MISCELLANY POEMS.  
Mutavit mentem populus levis, & calet uno  
Scribendi study. Pueri Patresque severi  
Frond comas vincti caenant & Carmina dictant.  Hor. Epist. 1ma. Lib. 2 dus. 
LONDON: Printed for Will. Rogers at the Sun against St. Dunstan's Church in Fleetstreet; and Fr. Hicks in Cambridge. 1697.   

TO THE Honoured LADY, THE Lady LANGLEY: THESE POEMS Are humbly Dedicated.   

Miscellany Poems.  

Mortality.  
BEneath the Covert of a Grove,  
Frequented much by men in Love,  
Careless and supinely laid,  
I took my Lute and on it played:  
Of Love's soft Passion did I Sing,  
And Cupid, Love's Almighty King;  
When lo! a String that would have spoke,  
O'th' sudden cracked, and sighing broke;  
It broke, and said, (methoughts) to me,  
Think of thy own Mortality.—   

A Morning Thought, occasioned by the early Singing of a Lark.  
HArk! hark! my Soul!— Let the early Birds inspire  
Thy grovelling Thoughts with pure Celestial Fire,  
Who from their temperate Sleep awake, and pay  
Their thankful Anthems for the newborn Day.  
See, how the tuneful Lark is mounted high!  
And Poet-like salutes the Eastern Sky;  
Aurora's Beauties in his Song does praise,  
And calls the blushing Dame to hear his Lays.  
But Man (more void of Gratitude) awakes,  
And gives no thanks for that sweet Rest he takes;  
Looks on the cheerful Sun's new-kindled Flame,  
Without one thought of Him, from whom it came.  
Thus does th' unhallowed Wretch the Day begin;  
Shakes off his Sleep, but shakes not off his Sin!   

Seeing Her with her Hair loose.  
SUch was fair Eve, when first by Adam's side  
The kind Creator laid his new-formed Bride;  
And like him, I with Love and Wonder struck,  
On Maia's unaffected Beauties look;  
Which gain Lfresh ustre from this careless Air,  
Her naked Breasts, and her dishevelled Hair;  
Whose winding Tresses down her Bosom flow,  
As gentle Streams in flowery Valleys do.  
A finished Beauty needs no studied Arts,  
No costly Ornaments to conquer Hearts;  
Those only take the Eye, but ne'er can move  
The inward Soul to Ecstasy and Love.  
The Sun himself appears but half Divine,  
Nor does with such prevailing Lustre shine,  
When compassed round with all his Robes of State,  
The pompous Train of Clouds that on him wait.   

The Rose. Anacreon Ode 5th, Lib. 1.  
SWeet Roses now my Friends prepare,  
Roses which so lovely are,  
Which Venus loves; to her let's join  
The jolly Bacchus, God of Wine;  
Of Wine, which Beauty does improve,  
And add new Vigour to our Love▪  
Fresh Roses 'bout our Temples bind,  
For harmless Mirth our Life's designed.  
The Roses smile, and bid us too  
Drink Wine, as they drink Pearly Dew.  
The Rose is sure the fairest Thing,  
That does adorn the gaudy Spring▪  
The Gods themselves the Rose do prize,  
The Pride and Glory of the Skies;  
For all their Gardens cannot show  
A Flower that does beyond it go.  
And Cupid, when he would be fine,  
To sport among the amorous Nine,  
Garlands made of blowing Roses  
T' adorn his Head, the Boy composes.  
Hither than my Maia bring,  
With Roses crown me, and I'll sing,  
Great Bacchus, thy eternal Praise,  
In fitting Numbers, sprightly Lay.   

Lying at her Feet.  
THis Posture, and these Tears, which Heaven would move,  
In vain I use in favour of my Love:  
For whilst thus prostrate at her Feet I lie,  
Like some fair Rock she stands, which placed on high,  
Seems deaf to those sad Murmurs, which below  
The Plaintive rivulets utter as they flow.   

Melancholy.  

I.  
WElcome thou manly Passion of the Mind;  
Welcome thou only Parent of sound Sense,  
In whom alone we solid Pleasures find,  
Accompanied with peaceful Innocence:  
Welcome thou private Darling of my Breast,  
In whose soft Arms my harassed Soul may rest.   

II.  
Thou Mistress of delightsome Poesy;  
Thou real (not imaginary) Muse,  
That dost such Strains of solemn Melody  
Into the thoughtful Writer's heart infuse.  
Thou genuine Offspring of pale Saturn's Ray,  
That bring'st to our dark Minds a welcome Day.   

III.  
The Man that shall attempt to paint Thee right,  
Must have a Fancy by thyself inspired.  
The Vulgar place Thee in so false a Light,  
Which makes thy Beauties by so few admired.  
How very much mistaken they, that call  
Thee but a Madness Enthusiastical!   

IV.  
As well right Sterling-wit they may define  
To be a Farce of Words Atheistical;  
Or the wild Fancies of intemperate Wine:  
And solid Wisdom they as well may call  
Stupidity: Or a sad dejected Face,  
The certain Token of Celestial Grace.   

V.  
With Thee the wisest of all Ages dwell,  
Rapt with the Transports of thy Company,  
And in the dark Recesses of a Cell,  
Draw Mental Light from deep Philosophy.  
Thou modest (therefore wise) Companion,  
That never yet in busy Crowds was known!   

VI  
Thy Lovers thou dost so entirely bless,  
That, having thee, they nothing seem to want;  
The Soul that thou dost with thyself possess,  
Can make no Wishes so extravagant▪  
But what thy own rich Bounty can bestow;  
For thence it's very Thoughts and Wishes flow.   

VII.  
O that I might whole Ages thee enjoy!  
Spend all my Life in thy sweet Golden Dreams,  
Feed on thy Charms, whose Blessing ne'er can cloy,  
And soothe my sullen Soul with pleasing Themes;  
Lulled in thy downy Bosom sleep away  
This Life's Fatigue, and wait a better Day!   

VIII.  
So when the rough unruly Ocean roars,  
And fight Winds disturb both Sea and Sky;  
Aloft the weary Mast-boy sitting snores,  
Senseless of all the many Dangers nigh;  
Waking at last from his diverting Sleep,  
Finds all things smile, and calmness on the Deep.    

To Mr. T— playing a Voluntary.  
THis Organ T— skilful Hand  
Does with such seeming ease command;  
His Fingers decently advance,  
And to their own sweet Music dance:  
So charming, and so fine the whole,  
As though each Finger had a Soul,  
And ready Wit, so fluently  
T' express itself in Harmony.  
Thus Sages speak, and with due Grace,  
Give to each Word its proper place.  
But Music speaks such wondrous Sense,  
Such lofty Strains of Eloquence:  
No words its Meaning can contain,  
One Note the other must explain.   

The Request.  

I.  
FOR heavens sake, Madam, let me crave,  
That you my dying Heart would save!  
For other Remedies are all in vain,  
Vain as my Love, unequal to my Pain.   

II.  
Oft by Disdain, oft by Despair,  
I tried to overcome my Care;  
But, ah! the Wound too tender was for these,  
And did require some gentler Remedies.   

III.  
Then pensively I went to one,  
That wondrous Cures in Love had done,  
Who knew what to prescribe for each Disease,  
And how to give a hopeless Lover ease.   

IV.  
My Heart I showed him, told my Grief,  
And begged for Love's sake some Relief:  
Then he with pity moved, told me, that I  
Must to my Wound this costly Balm apply.   

V.  
Go to the fair One speedily,  
And from her beg a hearty Sigh;  
Then ask a dimpled Smile, and briny Tear,  
All which into a Mystic Salve prepare:   

VI.  
And gently do the Balsam pour  
Into each Gash and bleeding Poor.  
And this, with Faith and ardent Prayers to Love,  
May heal your Wound, and deadly Pain remove.   

VII.  
Then cruel fair One done't deny  
To give me one poor parting Sigh;  
A Smile too, and a pitying Tear bestow;  
What Love denies, at least let Mercy do.    

Masking herself when she smiled.  
SO when the Sun with his Meridian Light,  
Too fiercely darts upon our feeble Sight;  
We thank th' officious Cloud, by whose kind aid  
We view his Glory, lessened in a shade.   

For Constacy. A Song.  

I.  
THus to a lovely youthful Swain,  
That long had sighed for many a Nymph in vain,  
Experienced Damon did complain.   

II.  
Alas! you can no Pleasure prove,  
Whilst thus you wander in your Love,  
And wantonly o'er all the Valleys rove.   

III.  
Fix then the Aim of your Desire,  
And to some one fair Nymph aspire;  
Tho chaste, she'll melt with constant Fire.    

Primitive Love.  

I.  
O That we could the Golden Age retrieve!  
That Scene of purest Innocence:  
Then might I ask, and she consenting give  
My constant Love a recompense.   

II.  
When all gave ear to Nature's kind advice,  
Their Love was simple as their Dress;  
No long delays the Lovers used, no forced disguise,  
But gloried in their Nakedness.   

III.  
No precious Time in idle Courtship spent;  
The Youth looked kindly on the Dame,  
And she too thought it far more innocent  
To own, than to conceal her Flame.   

IV.  
Each Virgin gay, like our great Parent Earth,  
Grew pregnant without tedious Art,  
When Seeds of Love with such an easy Birth,  
Sprung up in every tender Heart.   

V.  
New uncouth ways to Love and Death we find,  
Ah! fruitless Curiosity;  
When both by wiser Nature were designed  
Man's Blessing, not his Misery.    

On the Eleventh Verse of the Second Chapter of Ecclesiastes.  
Then I looked on all the works that my hands had wrought, and on the labour that I had laboured to do, and behold all was vanity and vexation of spirit; and there was no profit under the sun.  
ARE these th' Effects? Is this then all I gain  
In recompense for all my tedious Pain?  
Have I for this toiled out a tiresome Age,  
And played the Drudge upon this busy Stage?  
Is my expected Bliss but Misery?  
And all my Labour studied Vanity?  
Honour and Wealth I always did disdain,  
But never dreamed my Learning too was vain!  
Many a silent Night and lonesome Day,  
In quest of Knowledge have I thrown away:  
Far, wondrous far I cast my curious Eye  
Back on past Ages of Antiquity;  
Much of our Predecessors had I read;  
Was well acquainted with the mighty Dead.  
Deep into Nature's Secrets did I pry,  
Solved her dark Riddles; oft have I told her why  
The drudging and laborious Sun  
Does round his Annual Circle run,  
How to this Globe of Earth he does convey  
Alternately the Course of Night and Day;  

* Here I make bold to contradict the Ancient Mythology; for I never saw the Sun and Moon any way else related than as Brother and Sister in the Greek and Latin Poets.  How's Concubine the Moon brings to his Bed,  
By constant Change a Monthly Maidenhead;  
How all their bright innum'rous Progeny  
Keep their due Order in the vaulted Sky,  
The Younger crowding up the Galaxy.  
Then did I cast my Eyes on things below,  
Learned why the Ocean's Waves should ebb and flow;  
And for what noble End, ●hat glorious Use  
Th' Almighty did the vast ●●●iathan produce.  
The Nature of each various ●lant I found,  
Knew well each Flow'r ●●at be●utifies the Ground.  
With care I searched th● Earth's 〈◊〉 pregnant Womb,  
Saw how th' inliven'● Seeds to ●ature come;  
And how bright P●●ebus with ● gilded Ray,  
Turned into pre●●●us Oar the sordid Clay;  
In short, whatever was in th' reach of Man,  
All that I knew, and is all that but vain?  
No! 'tis but Vanity in a high degree,  
But trifling, foolish Curiosity;  
And lo, the end thereof is Misery!  
From all my Folly this sad truth I know,  
What ignorantly we call Bliss below,  
Is certainly a Curse, by Heaven designed  
To punish insolent pragmatical Mankind.  
Wealth, Power, Honour, Knowledge; what are these?  
Mere childish Toys, that th' Infant-Soul may please;  
But when she does reflect, and let in Day,  
The trifling Phantoms dwindle quite away;  
Strait the Chimeras vanish, swift they fly,  
Like empty Clouds before bright Reason's Eye.  
For Riches, when considered, are but Cares,  
And Powers high Throne is tossed with constant Fears;  
Fame's but a Bubble, swelled with th' Breath of Man,  
Dashed by an adverse Blast to Nought again.  
Knowledge;— oh that's the greatest Curse of all!  
Of mortal Plagues the grand Original:  
None climb the fatal Tree without a fall.  
In vain, alas! we build our Babel high;  
In vain from Seas of Ignorance we fly;  
For with a scornful smile just Heaven looks down,  
striketh the learned Builders with Confusion.  
As Life to Death inevitably flows,  
So all our Knowledge terminates in Woes.  
Well then— upon the whole what do we see  
Beneath the Cope of Heaven, but Vanity?  
What is this Miscellany Scene of Life,  
Crowded with such variety of Grief?  
'Tis all one jarring heap of Misery,  
Which the first Chaos did but Typify.    


THE Cure of Love. A POEM.  
Virginibus Puerisque canto.  Hor. Ode 1. Lib. 3.  

THE CURE of LOVE.  
WHAT Naso, Love's great Prophet and his Slave,  
To Rome in smooth harmonious Verses gave,  
In British Numbers (that abruptly flow  
As Albion's Streams down craggy Mountains do)  
Lo, I attempt. And thou propitious Muse,  
That didst the wondrous Secret first infuse  
Into his Breast, vouchsafe now to inspire  
My youthful Song with the same heavenly Fire.  
Say what may tame the impetuous force of Love;  
What powerful Charm the smiling Ill remove.  
Say how the Captive Youth himself may free,  
And dying Maid regain her Liberty;  
Or how th' untainted, e'er it be too late,  
May arm himself against a Lover's fate.  
But now, methinks, the fair Ones of our Isle  
Mock my vain Labour with a scornful Smile.  
'Tis true indeed, such powerful Charms they have,  
As would the most averse to Love enslave;  
Make the cold Hermit glow with inward Fire,  
And in his Cell transporting Joys desire.  
More finished Beauties never were designed  
By Painter's Pencil, or rich Poet's Mind;  
So deeply skilled in the enchanting Arts  
Of kindling Love, and captivating Hearts.  
Not that I would their Empire quite destroy,  
Or take from Beauty all its promised Joy:  
I only would suppress its Tyranny,  
And have it conquer without Cruelty.  
Beauty should like a blazing Comet rise,  
Excite our Wonder, and attract our Eyes;  
But then its Lustre never should dispense  
O'er every Heart a baneful Influence.  
It grieves me when I see th' unwary Young,  
By Nature formed all healthy, gay, and strong,  
Nourish a Viper in their tortured Breast,  
Which with incessant Gnawings break their Rest;  
See the fresh Roses from their Cheeks decay,  
And all their youthful Vigour pine away.  
Nay, the most daring, most Heroic Mind,  
Entangled in Love's Snares too oft we find:  
Whether 'tis caused by that more sprightly Heat,  
That does his boiling Spirits animate;  
Or whether Cupid takes more Pride t' enslave  
The generous Souls and Courage of the Brave.  
When therefore the first Symptoms in your Breast  
Begin your wont Quiet to molest,  
When Infant-sighs, like Unfledged winds, begin  
With gentle Breath to kindle Fire within;  
When springing warmth around your Heart does play,  
And a new Motion through your Blood convey;  
Then strait the Undermining-Foe surprise,  
And quell him, ere he can have time to rise.  
Destroy the shapeless Embryo, ere it be  
Endued with Form and full Maturity.  
Call sober Reason timely to your Aid,  
And rest not till you have the Spirit laid.  
Had this been done by the Phoenician Queen,  
Aeneas never had her Ruin been.  
But whilst she with her Sister does debate,  
And with her Husband's Shades expostulate,  
Her growing Passions like thick Mists arise.  
Delude her Soul, and dance before her Eyes.  
See, now she's lost, bewildered in her way;  
She takes no Sleep by Night, nor Rest by Day;  
But thinks it tedious vital Air to Brach,  
And there appears no present Ease but Death;  
Death in the form of Love, all over Fire,  
Is what her raging Fury does require,  
Where Life and Love together may expire.  
But if by thoughtless Inadvertency,  
The first and best Occasion you pass by,  
And the Disease has taken now firm hold  
Of all within, and grown by use more bold:  
'Twill cost you then much Diligence and Art  
To ease the Throbbing of your sickly Heart.  
By slow degrees you must your Peace secure;  
And time, which made the Wound, must bring the Cure.  
Stop not your Tide of Love with sudden force,  
But for a while give way unto its Course:  
For Rage resisted does unruly grow,  
And scorns beneath the servile Yoke to bow▪  
Oft have I seen a Flood, expanded wide,  
O'er downhill Meads with even Waters glide;  
When with a Mound if we but urge its stay,  
Proudly it swells, and sweeps all clean away.  
Give then the Reins, if fierce your Passion prove;  
Nor with cool Reason combat burning Love;  
Like disagreeing Elements they jar,  
When e'er they meet, proclaiming open War.  
Wait then a fitter opportunity,  
And in due time these Remedies apply.  
Of all those Ills, that from unlucky Fate  
Have power the strongest Souls t' emasculate,  
None worse than slothful Ease, which to avoid,  
Intent on Business, keep yourself employed;  
Business! the greatest Enemy to Love:  
Business! that does all wanton Thoughts remove;  
But Oil the Flame, and Fuel feeds the Fire,  
And Laziness increases fond Desire.  
Since then the World affords variety,  
Yourself to some diverting Task apply.  
If that your Soul be filled with Martial Rage,  
And boldly dares in th' open Field engage,  
Oh! leave your Mistress, and your Native Soil,  
And in bright Arms sustain Heroic Toil;  
Inflamed with Honour to the Camp be gone,  
And follow where great Nassau leads you on.  
There on the dusty Plain with Labour sweat,  
Patient of Winter's Cold, and Summer's Heat;  
For England's Peace undauntedly advance,  
And teach Subjection to Aspiring France.  
Oh! who would think of amorous foolish Toys,  
Amidst the heat of Fight and Warlike Noise!  
When the fierce Steed does from his Eyes dart Fire,  
And from his furious Nostrils smoke expire!  
When rattling Drums and echoing Trumpets sound,  
Rouse Courage up, and base Fears confound.  
The Tempest past, appears fair Victory  
Like Venus, rising from a stormy Sea:  
On th' English Standard see she does alight,  
And gladly fixes there her doubtful I light.  
Iö Britania, Iö Poean sing!  
Whole Groves of Verdan Laurel hither bring,  
Crown thy brave Youth, and thy victorious King▪  
But if you dread the War's tempestuous Breath,  
And care not for the bloody Trade of Death;  
Perhaps ingenious Curiosity  
May tempt you o'er the Limits of our Sea;  
Since wisest Men by foreign Converse find  
Their Knowledge, and their Manners too, refined,  
By reading Men they sounder Learning gain,  
Than those, who musty Volumes entertain.  
Besides, what Satisfaction 'tis, to see  
The Monuments of famed Antiquity!  
Here a vast Pyramid (through roiling Years,  
Free from th' injurious hand of Time) appears:  
Inscribed with Antique Characters, to tell  
What mighty Monarch raised the Miracle:  
Deep in the Earth its firm Foundation lies,  
Its Head doth seem to prop th'impending Skies▪  
Who could but view with Wonder and Delight,  
The most stupendious Babel's impious Height!  
Or huge Colossus, whose Gigantic Stride  
Pressed down th' aspiring Rocks, and awed th' impetuous Tide!  
Each day affords new Objects to the Eye,  
Delighting Fancy with variety:  
New Earth appears, suspended in new Skies,  
And different Stars in different Countries rise.  
The change of Scenes sets off the tedious Play,  
And takes the dull Fatigue of Life away.  
But you perhaps may think th' Advice severe,  
Not suiting with a dying Lover's Care.  
I must confess, from what one loves, to part,  
Would almost break the most obdurate Heart;  
But yet at first some Pain you must endure;  
A sore Disease demands no easy Cure.  
You must tug hard before you break the Chain,  
That does the freedom of your Soul restrain;  
For Love will thousand fair Pretences make,  
And for your stay will all occasions take;  
The Weather's bad, the Wind is very high;  
Who knows what dangers in the Sea may lie?  
Your very Feet will treacherous to you prove,  
Unwilling from the Threshold to remove;  
And now at parting, the expiring Flame  
Will larger grow—  
But break th' Enchantment with a firm resolve,  
And Sampson-like the slavish Ties dissolve.  
When going, turn not back your longing Eyes  
On the fair Object, which your Heart does prize,  
For in a farewel-glance strong Magic lies.  
Tho' the relenting Dame should kinder prove,  
And promise to reward your suffering Love;  
Nay, tho' she beat her snowy Breasts, and spread her Arms,  
And practise all the cunning Sex's Charms,  
Regard her not; tho' Virgins Tears (they say)  
Have power the Rage of Tigers to allay.  
Alas, despairing Circe! all thy Art  
And powerful Magic could not keep the Heart  
Of wise Ulysses; deaf to all thy Cries,  
He quits the Shore, and ploughs the watery Skies.  
Oh! whither (said she) whither wouldst so fast?  
Why from these eager Arms dost make such haste?  
Stay but one moment— and I'll charm the Seas,  
And by my skill th' outrageous Winds appease.  
But rather trust to the tempestuous Main,  
Then undergo a Lover's racking Pain:  
And tho' there's dread in every yawning Wave,  
Yet raging Flames not half their Mercy have;  
Nor Lightning, darted by an angry jove,  
Has power of scorching like the Fire of Love.  
But if Affairs of greater weight demand,  
You should not leave your Home or Native Land;  
Within the Circuit of this Isle there are  
Employments may divert a Lover's care.  
Some to the famed Augusta's Inns withdraw,  
Delighted with the Knowledge of the Law;  
'Tis fine to learn the Rules of Equity,  
And study Justice most impartially;  
To plead the Orphan's Cause with Eloquence,  
And right the Tears of injured Innocence.  
But if your Soul to Wisdom does aspire,  
And universal Knowledge you desire;  
To venerable Cham's learned Streams resort▪  
Where Phoebus with the Sacred Nine keeps Court.  
There within peaceful College-walls reside,  
Forget that e'er you served a Woman's Pride,  
Or vainly for a haughty Beauty sighed.  
Here no Intrigues of busy Love are known,  
No foolish Cares molest the studious Gown.  
All Nature's Works, and Nature's Deity,  
Employ our Thoughts and Curiosity.  
How very pleasant, Learning, are thy ways!  
Much lighter than a Crown are Wreaths of Bays.  
But here take care of Charming Poetry;  
For if your Mind be not from Passion free,  
The Muses softening Language will increase  
The Dying-rage, and nourish the Disease.  
Avoid th' inspired Cowley's amorous Lines,  
And read not easy Waller's gentle Rhymes:  
From Dryden's Moving-Tragedies abstain,  
And Lees and Otway's more pathetic Strain.  
But above all things, you should never choose  
To write, or tamper with a Lovesick Muse;  
She'll lead you out to Groves and purling Streams,  
And entertain your Fancy with gay Themes.  
Most Poets are by some strange Destiny  
Condemned to Love, as well as Poverty.  
If then your Genius bend, should lead you on  
To visit the clear Streams of Helicon;  
Stifle the Flame at first, or else, like Love,  
By kind Indulgence 'twill more vigorous prove.  
Perhaps in Rural Sports you'd spend your Days,  
Preferring Quiet to the City's Noise:  
The Country most agreeing Past-time yields,  
When the gay Spring paints o'er the smiling Fields,  
Or when rough Winter, envious of their Pride,  
With chilling Snow does all their Glories hide.  
The Woods, the Meadows, and the Crystal Streams,  
For every Season have their proper Gains.  
To chase the Forest-Deer affords delight,  
And with swift Dogs to urge their swifter Flight;  
What brave, what manlike Music is there found,  
When Hills, and echoing Valleys do resound  
With the loud Op'ning of a deepmouthed Hound!  
They that have followed this diverting Game,  
Were never troubled with a Cupid's Flame:  
For rough Hippolytus ne'er felt Love's Fire;  
Diana knew no fond unchaste Desire;  
The Virgin Daphne from Apollo runs,  
And with disdain his fierce Embraces shuns;  
The God pursues, and in his longing Arms  
A Laurel clasps, instead of Beauty's Charms.  
But now my Muse refresh thy wearied flight,  
And take a view, so pleasing to thy sight!  
So grateful to thyself! so innocent!  
So full of solid Pleasure, true Content!  
Of Paradise's lovely Bosom sing,  
And what Diversions fertile Gardens bring,  
Inamel'd by the curious hand of Spring.  
When Heaven its Image did in Man express,  
To make his Life complete with Happiness,  
Fair Eden than it added to his store;  
So great the Gift, that it could give no more.  
With daily care to Cultivate the Earth,  
To watch the pretty Flowers fragrant Birth,  
To shade 'em from the scorching Eye of day,  
And with refrshing Water make 'em gay;  
In time to prune the too-luxuriant Vine,  
Round the tall Elm her spreading Arms to twine,  
When Autumn comes, her burdened Boughs to ease,  
And from the Grape its Racy Juice to squeeze:  
These are Employments may divert your Pain,  
And all your wont Liberty regain.  
Your Garden love, of that your Mistress make,  
And every Flower for a Beauty take;  
Court 'em each morn, when they their Sweets disclose,  
And ravish Kisses from the blushing Rose;  
How fresh its Colour! naturally Fair!  
It's Breath divine, perfumes the ambient Air!  
But here one Caution take, else lingering Love  
Will never from your anxious Breast remove:  
If pleasant Walks, and private Grottoes, made  
To cool the raging Dog-stars heat with shade,  
Add to your Gardens costly Ornament,  
And seem to be so full of sweet Content;  
eat their alluring Flatteries, for there  
Black Melancholy dwells, and deep Despair,  
Love's direful Furies. Oh! you're quite undone,  
If they accost you thoughtful and alone!  
From Solitude, when tired with Labour, fly;  
And seek Diversion from good Company.  
When Time draws on, that weary Mortals steep  
Their fainting Spirits in refreshing Sleep,  
Repair not to your Bed before the Nod,  
And drowsy Summons of the Midnight God:  
Within the Curtains are a numerous Train  
Of Thoughts, that rack a wakeful Lover's Brain.  
When fair Aurora smiles on th' Eastern Skies,  
Shake off your Sloth, and from your Pillow rise;  
Nor basking on your Bed at Noonday lie,  
For busy Cupid then stands laughing by,  
And with a thousand wanton gay Desires.  
Revives the Flame, and blows the dying Fires.  
What has been said already may release  
Your Mind perhaps, and by degrees give ease.  
But if your Passion does so highly rage,  
That no Diversion can the Heat assuage;  
Look on your Mistress with a Critics Eye,  
And narrowly into her Failings pry;  
Whether kind Nature does to her impart  
Her Charms, or if she borrows them from Art.  
But yet suppose all Graces should combine  
To make your Lady's outward Form divine;  
Think what unseemly Passions may control  
The hidden Temper of her inmost Soul.  
Few can the fair One's Inclinations see,  
Till Hymen's Torch reveal the Mystery.  
And oh! that Man, the stately Lord of all,  
Should down before a gaudy outside fall!  
Reverse of Nature! shall I whine and sigh,  
And for a faithless senseless Woman die?  
With Arguments like these be resolute,  
And sly insinuating Love confute.  
But now when to untie the Knot you come,  
Let it not be in Heat and Anger done,  
But in a mild and gentle Calmness part;  
For Rage but shows the Anguish of your Heart.  
And if you grieve, be sure your Grief beguile,  
And clear your Countenance with a seeming Smile.  
O Antony! hadst thou this cunning known,  
And not thy Weakness to a Woman shown!  
By brave Ventidius see the Enchantments broke,  
The General throws off his Servile Yoke;  
Well-mounted now the Veterane Troops he heads,  
And fired with Courage to the Battle leads.  
But see, cursed Fate!— The Charming Queen appears,  
Graceful in Sorrow, beautiful in Tears:  
Oh, my loved Lord, (said she) my Antony!  
Why from your Cleopatra do you fly?  
Are you so bend to follow loud Alarms?  
Sure War could never boast of Beauty's Charms!  
Are these soft Arms too weak to keep you here?  
Or has my Fondness made you so severe?  
Go then.— At that his conquered Courage reels,  
And panting Heart pathetic Motion feels;  
Stern Mars must to the Suit of Venus yield,  
And for her Bosom leave the dusty Field.  
All the fair Sex have learned that Eloquence,  
To make themselves appear all Innocence:  
When e'er they please, their Eyes dissolve in Tears,  
And wash away the jealous Lover's fears.  
And now you think your Mind is disengaged  
From that fierce Passion that within it raged.  
Tho' all things seem well settled in a Peace,  
And all Intestine Broils and Discords cease;  
Of a Relapse amidst this Calm beware;  
'Twill make your State more desperate by far.  
If the Disease return, you may despair  
Of perfect Health, no Physic can repair  
A second Breach; then with due Caution arm  
Against th' Invasion of so great a harm.  
Keep always out of sight, avoid the place  
Which your fair Foe does with her Presence grace;  
For Love will through the Eye its entrance find,  
Into the dark Recesses of the Mind.  
No pledges of your former Vows detain,  
But to the Virgin send 'em back again.  
Burn all your kinder Letters from the Dame,  
For every Line will your Desire inflame.  
On Pleasures past you must not ruminate,  
Lest that to more should Appetite create;  
Love, like habitual Sin, will fainter grow,  
The longer you refuse its Joys to know.  
Yet all this Counsel is of little use,  
And hardly can a perfect Cure produce  
Without a Diet too, which to rehearse,  
Shall be the last performance of my Verse:  
Deny yourself of all luxurious Food,  
That with prolific Heat inflames the Blood;  
The Body pampered will at length control  
The chaster Resolutions of the Soul.  
Taste not the tempting Liquor of the Vine,  
But bid adieu to the free Joys of Wine.  
What tho' it sparkle in the Glass, and smile?  
Like faithless Woman it destroys the while!  
To quench your Thirst, and Nature satisfy,  
To Crystal Streams and living Fountains fly.  
Some vainly think that they may use a mean,  
And not from Bacchus totally abstain;  
But (credit me) the sober Glass will prove  
The most prevailing Argument to Love:  
For he, that with immoderate Wine destroys  
His Vigour, seldom thinks of Beauty's Joys.  
A little moves, but too much slakes Desire,  
As Piles of Fuel quite put out the Fire.  
My Task is ended, and methinks I see  
Th' awakened Youth shake off their Lethargy  
Of Love. And now each Lady wonders whence  
Proceeds the cause of this indifference;  
Consults her Glass, and questions if her Face  
Retains its Features, and its wont Grace.  
Love's Empire falls, no more do we invoke  
His Deity, and make his Altar's smoke.  
See what tormenting Fears disturb the Boy,  
What racking Cares the vanquished God annoy:  
With folded Arms he stands, and drooping Wings,  
And wide his Bow and useless Arrows flings  
No fev'rish Sighs now swell the Virgin's Breasts,  
No dire Despair the lovely Youth molests;  
But both from powerful Verse receive their mutual Rest.  
So the young Prophet with his tuneful Lyre,  
Did raging Saul with gentle Thoughts inspire;  
The angry Daemon listened as he played,  
Grew wondrous mild, and his soft Notes obeyed.    


A REFLECTION ON OUR Modern Poesy. AN ESSAY.  
The Second Edition.  
— Fuit haec Sapientia quondam,  
Publica privatis secernere, sacra profanis;  
Concubitu prohibere vago; dare jura maritis;  
Oppida moliri; legis incidere ligno;  
Sic honour & nomen divinis Vatibus atque  
Carminibus venit.—  Hor. de Art Poet.  

TO MY Honoured Friend and School-Fellow, Mr. A. OWEN.  
SIR,  
THE way of Dedicating now most in fashion, seems to me to stand in as great need of a Reformation, as does our Poetry. For, as we take nothing to be True and Genuine Poetry, but what is Light▪ Frothy, and has a wanton Air throughout it; so the generality seem to stand persuaded, That an Epistle Dedicatory loses its End quite, if not stuffed up with gross and open Flattery, sufficient to call a Blush into any modest Reader's Cheek. But here it is a hard matter to judge Whether the Impudence of the Author▪ or the Vanity of the Patron (who believes all true that's said of him) does contribute most to carry on this notorious piece of Folly  
Now, (Sir) though our Early Friendship, and Intimate Acquaintance was the Reason that prevailed most upon me in presenting this small Essay to You; yet, to speak truth, there was another Motive too, which made me the more desirous of it, and that was merely upon the account of running counter to the generality of Dedicating Poets, to try if a particular Example might have any small Influence in correcting the Poetical Licence they take up●n such like occasions: For here I was satisfied that I might come off without the least flattering Glance, with one who (though young) has Experience enough to understand, that Personal Respect is not to be estimated by the fine Compliments and Flourishes of a Fanciful Pen. And for my part, I think if our Poets go on at their old Rate but a little longer, we shall be apt to interpret Epistles of this sort as we do Dreams, by the contrary.  
The great Scandal that Poetry has of late been subject to, together with the respect I always had for it, gave occasion for the following Reflection. For as I was considering how much this Art was esteemed amongst our Forefathers, and how Venerable, nay, almost Sacred, the Name of a Poet was then; Surely (thought I) the Former Honour, and the Present Disgrace the Muses lie under, could never depend on the different Capriccios of two divers Ages, but there must be some more reasonable Ground for this matter, which if once discovered, will give a very fair opportunity of restoring Verse to its Primitive Dignity. Some there are who suspect, That the want of Genius in our Age has given Poetry this deadly Wound: But they will soon find their Mistake, if (laying aside the blind Veneration we have for Antiquity) they compare the Ancients and Moderns in any sort of Poetry, excepting the Epic. So that we must seek out for some other Cause more probable than the former. And what others may spy, I know not; but I think the great Difference lies here, That Poetry is now no longer the Fountain of Wisdom, the School of Virtue; it is no longer a fit Trainer up of Youth, a Bridler of the Passions and exorbitant Desires: But on the contrary, he is reckoned the Ablest Poet, that is most dextrous at conjuring up these Evil Spirits, to disturb the Calm and Quiet of the Soul. And this (if I mistake not) is that which hath deformed so great a Beauty, and cast an Odium on that most excellent Art, which was once the Pride of Conquerors, and Envy of Philosophers.  
What I have transiently remarked in the following Verses, will I doubt not) be disliked by many of our Rhyming Sparks; for take but the Liberty of Writing Immodestly from 'em, and you have quite dismounted them off their Pegasus; they are quite Tongue-tid; 'tis with them, as Horace says it was 〈◊〉 the Reign of the old Comedy, Chorusque, Turpiter, obticuit, sublato jure nocendi.  
What I have said against Love upon the Stage, I would not have apprehended so, as if I would have that Passion quite exploded; for I think it one of the fittest Passions for Poetry, and capable of very great Ornaments; but then I would have it very nicely and delicately handled; and what might give the least Offence to the severest Modesty, always cast in Shades; for it is then only that this Passion is not to be allowed, when it goes beyond its bounds; and that is, when the Poet's Strokes are too bold, and his Colours too glaring.  
I was told (which I myself afterwards found to be true) that a great Part of my Design was already performed in the Preface to Prince Arthur. However, that did not trouble me in the least, for I was very glad to see myself of the same Opinion with so eminent an Author; since I had laid a Rude Draught of my Reflection the last Summer, which I then showed several of my Acquaintance. However, the World may think this a Shame, and I am very willing to be thought indebted to so creditable a Person for what I have said.  
I shall make no Apology for the Tediousness of my Epistle, since you are too often guilty of the Contrary Vice in writing to  
your Real Friend, and very Humble Servant.   

A REFLECTION ON OUR Modern Poesy.  
IF Poets be (as they pretend) inspired  
With Heat Divine, and Sacred Fury fired;  
How comes it then, that each Poetic Piece  
Gives nowadays Encouragement to Vice?  
Each Line (or else we think it will not do)  
With wanton Love, and Flames unchaste must glow.  
That scribbling Fop that would a Poet be,  
First bids adieu to all his Modesty:  
Invokes not Phoebus, but the God of Wine;  
Crowns his hot Temples with th' inspiring Vine:  
The Glass (Dull Sot!) must make his Thoughts subblime,  
For in a Sober Mood what Bard can Rhyme?  
But sure Great Homer got not thus a Name:  
Nor Greater Maro his Eternal Fame;  
Maro whose lofty Soul now animates  
Our Blackmore's Breast with true Poetic Heats!  
Thrice Happy Man! whom too indulgent Fate  
Resolves to make, in spite of Envy, Great;  
Thou ne'er hadst writ, had William never fought;  
The Hero's Deeds enlarge the Poet's Thought.  
These Muses chaste as Vestal Virgins are;  
Stately, not Proud; Reserved, but not Severe.  
The Flame that through their Works so bright does shine,  
Was surely kindled by a Breath Divine,  
No Cupid's Puff, nor Frenzy caused by Wine.  
But that our Follies we at large may see,  
Let's closely view our Modern Poesy.  
What place so much debauched as our Stage,  
Which next the Pulpit, should correct the Age?  
What anciently Devotion did begin,  
Is now converted to the use of Sin;  
And on our Theatres we daily see  
Vice triumph o'er dejected Honesty.  
But happy Athens! whose more decent Stage  
Was moralised by Sophocles wise Rage:  
Who e'er he did pretend to Poetry,  
Searched the grave Precepts of Philosophy;  
Hence 'twas he taught those Truths he learned before,  
And practised those sound Rules his Writings boar:  
He doubly charmed his Modest Audience,  
By good Example, and wise Eloquence.  
Philosophers far short in teaching came;  
Their Naked Virtues maimed were, and lame.  
The Pearl they represented to the View  
Unpolished, as It naturally grew.  
But Poets put a Gloss on't, made it shine;  
Then 'twas embraced as somewhat more Divine.  
What erst to the Rude People seemed severe,  
In soothing Verse all-charming does appear;  
Gently it glides into their ravished Minds,  
For Pleasure still an easy Entrance finds;  
Few can the Suit, of what they like, remove,  
Or be averse, when Beauty wooe's, from Love.  
And now what weak Excuse, what vain Pretence,  
Can Christian Poets bring in their Defence?  
Shall Heathens teach by Nature's Glow-worm Light,  
What they neglect when Faith directs their Sight?  
Or are our Palates vitiated, and we  
Can relish nought but Vice in Poetry?  
Must They indulge the Ill, and soothe our Fate,  
Or else prevent it e'er it be too late?  
If We are led away by strong Desire,  
Must They add Fuel to the raging Fire?  
Not so did Orpheus; but with tuneful Voice,  
Taught Savage Men that followed Nature's Choice,  
That wildly strayed in shrubby Brakes all day,  
And herded with the common Beasts of Prey;  
Even These he taught their Passions to subdue,  
Through Error's Maze to follow Reason's Clue,  
Their Mossy Caves and Grottoes to forsake,  
And fitter Dwellings for themselves to make;  
And that in Learning Greece did so aspire,  
Was wholly owing to his Sacred Lyre.  
Then let some Champion for the Muses rise.  
Who dares be obstinately Good, and Wise;  
Let him but turn the Stream of Helicon,  
And make It in its proper Channel run.  
He needs not fear his Bays shall withered lie;  
Or that We shall despise his Poetry;  
For genuine Virtue, when adorned with Grace,  
Has surely Charms so lovely in her Face,  
We all should Vice forsake, and only Her embrace.  
But He must then take a peculiar care,  
No Wanton Scenes have in his Poem share:  
A Plot and Moral let him choose, that's free  
From all th' Allays of fulsome Ribaldry,  
Which in our Modern Plays too oft we see.  
Let not Immodest Love debauch his Rhimes;  
Which to excuse, our Poets oftentimes  
Reply, They bring such Objects into view,  
To make us loathe those Passions we pursue.  
But this is False; They always raise Desire,  
Fan by degrees in us Unlawful Fire:  
For here the Poet's Warm Expressions move  
Th' Unthinking Herd such Passions to approve.  
The Wiser Ancients did this Fault decline,  
And made their Tragedies more Masculine.  
Each nervous Scene some Manlike Virtue taught,  
Untainted with the least Immodest Thought.  
Their Heroes were more Stern, and fit for Wars,  
Scorned whining Love, and Jealousies fond Jars:  
Not but that soft Humanity did rest,  
And generous Love in great Aeneas Breast.  
But Ours, more fit for Cupid's Childish Arms,  
Are women's Fools, and Captives to their Charms.  
The Stage, which Terror should with Pity move,  
With us is wholly taken up in Love.  
In this (as well as other Follies) we  
Too much affect the gallic Levity:  
Thence our Romantic Heroes first we drew,  
Unlike our Arthur, and our William too▪  
In vain it is, that heavens Wise Providence  
Has by a Sea divided us from Fance,  
If still their Fopperies we Imitate,  
And their vain Customs to our Isle Translate.  
We want not Genius for the Buskin Muse,  
Would Britain but all Foreign Aids refuse;  
Nor of our Language need we to complain;  
'Tis Pompous, Bold, and fits the Tragic Strain.  
Our Poets too that have wrote Comedy,  
Have Wit enough, but fail in Modesty.  
They still forget the End for which they write,  
And mind not Profit, so they can Delight.  
But he that wears the Sock, should carefully  
Purge all his Writings from Obscenity:  
And though the Age's Humour he expose,  
Yet no Unseemly things should be disclose.  
His Plays should be a Glass, where All might see  
How to correct their own Deformity.  
Terence in this might justly claim the Bays,  
Whose Lively Draughts succeeding Ages praise:  
By him were taught upon the Roman Stage,  
The Duties proper to each State and Age.  
But here with us, in a whole Comedy  
One Virtuous Character you cannot see:  
Rather than want for Vice, we choose to draw  
Strange Monsters, contrary to Nature's Law.  
True Innocence the Poet ridicules,  
And Honesty reserves for none but Fools.  
His Gentleman he makes a Wondrous Sage,  
That's deeply read in Vices of the Age:  
His Mistress and his clothes employ his Care;  
Of all his Thoughts Religion claims no share.  
The Damsel too, e'er Fifteen Years expire,  
Is all o'er Love, and Wanton with Desire;  
Then straight all Filial Duty's laid aside,  
And nought will please her, but the Name of Bride:  
Which once obtained, does soon uneasy prove,  
And still she trafficks in Forbidden Love;  
Her Husband's Kisses lose their wont Taste,  
And stolen Pleasures always Relish best.  
These Characters with Wit and Language joined,  
Must needs Instruct a Youthful Readers Mind!  
These Ills, tho' great, yet are but light, to Crimes  
Whose Horror shall amaze succeeding Times!  
See now the Poet's Bold in Mischief grown,  
And turns to Ridicule the Sacred Gown!  
The Grave Divine a Laughingstock he makes;  
And the firm Basis of Religion shakes:  
High heavens Ambassador within the Scene  
Lays by his awful and becoming Mien,  
And takes upon him there (O Monstrous sight!)  
To play the Pimp, or Canting Hypocrite.  
Happy the Heathens! whose Impiety  
Ne'er mounted yet to such a high degree.  
Due Reverence to their Priests was always shown,  
And Distance kept from the Mysterious Gown.  
Tiresias to the Thebans was a God,  
Him they consulted, and revered his Nod.  
But hear, O hear! how mighty was the Hand  
Of Moses, and how powerful the Wand,  
That wrought such Wonders in Proud Pharoah's Land!  
Revolve th' amazing History, and learn  
The Dignity of Priesthood to discern.  
satire, which was a wholesome Remedy,  
Prescribed to cure a People's Malady,  
When prudently applied doth Good produce;  
But as all Goods are subject to abuse,  
So this of Late no Public Cure intends,  
But only serves to black Malicious ends.  
We dip our Pens in Gall when e'er we Write,  
And all our Inspiration is but Spite.  
But Horace, free from Prejudice and Rage,  
With Honey did the smarting Sting assuage:  
His satire grinned not as it bit, but Smiled,  
Both Cured the Reader, and his Care beguiled.  
Had Dryden never Writ, than Britain still  
Had with Despair admired the Roman Skill:  
But now, by his Example taught, we know,  
That Finest satire in our Soil will grow.  
Our Songs and Little Poems, for most part,  
Have much degraded the Poetic Art.  
On Trifling Subjects all our Wit we drain;  
Which little Credit to the Writer gain.  
When these small Rills united in one Stream,  
Would serve to buoy up some more weighty Theme,  
And o'er the World spread wide the Poet's Fame.  
Turn over every Late Miscellany,  
You hardly can a Modest Copy see.  
Broad Words, and fulsome Thoughts we now admit,  
And praise the Nauseous Author for a Wit.  
But sure by Men of Sense and Quality,  
The Wretch is Pitied for his Ribaldry;  
And here the Petty Scribler's Blasted Bays  
Is propped, but by the silly Vulgar's Praise.  
But if you would Respect or Love express,  
And show your Passion in a Comely Dress,  
Learn how from Courtly Waller's Deathless Lays  
Chastely to Love, with Modesty to Praise;  
Whose Pen ne'er did the Virgin's Cheek with Red,  
Nor friendly Ears with undue Praise misled.  
Were I designed by Kinder Destiny  
To Court a Muse, and follow Poetry,  
My early care should be to raise a Fence  
To guard All-Pure my Native Innocence;  
My Infant Genius should strict Virtue learn,  
And Modesty should be its great Concern:  
Nor Popular Applause, nor hopes of Gain,  
Th' unspotted Brightness of the Pearl should slain.  
For Reputation, if it once be lost,  
Can never be regained by any Cost;  
'Tis Bright like Crystal,— but 'tis Brittle too,  
Easy to Crack, but hard for to Renew.  
Then closely would I watch my untainted Muse,  
That She no Meretricious Arts should use;  
No Unbecoming Words, nor Wanton Sound,  
The Niceness of her Virgin Ear should wound.  
So should my Writings with the Eneid strive,  
And my Chaste Verse to endless Ages live:  
Whilst all my Readers say, Lo! This is He,  
That from long Bondage set the Muses Free.  
FINIS.    

THE CONTENTS.  
MOrtality. 
Page 1  A Morning Thought, occasioned by the early Singing of a Lark. 
ibid.  Seeing Her with her Hair loose. 
2  The Rose. Anacreon Ode 5th, Lib. 1. 
3  Lying at her Feet. 
4  Melancholy. 
ibid.  To Mr T— playing a Voluntary. 
6  The Request. 
7  Masking herself when she smiled. 
8  For Constancy. A Song. 
ibid.  Primitive Love. 
9  On the Eleventh Verse of the Second Chapter of Ecclesiastes. 
10  The Cure of Love. 
15  A Reflection on our Modern Poesy. 
35    

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