracles, and Dwellings of the Gods.  
This with their Shrines and Monuments had vied:  
Gods here had lived, and Princes here had died.   

This to the Work. But what should all erect  
In honour of so wise an Architect?  
Who th' Image yet unborn did entertain,  
And housed the Theatre within his Brain.  
There once it stood, so great, so strong, so fair,  
And so adorned; as now it does appear.  
Each Part its measure, use and place possessed,  
Without the least encroachment on the rest.  
Distinct, as Platonists those Beauties feigned,  
Which in Ideas their First Mind contained.  
The Intellectual Theatre appeared,  
As in the Fancy by a Builder reared.  
And laboured with less noise, but not less Art  
Than that, to which it Pattern did impart.   

What is the Founder's due? whose brave Soul gives  
As largely as the Artists hand contrives.  
A Soul, like his Skill, vast, like his Work, great;  
Capacious though that be, of more Receipt.  
If that for hugest Crowds does place provide,  
This more receives, and opens yet more wide.  
So full of Room, and of so free Access,  
As neither Straitness knows, nor Emptiness.  
Many such theatres lodge in that Breast,  
Where this at largest, a small space possessed.   

Such as of old their Courage did employ  
To root out Monsters, or their Foes destroy;  
Who saved their Country from the Lion's Den,  
Or from such Wolves, as Men were then to Men:  
But Heroes were, and triumphed in the Field.  
They were their Gods, that taught them how to Build.  
Who new Worlds discovered, Fame less renowns,  
Than who the old World varied with new Towns.  
If Bacchus for one India found, had praise,  
A Pair of Gods the Walls of Troy did raise.  
Who Empires Bounds with Conquests did enlarge,  
Or with Plantations farther off, orecharge,  
Did add, to what already was too vast,  
Who Built, adorned and beautified the Wast.  
Thus Nature one World, Art another made,  
Or else the Old World with a New inlaid.  
Art with her People too, her World did grace,  
With carved Colonies, and a Marble Race.  
The numerous Offsprings of a fertile Line  
In long Successions did of Statues shine.  
And to the younger Ages than were shown  
Their dead Forefathers living shapes in Stone.   

A Pillar or Coloss, preserved their Fame,  
Their Images did half their Honour's claim.  
Nor did alas! Inscriptions always speak  
The noble Roman, or the gallant Greek.  
How many Stones, whose Titles now defaced,  
(Time carving new Marks to supply the razed.)  
Attend this Fabric, and at distance wait,  
Expecting yet with it, a braver Fate?  
Others but from their Monuments derive  
That Name, which SHELDON to his Pile shall give.  
Maintained by that, as by the Bvilder's hand,  
It long as Time, firm as Himself shall stand;  
And Structures yet unborn as much outlast,  
As it in Height transcends all Buildings past.    

To Her Highness, the Princess SOPHIA, Duchess of Brunswick and Lunenburgh.  

AS when the Hea●en gilded first, the Sun  
Darts Beams successively, and one by one;  
His pointed Glories spread so close, between  
Their shining Trains, no naked Sky is seen.  
While each strikes not the Eye apart, they seem  
But one unbroken, and continued Beam:  
Your Highness thus, when dazzled Eyes survey,  
Each Grace distinguish not, nor mark each Ray,  
No more than in the Sun each bright Drop see,  
Or every Star within the Galaxy.  
One great collective Globe of Light we view,  
All of one piece, and yet each Glory new.   

Beauteous all without, all within Divine,  
First, in yourself, next, you to others shine.  
So Heaven, which fairest of itself does show,  
Contributes too, to all things fair below.  
Rich, in those jewels which your Sex adorn,  
More than in those, which in your Crown are worn.  
Ensigns of Majesty, and Robes of State,  
Are by your personal Ornaments made great:  
Your Mind resplendent to the like excess  
In Royal Ermines, or its private Dress.  
The greatest Queen, that ever climbed a Throne,  
And greatest of your Sex, without a Crown.   

Did Plato live, his Wish he might enjoy,  
And see what he thought, like fair Spirits coy.  
His Virtue now has Shape and Colours took,  
Such Features wished he for, and such a Look:  
A Brow, so undisturbed and so serene;  
The moving Thoughts are all in Prospect seen.  
A Heart, with tame and gentle Passions blest,  
And quiet, as the brooding Halcyon's Nest.  
All black and troubled Thoughts far thence remove  
And all is white, as gall-less Breast of Dove.  
Love, does its airy Transports there employ,  
Without such Tumults, as calm Peace destroy.  
joy there from all harsh Notes of Sorrow free,  
With Music keeps its lasting jubilee.  
And that Delight, which does good Acts attend,  
Commences Revels, which shall never end.   

What wide Extremes are Neighbours in your Mind?  
Princelike August, and yet like Woman kind!  
Your Majesty with your soft Sex complies,  
And with a double Beam shot from your Eyes;  
Lofty at once, and gentle does appear,  
Nor yet too tender seems, nor too severe.  
Such gay Innocence from your Aspect springs,  
As smiling Angels show, or Infant Kings.  
This Affabil'ty which with State does meet,  
Makes Empire great, and Conversation sweet.  
Pleasant, as Birds that all their life-time sing,  
And cheerful, as the Morning-Light, or Spring.  
Though these coincident we rarely find,  
An awful State with charming Sweetness joined.  
Yet while you reconcile a different Height,  
And move at once our Wonder and Delight.  
You all our fixed Eyes with change relieve,  
And to the Prospect's Bounty largely give.  
Greatness familiar made, seems to invite  
The weakest Eye to fix on easy Height.  
Ascent it is, but not in steepness high,  
Nor inaccessible to Feet, or Eye.  
But such whose top Sight travels up with ease,  
Led up and down by Steps, and just Degrees.  
As in free Prospect, where our Eyes pursue  
Objects soon changing, and each object new;  
This rising Hill the Sight first climbs, and then,  
Comes gently down to that descending Plain.   

Though Power owns no Peer, you oft descend  
To be an Equal, and in that a Friend.  
Your Throne this humble State has higher shown,  
Making each Step below, an under-Throne.  
Your smaller Royalties to Crowns pretend,  
Best private Lady, Mother, Wife and Friend.  
In lesser Shapes, and low Relations seen  
A petty Sovereign, and a little Queen.  
Not like Heaven only, you descend to bless  
Your lower World, with scattering Influences.  
But as in Visions most exalted Show,  
The lofty Heavens humbly seem to bow.  
While Earth and distant Clouds, like Neighbours bound,  
And falling Skies afar off kiss the Ground:  
So, when Humility your Height does hide  
(Humility, the noblest Prospect's Pride.)  
Like Heaven, you seem let down to our weak Sight,  
Yet then like Heaven, you keep your shining Height.   

But your large Heart beyond your Rule extends,  
So vastly good, it knows no Shore, nor Ends.  
So wide extended, and so full a Breast,  
The World less habitable is at best.  
Those little Spots which in the Globe we view,  
Stand thicker there, and their dimensions true.  
So many Kingdoms though your Thoughts embrace,  
Great Britain holds the first and chiefest Place.  
If that does situate farther off appear,  
Your kindness to Great CHARLES beholds it near.  
Your Bosom gently lays up his Affairs,  
And half the precious Treasure with him shares.  
As your Alliance a new Kindred were,  
Cousens as in Love, so in Thought and Care.   

Your own you govern with a Mother's hand,  
And Strangers like Domestiques too command.  
Both subject to as mild a Sceptre's sway,  
As what your Passions, and your Thoughts obey.  
With softness you prevail, and gentle Charms,  
More than ruder Conqueror's, by force of Arms.  
Your Sceptre all subdues, or brighter Eyes,  
All Subjects makes, or makes all your Allies.    

On the Duke of NEWBURGH's Entertainment, and Music.  

SO large the Bounty of those Woods, which give  
What these spread Board's as largely yet receive!  
So fair the Venison in their Forests bred,  
Which on these Tables fairer show, now Dead!  
That which to praise, those which such Presents make,  
Or these, which th' huge Presents all entire take,  
We are in doubt whether each Dish apart,  
Or Plenty we should most commend, or Art?  
All, we are sure, have equally expressed  
A Royal Hunter Master of the Feast.   

How many Parks and Chases call him Lord?  
That pay so vast a Tribute to his Board.  
Those various Bodies that thus thick are strowed  
Covering his Tables like another Wood;  
Which with their fertile Brood's piled up so high,  
Show, as when once they darkened all the Sky;  
Both Flesh and Fowl, all that his Feasts adorn,  
His Subjects are, and in his Forests born.  
The Natives of the Air, and of the Field,  
All beneath his Trees live, or in them build.  
The Birds that from long flights abroad are come,  
Find in his Boughs, their young and little Home.  
Couched in his Shades, the Deer, their Youth there led,  
Their Shelter seek, their Food, and grassy Bed.  
All to their sovereign's Sports must fall, even those  
Whose Horns, or Tusks, did guard them from their Foes;  
Escape not his Toils, by their armed Heads, or might,  
Nor from his Shafts are saved, by Heels, or Flight.  
The noble Stag, who Subjects Darts disdained,  
Pierced by his Prince, as with best Purple stained,  
And brave in Wounds, gladly resigns his breath;  
A prouder Name receiving from his death.  
Deriding base Toils, the haughty Boar  
The Royal Spear dies with his richest gore.  
Both in their Walks, no Rival-Brute did know,  
Nor of their Herd, nor Man's, a Tyrant-Foe.  
No Horse, nor Hounds, till now their shock could stand,  
Preferred to perish by their Master's hand:  
To his victorious hunting-Arms they bow,  
And his Lance, as his Sceptre great allow.  
From meaner Wounds preserved, and common Fate,  
Both, on the Triumphs of his Pleasures wait.   

To him they owe, that they thus nobly bled,  
To him no less, that we commend them Dead.  
Prepared they seem, and dressed, in being chased,  
More of the Hunter, than themselves they taste.  
Each Bit all Venison is, and each Bit such,  
As proves diviner Venison from his Touch.  
As where his Dart had struck, it did infuse  
A rich, a fragrant, and delicious juice.  
The Royal Hand that Seas'ning does impart,  
Which far transcends all Relishes of Art.  
So many Honours thus on these conferred,  
More than on the unhappier living Herd,  
Thus from the rest distinguished; they appear  
Ranked with the other wild Provisions here.  
Advanced by Favour to a prouder Place,  
Than what they in the Park possessed, or Chase.  
Dogs, in the number of the Waiters set,  
Their Prey attend, with their Companions met,  
The Game they caught, their silent Hopes pursue,  
And hunt, though with less noise, yet still as true.   

What they with sound of merry Horn did get,  
And killed with Music, is with Music eat.  
The Artists Sounds maintain so swift a Race,  
As they resemble in their Flight, the Chase.  
They touch their Instruments so quick and small,  
We can but only hear them touched at all.  
So quick their Notes, as Time does not advance  
Divisions so short-lived in Minute-dance.  
Small, as those Air with Whispers struck, does bear,  
Notes, which are lost, long ere they reach the Ear.  
Soft and swift, as the Spheres in Motion chime,  
'Tis Angel's Music, kept with Angels Time.  
So sung they, and so played, as they had proved  
The selfsame Passions, which in us they moved.  
Our trembling Heartstrings, touched with the same Hand  
As that, which does their Instruments command.  
Their Strokes returned in Echoes all unseen  
From Souls of the like Harmony within.  
Whether Man's Love or Rage, they made their Theme,  
They wound our Spirits up, to each Extreme.  
If Wars they boasted, or of Nymphs complained,  
On our Affections both alike they gained.  
Th' Italian Voices pleased, and mocked us all,  
Near us they rose, yet did at distance fall.  
The Eunuches, vying with the Trumpet's Throat,  
Which farther stretched, or higher raised their Note.  
Both teaching us with pleasure to compare  
The different Effects, of wanton Air;  
When easy Nature does it free impart,  
Or when constrained, and elevate with Art.  
Voices so tender, and so sweetly shrill,  
With Delight pierce the Sense, and Wonder fill.  
Trumpets so soft, as gently stroke the Ear,  
Not wounding us with Pleasure so severe  
As those that catch the Breathes of dying Men,  
Such Blasts as these, would make them live again.    

On a fair Lady, looking in the Glass.  

THe Sun beholding so as he does pass,  
His floating Face in Water's liquid Glass,  
The glittering Circle, with delight surveys;  
And heavens, on their own bright Reflection gaze:  
Seeming to view with an admiring Beam,  
Another Sun, and heavens, in the Stream.  
As she with only looking on, portrays  
The glorious Image, darted from her Rays;  
Surprised, to see what on a sudden there  
Has started up, so young, so fresh, so fair.  
Her Shadow, with such curious Art does gild  
The shining Mirror, with a new Light filled,  
That well may she with just Amazement eye,  
What only can pretend with her to vie.  
Her other Self, like Her, surprised does show,  
Her Features mocks, and mocks her Wonder too.  
The Amorous Glance in striving to excel,  
Does seem to court her ever here to dwell.  
Proud of the transient Shape, it does present,  
Could gladly wish it fixed, and permanent.  
Fixed, as those Statues we in Gardens place,  
Viewing in Fountains still their carved Face.   

Could it alas, her Portrait but retain!  
It would endure no other, Figures slain.  
What her Stamp seals, as sacred to her Smile,  
No soiling Look, profanely would defile.  
Or should there any Beauties be, that dare,  
Their Spots, or Graces, by this Glass compare;  
Her Eyes, before theirs, thus it would prefer,  
In flattering them, by truly showing Her.   

Nor would the sweet Impression stamped in Air,  
So lovely have appeared, or half so fair;  
Did not the same Resemblance polish give,  
And Lustre add, to what should it receive.  
She dressing by her Glass, her Glass has dressed,  
And richly with her airy Shape possessed.  
But when too soon the fair unkind retires,  
The short-lived Beauty that shined here, expires.  
And as the beamy Glance does disappear,  
And vanishes, we know not how, nor where,  
Leaving no Print behind, no feeble Ray,  
That might discover where it once did stay.  
The brittle Sphere all darkened thus, will mourn  
The frail Glory lost, it did return.  
And of her radiant Likeness then complain,  
That naked as it was, 'tis left again.    

The Thought. To a Lady, enquiring after him in his Travels.  

SInce in the Travels of your Thought,  
One, chancing from the rest to stray,  
Your Commendations to me brought,  
And th' Errand done, would needs away.   

Though I could longer entertain  
The little Traveller with me,  
And wished for all its fellow-Train,  
And all its pretty Company.   

Yet since from me, it needs would part,  
I wished it back again with you;  
But than I wished too, that my Heart  
Might as its Page, or Lackey go.   

I wished for flying Coach as brave,  
As artificial, and as fair,  
As any Thoughts of Fashion have,  
When they ride out, to take the Air.   

Postilion too, and all things gay,  
As any of the Noble rest,  
The Thoughts of Quality, that stray  
From out the Lodgings of your Breast.   

My flying Hat and Pumps I'd try on,  
Could I but swift as Post-Thought go;  
So like the Post-Divine I'd fly on,  
Both winged above, and winged below.    

Petrilla, in jewels.  

THese Diamonds and noble Gems,  
Which Nature of that price esteems,  
As she such precious Goods conceals  
Locked up in Coffers of their Shells,  
As there, her little Treasure hoarded lay,  
Till Light, whom no Recess can blind,  
Her Riches hidden thus does find;  
And having with a gentle Beam  
Smoothed first the rough unpolished Gem,  
Brings forth its pretty Smiles to sight of Day.   

These, to their Parents, Sun, and Earth,  
Owe their bright Parentage and Birth;  
From Earth, a Mother's Blessing have,  
As Sun, their shining Portion gave:  
But to their fair Possessor more they owe;  
Their Mistress, for their Service had,  
Does Beauty, and does Riches add,  
That Dower, which their Parents sent,  
As she improves, she does augment;  
They Legacies, she jointure does bestow.   

Pearls, borrow still from her more white,  
And Diamonds, a greater Light,  
Till doubling both their dazzling Ray,  
Their pointed flames create a Day;  
Day, springing from her Glories, and their own.  
Ah! may not we to cruel Her  
Their rocky Hardness too refer.  
She Love receives with such a scorn,  
As she amongst them had been born,  
And were amidst the Gems obdurate grown.   

All Eyes yield to the radiant Stone,  
Itself to no force yields alone.  
She, fair like them, and hardly fierce,  
Vnpierced herself, does others pierce;  
Though they, and she, pierce with a different Dart.  
For if both boast a powerful flame,  
Their Power yet is not the same;  
And we acknowledge still, her fires  
Superior are, and master theirs,  
Their Lustres strike the Eye, but hers the Heart.    

Greatness in Little.  

IN spotted Globes, that have resembled all  
Which we, or Beasts possess, to one great Ball;  
Dim little Specks for thronging Cities stand,  
Lines wind for Rivers, Blots bound Sea and Land.  
Small are those Spots, which in the Moon we view  
Yet Glasses these, like Shades of Mountains show;  
As what an even Brightness does retain,  
A glorious Level seems, and shining Plain.  
Those Crowds of Stars in the populous Sky,  
Which Art beholds as twinkling Worlds on high,  
Appear to naked, unassisted Sight,  
No more than Sparks, or slender points of Light.  
The Sun, a flaming Universe alone,  
Bigger than that, about which his fires run;  
Enlightening ours, his Globe but part does gild,  
Part by his Lustre, or Earth's Shades concealed;  
His Glory dwindled so, as what we spy  
Scarce fills the narrow Circle of the Eye.  
What new America's of Light have been  
Yet undiscovered there, or yet unseen,  
Art's near Approaches awfully forbid,  
As in the Majesty of Nature hid.  
Nature, who with like State, and equal Pride,  
Her Great Works does in Height and Distance hide,  
And shuts up her Minuter Bodies all  
In curiour frames, imperceptibly small.  
Thus still incognito, she seeks Recess  
In Greatness half-seen, or dim Littleness.   

Ah, happy Littleness! that art thus blest,  
That greatest Glories aspire to seem least.  
Even those installed in a higher Sphere,  
The higher they are raised, the less appear,  
And in their Exaltation, emulate  
Thy humble Grandeur, and thy modest State.  
Nor is this all thy Praise, though not the least,  
That Greatness, is thy Counterfeit at best.  
Those swelling Honours, which in that we prise,  
Thou dost contain in thy more thrifty Size;  
And hast that Pomp, Magnificence does boast,  
Though in thy Stature, and Dimensions lost.  
Those rugged little Bodies, whose parts rise,  
And fall, in various Inequalities;  
Hills, in the Risings of their Surface show,  
As Valleys, in their hollow Pits below.  
Pompous these lesser things, but yet less rude  
Than uncompact, and loser Magnitude.  
What Skill is in the frame of Infects shown?  
How fine the Threads, in their small Textures spun?  
How close those Instruments and Engines knit,  
Which Motion, and their slender Sense transmit?  
Like living Watches, each of these conceals  
A thousand Springs of Life, and moving Wheels.  
Each Ligature a Lab'rynth seems, each part  
All wonder is, all Workmanship and Art.   

Rather let me this little Greatness know,  
Then all the Mighty Acts of Great Ones do.  
These Engines understand, rather than prove  
An Archimedes, and the Earth remove.  
These Atom-Worlds found out, I would despise  
Columbus, and his vast Discoveries.    

Beauty of Chance.  

WHo Nature busy in her Shop have seen,  
And with the Mistress too, her Handmaid, Art;  
At work on what her Mistress did begin,  
And filling up, and finishing each part.   

Have in their curious Search, yet nothing found,  
For Workmanship, or Beauty, to compare  
With what blind Fortune fashions under ground;  
Nothing in Art so gay, or Nature fair.   

The Tulip-buds raised by her gentle hand,  
Prove Chance not blind, but we that call her so;  
Who, neither how she forms them understand,  
Nor how the Blind can Skill in Colours show.   

If Nature to these Flowers lays a Claim,  
Why do they not her steady Laws obey?  
Like Fortune's Subjects, they are ne'er the Same,  
And Chance, their Queen, less fickle is than they.   

Roses, in their first Crimson dress appear,  
Lilies, their ancient Braveries display,  
And Violets the same blue Mantles wear,  
They wore, on their Creation's great Show-Day.   

But Tulips each new Year, their Robes have new,  
Fertile in Colours, with the fertile Spring;  
All Shades pursuing still, save only Blue,  
The Seasons Changes, marked in theirs they bring.   

These, that like freckled Beauties now appear,  
Their freckles gone, boast clearer white and red;  
Their Colours changing with the changing Year,  
They, with new Smiles and Blushes die their Bed.   

Those which sprung from their Mother's painted Womb,  
In naked Yellow, show a tawny Skin;  
In new Successions fairer yet will come,  
And white, as in their naked Smocks be seen.   

The Widow, in her Royal Purple veiled,  
That hangs her head, till her short Mourning's done;  
When she her time of Widowhood has wailed,  
Light Colours, and stripped Indian Silks puts on.   

Their several Streaks and Stains who thus would trace,  
As vain a Project, and successless tries;  
As he, who Proteus paints with one fixed face,  
Or limns the necks of Doves, with all their dies.   

The changed leaves of each new Flower, change anew,  
Nay, each Stripe, disagreeing dies does bear,  
As on each leaf, new Tulips grafted grew,  
And each apart, a Crop of Glory were.   

Their Folds, all unlike their pied Neighbours blown,  
Various, as Folds of Taffetas appear;  
All paintings of the Garden show in one,  
And all the differing Motlies' of the Year.   

The particoloured Buds thus numerous bred,  
The Children are of married Light and Shade;  
From their Coition formed i'th' Tulip-Bed,  
Brought forth, by Fortune's Midwif'ry and aid.   

These more compounded, Fortune's Stroakings make,  
Those mingled less, Marks of their Parents bear;  
The Purple, their black Mother's Features take,  
And their white Father's lineaments, the Fair.   

Could living fair ones, living Tulips so,  
As they resemblances in Beauty hold,  
Like resemblances in their Changes show;  
Changing more lovely still, as they grow old.   

Could Lover's Beauties, like the Florist's, bloom,  
And ever blow afresh, they would not grieve,  
That those impairing Years which are to come,  
Take from their Loves, what they to Flowers give.    

Magnificence under Ground.  

IN that deep Gulf, where all past Times are thrown,  
Where waning Moons, and setting Suns are gone.  
There, Months, and Days, extinguishing their Light,  
Are lost, and buried in eternal Night.  
Our Father's Ages, and our Youth there cast,  
Our Yesterday, and their thousand Years past.  
All hid in that thick Darkness, which invades  
Newborn Man's fair Paradise, and blessed Shades.  
Man's Heaven on Earth, to us as much unknown,  
As that Heaven in Reversion Man's alone.  
Our Parents Labours, vanished with their Ground,  
Both under Water once, ne'er since were found.  
Sunk in that Flood, when th' Earth lost in the Deep,  
As in the Sea of Chaos, lay asleep.  
Till rising Billows, into Hills did swell,  
As their sunk Spaces, into Valleys fell.  
That World, the Deluge whole at once drank down,  
Time yet in parts, and by degrees, does drown.  
Time, which stronger than a full Sea does run,  
Wi●h a High-Tide comes ever flowing on,  
And with a lawless, and impetuous sway,  
Bears all that would control its force, away.  
Those Bounds set by Fame, having once o'erflown,  
Their Shipwrackt Spires, are in low Water shown.   

Were there a Globe, in which we all could see  
The World reversed, in Fates Geography.  
Could we the Ancients Drowned Lands all there view,  
And with them, all their buried Treasure too.  
The vast Plantations of all Ages Dead,  
The fallen towers, and Towns in Ruins spread.  
The Cities, and Inhabitants, there thrust,  
Cities, now measuring new Bounds in Dust;  
And with their Suburbs stretching by degrees,  
Until, they border on th' Antipodes;  
Their enlarged Limits downwards cast so far,  
As they Confiners, on Earth's Centre were.  
Compared with this dark Globe of all below,  
How small a Point, would this Globe of ours show?  
Or what of th' Old World's standing, or the New,  
With what the Graves of both, conceal from view.  
All that remains yet high, or strong, or fair,  
In vain we equal to those Relics there.  
What Death under the Tropics has possessed,  
What beneath each Pole, what from East to West;  
That little left unburied of the Mass,  
Does in Circumference, as far surpass  
As both the Northern, and the Southern Dead  
In Number, all the Living Race exceed.   

In this low World's dark Countries under Ground,  
Geographers, another Rome have found.  
Those Amphitheatres that climbed the Sky,  
Climb downwards now, and are in Earth as high.  
So great their Ruins, and so proud their Fall,  
Their Height reversed, they are in Depth as tall.  
Troy, Thebes, and Carthage, sunk long since, did go  
Metropolis'es' to the World below.  
Their Empire, and their Height, translated there,  
Leaving no Marks of their old Greatness here.  
The Tyrian Princes dead, new Honours boast,  
Themselves, more richly with their Purple lost.  
Egypt's black Kings enshrined with th' Idol-Rat,  
Embalmed, thought once immortal too, as that;  
From rottenness of vulgar Graves though free,  
They linger out a long Mortality,  
Kept fresh some Hundred years of Death, those past,  
Mix with the Ashes of their Tombs at last.  
Some place unknown, as th' Head of their own Nile,  
Their Royal Dust deposed, confounds with Vile.  
Their Monuments, with them, themselves inter,  
And in their Quarry fall, and Sepulchre;  
Swallowed in that vast Heap, where all things lie,  
That are unborn, and all return, that die;  
In that Abyss, all Springs of Being's sleep,  
As Rivers, lost within their Mother-Deep.    

The Intellectual Prospect.  

IN Prospects opening wide to our large view  
A Country far removed, yet near in show.  
Our Eye, quick as heavens great-short Journeys makes,  
Measures the Bounds, and Distance over-takes.  
The Valleys, humbly falling here, surveys,  
Who, on themselves in Streams betwixt 'em, gaze.  
Ascending there, with prouder Hills does rise,  
Hills, seen far off above the falling Skies.  
Strays in the Woods uncut, and those cut down,  
The Wood of Buildings, thronged into a Town.  
If, besides these, aught in the Prospect lives,  
Which Life adds to the whole, and Motion gives;  
Flying Fowl above, moving Men below,  
With those Sight flies, with these, it does but go.  
The differing Shapes and Species seen in Air,  
Which filled, and furnished out the Hemisphere;  
In the same Order pass into the Eye,  
And in that small Sphere, Plains and Mountains lie,  
Their Greatness undiminished, and their Height;  
Invading yet no other Object's Right:  
Each, filling by itself, its entire Place,  
Distinguished from the rest, by distant Space.  
The Eye, with unknown Art, does all contain,  
And with like Art, transmits' 'em to the Brain.  
The Landschape's varied Scene resembled there,  
The same appears in Fancy's Hemisphere.  
Hills, whose blue Height at distance filled the Eye,  
Like Hills, in the High Countries of the Sky;  
Seem in the Thought as full of lofty State,  
High without raising, without swelling great:  
Vales, without falling, low; and new Vales seen  
Without Reflection, in the Streams between.  
The Woods, where Beasts, or herded Men abide,  
As thick are planted there, and near their side  
Fantastic People too, in false Fields move,  
And Fowl, in larger Fields of Air above;  
Swift, as the winged Thought, that feigns their flight,  
Yet never soaring out of inward Sight;  
Though with their fancied Wings, they higher fly,  
And traverse all th' imaginary Sky.   

Fancy, all these Resemblances does trace,  
Each Figure frames, and for each Figure, place.  
Moulds all the Shapes, shapeless itself, as Air,  
Abounding yet, with all presented there.  
Though void of Colour, as the naked Light,  
Or what no less is unadorned, the Sight;  
Does Clouds in Thoughts of several Colours show,  
And all the gaudy Pride o'th' Heavenly Bow:  
Gild these Clouds, a brighter Thought does run,  
Shines without Beams, and seems to mock the Sun.  
Yet blinding not the Intellectual View,  
Though it breaks forth, as glorious as the true.  
The Image of the radiant Excellence  
Copied from Art, or copied from the Sense.  
Huge, as that S●n, which Notion does descry,  
Or small as that, which strikes th' unlearned Eye;  
When seeming there, to fix his wand'ring Light,  
He fills the little shining Globe of Sight;  
While the heavens enclosed in those small Spheres move,  
Straitened no more, then in the Spheres above.  
The little heavens there abridged, the Mind  
Far more enlarged presents, and unconfined.  
What in Extent is vast, in Depth, or Height,  
All that approaches near to Infinite;  
Extremest Distances, and endless Space,  
The Mind, without dilating does embrace,  
Climbs Precipices, of unknown Access;  
Sounds Gulfs, unfathomably Bottomless;  
And in itself, th' Advantages presents  
Of Prospects from great Deeps, or vast Ascents:  
The Stars above obscured by greater Light,  
Shining below, as in some Pit's false Night;  
Without descending into Darkness there,  
Sees better, in its own enlightened Sphere.  
Then, like as it were lifted up on high,  
The Earth's low Globe, it does far off descry;  
Small, as one of the Moon's Earth-spots in show,  
Which seems a point of Land to those below.  
The Mind extending thus its large survey  
Beyond the Bounds of Darkness, and of Day,  
All Objects sees, itself alas! alone  
Hid to itself, and ●o itself unknown.  
What Bright Things dazzle not, nor Great confound,  
Nor in the Multitude of many's drowned;  
Surmounting all, is with itself overcome,  
Knows all Abroad, and Stranger is at Home.    

The Revolutions of Fate.  

AS none of all the Elements there be  
So uncompounded, and from Mixture free,  
As we can say, so far this pure extends,  
Here that begins, or there the t'other ends.  
For limits, or partitions they have none,  
Or those they have at least, to us unknown.  
So, in the Civil Elements of States,  
Which seem thus varied by resembling fates;  
Strangers and Natives both alike have place,  
And variously compound a mingled Race.  
What the first Planters, or first Kings engrossed,  
Is in wide Fields of long Successions lost.  
Their ancient Boundaries as much unknown,  
As the Right Lines of all those Ages gone.  
The same Sea, with new Waves does ebb and flow,  
So while one Age does come, another go,  
The Race inherits still the Common Name,  
Though not one Individual is the Same.  
Each Hundred Years, new Natives rise; the Change  
In some few Centuries, is yet more strange.  
For notwithstanding all that Time has won,  
It has but won from Generations gone.  
Though Commerce by degrees some Change may gain,  
Yet Kingdoms, in the gross, the Same remain.  
But Conquests, in an instant do translate  
The Form of the depopulated State.  
And like those lesser Tributary Seas,  
Each of which, Homage to the Ocean pays;  
The little Kingdom's Names no more are found,  
In one great Empire swallowed up, and drowned.   

The lesser Revolutions, and the great,  
Which Wars, and Traffic, introduce in State;  
Some Correspondence, and Resemblance bear  
With those are wr●ught by Water, Earth, and Air;  
Which in their Intercourse maintain a Trade,  
Their layings out, by come in defrayed;  
Importing such new Riches to their Store,  
As equal, what Exported was before.  
Commuting thus in kind, till they receive  
All that the Bounty of Exchange can give.  
When they the Priv'ledges of each invade,  
Their Laws once broke, War puts a stop to Trade.  
Th' Invader then new Liberties does gain,  
And turns the Fields, into a liquid Plain.  
While foreign Deluges, the Coasts o'ercome,  
Land-Flouds, in Civil Wars, wast all at home.   

So many Changes, as the World has proved,  
Which most of its old Landmarks have removed.  
Earthquakes o're-turning Hills, that long had stood  
The Monuments of some forgotten Flood;  
While the usurping Main, has Islands rend  
In rude divorces, from the Continent:  
So many wild Confusions, Fate has wrought  
In Governments, to various Ruins brought.  
A formidable Force prevailing here,  
One Limb of Empire from the rest, does tear;  
Leaving no Marks, that guide us where to find  
It once was leagued, nor where it first disjoined.  
Those Heights of Power there, their fall begin  
From Rebel-Motions of their own within;  
Standing, like ancient Hills, of Rise unknown,  
Yet strait beneath the common Level thrown:  
Like Earth opening itself in Graves, thus Power  
Itself does all at once itself devour.  
Or like the Deep, of Islands half-possest,  
It drowns the Bounds, and sets afloat the rest.   

Nor Islands yet more turns of fortune share,  
(Though neither stable in their Earth, nor Air)  
Nor prove more Fates, than Governments have run,  
By many Arts first raised, by more undone.  
What Floods, and Earthquakes, Hurricanes and Storms,  
What all, or each of these apart performs,  
Confounding all the Laws of Place and Site,  
Vandals and Goths have done, t' extinguish Right.  
The World's first Owners from their lost Seats fled,  
Their Arms long since have disinherited.  
Th' usurping Families, and Leaders new,  
The Seats of Empire all translated too:  
We dig in Ruins deep, for what lies hid  
With dark Oblivion of the Grave o'erspread,  
And of old Lands and Planters so much know,  
As Maps of old Names, yet obscurely show.  
Their antiquated Titles only read,  
They're spoke of, as the Countries of the Dead.  
Such slight Remembrances of all survive;  
We doubt, if yet our Fathers once did live.  
Their ancient Homes so changed, we hardly know  
Whether they be the Same they were, or no.  
That Barbarism, which Western Thrones possessed,  
Fills now the learned Chairs of all the East.  
Egypt a Den, and Greece turned Wilderness,  
Wild Beasts dwell there, where Sages did profess.  
Their Sophies now, succeeding in the place  
Of the lost Picts, and painted Britain's Race.  
Thus Learning has Seth's Pillars far outgone,  
And Power, beyond th' Herculean Columns run.  
Thus spreading Arms and Arts at once extend,  
No Thule, nor Ganges know, nor utmost End;  
Unbounded both, as Alexander's Heart,  
Or what was larger, Archimedes Art:  
Bold Archimedes, had his Boasts proved true,  
Th' Old World had moved, had he found out the New.    

Light.  

DIvinest Excellence, that Mortals see!  
Bright Cloud, and Shadow of the Deity!  
Who, fairest Stroke of Heaven art in view,  
An Angel in each Beam bearest, and Heaven too.  
Thou, like those youthful smiling Beauties there,  
Ever young appear'st, ever smiling fair:  
Young, as on thine own, and the World's Birthday,  
When Light newborn, smiled with an Infant-Ray.   

Spirit in Glory, Spirit too in Race,  
Thou Angels Wings, joyn'st to thine Angel's Face.  
A Venus, on the Wing of each Ray moves,  
Venus, descending with her Silver Doves.  
So swift, thou through the World dost journeys make,  
Night, as it steals, thou almost dost o'ertake.  
Though fast as the Blind run, she hasts away,  
To hide her Nakedness, from peep of Day.   

The little Birds thou wak'nest in the Groves,  
To tell in Songs, the Stories of their Loves.  
But first the Cock, thou raisest from his Dream,  
With crowning to salute thy dawning Beam.  
Thy Curtains then half-drawn, a glance dost throw,  
To wake Day's slumbering Images below.  
From out new-rising Clouds, new Colours peep,  
Which once unborn, did in their Shadows sleep.   

While Darkness over all had spread a Shade,  
This World, which Beds for all the Living made,  
Looked like the World of Graves below, where Dead  
In lower Rooms slept, as Living, overhead.  
Thin Shadows, did for grosser Bodies walk,  
And Ghosts of Objects, did for Objects stalk.  
All Being's, lay unsorted in the dark,  
Known by no Seal, nor differing Stamp, nor Mark.   

But when the Resurrection we behold,  
And Chaos disappears, and what looked old.  
Young Nature in her Morning-Dress we view,  
With rosy Cheeks, and Face new washed in Dew.  
Fresh, as the blooming Spring, she does appear,  
Or what is Emblem, of the circling Year;  
Which changing Youth, and Beauty does adorn,  
As Time is still in new Successions born.   

As thousand of thy subtle Darts, do pierce  
The shaded Spaces, of the Universe.  
The painted Scenes above, at once they show,  
And gay Dominions of the Eye below.  
All gaudy Royalties of Sight, that lie  
Extended far, as the blue Sea and Sky;  
What Heavenly Gaiety is, or Earthly Pride,  
Light stained is, or Light diversified.   

What paints the Woods, and what the Gardens bear,  
Are all thy various Fashions, which they wear.  
The Trees with Blossom fair, and big with Bud,  
Are clad according to the Seasons Mode.  
Plums, with the Year's, their Fashion changes show,  
In greener Youth, and in their Age's blue.  
That mellow Purple, which does Peaches crown,  
Bloudless Cheeks promised first, and early Down.   

The Virgin-Rose, in Infant Colours shown,  
A fuller Blush displays, when fully blown.  
And Tulips, springing from their striped Bed,  
Show fainter first, than deeper white and red.  
Thus Nature's Pictures, framed of Light and Shade,  
At different times, have different Colours laid;  
And after many Variations past,  
Their perfect Strokes, and Stains receive at last.   

But no where yet thou dost vouchsafe to show  
Such Bounty, or such Riches, as below.  
When thou descend'st, to give a beauteous Birth,  
To more refined Veins, of shining Earth.  
To ripen Silver Mines, thou dost convey,  
A Lustre, like the Moon's, a paler Ray.  
But treasur'st up thy richest Beams in Gold;  
Gold, by whose Beams, the Sun himself's controlled.   

Even barren Rocks, that nothing would produce  
Of real Value, or substantial Use,  
Thy precious Influence makes to teem with Worth,  
When they all Diamond, and all Gem break forth.  
By thee, within each Angles prison shut,  
Gems, fairer are, then by the Artist, cut:  
They dancing Lustres dart, but Crystals are  
Thy constant, and transparent Thoroughfare.   

Could we thus still thy Flight pursue, and trace  
Thee in thy Travels, and thy pathless Ways,  
Soaring above the Clouds, a pitch so high  
As thy Bright Home, and Residence does lie;  
Eagles, that dare the Sun, cannot behold  
Those dazzling Glories there, thou dost unfold:  
Glories, that all unsullied still remain,  
Which no Shades dead, nor Exhalations slain.   

There, stamped in Stars, thou dost for ever shine,  
Or in such Shapes, as Visions paint Divine.  
Those naked Souls, which Bodies left undressed,  
With Bodies such as thine, themselves invest.  
These, as thy Nature, Distance does obscure,  
Or, our weak Eyes cannot such light endure.  
Ah, why hast thou so many Beauties shown,  
And Angels, and thyself concealed alone!    

Air.  

SPirit and Soul of all, which art let in  
To every Breast, and like a Soul, unseen,  
Interest without disturbance, noise, or strife,  
The smallest Passages of Sense, and Life;  
Which, open to thy soft Access as free,  
As the least Pores of Heaven, or Earth, or Sea:  
Working, i'th' World without, as ours within,  
A State of Life, untroubled and serene.   

Such equal Measures, as the Pulse does beat,  
The Breath, in quick Returns of Air does meet.  
What Motion, Nature, or resembling Art  
Does give, by thy Conveyance they impart;  
Whilst with an easy and a gentle Gale  
Thou fill'st each spreading Wing, and flying Sail,  
That soft and smooth like thee, they cut their way  
Through the blue upper, and the lower Sea.   

Through those white waving Clouds, that ebb and flow  
Like the resembling Waves, that roll below,  
Thou spread'st; extended where the Sight does fail,  
As wide as Ships can fly, or Birds can sail.  
These in thy Race, thou leavest far behind,  
Though Wings, they seem to borrow from the Wind;  
And both the navigable Sky, and Sea,  
Yield of themselves, to make their passage free.   

When Arrows, in their pointed flight do tear,  
And Bullets, with their round Wounds gore the Air;  
Before it opens, but to have them gone,  
And closes soon behind, to push them on.  
To strokes of Sounds, it does consent to yield,  
As it were tickled, and with pleasure filled;  
And loath to lose them, when their flight they take,  
It keeps them long, and fled, recalls them back.   

How is't, that they are lifted up on high?  
Or being lifted up, how is't, they fly?  
Which Wings are they, that Sounds transport? Which they,  
That wand'ring Odours, from afar convey?  
What Hand can steer them in their Course so right,  
And wand'ring in so many paths, unite?  
How can they at such Distance meet? and there,  
At the same instant be, that they are here?   

By what Art is it, that the same Sounds strike  
The Ears of many Hearers, all alike,  
And pierce the Sense so quick, when scattered wide  
And far dispersed, they many ways divide?  
What secret Pipes, and Cavities unknown,  
Transmit them so distinctly, one by one?  
Where are those lost, which start aside, and stray,  
Since nought can intercept them in their way   

How seems the Horn, to snatch the Air so short,  
And so the News, of each Success report,  
And all the Business, of the Chase declare,  
As remote Hunters in the Pleasure share?  
In what wild Notes, does War approach the Ear,  
When Trumpets, bring a distant-Battel near,  
And Sounds, seem so to skirmish in their flight,  
As they in Air, began th' approaching Fight.   

Some, perishing for want of stronger Breath,  
In gentle Whispers lost, and silent Death.  
Others, expiring in their last rebounds  
Killed by the Thunder, of more potent sounds.  
Some, vanishing into a softer Sigh,  
As some, with the short Gasps of Echoes die.  
Th●se, in deep Groans, or piercing Shrieks are fled,  
While those drop down, which stronger force does dead.   

What various Changes, in one Trumpet meet?  
As Sounds increasing, did new Sounds beget.  
So thick they issue, and succeed so fast,  
As each, did strive to overtake the last.  
With double speed, each hasting to repair  
The Breaches, which the former made in Air.  
Each Breath, which does that single Throat inspire,  
Swells pregnant, with the Consort of a Quire.   

And as in Notes, so thus in Voices, none  
Is found, or like another, or our own.  
Whence is't, of many Speeches which we hear,  
Each strikes a differing Stroke, upon the Ear.  
Or which way are these Changes wrought, that frame  
Voices distinct, the Breath unvoiced the same.  
Since Air, which varies in so many Keys,  
Is of itself, nor Treble, Mean, nor Base.   

Does not the Speech these several Stamps partake,  
Passing through Organs, of a differing make?  
What Breath in Fifes, mocks the Winds whistling noise,  
Poured in a Horn, turns to a hoarser Voice,  
Is shrill in Trumpets, and what high they raise,  
In Bagpipes, dwindles to a feeble Base.  
Nay, even in the same Organ, some Pipes go,  
As high at once, as some run flat and low.   

If such Variety, we can pursue,  
In Voice, and Sound, where every Breath is new.  
What is there in the Motion of each Sphere,  
Set to that Music, which we cannot hear?  
That heard, regardless we, should all neglect  
The toils of Life, and listen with Respect.  
All Noise, and Tumult here below, would cease,  
And all return, to an harmonious Peace.    

To a Lady, on her Picture.  

FAirest, where were these Colours sought,  
Which full of their own Heaven shine?  
Such Shades below were never wrought,  
And no Art here, is so Divine.   

May we not think these Features, were  
Th' unseen Art, of a Hand unseen?  
None knows, in all that does appear,  
Where these Lines end, or those begin.   

Knitting of Parts together, seems  
The finest Sight, to pose as much,  
As the soft moulding of the Limbs,  
Or the smooth Skin, the slenderest Touch.   

Cheeks, young and ruddy, as those fair  
Young rosy Beauties, have above;  
Which old Age, shall no more impair,  
Then Angels Beauty, or their Love.   

Though no false Rays, encircle round  
This Face, as those of heavenly frame,  
Yours, is with its own Glory crowned,  
And bright, without a borrowed flame.   

The Colours, seem wrought all in Light,  
And your Face, so divinely fair;  
That though you have no Wings, for flight,  
We fear, you'll vanish into Air.   

Such is the Artists happy fate,  
Such your own, and your Pictures due;  
That Judges say, one Angel sat,  
For what, another Angel drew.    

Dreaming of her.  

WHo gaze upon the Sun, are brought  
To paint it fairer, in their Thought.  
The Glory, which their Eyes does blind,  
Let brighter thus into their Mind,  
Does make a clearer Day, break out  
Within, while all is Night without.  
Her Shape, seen thus by inward Light,  
While Sleep, drew Curtains o'er my Sight;  
Did but that Image, then restore,  
Which waking Eyes, adored before,  
And closing full of her, withdrew,  
And kept the Object, still in view.   

Though Faces seen but once, we find  
Copied, in th' all-resembling Mind.  
And some, the Memory shows more plain,  
Keeps fresh, and longer does retain▪  
Some soon blots out, in a lost Thought,  
'Cause first in fading Colours wrought.  
Their Lines worn out, till a Review,  
Does varnish o'er their Strokes anew.  
No Memory sure, like mine, e'er proved  
So constant, to the Face it loved.  
She entertains my Sight all Day,  
And does all Night, before me stray.  
The fairest Light, I waking view,  
And th' Angel, in my Visions too.  
I have no Thought, but of my Love,  
All others, she does far remove,  
And makes them give place, and resign,  
That she may thus be wholly mine.   

But if the World at large is seen,  
In the Minds Looking-Glass within.  
How comes it then, that mine alone,  
Of many Shapes, reflects but one?  
Alas! it is but reason, she  
Should be a single world, to me.  
Since others, in their greater Store,  
That World divided, but adore,  
Which I in her contracted view,  
Who, every day seems to me new.  
While She, in one shape, does unite  
All that is fair, divine, or bright.    

Having seen her Like.  

Heavens bless me, what was that? my Fair,  
Or some enlivened piece of Air?  
Or was't her Genius, in her Shape,  
Or what of her, does Eyes escape?  
Which having only changed its Shroud,  
Did now shine through another Cloud.  
What other thing beside, so Like,  
Could or my Sight, or Fancy strike,  
And thus have her Reflection wrought,  
Both in my Eye, and in my Thought.  
Has Nature, learned from duller Art,  
One Stamp to fair ones, to impart,  
And cast her Beauties, in a Mould,  
That they may all Resemblance hold;  
And given us this her first Essay,  
To show the Rule, she must obey?  
No, no, 'twere pity that, though She,  
Might Standard, for all Beauties be.  
To make her Common, would abate  
Her Value, and bring down her Rate.  
Since things so Wondrous, and so Rare,  
All, Phoenixlike, unfellowed are.   

On surer grounds, we may pretend,  
That Angels, in her Shape descend.  
And cause her borrowed Soul of Light,  
Was first perhaps, a Cherub's Right.  
Some Spirit, or some Soul, dropped down,  
Her Form, mistaking for its own,  
Has snatched, and in her Likeness dressed,  
Has stole thus, from among the Blessed,  
And personating her, has worn,  
Her glorious Body, in Return.    

The Bounds of Sight.  

WHen some vast Space, the Sight encloses round,  
And does within its narrow Circle bound.  
That Land, which Distance does so far remove,  
As none beyond is seen, nor none above.  
Which crowned with an exalted Height does show,  
And that proud Height, crowned with an heavenly ' Blue;  
Imposes so on the mistaken Eye,  
It seems no rising Earth, but falling Sky.  
As if the Mountain, did not there ascend,  
But Heaven descending softly, on it leaned;  
And seemed to rest, upon that hanging Height,  
Which half way rose, to meet the glorious Weight.   

As parts, in Prospect situated lie,  
They pass with differing Shades, into the Eye:  
Those nearer to the common Level seen,  
Presented in a fresh, and youthful Green.  
And what afar off does approach the Sky,  
From that, its tincture borrows, and its dye.  
Th' extremest Bounds of Land and Water, bear  
The self same Colour, with the depths of Air.  
A false Blue, claiming from their Place, and Site,  
The Privilege of Distance, and of Height.  
The Sea, appearing like a greater Glass,  
Through which both Heaven, and Earth, reflected pass,  
Does this above, in its blue Surface show,  
And that presents, in its green Depths below.  
The Eye let down, with a descending Light,  
Finds in the hollow, of each Cave, a Night.  
Such Darkness, shut up in each Depth, does dwell,  
It seems to enter there, a little Hell.  
The Sight, as it on differing Poles does move,  
Discovers Hell below, or Heaven above.  
With an erected Beam, ascending here,  
Le's in the Day, to fill its opening Sphere,  
There, falling on some Deep, it puts to flight  
The greater Light above, and lets in Night.    

The Union of Friendship.  

TWo Sexes, Marriage does unite,  
And makes both, one Hermaphrodite.  
But Friendship, has the power alone,  
To make two, of the same Sex, one.  
Friendship, where e'er it does take place,  
Marries the Lineage, and the Race,  
Adopts new Kindred, and new Blood,  
Takes Strangers, into Brotherhood;  
And by this new Choice, seeks to mend  
What Miscarriages, on Birth attend.  
Relations, which are born, not made,  
Our Love invite not, but invade.  
For what Affection can there be,  
Where there is Difference in Degree?   

If it be lawful to compare  
A lesser, with a greater Sphere,  
Each House, a Kingdom is in short,  
And governed, like the Turkish Court.  
The Wife, no Office seems to have,  
But of the Husband's prime she- Slave.  
For she apart no Rights can claim,  
Nor has no Title to her Name.  
The Child's Condition nearest suits,  
With the dumb Duty of the Mutes:  
Nor Word, nor Bond, can he engage,  
But lives a silent Pupillage.  
When once the Sultan Father's dead,  
The Eldest does of right succeed,  
And thrusts the younger Brothers down  
From their Inheritance, and Throne,  
Their Line's hereditary Place,  
And private Palace of their Race.  
In arbitrary Families,  
Which seem Domestic Tyrannies,  
Parents, with Turkish Rigour sway,  
Friends, ruling th' European way,  
So equally their Power share,  
As they, all elder Brothers were.  
Who, Brothers in the same Womb lay,  
Cannot more Brothers be, than they.   

Two Members, are not paired, like Friends,  
And when compared, are not more Twins.  
Nor so to the same Flesh allied,  
Nor closer knit, nor firmer tied.  
Two Eyes, that brother-rays unite,  
And twist them in one Point of Sight.  
Nor in their Balls so like appear,  
Nor mingle not their Beams, so near.  
Though both the sympathising Pair,  
Agree, in what is foul, or fair.  
Two Ears, that both the same Sound meet,  
And are both by the same Nerves knit,  
Are not so matched, though the same Sound,  
Or both does stroke, or both does wound.  
Two Feet, that evenly contend,  
United in the Way, and End,  
Less equally their Course direct,  
And their conspiring Steps connect.  
Nay, what is more than all, Two Friends,  
In their resembling Souls, are Twins.  
As equal Strings, with Love unknown,  
Move both, when one is struck alone,  
Their trembling Heartstrings set alike,  
One joy does touch, one Grief does strike.    

The Echo.  

WHere do these Voices stray,  
Which lose in Woods their Way?  
Erring each Step anew,  
While they false Paths pursue.  
Through many Windings led,  
Some crookedly proceed,  
Some to the Ear turn back,  
Ask, which way to take.  
Wand'ring without a Guide,  
They holla from each side,  
And call, and answer all  
To one another's Call.   

Whence may these Sounds proceed,  
From Woods, or from the Dead?  
Sure, Souls here once forlorn,  
The Living make their Scorn,  
And Shepherds, that lived here,  
Now ceasing to appear,  
Mock thus in sport the Fair,  
That would not grant their Prayer:  
While Nymphs their Voices learn,  
And mock them, in Return.  
Or if at least, the Sound,  
Does from the Woods rebound;  
The Woods, of them complain,  
Who Shepherds Vows disdain.  
Woods, and Rocks, answer all  
To the wronged Lover's Call.  
How deaf soe'er, and hard,  
They their Complaints regard;  
Which Nymphs with Scorn repay,  
More deaf, more hard, than they.    

The Whisper.  

FAirest, what means this close Address,  
As if you would a Hearing steal?  
Since Words were given Thoughts to express,  
Why should soft Words your Thoughts conceal?   

While thus your Mind to breathe you teach  
A Language secret, as your Thought;  
You sin against the End of Speech,  
Which when it hides, to lie is taught.   

The whispering Air, so soft does steal,  
As conscious, whom it must obey,  
Your Secret yielding to conceal,  
Without the least Sound, slides away.   

Unwilling to spread far the News,  
As dreading, to displease the Fair;  
It does through secret Pipes diffuse,  
As loath, to mix with Common Air.   

Your Words, with silent Motions slide,  
As gently, as from you they came;  
From ways of Noise, they far divide,  
And leave the Road, of common Fame.   

I'll hunt them out where 'ere they bear,  
And breathing close, their Steps pursue;  
And as I gather in the Air,  
Each Breath, shall voice the Words anew.    

The Inconstant.  

CEase, Faithless, cease reproaching me,  
With your own loved Inconstancy.  
Unless, while you such Change pursue,  
You think, even Constancy is new,  
And that your Heart, so used to roam,  
A Stranger were become, at Home.  
I left you not, but you, inclined to stray,  
Call my removing that, which was my stay.   

Thus they, that leave the Shore behind,  
Call the removing Land unkind,  
As if it did from them recede,  
When they, in truth from it are fled.  
And thus with Old Men it appears,  
In the Travel of many Years.  
With like Truth, they the World for changing blame,  
Themselves still changing, and the World the same.    

The Modest Fair.  

AMong so many Voices as we hear,  
Imprinting different Sounds, upon the Ear.  
Our own, does so imperfectly return,  
As we the Words, more than the Sound discern.  
Among so many Faces, as the Eye  
Distinctly copies, for the Memory,  
In Lines as various, as they first were shown;  
We rarely see, or seen, forget our own.  
What then remains, but that we should direct  
Both Face, and Voice, to what will both reflect?  
Hid to ourselves, our Friend's impartial Praise,  
The best Reflection of ourselves, does raise.  
Why will not you, our Praises then admit,  
Who, best our highest Eulogies can fit?  
Claiming Applause, the more Applause you eat,  
At once above Flattery, and Detraction:  
Your Modesty, does so our Praise o'ercome,  
It moves our Envy, and strikes Praises dumb.   

The greatest Glories of this World, seem so  
To gaze on meaner Beauties here below;  
Exposing their fair Lights to common View,  
But shine not to themselves, no more than You.    

To a Lady, playing with a Squirrel.  

IF Music, wild Herds tameness taught,  
And on rude Savages has wrought,  
And from wild Throngs, to Cities brought.   

What gentler Power, and softer Flame,  
May such commanding Beauty claim,  
Whose silent Music, Beasts can tame?   

What force is in your naked Arm,  
That does the little satire charm,  
And of its savageness disarm?   

The boldest of the Wood-Nymphs Race,  
Could not this Savage thus embrace,  
Or court it, with so rough a Grace.   

To act his Sports, you him persuade,  
To show what crooked turns he played,  
And doubles, he in Hunting made.   

You teach him all his Pranks, and how  
He leapt from Tree to Tree, and now  
His dance cut short, from Bough to Bough.   

As through High Woods rough ways he passed,  
His shady Tail behind him cast,  
Nuts, browner than himself to taste.   

Happy, in climbing you, to show,  
How he the Top Branch climbed, and so  
Ran down the Boughs, in stairs, below.   

A braver Height, he thus does soar,  
Upon your lifty Shoulders bore,  
Then his High Travels knew before.   

As pleasant, and as frolic now,  
While you his merry Tricks allow,  
As dancing, on a bending Bough.   

Though wild, he had his Liberty,  
What Tree to perch on, and what Tree  
His Nuts to gather from, as free.   

Nor Nuts, nor Freedom were so sweet,  
As what he in a Chain does meet,  
Vnperched, and prostrate at your Feet.    

Bathing herself.  

HAppy, this wand'ring Stream!  
Which gently proud does seem,  
As it had ne'er before,  
So rich a Burden bore.  
Swelled with her Body now,  
It does with joy o'erflow.  
Th' exulting Waves forget  
The Limits to them set;  
With joy now swelling more,  
Then e'er with Rage before;  
Her Breast yet lightly raise,  
To measure its smooth ways;  
While her soft Arms divide  
The Current on each side.  
Which in new Circles broke,  
By every bending Stroke;  
Thus troubled, does appear,  
As struck with Sunbeams, clear.   

From out of Water, ne'er  
Did rise a Shape, so fair,  
Nor could it e'er to Sight,  
Reflect a form, so bright.  
Such sweetness, nor such grace,  
Shined not in Venus' Face,  
When froth did it enclose,  
As 'bove the Waves it rose,  
And in white Circles crowned  
The whiter Goddess round.  
Less pleasing she did show,  
Her naked Glories, new.  
Though all the Deep then smiled,  
To see, the Sea-born Child.   

No undisturbed Brook,  
In which th' heavens choose to look,  
Sees such a Beauty move,  
As this reflects above;  
No Deeps, such Treasures know,  
As what this hides below.    

Of some Pieces, of her Drawing.  

FAir Hand, whose gentle Labour's such,  
As dashes Beauties, with a Touch.  
Whose Strokes, are drawn so quick, and short,  
They make our Wonder but your Sport.  
What Art is this, such Shapes does show,  
And yet conceals itself, from view;  
As not the smallest, subtlest Eye,  
Can all the curious Lines descry,  
Or the fine Pencil's tract pursue,  
And keep its slender Steps, in view.  
Colours, with Colours, so combine,  
They grow together, more than join.  
Extremes, with such Agreement knit,  
As they, without Confusion meet.  
The Creatures of your Pencil, you,  
With Motion, and with Breath endue;  
As they, the Looker's on persuade,  
That they were rather born, then made.  
Diviner Being's, which your Brain  
Seems delivered of, without pain.  
Soft, as their Maker's hand, and fair,  
As your Ideas of them, were.  
Such in your Mind, they first were wrought,  
Limned in the Images of Thought.  
And what at large is copied here,  
A small Original was there;  
When Fancy, which such Skill provokes,  
Drew in your Brain, their tender Strokes.   

Though none may wish that Art were less,  
Which clothes your Thoughts in such a Dress,  
We wish our Insight were more clear,  
That what not seen is, might appear;  
Which, in mysterious Lines expressed,  
To us seems hidden, as your Breast.    

Seeing her in a Balcone.  

THe Sun at his first Rising so  
Gild some Mountain-top, does show,  
Illuminating all below.   

As She, does from on high appear,  
And with like Glory crowns her Sphere,  
Enlightening her Horizon here.   

Above those darkening Shadows placed,  
Which lower Housetops round us cast,  
That usher Night, ere Day be past.   

The proper Seat, and only Scene,  
Off all things fair, and all serene,  
Which nearest Heaven still are seen.   

Our winged Thoughts, in their bold flight,  
Outfly not yet our raised Sight,  
Nor ever soar a braver Height.   

Upwards, our Eyes can nought pursue,  
Beyond what we now boast in view,  
While we look up to Heaven, and You.   

Vouchsafe then (fair One) to allow  
That we, whom Fate has placed below,  
To our Divinity may bow.   

And though beneath your feet, we bend,  
Permit our Eyes but to ascend;  
Further, our Hopes dare not pretend.    

Fanning herself.  

SEE how the charming fair  
Does break, the yielding Air,  
Which by her troubled so,  
More pure, more smooth does flow.  
Winds, without murmurs rise,  
Complaining in sad Sighs,  
Though they dare not repine,  
How loath they be to resign  
Their Interest in the fair,  
To new succeeding Air.  
How silently they grieve,  
Their snatched Embrace to leave  
To new Winds, who, their place  
Supply, and their Embrace.  
Courting their longer Bliss  
At every parting Kiss.  
While with a gentle Gale,  
They swell her painted Sail.  
Then trembling, they give way,  
Fearing, to disobey.  
Though fain they her would bear,  
With every moving Air;  
In vain, alas! they prove  
Unkindness to remove,  
In vain, to win the Field,  
Air may, she cannot yield.  
Her Hand, a thousand ways,  
New Favourites, does raise,  
Which to salute her, proud,  
Do round about her crowd,  
And Rival-like, pursue  
Th' old, thrust out by the new.   

Well may they boast, they can  
Move false Trees, in her Fan,  
And with their tremble, make  
Their Trunks, though rooted, shake,  
With Oaks they may contend,  
But She, can never bend.  
She, should even Storms engage  
Her with their roughest Rage,  
And all their utmost prove,  
Too stubborn is, to move.    

Looking through a Perspective.  

SHe, fearing one Eye might  
Let in too large a Light,  
Or wandering, betray  
The other's close Survey,  
And with new Shows amuse;  
One Eye consents to lose,  
But does that loss requite  
With th' other Eyes delight.  
Which doubling thus its Rays,  
Its borrowed Beams repays;  
And spreading wide her view,  
Doubles the Pleasure too.  
The Glass, she does apply,  
Becomes another Eye,  
And a new Sense does add  
To those before she had;  
Which, a new Knowledge gives  
Of what from far arrives,  
And varies still her View,  
As 'tis applied anew,  
While it on each Remove,  
The Prospect does improve,  
Stretching her lengthened Sight,  
Yet guiding it, aright.   

Pleased, and Amazed, she is,  
While she at Distance sees  
Fields, Trees, and Houses, pass  
Through th' hollow of the Glass;  
Approaching her so near,  
As they had entered there.   

But if such Power lies  
In her bewitching Eyes,  
As they far off, attract,  
How would they nearer, act!  
They that draw Houses, than  
Would near at hand, draw Men.    

Gathering Peaches.  

BEhold, wherever she does pass,  
How all the amorous Trees contend,  
Whose loaded Arms should her embrace,  
While with their fruit towards her they bend;  
As if the willing Branches meant,  
To her, their Bounty to present.   

The upper Boughs all bending low,  
Her raised Arm seem to prevent;  
While those, that level with her grow,  
To meet her easy hand consent.  
To court her thus, Lo, every Peach,  
Submits itself, within her reach.   

These she prefers, refusing those,  
Unhappy, in their ripening last;  
Persuaded by her Eye to choose,  
As that, the coloured fruit does taste;  
Which her Desire does gently move  
To what her Sense, did first approve.   

Fair, as this golden Fruit here seems,  
The Sun, with kind Salutes thus streaks,  
And gild them with amorous Beams,  
Prints purple Kisses, on their Cheeks:  
Kisses, soft as that tender Down,  
Which their young blushing Cheeks does crown.   

Ah! could the fair, who this does see,  
Be by this great Example won,  
And learn but thus to smile on me;  
As they smile on the kissing Sun.  
Bright, as their Cheeks, with Kisses shine,  
Hers, brighter should appear with mine.    

Singing to her Guittar, in an Arbour.  

SO, was that Stranger charmed,  
Who first did Music hear,  
With such a new Soul warmed,  
Which wandered, in his Ear;  
Lost thus, in the Excess  
Of his new Happiness.   

So did that Captive look,  
Whom soft Sounds then subdued,  
With pleasing wonder struck,  
So joyed, and pained he showed:  
Since some Death seems to be  
In every Ecstasy.   

Though th' Art, be common grown,  
Such Excellence is new;  
Long since, though that was known,  
We wonder still, at you,  
Who, with sweet force surprise,  
And gently tyrannize.   

New Pleasure's influence  
Each Poor, which they steal through,  
And opening some new Sense,  
Fill, and possess it too:  
Pleasures, ne'er felt before,  
Still enter some new Door.   

Bare Music, is but Noise,  
And not so sweet, as fierce,  
Something in your soft Voice,  
Diviner is, than Verse;  
Which Music is alone,  
ere it be set to Tune.   

Why fly you thus the Throng?  
Like Orpheus, in the Wood,  
Repairing with your Song,  
To honour Solitude;  
Where no Ear can pursue  
The Sound, nor no Eye, You.   

Would you by this persuade,  
That Miracles are wrought,  
And still frequent the Shade,  
Where, Music first was taught?  
That such deaf things, as Trees,  
Must be your Witnesses.   

Or that, your Voice Divine  
These Walls seem loath to lose,  
And willing to confine,  
Permit not to diffuse;  
But practising, still learn  
In Echoes, to return.    

Her Window.  
HEre, first the Day does break,  
And for Access, does seek,  
Repairing for Supplies,  
To her new oped Eyes,  
Then (with a gentle Light  
Gild the Shades, of Night)  
Their Curtains drawn, does come,  
To draw those of her Room;  
Both open, a small Ray,  
Does spread abroad the Day,  
Which peeps into each Nest,  
Where, neighbouring Birds do rest;  
Who spread upon their young,  
Begin their Morning-Song,  
And from their little home,  
Nearer her Window, come,  
While from low Boughs they hop,  
And perch, upon the Top;  
And so from Bough to Bough,  
Still singing as they go,  
In praise of Light, and Her,  
Whom they to Light prefer;  
By whose Protection blest,  
So quietly, they nest,  
Secure, as in the Wood,  
In such a Neighbourhood.  
While, undisturbed they sit,  
Fearing no Hawk, nor Net,  
And here, the first News sing,  
Of the approaching Spring.  
The Spring, which ever here,  
Does first of all appear;  
It's fair Course, still begun  
By Her, and by the Sun.   

Sleeping on her Couch.  

THus lovely, Sleep did first appear,  
ere yet it was with Death allied;  
When the first fair one, like her here,  
Lay down, and for a little died.   

ere happy Souls knew how to die,  
And trod the rougher Paths to Bliss,  
Transported in an Ecstasy,  
They breathed out such smooth ways, as this.   

Her Hand bears gently up her Head,  
And like a Pillow, raised does keep;  
But softer than her Couch, is spread,  
Though that be softer, than her Sleep.   

Alas! that deathlike Sleep, or Night,  
Should power have to close those Eyes;  
Which once vied with the fairest Light,  
Or what gay Colours, thence did rise.   

Ah! that lost Beams, thus long have shined,  
To them, with Darkness overspread,  
Unseen, as Day breaks, to the Blind,  
Or the Sun rises, to the Dead.   

That Sun, in all his Eastern Pride,  
Did never see a Shape so rare,  
Nor Night, within its black Arms hide  
A silent Beauty, half so fair.    

Seeing Smoak rise.  

THese Earthborn Fumes, which here arise,  
And trouble with their Clouds, the Skies,  
Show, how the basest things aspire  
To reach, the noble Seat of Fire.  
Though mounting Sparkles, and the Flame,  
That Country seek, from whence they came;  
Yet Steams so foul, as these are seen,  
Must have a base Origine.  
However they in mounting show,  
They challenge Heaven, as their due;  
Yet, such is the High flyers fate,  
In Air, their Pride does terminate.  
The Lot of all things, that rise high,  
Which soaring, vanish still, and die.   

The Smoke of War, and Smoke of Trade,  
Do both alike, the Skies invade;  
The Clouds, in which they do ascend,  
As undistinguished, as their End.  
What can vain Man, to both provoke?  
When all his Hopes, end thus in Smoke.  
What moves him to build high? as He,  
Next Neighbour to the Sky, would be;  
When from his proudest Heights, he sees,  
What with high Thoughts, but ill agrees,  
That Vapours light as these, out-flie  
Both his Ambition, and his Eye.    

Hearing of a Drum.  

WHo now that hears this sounding Drum,  
Thinks, such Noise can, from Nothing come?  
And yet the Causes seem no less,  
For what are Wind, and Emptiness?  
A hollow Inside, and nought there,  
But what, is shut in every where;  
Air, which all empty things does fill,  
Itself, an empty Nothing still.  
This almost Nothing, seems to be,  
Even fruitful, in Variety;  
And while it does with Echoes meet,  
Many new Nothings, does beget.   

Th' imprisoned Air within, once broke,  
Thickens in sounds, with every Stroke,  
And wounded thus itself, around,  
Communicates each moving Sound,  
Until the hollow Woods, become,  
But each of them, a hollow Drum;  
Who, in their swift Consent have shown,  
That Noise, like Silence, dwells alone.   

Great Talkers, that with all their Din,  
Nothing of solid, have within,  
Who make a noise, and promise fair,  
But yet examined, are but Air,  
When to Performances they come,  
Prove louder Nothings, like this Drum.    

On a Picture of Snow, and Ice.  
SO in those Climes, fruitful in nought but Cold,  
Where Nature looks with hoary Winters, old;  
High Rocks, dissembling their hid Horror, smile,  
Top't thus with Snow, which does their Crags beguile.  
A like Hand here, the Earth's white Bosom spreads,  
And dipped in Snow, the Winter gently sheds.  
As the resembling Level, seems to vie,  
With Clouds, of unborn Flakes, within the Sky,  
While Mountain-tops, and raised Heights, all show,  
White, as the native Highlands, of the Snow.  
The Heaven, big, and teeming with white Showers,  
Mocked by the Earth, into whose Lap it powers.  
But what does most of all this Art surprise,  
One Hand, drops Snow so soft, and hardens Ice.   

On the Picture of an Old Man, with Spectacles.  
GOod Figures mock, so the Beholder's View,  
As while you look on them, they look on you;  
The Artist, for this Piece, has done no less,  
Th' old Man's Eyes fail, he lends him Spectacles.   

On an Old Beldame, washing her Face.  
TRoubling the Water thus, in vain,  
With such a Skin, as Fonts would slain,  
The Gipsy, seeks to wash away  
original Dirt, and Adam's Clay;  
Would she a likelier Course pursue,  
She must put off, th' old Woman too.   

Against Fruition.  

WHat is this thing called Pleasure? but false Gold,  
Which does amuse the Sense, in Heaps untold,  
Double the Sum, appearing in the great,  
Counted, falls short, and wanting in the weight.  
Beheld thus at large, and in generals viewed,  
It cheats the Eye, and does with Shows delude,  
Cast up, is found defective in the tale,  
And when examined, by the touch, or scale,  
A lighter proves, but courser Coin, washed o'er,  
A golden Outside only, and no more.  
That, which for th' Image-sake, we over-rate,  
And from the Royal Stamp, mistake for Plate.  
Such, is the Beauty of this lying Stone,  
Which Clearness has, and Hardness wants alone;  
Its colour, and its flames, for Orient pass,  
Till th' undeceiving Hammer, proves it Glass.   

Our distant Hopes, present our Pleasures fair,  
And bigger shaped, than our Enjoyments are;  
But when the Landscape, we behold too nigh,  
Which standing off, did seem to court the Eye,  
The fineness of the Strokes, does disappear,  
What Painting showed far off, is Daubing near.  
Our Wants, and Expectations, both thus kind,  
These, show joys fair before, and those, behind.  
Fame, seems to speak of them untried, and new,  
With that Civility, to Strangers due;  
And mentions them with that Respect, when fled;  
We use to give the Absent, and the Dead.  
Opinion, thus our Pleasure's overrates,  
As idle Rumour, magnifies Estates;  
Which swell, and rise, to many Thousand Pounds,  
Coined only in pure Air, and empty Sounds:  
So dear we purchase, when our Hopes bid high,  
Yet dearer part with, what we dearly buy,  
Like Gamesters then, that have been beat at Play,  
When once we come, our Losses to survey;  
Too liberal Mistakes, we in counting make,  
And frankly lose, more than was laid at Stake,  
While generous Grief, does to the Winner throw,  
More than he did, to his good fortune owe.   

The Scenes, and Images, of vain Delight,  
Seen by false Beams, and a deluded Sight;  
Among the joys, of Miser's Dreams, have place,  
Who, Fairy Gold, with empty Arms embrace,  
But when at last the golden Dream is o'er,  
With a rich Sigh, lament their waking poor.  
So swift, our joys are snatched, that they but last,  
For our sad Pleasure, to behold them past.  
So young, are all things fair, and all things gay,  
Which can no more than Angels, with us stay.  
The best of Good things thus like Spirits are,  
They have their Wings, or vanish into Air:  
When seen but once, and we their Stay invite,  
The pretty winged Strangers, take their flight.  
They, for our Taste, too heavenly are, and pure,  
Too delicate, and subtle to endure;  
Our Senses too, as much too gross, and rude,  
Which things too strong o'ercome, too fine elude.  
The Aether thus, too delicate for Breath,  
Instead of Life, le's in a finer Death.  
And thus the piercing, over-radiant Light,  
Scatters, and blinds the weaker Rays, of Sight.  
Things soft, and smooth, we cannot nicely taste,  
Nor will the Air, or Water be embraced;  
The Down of Swans, the finest Touch deceives,  
And Oil, no certain Taste, behind it leaves.  
What's Hard, or Rough, the Sense does best excite,  
And what is Sharp, best moves the Appetite.   

Rareness, and Labour, all good things commend,  
Which once grown cheap, and easy, do offend.  
Like Hunters, we the Pleasure do misplace,  
And lose the dear Enjoyment, in the Chase.  
The Game we prise, because we hunted hard,  
And by the Toil, we measure the Reward.  
Plenty, and Want, our Sense alike does blame,  
While deep Draughts drown, and little Tastes inflame.  
Perfumes, enjoyed too free, delight us less,  
And are impaired, with nauseating Excess.  
Tasted more rarely, they inflame us more,  
Then their Excess, did surfeit us before.  
Thus, some in Fevers, their sick Palates please,  
And cure their Thirst, by feeding their Disease.    

Against Fame.  

WHat should fond Man, in all his Works persuade  
To Noise, Solemnity, or vain Parade?  
Since Nature, where she Business does intend,  
Silence, and Secrecy, does most commend.  
If we look up, the Heavens seem to fly  
In rolling swift, the measures of the Eye.  
They strike no Hours, nor in their Motions chime,  
Though we with Noise, distinguish silent Time,  
And boast, we hear the measured Hours run,  
Told by no Alarm, how whole Days are gone.  
Nay, Years, are past our count, and notice fled,  
As silently, as Night, does Day succeed.  
If we look down, what Eye distinctly sees  
The growing Shade, and rising Height, of Trees.  
Or, by what crooked Steps, in winding slow,  
Rivers, wash neighbouring Meadows, as they go.  
Still while deep Waters are, the shallow Stream,  
Does louder, in its prating Murmurs seem.   

Hollow, and empty things, are only found,  
To yield, and empty Air, to spread a Sound.  
And none but such, as hollow Places, ring  
With Sounds, which first from hollow Causes spring.  
As void of Substance, is an airy Fame,  
And vain as He, who does that Nothing claim,  
Or as the hollow World, which still employs  
Its empty Echoes, to return the Noise.   

Fame, grows from Opposition, and like Sound,  
Seems only from Resistance, to rebound.  
And as two solid Bodies, set at jar,  
Produce a Bounce, in their unglorious War;  
Such is that, nobler Fights, and Combats give,  
And which the Brave, from clashing Arms derive.  
The Noise, which does from warlike Actions come,  
Is but the empty Loudness, of a Drum.  
The Brave, are led thus to maintain their Fame,  
For which they fought, the same way, that it came.  
Mere Sound, does them to greater Deeds excite,  
Who were encouraged with a Sound, to fight.  
Vain, as alas! that dying Man would sport,  
Who boasts his murdering Canon's loud Report;  
So vain is He, who all his Art employs,  
Living, or dying still, to make a Noise.    

THE NEW-YEAR, To my LORDS GRACE, of CANTERBURY: Presented, january 1. 1674.  

AS now the restless, and unwearied Sun,  
In new Successions, his fair Course does run,  
His Motion, shaped like his resembling Sphere,  
Which figures the round World, and Circling Year.  
So you, to whom alike our Eyes we raise,  
Born, on the Heavens, and on You to gaze.  
Your endless Race of Glory, still pursue,  
And guide our Course, and shine above us too.  
Repeating your unwearied Travels, till  
You, your bright Circle of great Actions fill.  
And as the Sun unchanged, does us behold  
Grown with the Changes which he measures, old;  
His Glories fresh, as when he first did rise,  
And took his Station in the new-made Skies.  
So you, to whom old Age unknown appears,  
Seem young, with the increase of many years.  
As all th' Advances, which you make in Time,  
Were Steps, whereby you to Perfection climb;  
And those past Years, by which you count us old,  
For us, you only numbered out, and told.  
Thus Angels, fashioned by a Hand Divine,  
Still ever young, as their own Heavens, shine;  
Born old as all the Elements, yet ne'er  
No more than they, with crooked Age impair.  
What is above, not subject is to Time,  
Eternal Youth, smiles in the Heavenly Clime.   

Like as some Hill, the ancient Throne, and State,  
Whereon the World's first humble Monarches sat;  
Beholds the black Clouds, in the Bottom seen,  
Th' Imperial Height, still smiling, and serene.  
So you, who by experienced Travels climb,  
To gain the Prospect, on the top of Time,  
Serener seem, the higher still you go,  
And see more of the changing World below.  
Thus when we thought our Sky, was calm, and clear,  
You saw our threatening Storms far off appear,  
And those black Clouds, which after fell on all,  
While you, from your calm Height, o're-looked our Fall.  
Then stood you, like your Church upon a Hill,  
Firm as a Rock, and as conspicuous still.  
Then, when your Country was with Arms oppress't,  
And Peace was no where found, but in your Breast.  
That sacred Quiet, which on you did wait,  
Slept not unactive in your humble State,  
But waking kept, and did not idly rest,  
Like Night's dark Quiet, a dull Calm at best.  
So high, the Confessor his Cross did bear,  
As that, has higher raised the Primate's Chair.  
Your Sufferings, shed as great a Lustre then,  
As now adorns your more Triumphant Scene.   

May kinder Suns, their whiter Times restore,  
In lieu of those, they snatched from you before,  
And many smiling Years to come, employ  
The Sacred Quire's more New, and Solemn joy;  
Still exercised in Angels Songs, that so,  
Our Church may long Triumphant be, below.    

The TABLE.  

TO his Grace, Gilbert, Lord Archbishop of Canterbury, Page 1  
On the Oxford Theatre, Page 9  
To her Highness, the Princess Sophia, Duchess of Brunswick and Lunenburgh, Page 16  
On the Duke of Newburgh's Entertainment and Music, Page 22  
On a fair Lady, looking in the Glass, Page 28  
The Thought, To a Lady enquiring after him in his Travels, Page 31  
Petrilla, in jewels, Page 33  
Greatness in Little, Page 35  
Beauty of Chance, Page 39  
Magnificence under Ground, Page 43  
The Intellectual Prospect, Page 47  
The Revolutions of Fate, Page 53  
Light, Page 59  
Air, Page 65  
To a Lady, on her Picture, Page 71  
Dreaming of her, Page 73  
Having seen her Like, Page 76  
The Bounds of Sight, Page 78  
The Union of Friendship, Page 80  
The Echo, Page 84  
The Whisper, Page 86  
The Inconstant, Page 87  
The Modest Fair, Page 89  
To a Lady, playing with a Squirrel, Page 90  
Bathing herself, Page 93  
Of some Pieces of her Drawing, Page 95  
Seeing her in a Balcone, Page 97  
Fanning herself, Page 99  
Looking through a Perspective, Page 102  
Gathering Peaches, Page 104  
Singing to her Guittar, in an Arbour, Page 106  
Her Window, Page 110  
Sleeping on her Couch, Page 112  
Seeing Smoak rise, Page 114  
Hearing of a Drum, Page 116  
On a Picture of Snow, and Ice, Page 118  
On the Picture of an Old Man, with Spectacles, Page 119  
On an Old Beldame, washing her Face, Page ibid.  
Against Fruition, Page 120  
Against Fame, Page 125  
The New-Year, to my Lord's Grace of Canterbury, presented January 1. 1675. Page 128   
FINIS.