METELLUS HIS DIALOGUES. The First PART, Containing a RELATION OF A JOURNEY TO Tunbridge-Wells; Also a Description of the WELLS and PLACE.  
With the Fourth BOOK of Virgil's AENEIDS in English  
Written under that Name, by a Gentleman of this Nation, sometime Gentleman Commoner of Christ-Church in OXFORD.  
LONDON, Printed by Tho. Warren, for N. Rolls in St. Paul's Churchyard, 1693.   

TO THE Right Honourable WILLIAM LORD BYRON, BARON of RATCHDELL.  
My Lord,  
THis Orphan Book, that can by no modish Amours recommend itself to the pleasant Men of the Time, nor by Satyrizing Church or State, can hope to have a Party on its side; must needs be assured of many Adversaries, and can be in hope but of very few Friends. It flies, My Lord, therefore first (to almost all that is left of 'em) the Shadow and Name of the Ancient Heroes; begs an Adoption to the virtuous Name, and asks leave to make use of the Voice of Metellus: not daring, under a less Capacity, to speak to the Vices of our Age. It hears, my Lord, from the Ghost of Eloquent Curio, which here it has raised, Livor edax tibi cuncta negat, 
Luc. Phars. lib. 1.  which though he spoke only to Caesar in his life-time, his Ghost may yet, with truth enough, remember less Men of it now: At a time when Party, when Picque, when Passion, when Interest, when but fancied Opinion, may every thing, to any Man, deny.  
Therefore this Orphan, to decline the stroke of so wild a Passion, as Envy has always appeared to the literate World, falls to the ground, as expert Hunters often do, before the savage wild Boar: and far, 
When it turns upon 'em.  from the Ambition of contesting with such an Adversary as the best scarce withstand, vanisheth from the sight of the World: Leaves the Ghost of great Metellus, the Light of Reason, and the Voice of impregnable Truth, in the mouths of sharp Acer, and eloquent Curio, to dispute Libertinage with the Age: especially in the Second, and Third Part, where, grown to more Virility, it attacks the pregnant Vices of the Time, and adventures to combat with the Darling of our Days. Hoping from such mouths as those, to speak inoffensively Truth; if not to the Persons (which this Book altogether declines) at least, to the Vices of the Times.  
By this happy necessity, this Little Book, dignified, my Lord, and adopted to the virtuous Name of Metellus, now truly ennobled, addresses to your Lordship (not as such Orphans and Destitutes commonly do) presuming upon the Nearness of Blood its Author has to your Lordship, and that Noble Family of your Name; but by a higher impulse of Nature, yet (as Iron to the Loadstone goes) by a natural Sympathy the brave BIRONS of England have, with the virtuous and glorious Metelli of Rome, this Little Book, by Metellus adopted, to your Lordship now naturally comes; and hopes, that for the Palladium's sake, by its brave adopting Ancestor rescued from the burning Temple, 
Of Vesta.  it may find Favour and Countenance, from a Family, who have been as great Lovers of Minerva, as Servants of Mars; and who are (beyond all Alliance of Blood) to the glorious Metellus, in Bravery, of Kin.  
Metellus rescued from flames the Palladium at Rome. The BIRONS, had not Fate itself been a Foe, and had not our Sins been our Enemies too, had rescued from the worst of Confusions more than the Palladium here. 
Non habet scientia ●nimicum praeter ignorantiam.  Not only our Universities from Ignorance, the only Enemy Science has in the World; our Churches from Profanation and Sacrilege; our Monarch, and Monarchy itself, from Assassination; our Country from Slavery worse than those flames: if all had been as brave as faithful, and of as good Lives as they. Men, if not the most admired, certainly the most deserving Admiration of any of their time. Seven brave Brothers, six of them Knighted for their Bravery and Birth. 

My Lord John Byron, the Eldest Brother, General.  
Sir Richard, Governor of Newark, which he bravely defended.  
Sir Robert, sometime General of the Ordnance in Ireland.  
Sir Thomas, Colonel of the then Prince of Wales his own Regiment of Horse, slain in the War. Sir William, and the other Two Field-Officers, one of 'em slain at York in Defence of the Town.   The Eldest deservedly honoured with a Barony, which he bought with his Blood. All in eminent Command, all eminently suffering, all eminently acting for their Country and King; might justly be thought, (as one well observed of 'em) the bravest seven Brothers that have appeared in the World since the Maccabees days. A Family deserving Eternal Memory, if it were but for the brave Actions of the Eldest, the then victorious Head of that Family, that had so much Heart, my Lord JOHN BYRON; who, to say nothing of those so many personal Braveries of his, as that at Brill, 

In Oxfordshire.  
In Wiltshire.   and elsewhere: At Round-way-down, with Fifteen hundred Horse and Dragoons, he not only defeated, but absolutely routed a considerable Army of Horse and Foot, under no unskilful General; where he took Two and forty Colours, all their Cannon, all their Baggage, and almost as many Prisoners as he had Men: more might be remembered, but Satis est hanc mihi nosse manum. 
Mart. Epig. de Scaeu.  Yet to these brave seven Brothers, we must add the brave Uncle, Sir NICHOLAS BYRON, Governor of West-Chester, one of the Generals of the Royal Army, and one of our then greatest Masters of the Military Art, your Lordship's great Uncle; the Eighth good, the Eighth brave Man, of the same Family, and the same Name, at the same time surviving, and with hazard of all they had, fight for their Country, and defending their King.  
Pardon therefore, My Lord, if this little Orphan, adopted by the great Metellus, from its Cradle as it were, presume to Address itself to your Lordship, the immediate Heir, and Snccessour, of so great a Name as BYRON is here; since in you, as in your Noble Ancestors, Bravery still, and Ingenuity join; Qualities that sympathise so much with the Name of Metell.  
In this First Part, My Lord, as in its younger Years, it pretends but to divertise your Lordship with a pleasant Prelude to a more serious Discourse; but in the Second and Third Part, grown to more Virility, it will entertain your Nobler, and more Heroic Thoughts. It's Author being Ambitious but to be Esteemed,  
Your Lordship's Most faithful humble Servant, and affectionate Kinsman, J. L.   

A CHARACTER OF THE PERSONS Who speak in these DIALOGUES.  

METELLUS, A Lover of VIRTUE, and eminently Learned.  
ACER, A Divine, of a sharp Wit, and eloquent.  
CURIO, A Civilian, and an eloquent Man.  
AESCULAPE, A Learned Physician, and good Companion; but inclined to Epicurus his Opinions.  
LAELIUS, A witty young Gentleman, but a Deist.   
Or take their Characters thus:  

Deserving of that Name, the great Metell  
In Virtue and in Learning does excel.  
Eloquent Curio pleads, and does commend.  
Sharp Acer does both teach and reprehend.  
Learned Aesculape by Reason's Light can see  
In Nature far; scarce to Divinity.  
Laelius declares th' Opinions of the Times;  
Too honest to be guilty of the Crimes.    

THE First Dialogue.  
A JOURNEY TO Tunbridge-Wells.  Metellus. 
THE Sun was now come to his Journey's end  
For that half year, beginning to descend,  
When me and Laelius, who had both been ill,  
And long had lingered under th' Artist skill:  
A learned Physician, knowing none could mend  
Like those that made; did prudently pretend  
To cure by Nature; or as Nature could,  
Did we apply t' her; so this Doctor would  
Sometimes by wise Digression from the Arts,  
Cure Men by sending 'em to wholesome parts  
Of the Great World, with which the Less must be;  
If they'll be well, still in good harmony.  
Godlike he first ordained us the scent  
Of Fragrant Earth; and then as if he'd meant  
To give us at each Dose an Element,  
The Air this Aesculape to quicken gave,  
Waters to cleanse us; if those could not save,  
Then Nature-like too he ordained the Grave.  
Destructive Fire this Aesculape did use,  
But not in Element, and crude, t' abuse  
Too tender Man: but dulcified by Vine,  
Great Nature's Limbeck, and destilled to Wine;  
" Good Wine the greatest chearer of the heart,  
" The Natural Restorative of Art.  
Wine from the Teats of Nature, and not Brewed,  
He allowed himself and us for Lassitude.  
And this was his fourth Dose, which Nature meant,  
As he taught well, for a fifth Element:  
Wine first by Nature thus, for Stomach's sake,  
Then given by Paul, we like Ambrosta take,  
With Terrene God, our Aesculape, to whom  
We offer ' of healthy Cups a Hecatomb.  
That doleful night, before we went away;  
In that took leave, so died till the third day;  
Not like old Trojans, buried lay in Wine,  
But like true Trojans till we meet repine.  
Not buried at all; for not at rest;  
Nor did we pass that time among the blessed;  
But like Men damned from Paradise, in pain  
And labour live, till we our bliss regain:  
Till all at Tunbridge-Wells again alive  
Meet, and each other kindly do revive,  
With Water, and good Air, and blood of Grape,  
Good Company and divine Aesculape.  
We were five Scholars; four went two and two,  
Curio and I, who had no more to do  
But to take Air, and then to take our ease;  
And nought else being prescribed for our Disease,  
Together rid; that hard by the midway,  
We might with Liquor quench the scorching day,  
Early before the Excellent Doctor went  
On Horseback, with accomplished Patient,  
Honestest Laelius, who of Wit had store,  
But of wise Patience had a great deal more.  
And doubtless 'twas the fortunatest hit,  
" That one had Patience, when they both had Wit.  
He talking, taught; t' other well pleased to learn;  
They each; each others Excellence discern.  
As Nature's Active, and her Passive do,  
So do these well paired Naturalists too  
Agree, concur in all things, jump and hit;  
Happy ' n so great a Sympathy of Wit.  
Acer, to whom Minerva still was kind,  
Yet Fortune frowned on; he was left behind,  
Whether unwilling to ride that long way,  
As his good Friends did, through in one hot day,  
Or froward Fortune (long by him despised)  
Goddess, to whom he never sacrisiced,  
Had damned him for a day into the Jaws  
Of modern Furies, and the modish Claws  
Of Harpies of this Age, we do not know;  
But he in Stage-Coach is condemned to go  
Without his Friends—  
Curio and I were something better blest;  
Riding before, escaped that Harpy's Nest.  
All different ways with different Fate we went,  
In hopes of different Divertisement:  
Yet at the Wells with Acer we arrived,  
There, Aesculape, who had been well revived,  
Not with cold Waters, but with more divine,  
More animating Liquor, Gascoigne Wine,  
Hard by the Wells stood, with his Learned Mate,  
Like old Anchise, contemplating our Fate,  
Father of Wits.—  
When we on Horseback, Acer, in a Coach  
With some odd kind of Damsels, did approach,  
They stop, step out; When" Oh! What hast thou done,  
" Base Fortune, with Minerva's Minion?  
Laelius cried out." None of Apollo's Race,  
" None of the Nine these are! What God could place  
" Thus Ingenuity? Must Fate be Foe,  
" Spiteful to all that Pallas favours so?  
Then Aesculape drew near; And art thou come  
At last, dear Friend, to our Elysium?  
How 'fraid were we? kindly than we embrace,  
Welcome each other to the pleasant place.  
Our next Care was to seek a House, where we,  
For one Month's time, might all of us be free  
From that worst Plague of Wit, Ill-Company.  
We wander on; some pretty Houses see,  
Which in that place (though wild enough) there be.  
The Doctor pleased himself: his airy Friend,  
Who more did to good Company pretend,  
Than Bookish solitude, an airy place  
Soon found, which airy Company did grace.  
Acer and Curio sought no happiness  
But Solitude, the likeliest place to bless,  
We thought, the Desert of that Wilderness.  
We wander all a pretty while before  
We see a Cottage: Cottage, and no more  
At last we find; A sweet and pleasant place,  
A situation that had Nature's Face;  
That looked like the first Times, that seemed to be  
Some Patrimony of poor Honesty;  
The greenest Plate that was in all that wild  
And spacious Heath, and the most undefiled:  
Nor Lust nor Envy could have Object there,  
Pride was a bulk too big for it to bear.  
Seat for Christianity: were Christ but near,  
Peter might wish a Tabernacle here.  
This is the Desert then, said Acer, we  
In such a Cottage, Curio, may be free.  
The wished for Tabernacle, which we crave,  
Elias solitude, we here may have.  
And to assure that Pleasure too, we see,  
Said Curio, here St. Peter's Poverty.  
Green close behind it, and sweet Springs were nigh,  
On th' one side Wood, and the green Corn hard by:  
The Front lay open to the ample Heath:  
Which from all Quarters sent a purer Breath  
Than Towns enjoy.  
Beset with Fern and Shrubs: Shrubs were as high  
As th' humble Cottage: Taller Trees were nigh;  
A House secured by being poor and low;  
" O happy those who live secured so,  
" Where no fierce Winds of Pride and Envy blow!  
Before the Door stood an old Ash that made  
By Nature, pleasant and convenient Shade.  
Of which the Owner had contrived a Bower,  
Enough to save poor Man from Sun or Shower;  
But place, which Nature surely had designed  
For higher things, for shelter to the Mind.  
For we, soon as we saw it, thought it fit  
In such a Solitude to shelter Wit.  
Here an old Dame came cleanly to the Door  
‛ Soon as we knocked, came cleanly, and no more,  
But holding the small Door half-open, said,  
" 'Las! Sirs, 'tis late, and we're all going to bed.  
" We see no Gallants here, nor entertain  
" Such Men as you; we scarce think't worth our pain;  
" Nor have I Linen clean, nor can I give  
" You dainty Meats; on hardest Fare we live.  
And then she told us what ill luck she'd had,  
Not long ago, with Strangers as well clad:  
Nor truly could she, and so near to Night,  
Receive Men so unknown, at the first sight.  
But no such Men, replied our Learned Friend,  
These honest Gallants are; the only End  
That brings them hither, is but to retreat,  
They for their quiet seek this Rural Seat.  
But if with you these Verbal Motives fail,  
This at least will (and showed some Gold) prevail.  
" O what won't Woman for thee, Gold, forsake?  
" For thee, Gold, what won't Woman undertake?  
The good Dame had not for some time before  
Seen such a sight, scarce hoped to see it more:  
Fixing her Eyes upon the Golden Gift,  
" Well, said she then, come in, we'll make a shift.  
Non quiet than she sought, nor trouble feared,  
When the old Gold of Aesculape appeared.  
We enter, and the old Sylvestrian Dame  
O'er lofty Thresholds follow, till we came  
To that part of the Hovel, they call Hall,  
Where she with Rural Majesty did call  
Her Daughter first, and then her brawny Son,  
And then the Maid: and when all that was done,  
Oft going to and fro, at last she brought  
A piece of Pie, of Hare, her Son had caught,  
With fatter Mutton baked, which she had bought.  
She prayed us to sit down, nor did we spare,  
But all each other invite to the cold Fare.  
We sup, whilst the whole Family attends:  
They wait like Servants, and they look like Friends.  
Th'old Woman, and her Son, her Maid, his Wife,  
The honest Consorts of that homely Life.  
At last, to make amends for the cold Cheer,  
Th'old Woman bids bring forth last Easter's Beer.  
The Maid and Daughter draw: the Maple Cup  
They briskly fill: we briskly drink it up.  
All welcome us to all, as they may say,  
Free of their Ale, as willingly we stay.  
When we had supped, we all began to cast  
Our Eyes on Acer; would he not at last  
Relate his Journey? tell us what had passed?  
Nothing could be to us, and over Ale,  
In such a House, more seasonable Tale.  Acer. 
But he replied," OH Friends forbear to ask  
" So hard a thing; It is no pleasant task  
" For a tired Poet, twelve long hours immured,  
" In such a Coach, to tell you what h'endured.  
" Some things indeed hereafter, but scarce these  
" Can be so well remembered, as to please.  Lael. 
Then, Laelius spoke." The Ox when tired strikes strong,  
" Makes surer steps: 'Tis now 'bove all we long,  
If any ill accident have tired thy Wit,  
To hear thy satire, here avenging it  
With flaming Fancy, and a well-whet Pen;  
That Fire and Sword of all Ingenious Men.  Acer. 
" And can my Friends thus importune? must I  
" To please, reiterate a Misery?  Said Acer, 
" Lethe, rather let me sup  
" Of thy forgetful Streams; fill up my cup,  
" Since to the Pains Fate sent me, sure as well  
" I may pretend to th' 
* To drink of Lethe may be said the Courtesy of Hell, because it makes 'em forget all pains.  Courtesy of Hell.  
" And as great Reason to be washed have I  
" As any of Anchise's Progeny.  
" When I to this Etherial Life return,  
" From that Death of bad Company; that Urn  
" Of foetid Coach; ere I from Crew so cursed  
" Transmigrate well, I must drink Lethe first.  
" Nor Wind, nor Water, nor the soaking Rain,  
" Nor Tunbridge-Wells can cleanse from such a stain;  
" Of such a Company, of such a Coach,  
" Nothing but Lethe washes the Reproach.  
Aesculape smiling then." In Verse relate,  
" Acer, said he, satire will expiate.  
" Slay me those Vultures, which but now we saw;  
" Some Portrait of those Dames thou'st brought us, draw.  
" Let 'em to Phoebus' fall; ere they devour  
" Our Livers here, fall by Apollo's Power.  
" The God of Wisdom cannot choose but prize  
" Such Harpy-Vulture Dames in Sacrifice.  
" And thus besides thou wilt Minerva please,  
" Thus all th' Infernal Furies thou'lt appease.  
" They'll go for Dainties, when thou'st given the blow,  
" Pickled in satire to the Gods below;  
" Infernal Bit. Tell then, for God's sake, tell,  
" How and which way you came? I came from Hell,  
" As once the pious Trojan did, said he,  
" To this Elysium of good Company.  
And when he saw we all attentive sat,  
He drew us thus the Landscape of his Fate.  
After that Night, great Aesculape, when we  
Parted so late, so dolefully from thee,  
Light rose, but broke not forth; 'twas gloomy Morn,  
And Phoebus seemed to look at me with scorn;  
As if he'd turned his back: I seemed to see,  
He did not mean to shine that day on me.  
Whilst I, contemplating the Omen, sat,  
Curio rides up, interprets me my Fate.  
Before my Window, on a raw-boned Steed  
Sitting, he said, fierce in his Riding-weed:  
Laziest of Men, thou art forsaken quite,  
Thou'lt bitterly repent it before Night.  
You'll meet with Company, I hope, anon,  
Will make you wish, you'd been more early Man.  
Spurring his Horse, then presently he fled,  
And left me with Prediction murdered.  
" For the worst way the Heavens have to kill,  
" Besides the stroke, is to predict the ill.  
I, of thee, Aesculape, and these bereft,  
Not to too hard, but too soft Fate was left  
Of Stage-Coach-Company, and Gossips prate,  
And one thing more which ten times more I hate,  
Not of that lesser Curse of being alone,  
But of a worse, Damnation, being one  
Man 'mongst three Women; not the only Man  
That three such Errand Dames hoped to trepan:  
But th'only that was to be damned that day,  
For thirty six Miles, to such Birds of Prey.  
Unhappy far, Prometheus, beyond thee,  
Who but one Vulture hadst, for I had three.  
I often changed my Mind, was loath to go;  
Fate at last dragged me whether I would or no.  
The Coach appeared, and Company I find,  
All Women, but not of the Muse's kind.  
A Northern Lady, Madam God knows who,  
Bonny and blithe: Her brisk Companion too,  
With a stolen Maid. What could one Gallant do  
With three such Mistresses, who all would woo?  
None could be wooed: Amazed awhile I stand,  
O Fortune, here, expect thy helping hand:  
Give some good Omen, Goddess, now I said,  
Triple Virago well one Man may dread.  
The Proverb means sure, two such Dames as these,  
That says, Two are too much for Hercules.  
For of mere Men, not Two of them, nor Three,  
A Match for the God Hercules would be,  
‛ Less Woman too come in; by help of Dame  
We know the dying 
* Whom Hercules slew. He to revenge himself upon Hercules, gave Deianira a Coat to send him dipped in his Blood, which made him fall mad. Vid. Ovid. Met.  Centaur overcame.  
He'd need be Trojan Hero at the least,  
That but encounters such a Harpy's Nest;  
But must be more that 'scapes, or can subdue  
That foul bespattering foeminean Crew,  
That, glorious Caesar, ' d be too much for you.  
I, like Anchises, than began to pray  
Against Celeno, ' and Harpies of the day:  
To any God, if sacrifice I may,  
I offer Silence, or behind to stay.  
Beseech then Fortune, that since she does make  
The Fool oft happy, and the Coxcomb take;  
She'd now do greater work, make Scholar be  
Grateful to Ignorance; to Quean, Honesty.  
Like Caesar then o'er Rubicon I go,  
And Fortune leading, but yet startling too,  
On some small Rules of Modesty I tread,  
Not on all Laws, as 'twas of Caesar said,  
My boggling Fancy boldly bid be gone,  
And thee, ill Fortune, leading, I go on.  
Into the Coach, yet with some hope, I stepped,  
Not without all hope, for I hoped t'have slept:  
Trepanning Fortune resolved to neglect,  
I now applied to Somnus for effect;  
Invoke for a deep sleep the pleasant God;  
All pleasure I could hope for whilst I road;  
Begged that since Romans in a pet could die  
For Freedom, I might sleep for Liberty.  
Like those who go to Tyburn, on my way  
Then went, in hopes of Heaven the same day;  
Tied to a Coach and Company as good,  
As if I had been sent to th' Triple Wood  
As soon as we were off the jolting Stones,  
First things they uttered were some sighs and groans,  
With Eyes turned up: The first shape they thought fit  
T' appear in, was it seems the Hypocrite.  
But then in Courtesy they all unmask  
Their Faces, but not Hearts. Oh too hard task,  
Too hard for 
* Davus sum, non Oedipus. Ter.  Davus, and much more for us;  
Scarce to b' interpreted by Oedipus.  
When Northern Madam 'gainst the sins of Man  
Spoke zealously, but the old Maid began  
'Gainst single life it exclaim, and did declare,  
That for her part, she thought it a mere snare:  
Went on in Zeal, with Humour and with Grace,  
That made the most of a decaying Face.  
Much time this Virgin unawares had spent  
In sour Virginity, more than she meant,  
Or thought to do; which oft she did repent,  
Oft had allayed with soft divertisement;  
Much had in Body suffered, much in Mind,  
And much in Reputation for being kind.  
Now at her last effort, all she could do  
Was, on grave Motives, godlily to woo.  
She proved, from God's own handiwork, that she  
By Man's side always had a right to be:  
All Women thence first torn, (she 'mongst the rest)  
By re-conjunction were all to be blest.  
She pleaded, as if forty Spirits moved,  
Had given her Impulses to be loved▪  
And flew in carnal Godliness so high,  
She read upon Increase and Multiply.  
Stench'd with Love Theological, I choke,  
For mere self-preservation should have spoke:  
But yet averse from feminine dispute,  
I ' admired the happy freedom of the Mute.  
Which scarce allowed, I in my own defence,  
Declared  Liberty of Conscience:  
Thought that the likeliest, and the fairest way  
To sweet repose; at least for one poor day.  
But flaxen Madam, younger much than she,  
Was kindled at the name of Liberty:  
Lady indefinite, that of the many  
She'd seen, and known, was not in Love with any.  
Not this particular, but this, or that,  
Her Love impartially still flying at.  
True Venus, Goddess like, still unconfined,  
Immensely was in Love with all mankind.  
This blazing Lady at a modish rate,  
Flesh thus opposing Spirit, urged her Fate,  
And to the Lady who first silence broke,  
These carnal thoughts she elegantly spoke.  
Madam, your Plea is obsolete and vain,  
Quite out of fashion, it leads back again  
To th' House of Bondage, we're broke out from thence,  
The Spirit uses now new Eloquence;  
Aloud amongst the Godly daily cries  
For Liberty, and opening of our Eyes.  
In Matrimony Eyes are rather shut,  
At least both Eyes with one poor Man you glut,  
To one alone so dismally confined,  
That with Obedience you are struck quite blind.  
The 
* This Objection against Marriage, made by a Mistress, is answered by Acer, at the beginning of the First Dialogue, in the Second Part of Metellus, etc.  plea reduces to an evil thing,  
Enslaves us to an Arbitrary King,  
With power absolute to give us Law,  
And keep our Property still under awe;  
Our so-long-enjoyed Liberties invades,  
And spoils the sweetness of our pleasant Trades:  
And therefore, though't be holy, needs must be  
Still burdensome to long-used Liberty.  
Ah! Pleasure cannot any where be found,  
But where there's Liberty, does there abound.  
Suppose all Blessings that you can in Wife,  
Under confinement still you lead your life;  
Now to a blessing to be chained and tied,  
Is for the Blessed to be Devilifyed.  
Besides, in Wedlock there is many a grief:  
All you're confined to, and without relief;  
To soak in sorrow, be consumed in strife,  
Boyl with Contention, wast away your life;  
To stew in Marriage thus for'ought we can tell,  
May be as bad as to be fried in Hell.  
've too vain thoughts of the Infernal pain,  
Who thus compare it with those griefs ye fain,  
Madam, said I: much more I would have said,  
But our dispute by Fate was stifled.  
For Rhadamant had harrassed our brains,  
With dismal Jolts, and not unlike Hell's pains,  
Which came then thick upon us, and 'twas Ill,  
Not only rugged, but repeated still,  
Not likely e'er to end, nor yet could kill.  
We could not on the Coachman's Rack dispute,  
So, for some time, we all of us were mute.  
Resolved, O Laelius, these things soon as we  
Met, to discourse more thoroughly with thee.  
But we at last came to a fairer way,  
Pleasant and broad, yet still downhill all day,  
I think we went: by th' way no Man could tell  
Nor Company, but we were going to Hell.  
The Coachman like a Rhadamanthus sat,  
Hurried us downward at such Devilish rate,  
And , the Plea, Hold, Hold,  
Signified nothing, he was hot and bold.  
Th' inexorable fury was come on,  
His Breast by Ale, he whipped like Tisyphon.  

* Digression of Ale.  Ale a dull Liquor, where Hell's Brewers mix  
Lethe's forgetful Streams with muddy Styx.  
Black Juice that does from blacker Furnace flow,  
('Tis thought the Nectar of the Gods below)  
The never-quenching Drink of those abodes,  
The irritating Liquor of our Roads,  
That makes dull Coachmen stir, fat Burghers sit,  
The more they drink, the more desiring it.  
Some say 'twas Ceres' Tears, when she in grief  
Sought long in vain Proserpina's relief,  
Which mixed with Styx, and Lethe, still in Hell,  
They drink to th' Honour of that Maid that fell  
To Pluto's share.—  
And some of Bacchus' Faction too there be,  
Who say, with no less probability,  
'Tis the now black Proserpina's gross sweat,  
Caused in dark Shades by an Infernal heat,  
Thence sent to us: But if a brisk Old Man,  
Apollo's Servant, hater of the Can,  
We will believe, if we may believe fame,  
Ale first was Lake, Nymph who by Ceres came  
To be ennobled; eclipsed Bacchus Name,  
Opposed bright Phoebus' Glory. Some gross Cloud  
Threw oft on those Apollo had endowed:  
Hence the brown Nymph by angry Bacchus' frown,  
First was disgraced, by Phoebus, then damned down  
To dark Abodes: Dwells since in Muddy Lakes  
Of dirty Towns, where the long hissing Snakes  
Infuse their Venom: Taken with th' abode  
Of Croaking Frog, and of the Stygian Toad:  
Near some great Town she still environed lies,  
With Mists and Fogs, whence, O whence no sparks rise  
Of Ingenuity. By ' infernal Flames  
Of Acherontic Coal, her Waters, Dames,  
Or Brewers, boil: by them conveyed, and sold,  
They ' empower the old and ugly Queans to scold,  
Young Whores to hiss: make all ill Women bold.  
This Drink clouds all men's Brains, the darkened Mind  
By the gross Nymph is to gross Thoughts inclined.  
In common Men, does hideous Noises make,  
Resembling Frogs, from whence it came, and Snake.  
On Market-days, the heavy Country Clown  
This rouzes up to mole his Landlord down.  
Hence first Rebellion hisses in the street;  
This makes the Uproar, makes the Rabble meet.  
This makes the blunt and brawny Carmen croak,  
And the exalted Coachman to provoke.  
Charon's cold Tribe this fires, and makes 'em row,  
This makes 'em sight, and give the fatal Blow.  
The foul Tartarean Bawd this does inspire,  
And teaches her how to exalt her Hire.  
This metamorphoses at Country-Feast,  
The Common Man into the shape of Beast.  
To drunken Sow, turns th' Hostess of the Town,  
And this turns Country-Gentleman to Clown.  
For these great Feats, Infernal Pluto makes  
This Nymph, they say, the Lady of all Lakes.  
Resembling Styx; the Goddess of the Fen,  
Of Grains, of Swine, and of all swilling Men.  
Ten thousand Furnaces to her do smoke  
In the dark North, where they great Cities choke.  
Nor does the Nymph delight in purer Flame,  
Well swollen Bellies do set forth her Name.  
Where Bacchus fails, in shape of double Jugg,  
This homely Goddess they are fain to hug;  
Yet build no Temples, but adore in Tub  
The huge gross Sister of great Belzebub.  
Thus spoke the Poet, soaring in good Wine  
Above dull Ale, a Liquor less Divine.  
Had good Aeneas been a Pilgrim still,  
And met us running down so steep a Hill  
As here we did, and to a Vale so low,  
What could he think, but that we meant to go  
To Pluto's Regions, when we hurried so,  
With such Proserpina's?—  
He must have complimented, without doubt,  
Furies within, and Rhadamant without;  
Nor would have needed Sibyl, nor the Bough,  
To lead his Piety the right Way now,  
To Styx or Acheron; for we had Three  
As skilful Sibyls, who were all as free  
Of Hell, by ' another Golden Mystery.  
The Morning spent thus dolefully; Day gone  
Almost three Quarters, and Night coming on,  
Se'n-Oak's small Town at last we stumble on.  
The Inn appeared, and as soon as we came  
Within the door, and bonny Northern Dame,  
With help of Coachman, the good Host had fixed  
In Elbow-Chair, with no small State, betwixt  
Her two Companions; she had wiped off sweat.  
Next care the House had, was to let us eat.  
Hostess and Host advance, pursue us in,  
With all the Houshold-Devils of an Inn.  
My Landlord, who in Compliments abounded,  
With Tapster, Chamberlain, and Maids surrounded,  
Gave us of things both ordinary and rare,  
A very Tantalising Bill of Fare.  
But Northern Madam and her Dames afraid,  
The Burden of a Dinner would be laid  
Too hard on them, who had no Gallant there,  
In Wisdom thought it safest to forbear  
Their Hunger then; cried 'tis too late to eat,  
What should they do with all that greasy Meat?  
And wanted Stomaches too, but what was worse,  
My Landlord feared a greater want in Purse.  
And so in cold Despair soon turned his Back,  
Left his good Wife to make the next Attack.  
But Rhadamant grown sierce, so vain excuse  
Could be 'gainst him and Hunger, of no use:  
We join in Argument; what help, said I?  
These Devils here of Dinnertime, defy,  
By Nature fasting, we must eat or fly:  
The Coachman swore, That he must eat, or die.  
In hungry Rage I conjure down the Host,  
Of squeamish Fairies, raise my Landlord's Ghost,  
Bespeak a Dinner; whilst they lay the Cloth,  
I call for Wine, and lay great Bacchus' wrath.  
When Dinner came, in Courtesy we pray  
Landlord and Landlady, who scarce obey;  
Too full of business; busy with their Meat,  
" That foul, but great Employment of the great!  
Providing what to drink, and what to eat.  
But came at last. My N'ost (hoping n'Offence)  
T'inflame the Reckoning: she with best pretence,  
To wait upon the Dames in our Defence.  
Of woolly Venison than came up a Loin:  
Two Rabbits next: we'allay with cheering Wine  
Bad Company: and plentifully dine.  
We'd done, and Rhadamant began to call,  
Dire Rhadamant, Determiner of all  
Our Time, and Pastime, there was no Appeal,  
When black Ambrosia had once fir'd his Zeal.  
The Reckoning came, and Northern Madam read  
A learned Lecture upon Beer and Bread,  
Then on the Meat, saying, Indeed she could wish  
A longer time to debate every Dish,  
With the sharp Hostess: but that not allowed  
By Rhadamant, who called again aloud;  
A short dispute how we should pay, arose:  
I offer all, but Madam too well knows  
What Honour is; she presses, I obey:  
Allow her half the Honour of the day.  
Down stairs we come, take leave of Se'n-Oak-Town,  
A little place, and of a small Renown,  
Unless remembered for the first Approach  
Of Tunbridge-Fairies, who haunt every Coach,  
There first; fair Dippers, who come fourteen Mile  
To get a Promise, or a hopeful Smile,  
Of any Lady, or of some fine Man,  
To dip their Water for 'em, if they can.  
These with Addresses we found at the door,  
We answered them with Smiles then, and no more,  
Leaving their farther Plea to th' Fountain's Head,  
Their sweet Abode, there to be answered.  
We all took Coach, when Rhadamant had spoke  
Words of Command, and given the smart stroke;  
Away we're hurried by two stout, swift Pair  
Of excellent Horses, neighing through the Air;  
And now we had some hopes that we might come,  
At last beyond Hell, to Elysium.  
The Road was gravelly, the Way was wide,  
Enclosed with Wood, and Pasture on each side;  
Green Pastures here dressed in their Flowers appear,  
There Fields of Corn, as much as Ground can bear,  
Commend the Soil, and prophesy the Year.  
Beyond th' Enclosure, far as you can see,  
Vast Woods, in looking wild, look pleasantly:  
The Sun was cheerful, and the Day was mild,  
The Birds rejoiced, and the whole Country smiled,  
Welcoming of us all the way we went,  
With pleasant Prospect, or with fragrant Scent;  
Birds gave us wild, but sweet, Divertisement.  
But Pleasure, like this World, 's too quickly gone,  
Not till we lost it, known, or thought upon.  
For on a sudden we to Tunbridge came,  
For nothing memorable but the Fame  
Of some few Bridges, whence it has that Name.  
A low, a dirty, and ill-favoured Town,  
On which well-wishing Travellers might frown;  
In Honour of the Country, wish it down.  
Ill-favoured Street, ill-favoured Houses, Race  
Of People, that might suit with such a Place:  
Yet in this ugly Place, was one fair Wife,  
One dainty Daughter, dressed up to the Life.  
No Coach past here, but Homage still was-paid  
Or to fine Mistress, or to the fair Maid;  
But that fair Day both Beauties were displayed.  
Fair Hostess, delicately dressed, and fine,  
(Far before Bear, or Bull, inviting Sign  
To Ale; though no great Token of good Wine.)  
First at the door; then made gentile Approach,  
With th' Inn-Retinue, and attacked the Coach.  
Tapster on one hand, in Blue Apron fine,  
And Laced Cravat, produced that, he called Wine.  
Daughter remarkable for costly Face  
To those who call there, and for costly Lace  
She'd set it in; behind her Mother came,  
But not at all behind her in her Fame.  
The Mother marched before: for both their sakes,  
Went Gentlewoman-Sewer to her Cakes.  
We look, We snap, but stay as little while  
As wary Dogs do at the River Nile.  
We call for Reckoning, find the low Expense  
Reached not that Day unto the Seeing-Sence:  
W'allow for Cakes and Ale, allow no more;  
So left the Beauty-Treat upon the Score.  
Wine we put by;" For where the Woman's sine,  
" Where Tapster's Drawer, no Wise Man drinks Wine.  
We pay, we go, stern Rhadamant gives Law  
TO his nimble Horses with the Lash: they draw  
Us quickly off from Tunbridge Remora.  
We run the rugged Street, Rhadamant still  
With Beauty fir'd, and Ale, whips up the Hill.  
The Tunbridge Dames tormenting of his Breast,  
Nor he, nor Horses now have any Rest.  
The mettled Coachman, mettled Horses gain  
Soon th' easy Hill, and run us to the Plain.  
The Country opens, and a long, wild Heath  
First entertains us there with purer Breath:  
Then gives a Prospect, which with more Delight,  
Pleases the Eye, than where it loses sight.  
" Conducted to the farthest of its Sphere  
" By Nature, Nature recreates it there,  
" And treats it by the way too every where;  
" Feasts it with Objects; every pleasant Green  
" Which in the distant Woods and Fields are seen,  
" So softly fill, so sweetly please the Eye,  
" Sight does not, as in endless Prospect, die,  
" But satiates with the Variety.  
Nearer the Way, upon the Mother-Ground  
Of all choice Simples, Mother-Time is found,  
Adorned with forty sorts of Flowers round;  
A little farther sheltered with the Green  
And Shady Wood, some rarer Herbs are seen.  
Woodsorrel, wholesome Betony, does grow,  
" Which has more Virtues than Physicians know.  
Forty sorts too, which the Old Woman well  
Knows, we in gross discover by the Smell;  
With many more a Solomon might name,  
But not found in the Catalogue of Fame.  
Just by the side of this so pleasant Way,  
Some Piebald Houses stand, and strangely gay,  
So differently coloured, you would think  
Each Pane of Wall there, were to sell you Drink.  
As slight, as if built only for one Day,  
Nor 'bove Three Months of Twelve can Men there stay  
For Wind and Wether; five Rooms scarce one Hearth,  
Of other Necessaries as great Dearth.  
Sure the wise Founder hardly could suppose,  
'Twould still be Summer there, when he built those  
Fine Bowers for Houses, but hoped he might make  
A Twelve-month's Rent in Three; so save his Stake.  
Here we alight, and of the Price inquire,  
Having first viewed; but finding Week's Rent higher  
Than Month's at London, we soon thence retire;  
Leaving, as many had done, the dainty House,  
For splendid Castle, to the Country Mouse:  
We hasten thence, and not a hundred Yards,  
But we see more; fair Houses still of Cards.  
We view, and pass; each pretty Three-month's Seat,  
Bound by Foundation to be Nine-months Cheat:  
We praise 'em yet, and for most fine and fair  
Dwellings commend 'em to the Birds of th' Air.  
But Rhadamant, now come within the Smell  
Of the good Ale, and the good Dames o'th' Well;  
Hurries us down with such a furious speed,  
He's Rhadamantine Galloper indeed.  
Just as the Kite that hovering in the Air,  
Falls, waving something; And then pitches fair,  
Near the Outhouses of some scattered Town,  
To snatch the Chicken for which he comes down.  
So towering Rhadamant whirls down the Hill,  
Circling a little, and glorying in his Skill,  
Pitches and stops, at last, near a fair Way,  
And there exposes his two Birds of prey,  
On a small Platt betwixt the Church and Well;  
The fittest place for the Impure to dwell;  
The fittest place for such Pure Dames to sell  
Hypocrisy.—  
(Now only two; for th' Elder Lass was lent  
By th' way for some Gentile Divertisement)  
But two were here exposed; they look about,  
Soon find an old and ugly Hovel out.  
Where a declining Lady of the Mode,  
Th' Mode not declining yet, lodged near the Road.  
A House it was, if yet a House; or Cave,  
Or such a House, as Savages might have.  
A place, that sometimes entertained some Men,  
But was indeed but a foul Harpy's Den,  
Where, all come in, none whole come out again.  
'Tis Death for Worth to come within the Door;  
Repute, if it once come there, 's ne'er heard of more.  
Th' ignorant Traveller here unawares  
Oft falls into th' inhospitable Snares.  
Hither our Dames, by instinct led, would go,  
They enter, meet; at sight acquainted grow,  
By ' apparent Sympathy each other know.  
Like Qualities appear in Eyes and Face;  
Words jump with words." Oh! what enchanting Grace  
Has like to like? How sweetly art thou blest,  
Villainy, when thou jump'st too with Interest?  
The Proverb holds not here, though Two, nay Three  
Of the same Trade meet, yet they may agree.  
So greatest Trades have taught, Rich Paul's Church Row,  
Hared Turnstile, silken Pater Noster too;  
Th' Exchanges both; who from that Practice grow:  
All with Advantage, all together woo  
Next Man that comes. So here to fair Trepan  
Fair Dames pretend. Catch she, that best catch can.  
Thus settled are the excellentest Three  
That could be joined in a Sorority.  
The once famed, and still useful Rhodothe,  
Fond Megara, cunning Tisiphone.  
The first was settled there, th' two last came in.  
Rhodothe match for forty Lads had been,  
Skilful in Sores of Love and Spots of Sin.  
Dame that had sometimes amorous heats of Zeal,  
In which some Scars of Fame she used to heal,  
Would any Crime conceal for the distressed,  
Especially when 'twas her Interest.  
Sometimes had Raptures, in which she would tell  
Abroad the dark Occurrences of Hell:  
All and more than she knew: When Zeal and Wine  
Had raised her Breast to Fury not Divine.  
Dame, Age, and Ugliness, from Toils of Love  
Long since had eased: her Spirit now above  
The Pleasure, not the trade, flown to the height  
Of black Despair, Remorse had turned to Spite;  
A Pillar of salt Malice: had such Touch  
Of a dire Sect too, that she was so much,  
And great in th' Eyes of many Reverend Dames,  
She came to be Determiner of Fames.  
What she thought fit to say, or what she wrote,  
The rest would very reverendly quote.  
Her Life was such, she was in Calumny  
Of undeniable Authority.  
And judging others Faults still by her own,  
She was in Sins to that Perfection grown,  
She imposed her own on any: she had none.  
In short, this holy Momus Offspring could  
Bespatter what, and where, and whom she would.  
These were the Three, but these Three were not all,  
Poetic Fury here might Furies call.  
In Hell w' have heard of some, but Tunbridge-Well  
〈◊〉 now a greater Sisterhood than Hell.  
Of metamorphosed Virgins, who shrewd Tash,  
〈◊〉 Amours in vain come here to wash.  
〈◊〉 need they all be now just by such Names  
As we give these, known; they're known by their Fames.  
And if not Furies all, yet all may be  
True Harpies in our modern Poetry.  
" A fluttering sort of Dames, trepanning Race,  
" Highflying Women, that devour the place,  
" Bespatter all the Banquets with Disgrace.  
" Of, all Sorts these are, and some of every Sect,  
" Some of the Reprobates, and some of the Elect,  
" Which in Debauch speak all one Dialect.  
All here in pleasant Principles agree,  
Though not in sour ones, of Divinity.  
Nor Anabaptist, nor sour Presbyter  
E'er thinks true Flesh and Blood in Love can err.  
Whether Church err or not, they follow still  
In Love, th' instinct of Nature and .  
Though for true Speculation, and Right,  
And Practice of our Piety's we sight.  
Yet all Persuasions do too oft agree,  
Here in the Practice of Impiety.  
Ill Women of all sorts here hope to be  
Mistress or Devil to ' every thing they see.  
All Hunt, all Court, if any chance to fail  
Of what all aim at, all by Nature rail.  
If you're acquainted once, like those, you're gone,  
Whom 
* See Glanvil's Sadduc. Triumph. Story of the 〈◊〉 But.  Fairies snatch for being Companion.  
And gone to such a Sisterhood, as well  
New Poets think, outstrips the old one's Hell.  
For all, that cruel Fate condemns to these,  
Are plagued as much, and have as little ease.  
Not only Tisyphon, each Sister makes  
Her Tongue a Whip here, of a thousand Snakes.  
And though none of these wear the bloody Coat,  
These Tisyphons yet angered cut your throat.  
Th' Acquaintance kills; which yet if you would fly,  
They'll shoot you flying, kill you with a Lye.  
Such as from David's time, the wicked Darr.  
To murder in the dark the Right in Heart.  
Some base Reproach, so either way ye die  
By a Dilemma of Iniquity.  
Thus these sweet Ladies pass the Summer here,  
And do again at Winter grow as clear  
As London Fires can make 'em; here well tried,  
But at return so Spiritually died,  
Under Protection of some holy Sect,  
They turn again into the pure Elect;  
To public Shame, so private Interest  
Makes Saint of Quean, too oft amongst the best.  
But if they're happy whose Iniquity  
Is not imputed, happy then is she  
'Bove all the Tribe of downright sinful Lovers,  
Whose blessed Amours show of Religion covers.—  
Then Aesculape stood up, and with some wrath  
Said, Horrid Journey, Acer, by my Troth.  
But thou hadst some Diversion now and then,  
And all has now well furnished thy Pen.  
But that which pleased us most, thou didst so trace,  
So claw those devilish Harpies of the Place,  
They'll tumble now sure hence to Hell apace.  
This pretty Paradise, O may'st thou free,  
With thy Satiric Ingenuity,  
From this foul and foeminean Enemy.  
Then Laelius spoke—  
Thou ' saint shown us, Acer, thy Satiric Wit,  
Something of Encomiastic too with it.  
A Harpy here, alas! is not a Foe,  
With all its Feathers, proof against thy Blow.  
Though they cared little for Aeneas Swords,  
Anchises Prayers, yet they'll feel thy Words.  
Harpies took this time, Wrong Sow by the Ear;  
They'll tremble hereafter at a Poet here.  
But yet that younger Lady of the Coach,  
Acer, methinks deserves no great Reproach.  
You promised but now to answer me  
In her behalf. O let me Champion be,  
In so delightful Cause. Most willingly,  
Acer replied. After day or two's rest,  
Now 'tis too late, and I'm with Sleep oppressed.  
All favour the Excuse, loath to delay  
Acer's Repose, adjourned from Night to Day.  
Third Day was set, but Aesculape desired,  
Since Acer cruel Fortune had so tired,  
With Contraries to Wit, and we so late  
Had kept him up, repeating of his Fate;  
That Curioed first survey, and then rehearse  
That pleasant Wildness in well polished Verse.  
Acer and Laelius not till the fourth Day  
Should have their Dialogue: The Wits obey.  
Our Friends take leave, but merrily admire  
The Cottage first, and Hostess, so retire.  
By this time the good Dame with Ale revived,  
Something of a poor Lodging had contrived:  
We all good Beds, and all clean Linen had,  
Though all things poor, yet nothing that was bad:  
Fared as well as the Rich, with fewer things,  
And in poor Beds slept better than great Kings.   

THE Second Dialogue.  
Tunbridge-Wells AND Place Described.  Metellus. 
TWice since we came, we in this little place  
Early had seen bright Phoebus cheering Face.  
And now the Sun within the Cottage door,  
Seen all the Morning long, shined there no more.  
Near shady Trees the horned Cattle stood,  
Beating off Flies, and chewing of the Cud,  
Horses sought shelter in the Neighbouring Wood  
Sheep, holding down their Heads, together run,  
Exposing their thick Fleeces to the Sun.  
The pretty Birds in levy Groves were hid,  
Nor sing they now, as some hours since they did.  
The old and younger Cocks begin to crow,  
And that 'twas Noon let their old Mistress know.  
When the good Dame yet looking at the Sun,  
And seeing that the wont space was run,  
Which made the first half day, set on the Board  
Such Meats as her poor Cottage could afford.  
We fed on Bacon, and on Coleworts well,  
And drank in Maple, Ale that did excel,  
Not Brewer's mixture, but the drink of Tale,  
Brisk Salutiferous Old Woman's Ale  
Soon as we'd Dined, Curio took up his Lute;  
This said he, Acer, now the best will suit  
With wearied minds, at this time of the day,  
And walking 'bout the Room began to play.  
He sung of Ebbing and of Flowing Seas,  
And of that Power that does such things as these,  
Whence Rivers come, and whence sweet Fountains flow,  
And how their Origins we best may know;  
Almost two hours, (nor did we think it long)  
We'd sat attentive to the Learned Song.  
When Aesculape and Laelius coming in  
Began to tell us at what Treat they'd been.  
The Heath-poult Critically they compare  
With other Fowl, what Wheat-ear was, how rare,  
They tell; and then commend the well-grown Fish,  
Reading us Lectures upon every Dish,  
Admire at last the Plate, in which they eat  
And drank so splendidly, beyond the Meat:  
When Curio excellently thus began;—  Curio. 
" That Care, great Aesculape's scarce worthy Man;  
" To be so great a Critic in good Meat,  
" And with such Curiosity to eat.  
" Prodigal Luxury! how dost thou waste  
" The World in Dinners? At a Meal we taste  
" The Sea and Air, nor are we yet content,  
" Unless we see too half the Continent.  
" OH too ambitious hunger of the Great!  
" Who thus would treat us with the sight of Meat;  
" Nature's desire, alas! is but to eat.  
" With many mocked, with much choked up, we die,  
" Not for want of, but with Variety.  
" Were Health or Nature asked, which would accord  
" To that vainglory of so splendid Board?  
" The Sick are not relieved with so much Wine,  
" Nor to be well, need we use Cups so fine.  
" The Drink's no wholesomer in Gold, than Wood,  
" And to the Thirsty the cold Streams as good.  
" Great Courts the Cottage but in this excel,  
" That those eat more, but these eat oftener well.  
" The great in their great Palaces have less,  
" Than the poor Cottage has, of happiness.  Aescul. 
These Stoic thoughts, said Aesculape, do well  
Become thee, Curio, in this lowly Cell.  
But that which we came hither now to see,  
Is Landscape of this Place, and drawn by thee.  
W'entreat thee therefore that thou wouldst rehearse,  
And give us Yesterday Survey in Verse.  

The PLACE.  Curio. 
SInce 'tis your pleasure, Wits, and you command,  
'Twould be in me ill manners to withstand.  
Not many hours I had enjoyed of rest  
In that sweet habitation of the blessed,  
Where Solitude and Poverty to those  
Who there inhabit, give a sound repose.  
But fresh Aurore disposed the World to light,  
Phoebus arising, banished from our sight  
The glimmering Moon, and every lesser light;  
Forcing my Window, importuned my Eyes,  
With cheerful beams, invited me to rise.  
The Larks were up, already, mounted high,  
And with their cheering Notes had filled the Sky.  
The Sparrows chirped, the Thrush and Blackbird sung,  
With Bird's sweet Music all the Country rung.  
Whilst Nature's soft Musicians sing and play  
Thus round about me, without Fiddlers pay,  
More natural, less mere'enary than they;  
I dress apace, not like the Men that woe;  
But clap on , as Men of business do.  
Dressed, I went forth, and took the path that brings  
Me after a short walk unto the Springs.  
I cross the wild, but sweet, and pleasant Heath;  
And as I go, I quicken with the breath  
Of Air, perfumed with fresh and fragrant Earth  
Something descending, till at last I came  
Unto that little place of so great fame;  
The Walks and Wells of Tunbridge, which both join,  
Rude, till of late beginning to be fine.  
Each way you come, some new built Houses stand,  
You'd think some little City were at hand,  
So placed, so pretty, that as you come down,  
They look like Suburbs of some pleasant Town.  
Taverns appear at first, with costly Signs,  
And better token of good Town, good Wines.  
Through these Preliminaries than you go  
To th' Upper Walk, divided with a Row  
Of shady Trees, from that which is below.  
Trees, which since any, pity there's so few:  
Pity we give not th' Healthy Soil its due.  
Doubtless if tilled, place that as well might bear.  
All sorts of Trees, as those few we see there.  
For that Omission, Art makes this amends,  
That this one Row of Trees both Walks defends  
From Phoebus' Beams, and something from the Rain,  
Art, it seems, here does nothing too in vain.  
The Upper-Walk's a rich and pleasant Street,  
Gentile as any, more than any sweet:  
Where pleasures of the Town and Country meet.  
The Shops, like those of famed St. Germain's Fair  
For Plate, for Sweetmeats, but beyond for Air.  
Nor in the choice of Ware would be behind,  
Might these such Chapmen here, as there are, find,  
Beyond that, and th' Exchange, in pleasant shade,  
Which always here by verdant Trees is made,  
Far beyond both for Sights: The Buyer sees  
City in Country, Cheapside among Trees.  
Turn from the Shops, you see some pleasant Hill:  
Turn back, green Trees, which Compliment you still,  
Bending their Heads, obliging you with shade;  
To look into the Shops seem to persuade.  
The Shops not only entertain with Toys,  
But th' Buyer there good Company enjoys;  
Some by a well-contrived and happy chance,  
Fortune, by Raffling, does to Plate advance,  
At no great Hazard; these buy Gifts to send,  
Those sell to give: All time with pleasure spend.  
Ah, were we so well governed in delights,  
As most t' affect that place that most invites!  
Amiable Tunbridge, how soon then might we  
Make more than a St. Germain's Fair of thee.  
Decaying Trades revive by coming down,  
Abroad enjoy the pleasures of the Town.  
'Midst of the Trees Apollo has a Choir,  
Nor can we, Phoebus choose, but here admire.  
'Mong all thy excellencies these soft Arts  
Of thine, with which thou recreat'st our hearts,  
Easest our Cares, that sick minds too here may,  
Whilst well set Tunes thy skilful Music play,  
Cheerfully pass the Morning of each Day.  
Our Bodies, Crystal Springs would cleanse in vain,  
To lit●●● purpose purify the Brain,  
Did not these Harmonies of Phoebus do  
With them still some part of the wonder too.  
Nor is the Gentle God in pleasure dear,  
To those who do frequent his Pastimes here.  
The smallest Sacrifice of half a Crown,  
Offered by each at first, when they come down,  
Propitiates that half year the skilful Choir,  
Nor take they all that Summer other Hire.  
But when these see bright Phoebus' Rays decline,  
And the gay Troop below no longer shine;  
When Day grows short, when Birds and they descry  
Approaching cold, these Nightingales too fly  
To warmer Regions, there their Fortune try.  
This pleasant Street is all the Morning long,  
A great, gentile, and not unruly Throng;  
A sober Multitude of every Sort  
Except the Mean, who seldom there resort,  
Epitome of Country, Camp, and Court;  
Grave here till Noon, then go elsewhere to sport.  
Dire Sects may here of grim Devotion talk,  
Whilst Moderater-Men just by 'em walk.  
Th' Enthusiastic with his Brain as full  
Of Fury as Geneva Pulpit-Bull,  
Yet here walks quiet, peaceable and dull.  
Here the unfortunate of Loss complain,  
Here rich Curmud geons plot t' increase their Gain;  
And here soft Lovers do each other cheer,  
Nor does Love find what can offend it here.  
Best Independent Meeting; you may say,  
Or sing, or read, or meditate, or pray.  
Each as inspired; and though you ' have not that Grace,  
The Music makes it yet a Heavenly Place.  
The Underwalk runs parallel with this,  
But something lower, and of lower Bliss;  
Place Rural Gods did not intent to bless  
With more, it seems, than Market-Happiness.  
Designed to be but Larder to the great  
And nobler Walk; Fair Magazine of Meat.  
O, were I Painter now, how well could I  
Describe this pretty Market to the Eye?  
But Airy Language cannot show so well,  
Nor what's bought, nor how prettily they sell.  
There is a Row of Trees that does divide  
The Upper Walk and Lower: There the Pride  
Of City stands: the Country here abide  
In Walk, though Low, as pleasant and as plain  
As th' other is, but sitter for the Swain.  
Great numbers here of well-clad People stand,  
Both Men and Women; none with empty hand;  
Each brings you Dainties: Dainties you command,  
At a low Price: when you have pleased your Eye,  
With sight of Plenty ' as easily you buy.  
The nicest stomaches at no Market find  
Of England, sooner Dainties to their Mind.  
Wheat-Ears and Quails which every where are sought,  
Here are the oftenest and the cheapest bought.  
Heath-poult and Pheasant, every thing the Year  
And Season can afford, they ' afford you here.  
The Lady, without wetting of her Shoe,  
May choose her Dinner, while her Gallants woo.  
Appears more lovely in the low Employ,  
Whilst the amorous Friend presents the welcome Toy:  
The Tunbridge Biscuit or the Country Cake  
Which with great Care here cleanly Housewives make  
So well, That they with City Palates take.  
Baskets of choicest Fruits the Gallants bear  
To Ladies hence; fair Presents and not dear.  
Excellence, such Gifts no where have, but here  
The want of Garden is so well supplied,  
No Fruit is to the Inhabitants denied.  
The Market's Garden, where though none can sow,  
None need to plant, none take the pains to mow.  
All Crops all reap: All Fruits seem there to grow.  
As fair as well-pruned Trees this untilled Field  
The best of Fruits does without Gardiner yield.  
Under the fragrant Leaves of yonder Trees  
You ready gathered find fresh Strawberries.  
With Odoriferous Rasps, beneath that Tree  
Shaded with Poplar Leaves you Cherries see,  
As fresh as if they grew there, but more rare,  
As if just grown, where none grow, they appear.  
All Kent's the Garden, this fair place may be  
Called with great Reason Kent's Epitome.  
Kent all conspires to feed ye, the best Plum,  
Best Pears they have, from their best Gardens come.  
Women, not more ambitious to sell  
Than to be seen, are all of 'em dressed well,  
In plain, but most becoming Country Clothes;  
Plain Modesty, adorning more than those,  
Sets of the Rural Nymphs, and makes 'em show  
Beyond what City Art or Cost can do.  
Beauty in Cities is disguised, but here  
The Goddess does without her Masque appear.  

* Digression to Ladies who use Art.  Hence, O hence learn, ye Beauties of the Court,  
And, ye fair Citizens, who here resort,  
At how much cheaper Rate you may be fine,  
And how ye may restore those Looks Divine,  
Which that great God, that made you, did bestow,  
But now no vestige here of his can know.  
Too vain those Arts are which teach thus to dress,  
They do but make, what Nature gave you, less.  
Ye hid in borrowed Looks the noblest Part  
Of God's best Work, disparaging his Art.  
Can Woman's Art great Nature's Skill outdo?  
What, 'bove fair Nature, can in Woman woo?  
Pictures, not Beauties, ye aspire to be;  
Men would not th' Artificial Woman see,  
But that which Nature framed, yourself in you,  
Nor can they be in Love, but with the true.  
Nature forbids: Men naturally hate  
All in Mankind that is Sophisticate.  
Colour's not all the Beauty of the Face  
That renders amiable our Humane Race.  
Our Nature is with more Perfection seen  
In the sweet Humour, and the taking Mien,  
And sparkling Wit, live Features from within  
Shining, than in an Artificial Skin.  
O ye, that have such Gifts as those, disgrace  
Not Nature thus by a Pygmalion Face.  
True Love's not gained by Face which Art has made,  
Nor can those artificial Looks persuade.  
Affection's natural: whom ye abuse;  
Nature it is that must True Love infuse;  
Who ' in this new Eden surely must have meant  
Adam's lost Paradise to represent.  
And if the World at first from Atoms came,  
Why may ned these Atoms here too do the same  
In this small World?—  
By accidental Concourse, give us twice  
The Happiness of earthly Paradise?  
A Thought more probable, Lucrece, than thine,  
Excellent Poet, but profane Divine.  
Here are the Rarities of that blessed Place,  
These look like Primitives of Humane Race;  
Here's Adam's first Felicity, nay, more,  
They ' have something Adam had not heretofore:  
No Mortal here, for Fruit he eats, is chid,  
Or Meat; no Meat or Fruit is here forbidden.  
Better then, from this Concourse, Paradise  
May, than the World could, from small Atoms, rise.  
Beyond this Walk, but on a lower Ground,  
Butchers, scarce seen from hence, are to be found,  
In little, but clean Shops, where they conceal  
The sweetest Mutton, as good Beef, white Veal,  
And Lamb, from Fly, and you; lest ere you eat,  
Your Stomach dine, cloyed with the sight of Meat.  
‛ Soon as you come, the bloody Merchant's smile,  
And in their pleasant sanguinary Style,  
Tell of what Mutton they are there the Death,  
That woolly Venison of their fragrant Heath,  
Which, had it but its due, aught to be here  
Preferred before the Wild and Fallow Deer.  
In Rural Eloquence they ' express as well  
Savo'ry Perfections of their Beef and Veal.  
But so accommodating this rough Trade  
By sweet Place, and sweet Interest is made;  
That for small Money, and some Amity,  
To sit you, they'll divide one Joint in three.  
Help with fair Words the Bargain: make an end  
With smooth Prognostic how their Meat will spend.  
On one side of this Walk, Fish always stand,  
And not far off, on a dry Platt of Sand,  
So fresh, they ' offend no Nose; the Eye they please  
To see on so dry Land such Fish as these.  
All sorts are sold; all sorts of Men here buy:  
All Appetites vote Uniformity.  
With Popish Conscience godly Stomaches join,  
As well as those, on Crab and Lobster, dine.  
Though not so well affected to the Chair  
Of Peter; yet in Appetite keep fair  
With Brethren of the Trade; the Popish Meat  
Protesting 'gainst the Injunction, they may eat:  
To ' advance on good Considerations,  
Not Peter's Inte'rest but the Nation's.  
The Lobster, Oyster, and the Crab, we see  
Good honest Heathens eat as well as we.  
" But 'tis Religion that is nought with Fish;  
" What need the day prescribe to us the Dish?  
Now Superstition is all cast behind,  
If we ' eat but what, and when we have a mind.  
Shellfish created seems, for wary House,  
By Nature wears its Cupboard 'gainst the Mouse.  
Two or three days untouched, till Dame command,  
Or have a mind, conveniently they stand;  
Then are eat savingly, boiled to their hand.  
These Fish, no wonder if the Godly spend  
For public Interest, and private end;  
But superstitious 
* Haddock has Spots on either side, which are said, marks of St. Peter's Fingers, when he catched that Fish for the Tribute.  Haddock, which appear  
With marks of Rome, St. Peter's Finger's here,  
I wondered more to find amongst th' Elect,  
And so Predestinated to the Sect.  
Twice snatched from us to feed the godly Man,  
Whilst we poor wicked starve by the Trepan.  
O superstitious Dainty, Peter's Fish,  
How comest thou here to make so godly Dish?  
And yet such Fish as these can't safely dine  
The Lady whom Religion does confine.  
'Gainst Church and Fathers, if Physician join,  
With Appetite, the plausibler Divine.  
Behind this Market on a rising ground,  
Under the Hill a pretty House I found,  
Not finished yet, yet that did give us then,  
Of what it would be no small Specimen.  
'Tis situated where the pleasant Vine  
Itself would flourish; well designed for Wine.  
The House invited, and the Wine as much,  
The Master more; I wish all Vintners such.  
Merchant, with whom Friends and fine place prevailed,  
That here by ' himself his Wine might be retailed;  
Gentile young Man, if Fortune deal as well  
As Nature with him, born to give, not sell.  
The Drawer pleased, but above all the Cook,  
Skilful and pleasant by ' Art and Nature, took.  
Here I meet Friends; and here, though late, we dine,  
And here we stew new Fish in good old Wine.  
We well were treated both in Wine and Far,  
And in fair Reckon, a great deal more rare.  
Hence I crossed back through th' Market, to the end  
Of th' Upper Walk, thence to the Wells descend.  
These, Acer, I familiarly rehearse,  
This subject bearing not a higher Verse.  
" Where th' Objects are unequal, lie so low,  
No Fancy there to any height can go.  Acer replied. 
It is the greatest Art  
To humour th' Object: That makes Verse both smart  
And elegant. Therefore with more delight  
've heard this Verse, than if it had flown to height.  
But now thou 'rt at the Wells, let fancy go  
To higher strain, smooth like the Fountain flow.  
We all of us shall think it worth our while,  
To hear Wit with variety of Style.  Curio. 
Too much, O Friends, ye now expect from me,  
That give me such a Task of Poetry.  
Curio replied, at this time of the day;  
But if you'll have it, and I must obey,  
O, be thou then my Helicon, inspire,  
Prodigious Fountain, thy steeled streams have fire.  
I have drunk: the inspiring draught compels to fly,  
And th' force of this new Helicon to try.   

The WELLS.  
BEyond the pleasant Street, that shady Row  
Of Greenest Trees, confronting Shops; below  
That gloomy Walk, there is some sandy ground,  
With Heath, and Rocks, and Hills encompassed round.  
Yet not too high, too horrid, nor too near,  
But at a distance, as if with some fear,  
And Reverence, Rocks stood admiring there.  
In midst of Rocks, within that sandy space,  
Famed Well, the ancient Mother of that place,  
Nature has placed; from her at first the name  
Of the small Village, and from her the Fame:  
From her, th' Inhabitants and Houses came.  
Had she of old done, what she now has wrought,  
She would by th' Ancients have been Goddess thought.  
But with more truth the wise contemplate now  
His Finger there, to whom all Mortals bow.  
Angels of old, when God from Heaven sent  
To Cure us, yet 'twas by this Element.  
Though Cures were then by Angels to be wrought,  
The Paralyticks to the Pool were brought.  
With greater grandeur powerful God does here  
In Nature, his great Substitute, appear,  
Now in these Fountains, than by Angels there.  
Nature, the Soul of the great World, we see  
Demonstrating here the Divinity.  
Whilst she supported by th' Almighty hand,  
Works daily wonders by great God's Command.  
And whether we admire her by the Name  
Of Goddess, God, or Nature, 'tis the same.  
We see Effects that can be none but his,  
Adore great God in what great Nature is:  
Who e'er thou art, that on us Men below,  
Such Gifts as these art able to bestow,  
In thee sure some Immortal power must live,  
None but the Omnipotent such Gifts can give;  
Nature is but God's Representative.  
Concealed, yet known; Invisible she sits,  
Appearing to us but in Benefits:  
By great Effects, as God is wont to do,  
(For God in Nature appears greatly too.)  
Here Goddess-like, though under Fountain's Name,  
She does those Wonders which give Fountains Fame.  
Placed with her Back to the wide Heath and Hills,  
As ' if conscious that her Busi'nefs were our Ills,  
She looks into the Walks, where splendid Throng  
Of Patients do attend all Summer long.  
These all the Morning from that pleasant Place  
She daily does receive with open Face.  
Walled in, whether for Beauty, or for State,  
Or both, she always keeps an open Gate;  
Through which she sees that Crowd of Patients walk;  
And seems to hearken how the afflicted talk;  
When they declining groan, when they complain,  
Hence she sends Water that revives again.  
Twice twenty Nymphs still round about her stand,  
Fair Country Maids, each with a Glass in hand,  
Reaching her Bounty forth, give with good Grace.  
Full Cups, bestowed by th' Goddess of the Place.  
Here sits her Power, and hence her Bounty flows,  
And hence a Torrent of her Kindness goes,  
Increasing still, extending the small Flood,  
As if ambitious to diffuse the Good  
Through the dry Valley of that scorched Heath,  
Prolongs Life there, and saves from cruel Death.  
Cures something still, though not Men as at first,  
Saves pining Cattle from the Plague of Thirst.  
Something in Virtue at a distance less,  
But Fountain every where ordained to bless.  
Whether her Learned Doctors thought the fair  
Fountain should so have Benefit of Air,  
Or Favourite of Heaven, it was fit  
It should have Way to ' Heaven, and heaven to it.  
This Divine Fountain, though 'tis walled in,  
Yet has no Covering: still by Heaven seen,  
Still Heaven sees: beholds each glorious Star,  
Of which it feels the Influence so far.  
But, O ye Muses all, inspire me now,  
That I the Bowels of the Earth may blow;  
Too hard a Task for any Muse alone,  
Requires more power than all the Nine dare own.  
Too dark those Paths are, for a Muse to fly,  
The Secrets scarce reached by Philosophy.  
Whether they only Luminaries are,  
That can produce a Miracle so rare,  
Or, by a power Divine, some brighter Star  
Does pierce so deep, and influence so far;  
From the dark Caverns of Eternal Night  
And Earth, this Spring comes first; but Face so bright,  
Such Excellencies has, it can't but be  
From something more than earthly Pedigree.  
Our Common Mother, though she had a share  
In the great Geniture, yet Birth so rare  
Claims God or Star for Parent; here are two  
Such Works as these, or God or Heaven must do.  
Whether that God that rules both Sea and Land,  
From Seas first sent these Waves by his Command,  
Or else by frequent Showers from above  
Well purified they come; the Star of Love,  
Great Governness of amiable things,  
Some power must needs have on these lovely Springs.  
By her sweet Conduct they so softly flow,  
And by her Softness they delight us so.  
Her Kindness leads 'em gently through the Ground,  
Brings 'em to Mars his Steel, that makes 'em sound.  
The powe'rful Luminaries both here join,  
And in the Caverns of the Earth combine,  
To influence the Salutife'rous Flood,  
So great a Medi'cine, and so great a Good.  
Mars with Celestial Heat warms from above,  
The lowly Wave receives Celestial Love.  
She gently steals it through the Parent's Veins,  
Seeking the Light, and as it goes, it gains,  
Imbibes the Tincture of the powe'rful Steel,  
Sweet Waves and healthful, Mars and Venus feel.  
By her they cool and moisten the hot Vein,  
He with his Warmth enlivens them again.  
The stubborn Steel affects the Water so,  
The Water's temper that too as they go,  
Till here at last both Luminaries bring  
Out of the Earth this wonder-working Spring.  
Ill-natured Earth! how couldst thou so long hid  
Such Powe'rs as these? Was it thine, or Nature's Pride?  
Could she, our Mistress, thou a Parent be?  
Not for so many Ages let us see  
This Antidote of our Mortality?  
Or was Nature afraid that we should live  
Beyond her Limits, therefore would not give?  
 'twas, ye both kept secret long;  
Though you bless now, ye did past Ages wrong.  
Nature of Secret surely was too shy,  
For so great Mistress of Morality,  
And of thee, Earth, thy Children sure deserved,  
That that Life which thou gav'st, should be preserved.  
But thou, great God, that saw'st much more than we,  
knowst more than Earth or Nature could foresee,  
Reserv'd'st this Medi'cine, like good Wine, till last,  
Saw'st not such need of it in Ages past.  
Now is the Time Chalybeates should be seen,  
The World devolved is to an Age of Spleen,  
Beyond that so long talked of Iron Age,  
A Time that brings forth such a rusty Rage,  
As none of the known Medi'cines can assuage.  
This saving Fountain surely comes at length  
With Venus' Beauty, and with Mars' Strength,  
To cleanse and mollify; from Heaven sent  
Plenipotentiary of the Omnipotent.  
She with her Sweetness makes th' hard Potion please,  
And gently softens the morose Disease.  
He does his Strength 'gainst tough Diseases try,  
Till with his tougher Steel he makes 'em fly.  
Fountain impower'd by both's ordained to cure,  
As far as Mortal Bodies can endure.  
O might such Stars work on our Morals too,  
And on our Minds yet greater Wonders do!  
But metamorphosed Mars, why is't that thou  
From God of War turn'st here Physician now?  
Whilst we turn Ploughs to Swords, here how comes all  
The Steel thou makest to be so medi'cinal?  
Wast thou to Mortals so severe of old,  
That their Devotion was almost grown cold,  
Now with more grateful, and more Godlike Skill,  
To please, thou sav'st more, than thou 'rt wont to kill?  
Or is't, That Men grown worse than heretofore,  
Need thy old Skill in Villainy no more,  
But Artists grown, can kill, can rob, can lie,  
Without the help of Devi'l or Deity?  
Or rather is it, That we of late endure  
Those Plagues of Mars, no Drugg, but Steel can cure;  
Which Divine Providence now to assuage  
Prepares, by thee, some Antidote for the Age?  
And with that Sword of thine that hurt before,  
At last designs to cure a great deal more.  
 'tis in Mixture so Divine,  
Some greater Work, great God must sure design,  
As much as the Ancients, Aeson, said of thee,  
This Fountain does, renews us bodily:  
Like Ghosts at first we here the living meet,  
Muffled in Cap, cloaked in long Winding-sheet,  
If yet alive, not like the living go,  
As if they lived whether Nature would or no.  
Like Spi'rits they look; hollow, like Ghosts, they talk,  
Amongst the living, just like dead Men, walk.  
When on a sudden a strange Change is made,  
They flourish all who did so lately fade.  
As if the Fountain had a Power to call  
Back from the dead, they who seemed buried all  
Walk and arise from living Funeral.  
In all parts of the Body Omens are,  
That Strength and Health now openly declare.  
All Symptoms change, the late weak Pulse grows strong,  
All Parts revived give hopes of living long:  
No sooner we imbibe the Godlike Flood,  
But Vitals all revive; corrupted Blood  
Obstructed, which for want of passage stood  
Stagnant almost, new Spirits now make good.  
The Spleen is cleansed, the Liver opened so,  
To reinforce all Parts the Blood does go:  
Each Limb partakes, and now that Vigour comes,  
To every Part, that every Part becomes:  
Whole Man renewed, seems to be born again,  
In the New Man no Place has the old Pain.  
The hard, incurable, and cruel Stone,  
Which would make Heart, as hard as it, bemoan  
Man's Misery, here with the subtlest Stroke,  
Like that of Thunder, shattered is, and broke.  
The rooted Griefs all Parts begin to leave,  
All Parts their pristine Nimbleness receive.  
You see the Countenance begin to clear,  
The Hands are fresh, the Goddess Looks appear  
In every Face; Ladies her Waters drink,  
That they had drank her Beauty too, you'd think:  
A fresh Complexion, and that greater Grace,  
Brisk Cheerfulness enlivens every Face.  
Where Features are, it gives of Beauty more  
Than Nature even at Birth bestowed before.  
Not only cures, but it does too improve,  
Repairs Love's Object, and increases Love.  
The Heart, that is so great a Fountain too  
Of Life, this saving Fountain does out do.  
From that, bare Life, and sickly; from this, we  
Of Health and Life receive Security.  
Not only cleansing; rather we should call  
This Water the Chalybeat Cordial.  
Whilst Venus thus and Mars together bless,  
All noisome Vapours both of 'em suppress  
All Apoplectic Fumes. What can we dread,  
When two such Luminaries clear the Head?  
Other great Medi'cines cure, but each apart:  
This the whole Man; the Liver, Head, the Heart,  
And every Limb renews with Godlike Art:  
Relieves the almost stupefied Brain,  
Works off its Clouds, and gives it Life again.  
Quickens with Spirits the quite-blunted Wit,  
With new-enabled Fancy helpeth it.  
Wit that before absconded, now 's not shy,  
Shines in the Look, and sparkles through the Eye,  
With quick Look shows restored Memory.  
The Scholar struggling feels recovered Brain,  
Embellished Fancy speaks strong Lines again,  
Thinks freely of all Objects, fills with Sense,  
And uses his old native Eloquence.  
Choked Lungs respire, now first we feel, 'tis true,  
That we● are alive: we feel ourselves all new.  
Our Souls in sickly Bodies tired so long,  
Transinigrate here into the sound and strong.  
As if with Lethe washed, no more they fret  
At Sorrows past, but all their Pains forget.  
Leaving the gloomy Shades then from the fair  
Fountain, they go into the opener Air;  
There dwell all day in green and pleasant Fields  
(Such Places too this new Elysium yields)  
At perfect Ease. In this sweet Place they walk,  
In that they dance, by the Wood-side they talk,  
Some excellent Poet yonder makes his Verse,  
Another here takes pleasure to rehearse;  
The Wits that hear, admire; all Wit's delight,  
These hear with Pleasure, those with Pleasure write.  
Here Friend meets his old Friend, the amo'rous Lad,  
Fond Lover, finds his Mistress, and is glad.  
Under that Oak contemplating we see  
Some great Improver of Philosophy.  
A little farther, by that Maple sits  
Yet harder Student straining of his Wits;  
Studying the Globe, the Elements and Plants;  
And casting up what our short Knowledge wants.  
Near these, great Heroes, of a higher Fate,  
Settle in Solitude Affairs of State,  
Having laid down the Burden of ill Health,  
Now with Delight support the Commonwealth.  
Free from that Throng of Clients, and alone,  
Their Time and Health here first can call their own.  
Atlas' of the Land, much better bear  
The burden here, than if at Court they were.  
Not far from these, but in more gloomy walk,  
Grave Citizens, gravely delighted, talk  
Of their own little Commonwealth at home,  
How they to helm of Merchandise may come.  
In all conditions each one to his mind  
Does here the pleasure he affecteth find.  
The Ladies round the pleasant Country fly,  
As if they had kind of Ubiquity.  
No pleasant place, but the gay Troop are there,  
Daily they meet, and they meet every where.  
The Music follows 'em; as Angels do,  
They carry Heaven about with 'em too;  
At the appointed place they meet a train  
Of Glorious Gallants ready on the plain,  
And so well dressed appear, Jewels and they  
Out-smile the Meadows and vie with the day.  
In graceful postures Men the Ladies meet,  
In solemn dance advance their nimble feet,  
To exact steps; with all the grace that can  
On Earth belong to the Corporeal Man.  
Some Banquet hard by these, one on the Lute  
Plays a choice Tune, whilst all admire, all mute.  
Some Lady with rare Voice a well-set Song  
Sings to the Rest, and ravishes the Throng.  
" A Heaven on Earth; could such small pastime fill  
" Man's mighty mind; and could it be so still.  
Nor now dear bought, though precious time, be price  
Once in a Year of such a Paradise.  
Pity that every Winter should deface  
That which at Summer is so sweet a place.  
Pity just pleasure should no longer hold  
Than Summer's heat, and with the Year grow cold.  
The sober Man might here at Winter be,  
The Wit and Scholar would be then more free.  
The Air as well as Water does revive,  
This makes us live, and that keeps us alive.  
Nor could God, that saves thus by Water ' have meant  
T' assist us less with higher Element.  
Great Earth, concerned in both, by steel empowers  
Water to Cure; the Air, with Herbs and Flowers.  
The Soil as fertile as can well be sweet,  
As much invites us to dwell there, as meet.  
The ground is warm, and it is sheltered so,  
That all things there, if 'twere manured, might grow.  
Here choicest Flowe'rs, and there the pleasant Vine  
The Soil would yield us; though not rich, yet fine,  
If once improved, this wholesome place would be,  
Rudeness adorned might rise to Rarity.  
It wants but Soil, which Company would bring:  
Had it but Subjects, it might please a King.  
The pleasant Bottom, dry and sandy ground,  
Lies sheltered with small rocky Rise round.  
Some steeper, some of easier Ascent:  
Those, with the pleasant Soil to give, were meant,  
These to facilitate Divertisement.  
Tops of the Rocks are hardly to be seen,  
But all with Heath are covered, or all Green.  
Some distance off, all sorts of Trees there are,  
Better so placed than if they nearer were,  
By Nature's great Contrivance, not to hid  
The pleasantness a Heath has in being wide.  
The Heath, though on its Surface little grow,  
For Use, yet it has Storehouses below,  
By Nature filled: Materials of its own  
To build a City; Iron, Steel, and Stone;  
Too much Sand to be useless, there is hilled,  
And heaped by Nature, all given us to build.  
Take hence an Omen then: Nature's design  
Sure must have been in time to make it fine.  
Though now but scattered place, yet we may know  
What 'tis to be, we see 'tis like to grow;  
Already future City's Embryo.  
The pretty Walk, the Crowd, the splendid street  
Of Shops above, the Market Folks that meet,  
The frequent People, Gentry mixt-with Clown,  
Makes up a something, something like a Town.  
That 'tis no more built yet, to the sweet place  
Can be no shame; to us is more disgrace,  
Who hitherto to so benefick Spring  
Have made no better Free-will-Offering.  
Not all new Towns for Wealth, but some for Fame  
Are built, or Health; some to preserve a Name.  
Let these bright Springs some brighter name preserve  
Than dirty Tunbridge; better they deserve.  
For Health, the Miracles which here are done  
By Air and Water, methinks should have won  
The cured in Gratitude; the sick at least  
Should be convinced by their own Interest,  
To finish these beginnings of a Town,  
Which thus unbuilt bring such a concourse down.  
These Fundamentals, London, with thee strive,  
Already which keeps most of thine alive.  
The place thus urges thee, where can thy Wealth  
Be better spent, than where 't' repaid with Health?  
Of all thy Principals, (though here be least)  
'Twould pay yet the best sort of Interest.  
From Vulture's flying the Founder of great Rome  
Conceived first hopes of what was then to come.  
The place was marked to ‛ Aeneas by white Swine,  
A prosperous Colour, but no hopeful Sign.  
Who would have thought, that ruiner of ground  
Should show, where Gods still-standing Rome would found?  
We here have better, whiter Signs in sight,  
The fairest prospect of a fair delight.  
No ravenous Vulture invites, nor Swinish wealth,  
Nor brutish pleasure, but thou, candid Health:  
And all those rural pastimes which agree  
With Innocence and Ingenuity.  
Nor does Heaven now its Will by Brutes declare,  
Or flying Vultures: Elements here are  
Both cause and Omens of our future bliss:  
Air with the Water does prognostic this.  
Earth too concurs; Three of the Four agree  
T' invite us with auspicious Augury.  
The Springs that cause our Health, do Health fore tell,  
The Air gives Hopes we may continue well.  
The Earth, though no such fertile Crops it give,  
Yet by its Barrenness helps us to live,  
Perfumes and purifies the Air we breath,  
The Soil, though barren, fragrant is beneath.  
Where Nature three parts of her Fabric draws  
Into ' one efficient conglobated Cause,  
Of what her Wisdom here means to bestow,  
Foreshews the Effects in Causes whence they flow.  
From so great Omens, sure we may divine;  
Predict Felicity from greatest Sign.  
Our future Health, Experience does foretell:  
Where oft we have been, we may still be, well;  
We as great Omens of our Pleasure might  
Take from what is, to what will be, Delight.  
A Place where City ' and Court divert as well  
As any where; where Poet yet might dwell  
On a Parnass; near as Divine a Well,  
As Helicon; and in a Muse's Oell.—  
Then Acer spoke.  
You ' have so with Wit improved this barren Ground,  
The Town, which you there prophesy, you found:  
With Fancy ' embellished, and with Verse adorned,  
For th' Muse's sake it can no more be scorned.  
What-e'er that Something be, thou ' saint made it seem  
Already something worthy of Esteem.  
In men's Opinion the small place will grow,  
And soon come to be more than Embryo.  
Nature's Example moves; the Muses woo,  
Fortune's obliged to be propitious too,  
What may ned that Goddess, when so courted do?  
Cities, at first, they say, from Poets came,  
Why may ned this Helicon do here the same,  
And thou raise Walls by raising of their Fame?  Metell. 
We all then thank him briefly, let him know  
How much to him this Place and Fountain owe.  
But Laelius, who was to have next Debate  
With Acer, we entreated to Translate  
Th' Fourth Book of Virgil first: then he should be,  
'Gainst Acer, Advocate for Liberty.    

THE Third Dialogue. OF Translation.  Metell. 
WE met again, when with Poetic Rage  
Acer incensed, exclaimed against the Age;  
Said some of our new Poets had of late  
Set up a lazy Fashion to Translate.  
Speak Authors how they please, and if they call  
Stuff they make Paraphrase; that answers all.  
Pedantic Verse; effeminately smooth,  
Racked through all little Rules of Art to sooth.  
The soft'ned Age industriously compile,  
Maim Wit, and cripple Fancy all the while.  
A Licence far beyond Poetic Use,  
Not to Translate old Authors, but abuse  
The Wit of Romans; and their lofty Sense  
Degrade into new Poem made from thence,  
Disguise old Rome in our New Eloquence.  
Aesculape said he was of the same mind,  
And thought it fit Wits should be more confined  
To Author's Sense, and to their Periods too,  
Must leave out nothing; every Sense must do.  
And though they cannot render Verse for Verse,  
Yet every Period's Sense they must rehearse.  Then Curio spoke. 
O do not reprehend  
Too sharply, Acer, Speak more like a Friend:  
Time and Experience many Faults may mend.  
Though Virtue ' in Stoic, yet of modern Crimes  
It is the worst to contradict the Times.  Aesculape then. 
It cannot be amiss  
That we, Metellus, yet inculcate this  
To modish Laelius, that he do it so,  
The Draught may Virgil more than Laelius show.  Metell. 
We all then bid translate it the old way,  
Not A-la-mode, but like 
* Sandies Metamorphosis, and May's Lucan.  George Sandys or May;  
Show Virgil's every Period: not steal Sense,  
To make up a new-fashioned Poem thence,  
In our New Tongue, speak his old Eloquence.  Lael. 
But Laelius bowing. Too much ye enjoin,  
O Friends, said he, to such a Wit as mine,  
To render truly ' in Verse, Verse so Divine.  
The Roman speech for highest things designed,  
Can scarce be to our English Tongue confined;  
No modern Language  can bear  
So high a Sea as Virgil raises here:  
The Spanish and Italian 
† In Virgil's Fourth Book.  shipwreck there.  
Our most applauded 
* Our English Poets at home.  Poets, though they touch  
Here with their Pencils, yet han't drawn us much:  
And those who on this Book thought fit to spend  
Some of their Pains, nor yet begin it, nor end.  
But since in something they have shown the way,  
And ye command, I'll venture to obey;  
Hope to speak Virgil, and speak English too,  
May not be more than 's possible to do.  
But Wits, remember, ' his nobler Latin Clothes  
He now puts off, ours won't adorn like those.  Metell. 
So he took leave; We left him to his pain  
For fourteen Days, than all return again;  
When Laelius with an answerable Mien,  
Grief and Compassion, eminently seen  
Both in his Looks, read his Deserted Queen.  Laelius reads the following Translation. 

THE FOURTH BOOK OF VIRGIL In ENGLISH.  
THE Deserted Queen.  
The ARGUMENT.  
Virgil in his first Book of Aeneids describes Aeneas his Voyage by Sea, from lost Troy to Carthage, and his Reception there; where, after a great Supper, Dido desiring him, he elegantly relates the Destruction of Troy, and then his Voyage from Troy to Carthage; which Relations are the Subject of Virgil ' s Second and Third Book. The Queen, whilst he is telling his Story, falls in Love with him. That Love of Dido ' s is the Subject of this Fourth Aeneid.  

MEan while the Queen, inflamed with great desire,  
Full of Love-cares, burns with a secret Fire,  
Fond of her wound, indulges the sweet pains:  
The secret grief is nourished in her Veins.  
His country's worth, his looks and words bereave  
Her of her Rest, and great Impression leave.  
Soon as the Morning broke, and the light shined,  
Thus to her Sister she disclosed her mind.  
O Sister! what sad Dreams have I? they fright  
And keep me waking almost all the night.  
What Hero's this we have? How he's been blest?  
What mien he has? How ' invincible a Breast?  
'Twixt him and Deities there's little Odds,  
Truly ' I believe he's of the Race of Gods.  
Base minds still show some fear; How boldly he  
(Tossed with what Fates?) has broke through misery?  
What Wars he tells?—  
O had I not resolved to love no more,  
Nor ever Hymen's Power to implore,  
Bereaved of my Sichaeus, that is dead;  
Did I not hate all Thoughts of Marriagebed,  
I might perhaps have yielded to this one,  
This only fault, and one Love more might own.  
Yet, Dearest Sister! I must needs confess  
Since my Sichaeus died, no object less  
Than such a Hero could e'er move my mind,  
But now, again, Oh! my first Flames I find.  
Yet may the Earth first swallow me; may ' I go  
Struck with a Thunderbolt to shades below,  
Before or Man, or any thing should draw  
Me, Modesty, to violate thy Law.  
No, thou, whose Fortune first it was to have  
My Love, shalt keep it, keep it in thy Grave.  
Thus spoke the Queen, nor at these words forbears,  
To bathe her Bosom with a shower of Tears.  
Her Sister answered; Dearer than the light,  
Whilst Venus' Blessings do so much invite,  
Sister, will you here solitary spend  
Your Youth in sorrow thus to your lives end?  
By such a Husband, and such hopes of Son,  
As you have now, you should methinks be won.  
Alas! d' you think Ghosts of the buried care  
What we do here, or what our Actions are?  
Suppose you did not yield to some before  
You could not like, must you ne'er marry more?  
Because jarbas and such, did not take,  
Therefore must you this Hero too forsake?  
The Man you like deny? One so above  
Those wild Barbarians, and oppose sweet Love?  
Pray think but where you are, and on what ground  
Your City stands, and who your Realm surround?  
On this side of you, the Getulians lie,  
Unconquered Men; on that, you have hard by  
The wild Numidians, who live most by Theft,  
And Robberies. Yonder's a Land that's left,  
Not habitable for the scorching heat;  
Of Savage Beasts the formidable Seat.  
A little farther the Barcaeans live,  
A Warlike Nation; each of these may give  
You trouble ' enough, but none will e'er relieve.  
Nor have you cleared with Pygmalion yet  
Old scores, who may pretend still to his debt,  
And to Revenge.  
Th' Immortal Gods and Juno must have meant  
A match sure with us, when they wisely sent.  
These Warlike Trojans to our unsettled state,  
What could they come for, but to urge our Fate?  
And if such City now be raised by thee,  
Sister, alone; how glorious will it be,  
When Trojan Arms thou by this match shalt join,  
And Trojan glory too unite with thine?  
Go, pray the Gods to pardon you, and bless  
Your good Intentions, then entreat your Guests  
To stay a while yet, (there is reason enough)  
Whilst Winds are boisterous, and whilst Seas are rough.  
When she'd spoke thus, the Queen was in a flame,  
Conceived such hopes, sh' had little care of shame.  
They go before the Images, obey  
The Sister's Counsel, at the Altars pray.  
To Ceres, Phoebus, and too Bacchus' Sheep  
They kill; and a great Holiday they keep  
Unto the God of Liberty; but move  
'Bove all the 
* Juno.  Goddess of all Marriage-Love  
Beautiful Dido most devoutly stands  
Before the Altar, with Cup in her hands  
Of Wine, she powers betwixt the white Cow's Horns,  
Then stately walking, she the place adorns,  
Before the Images, and then she brings  
And offers up some other costly things.  
With the wise Augur greedily she pries  
Into the Entrails of the Beast that dies.  
O, what to such Curiosity could move?  
How vain, alas! is Augury in Love?  
Ah, what can Temple, what can Image do;  
Or Praye'rs, when Women are resolved to woo?  
When the soft Flames of Love in Heart are found  
Within, inflaming of the hidden Wound:  
Unhappy Dido smitten, burning so,  
Like one that 's mad doth 'bout the City go,  
Just as a Hind which Shepherd who has shot  
Knows not he has hit, nor killed upon the Spot;  
Galled with the Dart, runs all about the Wood,  
The Forest, Fields, where nothing does her good:  
Sometimes near the known Paths, and sometimes wide,  
Still with the deadly Arrow in her side:  
So does the Queen; Sometimes upon the Walls  
She walks the Hero; suddenly she calls  
Him down again, and all her Riches shows;  
Abroad with him to see the City goes:  
Gins to speak, but then breaks off again,  
All things she does, but Love, she does with Pain.  
The selfsame Day a Banquet she will have,  
There but to hear his great Exploits does crave;  
She hears, and is transported with his Praise;  
Hangs on his Lips, admiring all he says.  
Soon as she sees he and his Friends are gone,  
And the dark Night apace is coming on,  
Musing she sits in the forsaken Room,  
Pleased with the Thought, That he again may come;  
Sits on the Bed, where they so lately were,  
And wishes still the brave Aeneas there.  
She hears him absent, and she sees him too:  
(O what Persuasion won't Love bring us to?)  
His little Son she to her Lap does take,  
And hugs Ascanius for his Father's sake.  
With the Hero quite taken up, no Work goes on,  
All thought of finishing the City's gone;  
No Towers rise, nor Bulwarks now of War:  
Nor work they at the Haven there, nor are  
The Youth c'er trained now under strict Command:  
The great Designs are all quite at a stand.  
Which soon as Heaven's Queen had understood,  
Saw Fame in Fury could do little good,  
All Sense of Honour, Reputation gone,  
Venus at last then thus she fell upon.  
Great Spoils indeed, a mighty lasting Name  
You and your Son will get, and a great Fame;  
If one poor miserable Woman is  
Vanquished by the Craft of two such Deities.  
I well enough perceive what 'tis you fear,  
How jealous you of me at Carthage are,  
Of my power there. But what needs such Dispute?  
Your Interest with mine, I hope, may suit.  
Let's make a lasting Peace, and a Match too,  
You ' have done all you can ever hope to do.  
Dio 's on fire; your Fury ' has pierced the Bone,  
Come let us make then these two Nations one,  
And jointly rule. Let Dido, if she's won  
With all her Dowry, have your Trojan Son.  
But Venus, well perceiving what she thought,  
That so the Italian Empire might be brought  
To Carthage too, with great Aeneas Fate;  
Replied thus: Who ' is so mad, as to debate  
All this with you? Who, think you, would contend  
In War with Juno? Rather make an end.  
Provided Fortune follow what you say;  
And what you would do, Jove will grant you may.  
But who can tell whe'ther that dear Son of mine,  
Jove does intent, should with his, Tyrians join;  
Whether those Nation's Mixture he would like,  
Or give 'em leave a lasting League to strike.  
You are his Queen, you best may know his Mind;  
Begin, I'll second you. That I will find,  
Juno replied. But that which for your Son,  
And Dido is at present to be done,  
How to contrive, but harken, and I'll show.  
Poor Dido with Aeneas means to go  
To hunt to morrow: as soon as his Rays  
Titan on the enlightened Earth displays.  
Whilst they beset the Wood, and whilst the Court  
Are all engaged, and eager on their Sport,  
I'll rain and hail, and cover all with Night,  
With Thunder then the Company so fright,  
I'll make 'em fly.  
Then Dido and Aeneas both shall come  
To the same Cave, I'll there give 'em their Doom,  
And marry 'em, if I have your Consent.  
But Venus quickly finding what she meant,  
Smiled at her Craft, but would not yet descent.  
Soon as 'twas Day, the brisk Youth of the Court  
All at the Gate were ready for the Sport.  
With Toils, Nets, Spears, and a great strength of Hound;  
Massilian Horse too prancing on the Ground:  
The Tyrian Nobleses all attend the Queen,  
Till she come forth. The Horse at the Door is seen  
In Gold and Purple, on which she 's to sit,  
Trampling the Ground, and champing on the Bit.  
The Queen comes forth with a great Train, at last,  
In Tyrian Habit, which Embroidery graced.  
Her Quiver Gold; Gold her fair Hair did hold,  
The Button of her Vestment too was Gold.  
The Trojans with their brisk julus go:  
Aeneas above all Men you might know,  
When he came up his Countrymen to join,  
He in his Mien had so much of Divine.  
Just as the God Apollo when he goes  
From Lycia to Delos where all those  
Cretes, Dryopes, and Agathyrsians sound  
Aloud his Praise, appears his Forehead bound,  
On Cynthus Hill, with Gold and nobler Bays,  
Resplendent, glorious, and in all his Rays.  
As he is seen, whilst all those Nations sing,  
Whilst briskly walking, all his Arrows ring;  
Just in such Splendour went the Trojan King.  
But when the Hunters were got up the Hill,  
Had beat the Woods; whilst they were beating still,  
They saw first some wild Goats, ignoble Game,  
Which skipping o'er the craggy Mountains came.  
On the other side came down a Herd of Deer;  
Crossing the Plain, the dusty Staggs appear:  
But young Ascanius in the Vale below  
Sports, and the Mettle of his Horse to show,  
Now these outrides, and now those would outgo.  
Aspires to higher Sport, desires more  
Than Hart, to ' encounter Lion or wild Boar.  
When, the Clouds murmu'ring, a fierce Storm arose,  
Heaven drowns with Rain, and Hails a Shower of Blows.  
New Rivers rise from Top of every Hill;  
Run down like Seas; The Vales begin to fill.  
The Tyrians, Trojans, all to the Tempest yield,  
And fly half-drowned or stoned out of the Field.  
Some to one Cottage, some to ' another fly,  
Stand under Trees; some in dark Caves do lie.  
Whilst all disperse, all strive themselves to save,  
Dido and Aeneas light on the same Cave.  
The trembling Earth gave an unlucky Sign  
To the wicked Act, and though great Juno join,  
The Air yet thunde'ring then might well be thought  
(It  too) ill Omen to the Fault;  
The Mountain-Nymphs howl out loud as they can;  
That Day all Dido's Misery began.  
Honour and Fame prevail with her no more  
To hid her Fault, as she had done before.  
She calls it Marriage now, easily taught  
By Love, alas, to colour so her Fault.  
But Fame that suffers no such Fault to lie  
Long hid, through Libya with the News does fly.  
" Fame, far the swiftest Evil that we know,  
" Going gets Strength, in stirring quickens so.  
" Small first and fearful: then gins to try  
" Her Strength in the Air, and greater grows on high.  
" She walks first upon Earth, then hides her Head  
" Among the Clouds, as wide as Heaven spread.  
" Offended with the Gods, the angry Earth,  
" Gave to this monstrous Goddess first her Birth.  
" Sister to Enceladus, Caeus, no less  
" Than her huge Brothers, is the Gyantess.  
" Fleetest of Foot above all mortal things,  
" Her Mother made her; gave her nimblest Wings.  
" A horrid Monster' and huge; you may descry  
" Under each Feather which she has, an Eye.  
" As many Mouths she has, as many Ears,  
" As many Tongues to tell the things she hears.  
" By night she flies shrill through the Air, below  
" As swiftly does, and always tattling, go.  
" Sleeps not at all, she watching sits by day  
" On noble Roofs, hears what the great ones say,  
" Or on high Towers: and telling what is Right,  
" Oftener what's Wrong, great Cities does affright.  
" Giggling abroad, she all this did unfold,  
" As well what was not, as what was she told.  
" That great Aeneas, of the Trojan Race,  
" Was come to Carthage; Dido did embrace  
" Him as a Husband: That they both pretend  
" The Winter all in Luxury to spend.  
" So take'n up both with Love, the Queen here quite  
" Neglects all Busi'ness; he his foreign Right.  
" This Fame had spread wherever Men resort;  
" At last she came quite to Iarba's Court,  
" Incensed that King.  
This highborn Prince was Son to mighty Jove,  
And got on ravished Garamant his Love.  
Within his Realm, he ' a hundred Temples built,  
And so much Blood of slaughtered Beasts had spilt  
Daily to the Earth enriching it, it soaked,  
Daily to Jove his hundred Altars smoked.  
He Temples decked, preserved the Sacred Fire,  
And had done all his Father could require.  
Vexed at the Rumour which ill Fame had brought,  
And much enraged, thus he great Jove besought:  
" O powe'rful King! whilst Mauritanian Lords  
" Are feasting to thy Honour at their Board's;  
" Dost thou see this? Whilst we adore thee thus,  
" Dost thou look down no better upon us?  
" Or do we only fancy that you reign,  
" Father, and fear your Thunderbolts in vain?  
" A rambling Woman some ill Fortune tossed  
" Upon our Shore; here at a little Cost  
" She ' has built a City: All their Lands to blow  
" I gave. I gave 'em too their Laws, and now  
" She scorns to marry such a Man as me,  
" Her only Lord Aeneas is to be.  
" That fond, lewd Paris with ' his unmanly Train  
" And buttered Hair, the Lady does obtain.  
" Whilst we, like Fools, make all these Altars flame,  
" And idly here adore an empty Name.  
" Jupiter saw him, and had heard him pray,  
Holding the Altar (so much Prayers sway)  
He turned towa'rd Carthage, casting of his Eye  
On the fond Lovers, called for Mercury;  
And thus commands;" Make haste, my Son, and go  
" Call the Western Wind, and slip to those below;  
" The Trojan Chief that out of a Respect  
" To Dido, all his Fortune does neglect,  
" Speak to, with speed, from me; Tell him I see  
" He's not the Man his Mother promised me.  
" He was not at Troy's Siege twice saved for this,  
" To aspire only to a Lover's Bliss.  
" She told me, He would be a Man might sway  
" The Italian Sceptre, and prepare the way  
" To the Empire of the World. He that does spring  
" From Teucer, should be born to no less thing.  
" But if the Glory of such things as these  
" Cannot prevail to draw him from his Ease:  
" Nor Sense of Honour, nor Desire of Praise  
" Can make him stir, nor's Thoughts 'bove Carthage raise;  
" Though Latium he forget, had rather woo;  
" He should not grudge his Son Ausonia too.  
" What does he mean? With what Hopes can he stay  
" Thus among Foes, and never look that way?  
" Bids him set Sail; that's all; Mercury, see  
" You quickly give him this Command from me.  
As soon as Jupiter had spoke, he goes,  
And takes his Wings, ties on his Golden Shoes,  
With which he used to fly ov'er Sea and Land,  
In all his Rays, his Wand too in his Hand,  
With which he does e'en Hell itself control,  
Can call up, or can send down any Soul:  
Can cause Sleep, or can hinder: those that lie  
In too long Pangs, with this can help to die:  
Condense or dissipate the Clouds at ease;  
Call and make use of any Wind he please.  
Away he flies, and in his Flight the Top  
Of Atlas sees, and there makes his first stop.  
That Atlas, which here holds its Head so high,  
It's thought to bear the Burden of the Sky.  
This Mountain's clad in blackest Clouds: the Rain  
And fiercest Winds beat its hard Sides in vain.  
Tall Pinetrees cover ' his Head; his Shoulders, Snow:  
His Beard's all Ice, from his Chin Rivers flow.  
When bright Cyllenius had made here some stay,  
Down towa'rds the Sea, through the Air he slides away.  
Just as that Bird of Prey, which we oft see  
Low for a Fish, near Rocks and Shallows fly:  
Just so, a way to Libya, through the Winds  
'Twixt Heaven and Earth, the swift Cyllenius finds.  
Soon as he came to Carthage there he found  
Aeneas busy setting out of Ground  
For Forts, and Towers which he meant to build,  
And Town to be with both the Nations filled.  
In Tyrian Mantle, which the Queen had sent,  
Richly with Gold embroidered the Hero went.  
His Sword was set with jasper's, and inlaid  
With finest Gold, to whom Cyllenius said:  
" You're founding here, uxorious Man, a Town  
" That won't be yours, nor will be your Renown;  
" Forget, mean while, your Business, and that place  
" That is designed for you, and for your Race.  
" The King of Gods, that does with Smile or Frown  
" Rule Heaven and Earth, from Heaven sends me down:  
" Bids bring you these Commands: bids you obey;  
" What's your Design? Jove would know why you stay  
" At Libya thus, and do ned the Fates obey?  
" If Glory cannot to great Actions move  
" You for your own sake, at least let the love  
" You bear julus not be wholly vain,  
" Give your Son leave in Italy to reign.  
" From that great Glory which the God's design  
" You and your Race, O hinder not your Line.  
Which when Cyllenius had said, he quite  
Vanished at those Words from mortal sight.  
Aeneas at the Vision senseless struck,  
His Hair stood up, his Voice failed, his Words stuck.  
Now he'd be gone, now the sweet Place would leave,  
Him of vain Love the God's Commands bereave.  
What can he do? He dares not tell the Queen:  
Which way could he begin? Or with what Mien?  
His Mind divides, he thinks now this, now that,  
But cannot yet resolve which way, nor what.  
At last, whilst with these Doubts he had no Rest,  
This Resolution seemed to him the best.  
He calls Sergestus, Cloanth, and some more,  
And bids 'em get their Men unto the Shore,  
Provide the Fleet, and there be ready all,  
But keep all secret; till their Leader call.  
Sometime before the thing could take effect,  
Before the Queen could have cause to suspect,  
To open ' it fairly, he'd try every way;  
At softest times the softest things would say.  
Mean while the Trojans his Commands obey.  
The Queen perceiving, That they meant to go,  
(For who, alas! can cheat a Lover so?)  
Suspecting more than she had Causeto fear,  
And fearing every thing that she could hear;  
Like Woman frantic, runs about, and falls  
Into worse Madness than at Bacchanals  
A Thyas does.  
At last Aeneas hasting to be gone,  
She thus in highest Passion falls upon:  
" And could you think, perfidious Man, to hid  
" So great a Wickedness? and would you slide  
" So silently too thus at last from me?  
" Is all our Love so out of Memory?  
" And sha'n't that Promise, that Right Hand of thine  
" So firmly, as I thought, once joined to mine,  
" Shall no Remembrance of our dearest Love,  
" Nor sha'n't your dying Dido neither move?  
"  all this make you stay, till Winter's gone?  
" And but till favourabler Spring come on?  
" Cruelest Man! though you sought your own Land,  
" Though ancient Troy in Splendour yet did stand,  
" To ' invite you home: yet who through so rough Seas  
" Would venture at Winter, with such Winds as these?  
" Or is it me you fly? By these sad Tears,  
" By that Right Hand of thine, by all my Fears,  
" By ' our Marriage, or if that Word speak too much,  
" By those Beginnings of what should be such,  
" I beg, if ever I deserved of thee;  
" If ever any thing did please in me,  
" Pity my ruin'd House; be ned so unkind,  
" If Prayers can prevail, put off that Mind.  
" Me, for thy sake, Numidian Princes hate,  
" For thee, with the Libyans I am at Debate.  
" I ' have lost the Tyrians Love only for thee,  
" For thee alone I ' have lost my Modesty.  
" O, and for thee I ' have lost my former Fame,  
" That had as high as Heaven raised my Name.  
" But since I can to no more now pretend  
" Than friendly Names, and since I thus must end,  
" To whom, Oh, dost thou leave thy dying Friend?  
" O why do ' I stay? What till Pygmalion come  
" Up to my Walls, and bring me my last Doom?  
" Or till jarbas Armies hither move,  
" And take me to revenge his slighted Love?  
" Hadst thou but left me any thing of thee,  
" A Son to have revived thy Memory,  
" A young Aeneas playing in my Hall,  
" That had been thine, and might me Mother call,  
" A Child that had but something of thy Look,  
" I had not been so totally forsaken.  
Though she spoke thus, Aeneas, as it behoved  
One, Jove had called, never so much as moved  
His fixed Eyes. But when he had suppressed  
What in him lay, the Trouble of his Breast,  
Briefly at last thus he himself expressed:  
" I never shall deny, Queen, but to you  
" From me, much you may reckon up is due;  
" Nor shall I ever, whilst this Soul's the same,  
" Whilst I'm myself, forget Eliza's Name.  
" Thus much with Truth, I think may be replied,  
" This Flight of mine I never meant to hid.  
" (Do ned fancy it) or ever did pretend  
" To Husband's Rites, or to be more than Friend.  
" If I might lead my Life as I desire,  
" Troy than would all, that I can do, require.  
" Thither first I should go, and there with Joy  
" Repair the Ruins of my dearest Troy.  
" But now Apollo, whom I must obey,  
" And Lycian Lots direct another way,  
" To Italy. That Place must be above  
" All Places now, that Country I must love.  
" If you, that by your Birth Phoenician are,  
" Fair Carthage Towers could invite so far;  
" How can you think it much Trojans should try  
" Their Fortune, when thus called, in Italy?  
" To wander alike to you and us is due;  
" We may as well seek foreign Seats as you.  
" Besides, the great Anchises every Night  
" Solicits this; does every Night affright.  
" And than the Injury of my dear Son,  
" The Wrong that to Ascanius would be done;  
" Who must not lose whatsoe'er those fatal Fields,  
" And what the rich Hesperian Kingdom yields.  
" And now Heavens' Messenger with Jove's Come" manned  
" At last is come. I saw the God enter, stand,  
" Appear by day: the same Command he bears  
" I heard it plain, I heard it with these Ears.  
" Vex not thyself with such Complaints, nor me,  
" I go to Italy unwillingly.  
With great Averseness all this while the Queen  
Had heard him speak, and showed it in her Mien.  
Casting about this way, and that, at first,  
Her earnest Eyes, at last enraged, she burst.  
" No Goddess was thy Mother, thou ' art too base  
" To be descended from the Dardan Race,  
"  Man: on Caucasus thou 'rt bred,  
" And must have been by Milk of Tigers fed.  
" Why should I hid my Rage, and still reserve  
" My self to Injuries I do ned deserve?  
" Did he so much as sigh to see me weep?  
" He all this while his Countenance could keep.  
" Did he ev'er offer but to shed a Tear?  
" Or but to pity what was once so dear?  
" O what shall I say first? Nor Juno can  
" Nor Jupiter ev'er look upon this Man,  
" With any Favour or Esteem again,  
" There is no Faith nor Honesty in Men.  
" Cast on my Shore, a shipwrecked Man, and poor,  
" I yet received, and would I'd done no more.  
" Mad as I was, afraid to rule alone,  
" I foolishly too placed him on my Throne,  
" And made myself but Sharer of my own.  
" I saved the Remnant of his Fleet from Wrack;  
" From the Jaws of Death I brought his Trojans back.  
" O, I ' am enraged. By Apollo he must tell,  
" And Lycian Lots now which way to do well.  
" Now Mercury from the high Heavens must come,  
" And from great Jupiter to bring his Doom.  
" The Gods, it seems, concern themselves so much  
" About us here. Are the Cares of Heaven such?  
" I must confess, I understand not well  
" The things you say, nor ever will refel.  
" Go, sail to Italy through the wide Seas,  
" Seek Kingdoms that may please you more than these.  
" I hope the Gods (if any thing they can)  
" Will split upon the Rocks so vile a Man.  
" Where, both by Gods and Men at last forsook,  
" The Name of Dido thou shalt oft invoke.  
" And when my Soul shall from these Limbs retire,  
" I'll follow and pursue thee with dark Fire.  
" When I ' am a Ghost, I'll eve'ry eve'ry where appear,  
" And thou shalt pay, Wretch, for thy Falseness dear,  
‛ Whilst I below shall of thy Torments hear.  
Whilst thus she speaks, nor whilst she speaks can bear  
The raging Mixture of her angry Fear,  
Her Life and Spirit fled: turning away  
She left Aeneas thinking what to say,  
And fainting fell.—  
The swooning Queen the Ladies quickly led  
To the Marble-Room, and laid her on her Bod.  
Aeneas, though he wished her all Relief,  
And fain with Words would have appeased her Grief,  
Though ' he deeply sighed, felt all the Pangs of Love,  
Yet his great Mind the Gods alone can move.  
Them he obeys, his Fleet again reviews.  
Again the Seamens Courage he renews.  
They bring, for haste, Oars with their Branches on,  
And Oak half-wrought to work again upon.  
With lofty Ships along the pleasant Shores  
They gently slide, and stoutly ply their Oars.  
You see the Trojans now come swarming down  
Like Troops of Aunts, from all sides of the Town.  
As those small Creatures having in their Eye  
The Cold of Winter, and its Scarcity,  
The small black Troop goes through the dusty Field,  
Bearing through little Paths what Seasons yield;  
Some heavy loaded, some thrusting behind,  
Some driving those which they more lazy find,  
Some chiding others for the least delay:  
So Trojans urge the Work in every way.  
What thought'st thou, Dido, when from thy high Tower  
Thou saw'st thus active all the Trojan Power?  
How didst thou sigh? How was thy Sight annoyed?  
Thy Shore to view, when it was thus employed.  
How must that noise confused then needs displease  
Of flying Mariners, and roaring Seas?  
But wicked Love! what dost thou not compel  
Us Mortals to?  
Again she's forced to weep, again she'll try  
What humble Prayers may do before she die.  
Again Love sways; and loath to die in vain  
She first tries all the ways she can to gain.  
" Sister, said she, you see what hast they make,  
" How fast they fill the shore; how they betake  
" Them to their Ships, their Sails already spread  
" Their Ships are Crowned; Had I had any dread,  
" Or any thoughts that he'd have left my Bed,  
" This greatest grief with which my Soul is torn,  
" Foreseen perhaps I better might have born.  
" But do this one thing now, dear Anne, for me  
" To secure thy poor Sister's misery.  
" This most  Man to thee was kind,  
" And used to make thee privy to his mind;  
" You best the times of speaking to him know.  
" Go, Sister, once more speak to the proud Foe.  
" I ne'er was thought, tell him, nor was of those  
" Who ' against his Troy conspired with their Foes;  
" Nor sent I Ships, nor any thing t' annoy  
" The glorious Empire of that ancient Troy.  
" Why won't he hear at least but what I say?  
" And let me speak my grief while yet I may?  
" Where does he run? Let him but one thing grant,  
" For all my Love, for all I am to want,  
" Expect a smother flight, Winds too that may  
" More than these seem to do, his Gods obey.  
" I do not plead, alas, a Marriage-Vow,  
" Or any Promise he's retracting now,  
" Him of fair Latium I would not deceive,  
" Nor would I have him such a Kingdom leave:  
" I ask him but this pitiful relief,  
" He'd give me time to mitigate my grief;  
" Time but till my hard Fortune make me know,  
" Since I must suffer, how t' endure my woe.  
" Sister, 'tis all I ask, do this for me:  
" I will not die without rewarding thee.  
Thus begged the grieving Queen; her Sister goes  
With as much feeling represents her woes.  
But he's not to be moved with women's tears,  
Untractable, without Compassion hears:  
The Fates oppose, and Jove had stopped his Ears.  
Just as those Winds which striving to confound  
An ancient Oak well settled in the ground,  
Wresting it this way ' and that, but strews his leaves,  
With all that noise and force, whilst it still cleaves  
Fast to the Rock, where its Roots as deep go  
As its top's high into the Earth below.  
Just so the Hero with such Speeches pressed,  
Though highest Passions violently wrest  
This way and that, and shake his lofty Breast;  
He weeps indeed, but weeps alas, in vain:  
His resolutions still unmoved remain.  
Unhappy Dido hurried with hard Fate  
To her sad end, now grows quite desperate.  
She shuns the light; to see the glorious Sky  
Is tedious to her, she desires to die.  
Wonders confirm her thoughts; for whilst she stands  
At th' incensed Altar, th' offering in her hands  
She seems to see grow black (wonder we should  
Scarce speak) the Wine turned into filthy blood.  
This sight the Queen discovered to none,  
Nor would unto her dearest Sister own.  
A Marble Chapel in the Palace stood,  
Where she Sichaeus honoured like a God:  
Which she had dressed with  of finest Wool,  
With Boughs and Crowns: and 'twas of Garlands full.  
Here she thought still she heard a dismal Noise,  
And could distinguish her first Husband's Voice,  
Calling her to him. As soon as 'twas Night  
The fatal Screech-Owl often did affright  
From the House Top; Remembers then, of old,  
This Fate to her by Wizards has been told:  
And frights the more.  
Aeneas terrifies her in short sleeps,  
Sleeping, she sees him leave her, dreams she weeps.  
Fancies she goes long Journeys all alone,  
And through long Deserts seeking of her own  
Attendants lost.—  
Just so mad Pentheus frighted sees two Suns,  
Sees double Thebes: from Troops of Furies runs.  
Just in such Case Orestes on the Stage  
Frighted, amazed, and tortured with Rage,  
From Mother armed with Torch and Serpents flees,  
Revenging Furies watching of him sees.  
At last with Fury filled, oppressed with Grief,  
And quite out of all Hope, of all Relief,  
Resolves to die, the Manner, Time, and Place,  
By ' her self contrives: but with a cheerful Face  
Dissembling Hope, and cove'ring her Intent,  
Her Sister not suspecting what she meant;  
Rejoice, dear Ann, said she, perhaps I may  
Have found at least a sure and the ' only way,  
Which, or will bring me to my Love again,  
Or else, at least, will ease me of my Pain.  
By the utmost Ocean, in the farthest Place,  
That is inhabited by the Moorish Race,  
Where the Sun sets, where mighty Atlas bears  
Upon his Shoulders both the Stars and Spheres;  
A certain Priestess that came thence of late  
Was brought to me, and told me all my Fate.  
They say, she's that Massilian born and bred,  
Who the Dragon in the Hesperian Temple fed  
With Hone'y and Poppey: that the sacred Tree  
Might by that Dragon so preserved be.  
This Woman says, she can, when-ev'er she please,  
Afflicted Minds from any Grief release.  
All sorts of Wonders she is said to do,  
As she can ease, so she can torture too,  
Can stop a River's Course, turn Planets back,  
And from below she fetches up the black  
Nocturnal Ghosts.—  
From Mountain's Top she can make Trees come down,  
And the Earth must groan, if she stamp on it and frown.  
But I call God to witness, Anne, and thee,  
I use such Arts as these unwillingly.  
Yet, Sister, go, and privately erect,  
In the Inner Court, a Pile: 'tis to be decked  
With the Spoils o' the Impious Man; his Arms, his Clothes  
That hang above, bring down, lay upon those  
 else he left. Place that sad Bed  
On Top of all, in which I perished.  
For so the Priestess told me I must do,  
Abolish with him all his Relics too.  
Here suddenly she stopped; her Face ov'er-spread  
With Paleness, looked as if already dead.  
By ' her Sister 'twas not all this while believed,  
That Dido could to so great Height have grieved;  
Or meant these Fune'ral Rites should be her own,  
Or could have felt more Grief than she had shown,  
When she her dear Sichaeus did bemoan.  
Therefore obeyed. A mighty Pile, and high,  
Within they raise, and open to the Sky,  
Of Oak and Pine; the Queen adorned it round,  
Had it with Wreaths of Cypress-Branches crowned.  
Resolved still upon that Pile to die,  
To have Aeneas in Effigy by.  
When on the Pile she'd placed his Sword and Clothes,  
She laid his Statue on the Bed, and those  
Several Altars 'bout this Pile of Wood  
For Sacrifices new erected stood.  
At these the Magic Priestess, with lose Hair,  
To every God gins to make her Prayer.  
Vast Chaos she calls on, and Erebus,  
Three hundred Names of Gods she thunders thus.  
And triple Hecate's ' as many Names,  
As she has for her Virtue's different Fames.  
Sprinkling black Drops supposed to come from Hell,  
Resembling those of the Avernal Well.  
Those poisonous Magic Herbs by Moonlight shone,  
Which with the brazen Scythe are to be mown,  
The Excrescence on Colt's Foreheads too they use,  
And Love snatched from the Dam.—  
The Queen herself before the Altar stands,  
Holding a Piece of Leaven in her Hands,  
With left Foot bare, and with the other shod,  
Her Garments lose, to witness eve'ry God  
She calls; and being now to die, besought  
All Powe'rs that could be privy to her Thought,  
If any ' have Care of ill-requited Love,  
That they would now revenge her for above.  
" 'Twas Night, the Time when humane Bodies take  
" Their usual Rest, and nothing was awake.  
" The Seas were quiet, and the Woods were still,  
" And the Night-Stars were gone down half their Hill.  
"  lay quiet in the silent Field,  
" All the fine Birds, all Fish the Waters yield,  
" All Beasts the Forests feeds, all things we see  
" In quiet Night from all their Labours free,  
" Were casing of their Care.—  
But miserable Dido's troubled Mind  
Admits no Sleep, nor any Rest can find.  
Her all this while, her dismal Thoughts affright,  
Nor does she ' enjoy the Solaces of Night.  
Her Cares increase, and Love renews its Toil,  
Her Breast gins with furious Rage to boil.  
Thus she torments herself. What shall I do?  
Those I so oft refused shall I now woo?  
To wild Numidians, so oft scorned, go bow,  
And court Barbarians for a Husband now?  
Or leaving Kingdom, like a Captive go,  
And basely follow my insulting Foe?  
Men so ungrateful, when I heretofore  
Befriended 'em: I'll trust such Men no more.  
But though I could to Trojans stoop so low,  
Would my own Tyrians ever let me go?  
Would Trojans carry me? Of all bereft?  
A Person whom their Leader thus has left?  
Ah! hast thou not sufficiently yet known  
That falsest Race of base Laomedon?  
What shall I do then? Fly with such as these  
Triumphing Foes, alone through the vast Seas?  
Or else my old Sidonians again,  
Which I from home brought hither with such Pain,  
Draw forth? Pursue?—  
No, rather die than hope for such Relief,  
Thou hast deserved it, let Steel end thy Grief.  
Ah! Sister, you betrayed me to all this,  
Moved by my Tears helped me to ●o amiss.  
Mad that I was, I might have still been free  
As the poor dullest Brutes by Nature be;  
And then I had been still until this time,  
Without my Trouble, and without my Crime.  
But Oh, I broke the Vow which I had made,  
My dear Sichaeus, to thy sacred Shade.  
With such Complaints as these tortu'ring her Breast  
Continually, she never was at rest.  
Mean while Aeneas, while the Queen thus weeps,  
Shipped, and resolved to go, securely sleeps;  
When once again a God from Heaven was seen  
By him asleep, in Shape he had been in  
Not long before.—  
He came like Mercury; his Colour, Hair,  
His Voice and Limbs had a Mercurial Air;  
Who spoke to ' him thus;" And canst thou, Goddess Son,  
" So sound sleep when so near being undone?  
" Art thou so foolish, as not yet to see  
" In how great danger thou must quickly be?  
" Do you not hear how fair a Wind you have?  
" What have you more than of the Gods to crave?  
" She 's plotting Mischief, what Crime wi' ned she try,  
" What wi' ned she do, who is resolved to die?  
" Wo'ned you be gone whilst yet you safely may?  
" If till to morrow Morning you delay,  
" The Sea all covered with her Ships you'll see,  
" And this Shore flame with Fire to ruin thee.  
" O flee, or to your Sorrow you will find  
" Nothing so ' inconstant as a Woman's Mind.  
Having thus spoke, he mingled with the Night;  
Aeneas at the Vision in a Fright,  
Starts from his sleep, prepares his Men for Flight.  
Make haste, said he, all to your Places, Row,  
Hoist all your Sails, Gods from above do show  
We must cut Cables, and with speed be gone,  
This is the Second Time we ' are called upon.  
We come, O sacred God, we follow thee,  
We cheerfully obey who ev'er thou be.  
O be propitious to the Trojan side,  
And through all Dangers be thou still our Guide.  
With that he drew, soon as he'd spoke the Word,  
And cut the Cable with his glittering Sword.  
The lusty Trojans all with one accord,  
Fall to their Work, quickly put off from Shore,  
The Sea with their tall Ships is covered o'er,  
They cleave the Deep, and make the Ocean roar.  
But now Aurore leaving her Scarlet Bed,  
New Light began upon the Earth to spread.  
‛ Soon as the Queen perceived it was day,  
Saw from her Towers the Trojans on their way,  
Under full Sail: And when she saw no more  
Of Trojan Fleet left on the Tyrian Shore;  
Then she began to beat her comely Breast,  
Tearing her Hair, Thus she her Grief expressed.  
" And shall this Stranger, Jupiter, said she,  
" Delude thus basely both my Realms and me?  
" Shall ned I pursue with Arms? With all the Town?  
" With all my Ships? O let 'em all fall down.  
" Go, bid 'em hasten, let 'em row apace,  
" Carry Fire quickly, burn 'em in the Place.  
" But where am I? What do I say? I ' am mad,  
" Unhappy Dido, now thy Fortune 's bad.  
" Than you should have pursued, when first he came.  
" When you gave Sceptres, when you lost your Fame,  
" Is this his Faith? And is this all the Odds  
" 'Twixt other Men, and him that carries God's  
" About with him?—  
" Is this he, who whilst Foes Troy burn and sack,  
" Brought his old Father out upon his Back?  
" Why could not I that Body ' of his have tore,  
" And thrown his scattered Limbs about the Shore?  
" Have slain his Trojans? Why did I not cut  
" The Son in pieces, and the Father glut  
" With the Boy dressed? I should have made him eat,  
" His darling Son instead of dainty Meat.  
" But the Fight, perhaps, would have been doubtful then;  
" I that will die, what should I fear from Men?  
" I should have burnt the Fleet, and all on sire,  
" My cruel Rage should have gone one step higher.  
" I should have slain together Fathe'r and Son,  
" Have thrown myself among 'em when I'd done.  
" But you, O Phoebus, that with glorious Light  
" Viewest the Earth, of all things hast a sight;  
" You, Juno, privy to the Lover's Care,  
" Judge of all Injuries that Spouses bear;  
" Nocturnal Hecate ', I invoke you all,  
" The Furies too, revenge Eliza's Fall.  
" Receive these Praye'rs of mine, apply your Power  
" To do me Justice, in this fatal Hour.   

" If this abominable Man must gain  
" The Hav'en he seeks; and if Jove so ordain,  
" Yet there let him be cursed, be vexed with Arms  
" Of a bold Nation, and with all the Harms  
" That War can bring. Let his julus be  
" Torn from him; banished in Misery.  
" Let him behold the lamentable Ends  
" Of all his dear, and best deserving Friends.  
" Let him beg help, and be denied; submit  
" On base Conditions to what is not fit:  
" And when he shall have ended thus his Strife,  
" Let him enjoy neither his Throne, nor Life:  
" But long before his Time unhappy dye,  
" And on some Shore let him unburied lie.  
" This, Gods, I beg; let me be understood,  
" This my last Prayer I pour forth with my Blood.  
" But you, O Tyrians, with that cursed Race  
" Of Trojans, Friendship never more embrace.  
" Hate still that Nation mortally you must,  
" And with that Enmity oblige our Dust.  
" Betwixt them and us, O, never let there be  
" Or League, or any kind of Amity.  
" May from our Bones some fierce Revenger rise,  
" With Fire and Sword to ' invest their Colonies.  
" And whensoev'er it be, when we in length  
" Of Time, hereafter shall have gotten strength,  
" Our Shores, their Shores; our Fleets their Fleets oppose,  
" And let our Sons be born each other's Foes.   

This said, the Queen with Anguish looked about,  
As if her Soul had struggled to get out,  
Thinking which way she now might get from light,  
She hated so, and from all mortal sight;  
She spoke to ' her Husbands Nurse, her own was dead,  
(Barce they called her) thus she briefly said:  
" Go, dearest Nurse, with all the haste you can,  
" Fetch hither presently my Sister Anne.  
" Go bid her sprinkle ' her self and come away,  
" And bring the Sheep and Victims I'm to pay;  
" And you, pray dress yourself in such a Veil  
" As fits this Service, in which we bewail  
" My loss—  
" I mean to sacrifice to Stygian Jove,  
" As I've designed, so put an end to Love;  
" Burn the Dardanian where his Relics lie,  
" Here in Effigy that my love may die.  
So spoke the Queen, but the good Nurse did go  
Creeping and slowly as old Women do.  
Dido mean while inflamed with wild desire,  
And with mad thoughts, her Face was all on sire.  
Her colour came and went, resolved to die,  
Pale with the thought, does in a Fury fly  
Up the high Pile.—  
That fatal gift for no such use bequeathed,  
The Trojan's Sword there presently unsheathed:  
Then casting of her Eyes upon his ,  
And that known Bed; where they used to repose,  
Pausing a while, could not e'en then forbear  
To sacrisice to those dear spoils a Tear.  
Throwing herself on the beloved Bed,  
Kissing the Garments, these last words she said:  
" Dear Relics of my Love, whilst Fate thought sit,  
" And whilst the Gods were pleased to suffer it,  
" Let me here ease all Cares of what is past;  
" Hore upon you breath forth my Soul at last.  
" I've lived, finished that course that Fortune gave;  
" I shall go great enough into my Grave.  
" My Husband I've revenged, and of my Foe  
" My Brother, I have had just Vengeance too.  
" I've built my City, I have raised a Wall,  
" That is in no great likelihood to fall.  
" Happy, thrice happy, I might still have been,  
" If Trojans never had my Kingdom seen.  
These words when the unfortunate had said,  
Then grovelling with her Face upon the Bed,  
" But must we die too unrevenged? said she,  
" Yet let us die, thus to the shades we'll flee.  
" 'Tis in this manner we delight to go,  
" Thus, thus, we'll pass unto the Gods below.  
" And let the cruel Trojan from the deep  
" Behold this Funeral of mine, and weep.  
" And let him too as long as he hath breath  
" Bear with him these ill Omens of my Death.  
‛ Soon as she'd spoke, the Attendants saw her fall,  
With the Sword thrust quite through her, reeking all  
With her warm Blood: she fell with her Arms spread,  
And thus she lay upon the fatal Bed.  
‛ Soon as they'd seen her fall, there went a cry  
Through Palace, Town, as ' if all had been to die.  
The news so dismal was, all Carthage shook  
As ' if Foes had entered, Carthage had been took.  
Or just as if at taking of old Tyre,  
The Town and Temples too had been on sire.  
Her Sister heard it, half dead with the fright,  
Breaks through the tumult (a most doleful sight.)  
Beating her Breast, and tearing of her Face,  
Gets quite at last unto the dismal place.  
She calls her dying Sister by her name,  
" Is it for this, Sister, said she, I came?  
" Was it to get an opportunity  
" You sent your Nurse so falsely then to me?  
" Nought else, it seems, these Altars, Piles and Fires  
" Were to obtain, but this worst of desires.  
" What shall I first complain of? That I'm left?  
" Or that I'm lost, or that I am bereft  
" Of you, dear Sister? Why did you not make  
" Me now Companion? Why don't I partake  
" In this Fate too? Why was't not in my power  
" By the same Sword to die too the same hour?  
" Did I with my own hands this Pile erect?  
" Did I invoke the Gods to this effect?  
" That I might now be absent at the last,  
" And not suspect the mischief till 'twas passed?  
" I've slain you, Sister, and myself withal:  
" Our Peers, our People: I've been all your fall.  
" O let me wash your Wound, Sister, your breath,  
" If any 's left, receive too at your Death.  
With such like words as these grieving, she passed  
The high Piles stairs, and being got up at last,  
Her dying Sister, on her Arms she rests,  
And sighing dries her blood up with her Vest.  
Dido mean while, to open strives, in vain  
Her heavy Eyes; still swoons away again.  
Thrice she lifts up herself, some little stay  
Her Elbow gives, thrice again swoons away;  
Seeks with her wand'ring Eyes bright Heaven's light,  
Sighs when she finds it at th' ungrateful sight;  
But powerful Juno pitying her long grief,  
And too hard pangs, sent Iris t' her relief,  
To lose those Bands of Life 'twixt Body and Soul,  
From so great misery to ease the whole.  
For since she fell by no just Laws of Fate,  
But furious, did her Death anticipate,  
Nor did deserve to die for any Crime,  
Proserpina could not before her time  
Cut off her yellow Hair; nor could condemn  
Her Soul so hastily to be with them.  
And therefore Iris with her ruddy Wings  
All Colours which an adverse Sunshine brings,  
Flies down, and standing on the dying head;  
" This fatal Lock, as I am bid, she said,  
" I bear to Dis, and so I set thee free,  
" Confined Soul, from all thy misery  
This said, she cut, with her right hand, her Hair,  
And presently the Soul went into Air.    Metell. 
We heard as if we all concerned had been  
In the sad Fate of the Deserted Queen.  
But he had done, and hardly we forbear  
To shed with great St. Austin here a tear.  
Curio upbraided, thought no love could be  
Heroic Love without Fidelity.  
Acer thought Love wherever it was seen,  
With falseness could have little of Love's mien.  
Laelius on Dido as on Spouse did look:  
Wondered she could by a ' Hero be forsaken.  
Aesculape thought of Hero 'twas ill done,  
To leave a Queen, nay Mistress, when once won.  
Metell that long had honoured Virgill's Wit,  
Thus much thought fit to say ' in defence of it.  
" We all to Heaven own all: a call from thence  
" To higher Love, might with a less dispense.  
" The greatest Hero, and bravely enough, might leave  
" Mistress at such a Call, and not deceive.  
But Curio said, he much desired to show  
How much worse now, without Call, Christians do  
Thou shalt next meeting have thy just desire,  
Metellus said. We ' have matter will require  
Thy curious pains.—  
We all were startled, and began to muse  
What matter 'twas the learned Metell would choose  
When Acer said. Let's boldly attack the Age,  
And with the times dispute Concubinage.  
Strike not at Persons, said Metellus, then,  
Only at Vice, for we ourselves are Men.  
And if thou dost, and exce'llent well, but that;  
That is enough yet to be hooted at.  
'Tis true, said Acer, Curio yet and I  
Learned Aesculape and Laelius both defy  
In this great Cause, if but Metell be by.  Metell. 
Scorn Censures then: by Mortals be not awed:  
More than Metell, all Heaven will applaud.  
But you must here submit to hardest Fate,  
Such as belongs to virtue's Advocate.  
You, Laelius, and, you, Aesculape, shall be,  
Th' plausible Advocates of Liberty.  
Metellus rose, and we all went away,  
Resolved to meet on the appointed day.  
FINIS.