THE WORKS OF Mr. JOHN OLDHAM, Together with his REMAINS.  
LONDON: Printed for Jo. Hindmarsh, Bookseller to his Royal Highness, at the Black Bull in Cornhill, 1684   

CONTENTS.  

Book I.  
PRologue to the satire upon the Jesuits. Page 1  
The first satire. Garnet's Ghost addressing to the Jesuits met in private Cabal after the Murder of Godfrey. 5  
The Second satire. 24  
The Third satire. Loyola's Will. 39  
The Fourth satire. S. Ignatius' Image brought in, discovering the Rogueries of the Jesuits, and ridiculous Superstition of the Church of Rome. 74  
The satire against Virtue. Pindaric Ode 93  
An Apology for the foregoing Ode by way of Epilog. 111  
The Passion of Byblis out of Ovid's Metamorphosis imitated in English. 119  
Upon a Woman who by her Falsehood and Scorn was the Death of his Friend. A satire. 139   

Book II.  
Horace his Art of Poetry imitated in English. 1  
An Imitation of Horace. Book I. satire 9 43  
Paraphrase upon Horace. book I. Ode 13. 54  
Paraphrase upon Horace. Book II. Ode 14. 58  
The Praise of Homer. Pindaric Ode. 62  
The Lamentation for Adonis imitated out of the Greek of Bion of Smyrna, Pastoral. Bion, A Pastoral in imitation of the Greek of Moschus, bewailing the Death of the Earl of Rochester. 73  
Paraphrase upon the 137 Psalm. Pindaric Ode. 99  
Paraphrase upon the Hymn of S. Amb. Pindariq. Ode 107  
A Letter out of the Country to a Friend in Town, giving an account of the Author's inclination to Poetry. 118  
Upon a Printer, that exposed him by printing a Piece of his grossly mangled and faulty. A satire 131   

Book III.  
Monsieur Boileau's satire upon Man, imitated 1  
Juvenals thirteenth satire, imitated 25  
David's Lamentation for the Death of Saul and Jonathan, paraphrased. Ode 49  
The Ode of Aristotle in Athenaeus, paraphrased 66  
Upon the Works of Ben. Johnson. Ode 69  
The Ninth Ode of the third Book of Horace, imitated 87  
Upon a Lady, who by overturning of a Coach had her Coats behind flung up, and what was under shown to the view of the Company 90  
Catullus, Epigram 7. imitated 97  
The fourth Elegy of the second Book of Ovid's Amours, imitated 99  
The Fifth Elegy of the same Book, imitated 104  
The Tenth Elegy of the same Book, imitated 110  
A Fragment of Petronius, paraphrased 114  
An Ode of Anacreon, paraphrased 116  
An Allusion to Martial, Book I. Epigr. 118. 120  
The Dream, an Elegy 122  
A satire, touching Nobility. Out of French 127  
A satire, addressed to a Friend that is about to leave the University and come abroad in the World 137  
Presenting a Book to Cosmelia. Elegy 149  
The Parting. Elegy 153  
Complaining of Absence. Elegy 156  
Promising a Visit. Elegy 158  
The careless Good Fellow. Song 160  
A satire concerning Poetry 164  
The Third satire of Juvenal, imitated 180  
A Dithyrambic. The Drunkard's Speech in a Mask 260   

REMAINS.  
Counterpart to the Satur against Virtue, 1  
Virg. Eclogue VIII. The Enchantment 13  
To Madam L. E. upon her Recovery from a fit of Sickness 22  
On the Death of Mrs. Katherine Kingscourt, a Child of excellent Parts and Piety 31  
A Sunday-Thought in Sickness 34  
To the Memory of Mr. Charles Morwent 49  
To the Memory of that worthy Gentleman M. Harman Atwood 95    

SATYRS UPON THE JESUITS: Written in the YEAR 1679.  
And some other PIECES By the same HAND.  
The Third Edition Corrected.  
LONDON: Printed for Joseph Hindmarsh, at the Black Bull in Cornhill. 1685.   

Advertisement.  
THE Author might here (according to the laudable custom of Prefaces) entertain the Reader with a Discourse of the Original, Progress, and Rules of satire, and let him understand, that he has lately Read Casaubon, and several other Critics upon the Point; but at present he is minded to wave it, as a vanity he is in no wise fond of. His only intent now is to give a brief account of what he Publishes, in order to prevent what Censures he foresees may colourably be passed thereupon: And that is, as followeth:  
What he calls the Prologue, is in imitation of Persius, who has prefixed somewhat by that Name before his Book of Satyrs, and may serve for a pretty good Authority. The first satire he drew by Sylla's Ghost in the great Johnson, which may be perceived by some strokes and touches therein, however short they come of the Original. In the second, he only followed the swinge of his own 〈◊〉. The Design, and some Passages of the Franciscan of Buchanan. Which ingenious confession he thinks fit to make, to show he has more modesty than the common Padders in Wit of these times. He doubts, there may be some few mistakes in Chronology therein, which for want of Books he could ●…ot inform himself in. If the skilful Reader meet with any such, he may the more easily pardon them upon that score. Whence he had the hint of the fourth, is obvious to all, that are any thing acquainted with Horace. And without the Authority of so great a Precedent, the making of an Image speak, is but an ordinary Miracle in Poetry. He expects, that some will tax him of Buffoonery, and turning holy things into ridicule. But le●… them Read, how severely Arnobius, Lactantius, Minutius Felix, and the gravest Fathers; have raillyed the fopperies and superstitions of the Heathen, and then consider whether those, which he has chosen for his Argument, are not as worthy of laughter. The only difference is that they did it in Prose, as he does in Verse, where perhaps 'tis the more allowable.  
As for the next Poem (which is the most liable to censure) though the world has given it the Name of the satire against Virtue, he declares 'twas never designed to that intent, how apt soever some may be to wrest it. And this appears by what is said after it, and is discernible enough to all, that have the sense to understand it, 'Twas meant to abuse those, who valued themselves upon their Wit and Parts, in praising Vice, and to show, that others of sober Principles, if they would take the same liberty in Poetry, could strain as high rants in Profaneness as they. At first he intended it not for the public, nor to pass beyond the privacy of two or three Friends, but seeing it had the Fate to steal abroad in Manuscript, and afterwards in Print, without his knowledge, he now thinks it a Justice due to his own Reputation, to have it come forth without those faults, which it has suffered from Transcribers and the Press hitherto, and which make it a worse satire upon himself, than upon what it was designed.  
Something should be said too of the last Trifle, if it were worth it. 'Twas occasioned upon reading the late Translations of Ovid 's Epistles, which gave him a mind to try what he could do upon a like Subject. Those being already forestalled, he thought fit to make choice of the same Poet, whereon perhaps he has taken too much liberty. Had he seen Mr. Sandys his Translation before he began, he never durst have ventured: Since he has, and finds reason enough to despair of his undertaking. But now 'tis done, he is loath to burn it, and chooses rather to give somebody else the trouble. The Reader may do as he pleases, either like it, or put it to the use of Mr. Jordan 's Works. 'Tis the first attempt, he ever made in this kind, and likely enough to be the last, his vein (if he may be thought to have any) lying another way.   

SATYRS UPON THE JESUITS.  

PROLOGUE  

FOR who can longer hold? when every Press,  
The Bar and Pulpit too has broke the Peace?  
When every scribbling Fool at the alarms  
Has drawn his Pen, and rises up in Arms?  
And not a dull Pretender of the Town,  
But vents his gall in Pamphlet up and down?  
When all with licence rail, and who will not,  
Must be almost suspected of the PLOT,  
And bring his Zeal, or else his Parts in doubt?   

In vain our Preaching Tribe attack the Foes,  
In vain their weak Artillery oppose:  
Mistaken honest men, who gravely blame,  
And hope that gentle Doctrine should reclaim.  
Are Texts, and such exploded trifles fit  
T'impose, and shame upon a Jesuit?  
Would they the dull Old Fisher men compare  
With mighty Suarez, and great Escobar?  
Such threadbare proofs, and stale Authorities  
May Us poor simple Heretics suffice:  
But to a seared Ignatian's Conscience,  
Hardened, as his own Face, with Impudence,  
Whose Faith in contradiction bore, whom Lies,  
Nor nonsense, nor Impossibilities,  
Nor shame, nor death, nor damning can assail:  
Not these mild fruitless methods will avail.   

'Tis pointed satire, and the sharps of Wit  
For such a prize are th' only Weapons fit:  
Nor needs there Art, or Genius here to use,  
Where Indignation can create a m●…e:  
Should Parts, and Nature fail, yet very spite  
Would make the arrantest Wild, or Withers write.   

It is resolved: hence forth an endless War,  
I and my Muse with them, and theirs declare;  
Whom neither open M●…lice of the Foes,  
Nor private Daggers, nor St. Omer's Dose,  
Nor all, that Godfrey felt, or Monarch's fear,  
Shall from my vowed, and sworn revenge deter.   

Sooner shall false Court Favourites prove just;  
And faithful to their Kings, and Countries trust:  
Sooner shall they detect the tricks of State,  
And knav'ry, suits, and bribes, and flattery hate:  
Bawds shall turn Nuns, Salt D— s grow chaste;  
And Paint, and Pride, and Lechery detest:  
Popes shall for King's Supremacy decide,  
And Cardinals for Huguenots be tried:  
Sooner (which is the great'st impossible)  
Shall the vile Brood of Loyola, and Hell  
Give o'er to Plot, be Villains, and Rebel;  
Than I with utmost spite, and vengeance cease  
To prosecute, and plague their cursed race.   

The rage of Poets damned, of women's Pride  
Contemned, and scorned, or proffered lust denied:  
The malice of Religious angry Zeal,  
And all, cashiered resenting Statesmen feel:  
What prompts dire Hags in their own blood to write  
And sell their very souls to Hell for spite:  
All this urge on my rank envenomed spleen,  
And with keen satire edge my stabbing Pen:  
That its each home-set thrust their blood may draw,  
Each drop of Ink like Aquafortis gnaw.   

Red hot with vengeance thus, I'll brand disgrace  
So deep, no time shall e'er the marks deface:  
Till my severe, and exemplary doom  
Spread wider than their guilt, till it become   

More dreaded than the Borachia, and frighten worse  
Than damning Pope's anathemas, and curse.    

Garnet's Ghost addressing to the Jesuits, met in private Cabal just after the Murder of Godfrey.  

BY Hell 'twas bravely done! what less than this?  
What Sacrifice of meaner worth, and price  
Could we have offered up for our success?  
So fare all they, who ere provoke our hate,  
Who by like ways presume to tempt their fate;  
Fare each like this bold meddling Fool, and be  
As well secured, as well dispatched as he:  
Would he were here, yet warm, that we might drain  
His reaking gore, and drink up every vein!  
That were a glorious sanction, much like thine.  
Great Roman! made upon a like design:  
Like thine; we scorn so mean a Sacrament,  
To seal, and consecrate our high intent,  
We scorn base Blood should our great League cement:  
Thou didst it with a slave, but we think good  
To bind our Treason with a bleeding God.   

Would it were His (why should I fear to name,  
Or you to hear't?) at which we nobly aim  
Lives yet that hated en'my of our Cause?  
Lives He our mighty projects to oppose?  
Can His weak innocence, and Heaven's care  
Be thought security from what we dare?  
Are you then Jesuits? are you so for nought?  
In all the Catholic depths of Treason taught?  
In orthodox, and solid poisoning read?  
In each profounder art of killing bred?  
And can you fail, or bungle in your trade?  
Shall one poor life your cowardice upbraid?  
Tame dastard slaves! who your profession shame,  
And fix disgrace on our great Founder's name.   

Think what late Sect'ries (an ignoble crew,  
Not worthy to be ranked in sin with you)  
Inspired with lofty wickedness, durst do:  
How from his Throne they hurled a Monarch down,  
And doubly eased him of both Life, and Crown:  
They scorned in covert their bold act to hide,  
In open face of Heaven the work they did,  
And braved its vengeance, and its powers defied.  
This is his Son, and mortal too like him,  
Durst you usurp the glory of the crime;  
And dare ye not? I know, you scorn to be  
By such as they, outdone in villainy,  
Your proper province; true, you urged them on,  
Were engines in the fact, but they alone  
Share all the open credit, and renown.   

But hold! I wrong our Church, and Cause, which need  
No foreign instance, nor what others did:  
Think on that matchless Assassin, whose name  
We with just pride can make our happy claim;  
He, who at killing of an Emperor,  
To give his poison stronger force, and power  
Mixed a God with't, and made it work more sure:  
Blessed memory! which shall through Age to come  
Stand sacred in the Lists of Hell, and Rome.   

Let our great Clement, and Ravillac's name,  
Your Spirits to like heights of sin inflame;  
Those mighty Souls, who bravely chose to die  
T'have each a Royal Ghost their company.  
Heroic Act! and worth their tortures well,  
Well worth the suffering of a double Hell,  
That, they felt here, and that below, they feel.   

And if these cannot move you, as they should,  
Let me, and my example fire your blood:  
Think on my vast attempt, a glorious deed,  
Which durst the Fates have suffered to succeed,  
Had rivalled Hell's most proud exploit, and boast,  
Even that, which would the King of Fates deposed,  
Cursed be the day, and ne'er in time enrolled,  
And cursed the Star, whose spiteful influence ruled  
The luckless Minute, which my project spoiled:  
Curse on that Power, who, of himself afraid,  
My glory with my brave design betrayed:  
Justly he feared, lest I, who struck so high  
In guilt, should next blow up his Realm, and Sky:  
And so I had; at least I would have dared,  
And failing, had got off with Fame at worst.   

Had you but half my bravery in Sin,  
Your work had never thus unfinished been:  
Had I been Man, and the great Act to do;  
he'd died by this, and been what I am now,  
Or what His Father is: I would leap Hell  
To reach His Life, though in the midst I fell,  
And deeper than before.—  
Let rabble Souls, of narrow aim, and reach,  
Stoop their vile Necks, and dull Obedience preach:  
Let them with slavish awe (disdained by me)  
Adore the purple Rag of Majesty,  
And think't a sacred Relic of the Sky:  
Well may such Fools a base Subjection own,  
Vassals to every Ass, that loads a Throne:  
Unlike the soul, with which proud I was born,  
Who could that sneaking thing a Monarch scorn,  
Spurn off a Crown, and set my foot in sport  
Upon the head, that wore it, trod in dirt.   

But say, what is't that binds your hands? does fear  
From such a glorious action you deter?  
Or is't Religion? but you sure disclaim  
That frivolous pretence, that empty name:  
Mere bugbear word, devised by Us to scare  
The senseless rout to slavishness, and fear,  
ne'er know to awe the brave, and those, that dare.  
Such weak, and feeble things may serve for checks  
To rain, and curb base-mettled Heretics;  
Dull creatures, whose nice boggling consciences  
Startle, or strain at such slight crimes as these;  
Such, whom fond inbred honesty befools,  
Or that old musty piece the Bible gulls:  
That hated Book, the bulwark of our foes,  
Whereby they still uphold their tottering cause.  
Let no such toys misled you from the road  
Of glory, nor infect your Souls with good:  
Let never bold encroaching Virtue dare  
With her grim holy face to enter there,  
No, not in very Dream: have only will  
Like Fiends, and Me to covet, and act ill:  
Let true substantial wickedness take place;  
Usurp, and Reign; let it the very trace  
(If any yet be left) of good deface.  
If ever qualms of inward cowardice  
(The things, which some dull sots call conscience) rise,  
Let them in streams of Blood, and slaughter drown,  
Or with new weights of guilt still press 'em down.  
Shame, Faith, Religion, Honour, Loyalty,  
Nature itself, whatever checks there be  
To lose, and uncontrol'd impiety,  
Be all extinct in you; own no remorse  
But that you've balked a sin, have been no worse,  
Or too much pity shown.—.  
Be diligent in Mischiefs Trade, be each  
Performing as a devil; nor stick to reach  
At Crimes most dangerous; where bold despair,  
Mad lust, and heedless blind revenge would ne'er  
Even look, march you without a blush, or fear,  
Inflamed by all the hazards,, that oppose,  
And firm, as burning Martyrs, to your Cause.   

Then you're true Jesuits, then you're fit to be  
Disciples of great Loyola, and Me:  
Worthy to undertake, worthy a Plot,  
Like this, and fit to scourge an Huguenot.   

Plagues on that Name! may swift confusion seize,  
And utterly blot out the cursed Race:  
Thrice damned be that Apostate Monk, from whom  
Sprung first these Enemies of Us, and Rome:  
Whose poisonous Filth, dropped from ingend'ring Brain,  
By monstrous Birth did the vile Infects spawn,  
Which now infest each Country, and defile  
With their o'respreading swarms this goodly I'll,  
Once it was ours, and subject to our Yoke,  
Till a late reigning Witch th' Enchantment broke:  
It shall again: Hell and I say't: have ye  
But courage to make good the Prophecy:  
Not Fate itself shall hinder.—   

Too sparing was the time, too mild the day,  
When our great Mary bore the English sway?  
Unqueen-like pity marred her Royal Power,  
Nor was her Purple died enough in Gore.   

Four, or five hundred, such like petty sum  
Might fall perhaps a Sacrifice to Rome,  
Scarce worth the naming: had I had the Power,  
Or been thought fit t'have been her Counsellor,  
She should have raised it to a nobler score.  
Big Bonfires should have blazed, and shone each day,  
To tell our Triumphs, and make bright our way:  
And when 'twas dark, in every Lane, and Street  
Thick flaming Heretics should serve to light  
And save the needless Charge of Links by night:  
Smithfield should still have kept a constant fire,  
Which never should be quenched, never expire,  
But with the lives of all the miscreant rout,  
Till the last gasping breath had blown it out.   

So Nero did, such was the prudent course  
Taken by all his mighty Successors,  
To tame like Heretics of old by force:  
They scorned dull reason, and pedantic rules  
To conquer, and reduce the hardened Fools:  
Racks, Gibbets, Halters were their arguments,  
Which did most undeniably convince:  
Grave bearded Lions managed the dispute,  
And reverend Bears their Doctrines did confute:  
And all, who would stand out in stiff defence,  
They gently clawed, and worried into sense:  
Better than all our Sorbon dotards now,  
Who would by dint of words our Foes subdue.  
This was the rigid Discipline of old,  
Which modern sots for Persecution hold:  
Of which dull Annalists in story tell  
Strange Legends, and huge bulky Volumes swell  
With Martyred Fools, that lost their way to Hell.   

From these, our Church's glorious Ancestors,  
We've learned our arts, and made their Methods ours:  
Nor have we come behind, the least degree,  
In acts of rough and manly cruelty:  
Converting Faggots, and the powerful stake,  
And Sword resistless our Apostles make.   

This heretofore Bohemia felt, and thus  
Were all the numerous Proselytes of Huss  
Crushed with their head: So Waldo's cursed rout,  
And those of Wickliff here were rooted out,  
Their names scarce left.— Sure were the means, we chose,  
And wrought prevailingly: Fire purged the dross  
Of those foul Heresies, and sovereign Steel  
Lopped off th' infected Limbs the Church to heal.   

Renowned was that French Brave, renowned his deed,  
A deed, for which the day deserves its red  
Far more than for a paltry Saint, that died:  
How goodly was the Sight! how fine the Show  
When Paris saw through all its Channels flow  
The blood of Huguenots; when the full Sein,  
Swelled with the flood, its Banks with joy o're-ran!  
He scorned like common Murderers to deal  
By parcels, and piecemeal; he scorned Retail  
I'th' Tra●…e of Death: whole Myriads died by th' great,  
Soon as one single life; so quick their Fate,  
Their very Prayers, and Wishes came too late.   

This a King did: and great, and mighty ' 'twas.  
Worthy his high Degree, and Power, and Place,  
And worthy our Religion, and our Cause:  
Unmatched 'thad been, had not Macquire arose,  
The bold Macquire (who, read in modern Fame,  
Can be a Stranger to his Worth, and Name?)  
Born to outsin a Monarch, born to Reign  
In Gild, and all Competitors disdain:  
Dread memory! whose each mention still can make  
Pale Heretics with trembling Horror quake.  
T'undo a Kingdom, to achieve a crime  
Like his; who would not fall and die like him?  
Never had Rome a nobler service done,  
Never had Hell; each day came thronging down  
Vast shoals of Ghosts, and mine was pleased, & glad,  
And smiled, when it the brave revenge surveyed.   

Nor do I mention these great Instances  
For bounds, and limits to your wickedness:  
Dare you beyond, something out of the road  
Of all example, where none yet have trod,  
Nor shall hereafter: what mad Catiline  
Durst never think, nor's madder Poet feign.  
Make the poor baffled Pagan Fool confess,  
How much a Christian Crime can conquer his:  
How far in gallant mischief overcome,  
The old must yield to new, and modern Rome.  
Mix Ills past, present, future, in one act;  
One high, one brave, one great, one glorious Fact,  
Which Hell, and very I may envy—  
Such as a God himself might wish to be  
A Complice in the mighty villainy  
And barter's Heaven, and vouchsafe to die.   

Nor let Delay (the bane of Enterprise)  
Marr yours, or make the great importance miss.  
This fact has waked your Enemies, and their fear;  
Let it your vigour too, your haste, and care.  
Be swift, and let your deeds forestall intent,  
Forestall even wishes, ere they can take vent,  
Nor give the Fates the leisure to prevent.  
Let the full Clouds, which a long time did wrap  
Your gathering thunder, now with sudden clap.  
Break out upon your Foes; dash, and confound,  
And spread avoidless ruin all around.   

Let the fired City to your Plot give light;  
You razed it half before, now raze it quite.  
Do't more effectually; I'd see it glow  
In flames unquenchable as those below.  
I'd see the Miscreants with their houses burn,  
And all together into ashes turn.   

Bend next your fury to the cursed Divan;  
That damned Committee, whom the Fates ordain  
Of all our well-laid Plots to be the bane.  
Unkennel those State Foxes, where they lie  
Working your speedy fate, and destiny.  
Lug by the ears the doting Prelates thence;  
Dash Heresy together with their Brains  
Out of their shattered heads. Lop off the Lords  
And Commons at one stroke, and let your Swords  
Adjourn 'em all to th' other World—   

Would I were blest with flesh and blood again,  
But to be Actor in that happy Scene!  
Yet thus I will be by, and glut my view,  
Revenge shall take its fill, in state I'll go  
With captive Ghosts t'attend me down below.   

Let these the Handsells of your vengeance be,  
But stop not here, nor flag in cruelty.  
Kill like a Plague, or Inquisition; spare  
No Age, Degree, or Sex; only to wear  
A Soul, only to own a Life, be here  
Thought crime enough to lose't: no time, nor place  
Be Sanctuary from your outrages.  
Spare not in Churches kneeling Priests at prayer,  
Tho interceding for you, slay even there.  
Spare not young Infants smiling at the breast,  
Who from relenting Fools their mercy wrest:  
Rip teeming Wombs, tear out the hated Brood.  
From thence, & drown 'em in their Mother's blood.  
Pity not Virgins, nor their tender cries,  
Tho prostrate at your feet with melting eyes  
All drowned in tears; strike home, as 'twere in lust,  
And force their begging hands to guide the thrust.  
Ravish at th' Altar, kill when you have done,  
Make them your Rapes, and Victims too in one.  
Nor l●…t grey hoary hairs protection give  
To Age, just crawling on the verge of Life:  
Snatch from its leaning hands the weak support,  
And with it knocked into the grave with sport;  
Brain the poor Cripple with his Crutch, then cry,  
You've kindly rid him of his misery.   

Seal up your ears to Mercy, lest their words  
Should tempt a pity, ram 'em with your Swords  
(Their tongues too) down their throats; let 'em not dare  
To mutter for their Souls a gasping Prayer,  
But in the utterance choked, and stab it there.  
'Twere witty handsome Malice (could you do't)  
To make 'em die, and make 'em damned to boot.   

Make Children by one Fate with Parents die,  
Kill even revenge in next Posterity:  
So you'll be pestered with no Orphans cries,  
No Childless Mothers curse your Memories.  
Make Death, and Desolation swim in blood  
Throughout the Land, with nought to stop the flood  
But slaughtered Carcases; till the whole Isle  
Become one tomb, become one funeral pile;  
Till such vast numbers swell the countless sum,  
That the wide Grave, and wider Hell want room.   

Great was that Tyrant's wish, which should be mine,  
Did I not scorn the leave of a sin;  
Freely I would bestow't on England now,  
That the whole Nation with one neck might grow.  
To be slieed off, and you to give the blow.  
What neither Saxon rage could here inflict,  
Nor Danes more savage, nor the barbarous Pict;  
What Spain, nor Eighty Eight could ere devise,  
With all its Fleet, and freight os cruelties;  
What ne'er Medina wished, much less could dare,  
And bloodier Alva would with trembling hear;  
What may strike out dire Prodigies of old,  
And make their mild, and gentler acts untold.  
What heavens Judgements, nor the angry Stars,  
Foreign Invasions, nor Domestic Wars,  
Plague, Fire, nor Famine could effect or do;  
All this, and more be dared, and done by you.   

But why do I with idle talk delay  
Your hands, and while they should be acting, stay?  
Farewell  
If I may waste a Prayer for your success,  
Hell be your aid, and your high projects bless!  
May that vile Wretch, if any here there be,  
That meanly shrinks from brave Iniquity;  
If any here feel pity, or remorse,  
May he feel all▪ I've bid you act, and worse!  
May he by rage of Foes unpitied fall,  
And they tread out his hated Soul to Hell.   

May's Name, and Carcase rot, exposed alike to be  
The everlasting mark of grinning Infamy.    

satire II.  

NAy, if our sins are grown so high of late,  
That Heaven no longer can adjourn ourfate;  
May't please some milder Vengeance to devise,  
Plague, Fire, Sword, Dearth, or any thing but this.  
Let it rain scalding Showers of Brimstone down,  
To burn us, and of old the lustful Town:  
Let a new deluge overwhelm again,  
And drown at once our Land, our Lives, our Sin.  
Thus gladly we'll compound, all this we'll pay,  
To have this worst of Ills removed away.  
Judgements of other kinds are often sent  
In mercy only, not for punishment:  
But where these light, they show a Nation's fate  
Is given up, and past for reprobate.   

When God his stock of wrath on Egypt spent,  
To make a stubborn Land, and King repent,  
Sparing the rest, had he this one Plague sent;  
For this alone his People had been quit,  
And Pharaoh circumcised a Proselyte.   

Wonder no longer why no Curse, like these,  
Was known, or suffered in the Primitive days:  
They never sinned enough to merit it,  
'Twas therefore what heavens just power thought fit,  
To scourge this latter, and more sinful age  
With all the dregs, and squeesing of his rage.   

Too dearly is proud Spain with England quit  
For all her loss sustained in Eighty Eight;  
For all the Ills, our Warlike Virgin wrought,  
Or Drake, and Raleigh her great Scourges brought.  
Amply was she revenged in that one birth,  
When Hell for her the Biscain Plague brought forth;  
Great Counter-plague! in which unhappy we  
Pay back her sufferings with full usury:  
Than whom alone none ever was designed  
T'entail a wider curse on Human kind,  
But he, who first begot us, and first sinned.   

Happy the World had been, and happy Thou,  
(Less damned at least, and less accursed than now)  
If early with less guilt in War th'hadst died,  
And from ensuing mischiefs Mankind freed.  
Or when thou view'dst the Holy Land, and Tomb,  
Thou'dsthad'st suffered there thy brother Traitor's doom.  
Cursed be the womb, that with the Firebrand teemed,  
Which ever since has the whole Globe inflamed;  
More cursed that ill-aimed Shot, which basely missed,  
Which maimed a limb, but spared thy hated breast,  
And made th' at once a Cripple, and a Priest.   

But why this wish? The Church if so might lack  
Champions, good works, and Saints for th' Almanac.  
These are the Janissaries of the Cause,  
The Lifeguard of the Roman Sultan, chose  
To break the force of Huguenots, and Foes.  
The Churches Hawkers in Divinity.  
Who 'stead of Lace, and Ribbons, Doctrine cry:  
Rome's Strowlers, who survey each Continent,  
Its trinkets, and commodities to vent.  
Export the Gospel, like mere ware, for sale,  
And trucked for Indigo, and Cutch●…neal.  
As the known Factors here, the Brethron, once  
Swopt Christ about for Bodkins, Rings, and Spoons.   

And shall these great Apostles be contemned,  
And thus by scoffing Heretics defamed?  
They, by whose means both Indies now enjoy  
The two choice Blessings, Pox and Popery?  
Which buried else in ignorance had been,  
Nor known the worth of Beads, and Bellarmine?   

It pitied holy Mother Church to see  
A World so drowned in gross Idolatry:  
It grieved to see such goodly Nations hold  
Bad Errors and unpardonable Gold.  
Strange! what a zeal can powerful Coin infuse!  
What Charity Pieces of Eight produee!  
So you were chosen th' fittest to reclaim  
The Pagan World, and give't a Christian Name.  
And great was the success; whole Myriads stood  
At Font, and were baptised in their own blood.  
Millions of Souls were hurled from hence to burn  
Before their time, be damned before their turn.   

Yet these were in compassion sent to Hell,  
The rest reserved in spite, and worse to feel,  
Compelled instead of Fiends to worship you,  
The more inhuman Devils of the two.  
Rare way, and method of Conversion this,  
To make your Votaries your Sacrifice!  
If to destroy be Reformation thought;  
A Plague as well might the good work have wrought.   

Now see we why your Founder, weary grown  
Would lay his former Trade of Killing down;  
He found 'twas dull, he found a Crown would be  
A fitter case, and badge of cruelty.  
Each sniv'lling Hero Seas of Blood can spill,  
When wrongs provoke, and Honour bids him kill.  
Each tiny Bully Lives can freely bleed,  
When pressed by Wine, or Punk to knock o'th' head:  
Give me your through-paced Rogue, who scorns to be  
Prompted by poor Revenge, or Injury,  
But does it of true inbred cruelty:  
Your cool, and sober Murderer, who prays,  
And stabs at the same time, who one hand has  
Stretched up to Heaven, t'other to make the Pass.   

So the late Saints of blessed memory,  
Cut throats in Godly pure sincerity:  
So they with lifted hands, and eyes devout,  
Said Grace, and carved a slaughtered Monarch out.   

When the first Traitor Cain (too good to be  
Thought Patron of this black Fraternity)  
His bloody Tragedy of old designed,  
One death alone quenched his revengeful mind,  
Content with but a quarter of Mankind:  
Had he been Jesuit, had he but put on  
Their savage cruelty; the rest had gone:  
His hand had sent old Adam after too,  
And forced the Godhead to create anew.   

And yet 'twere well, were their foul guilt but thought  
Bare sin: 'tis something even to own a fault.  
But here the boldest flights of wickedness  
Are stamped Religion, and for currant pass.  
The blackest, ugliest, horrid'st, damnedest deed,  
For which Hell flames, the Schools a Title need,  
If done for Holy Church is sanctified.  
This consecrates the blessed Work, and Tool,  
Nor must we ever after think 'em foul.  
To undo Realms, kill Parents, murder Kings,  
Are thus but petty trifles, venial things,  
Not worth a Confessor; nay, Heaven shall be  
Itself invoked t'abet th' impiety.   

Grant, gracious Lord, (Some Reverend Villain prays)  
‛ That this the bold Assertor of our Cause  
‛ May with success accomplish that great end,  
‛ For which he was by thee, and us designed.  
‛ Do thou t'his Arm, and Sword thy strength impart,  
‛ And guide 'em steady to the Tyrant's heart.  
‛ Grant him for every meritorious thrust  
‛ Degrees of bliss above among the Just;  
‛ Where holy Garnet, and S. Guy are placed,  
‛ Whom works, like this, before have thither raised.  
‛ Where they are interceding for us now;  
‛ For sure they're there. Yes questionless, and so  
Good Nero is, and Dioclesian too,  
And that great ancient Saint Herostratus,  
And the late godly Martyr at Thoulouse.   

Dare something worthy Newgate, and the Tower.  
If you'll be canonised, and Heaven ensure.  
Dull primitive Fools of old! who would be good,  
Who would by virtue reach the blessed abode:  
Far other are the ways found out of late,  
Which Mortals to that happy place translate:  
Rebellion, Treason, Murder, Massacre,  
The chief Ingredients now of Saint-ship are,  
And Tyburn only stocks the Calendar.   

Unhappy Judas, whose ill fate, or chance  
Threw him upon gross times of ignorance;  
Who knew not how to value, or esteem  
The worth, and merit of a glorious crime!  
Should his kind Stars have let him acted now;  
he'd died absolved, and died a Martyr too.   

Hearest thou, Great God, such daring blasphemy,  
And lettest thy patient Thunder still lie by?  
Strike, and avenge, lest impious Atheists say,  
Chance guides the world, and has usurped thy sway;  
Lest these proud prosperous Villains too confess,  
Tou'rt senseless, as they make thy Images.  
Thou just, and sacred Power! wilt thou admit  
Such Guests should in thy glorious presence sit?  
If Heaven can with such company dispense;  
Well did the Indian pray, Might he keep thence!   

But this we only feign, all vain, and false,  
As their own Legends, Miracles, and Tales;  
Either the groundless calumnies of spite,  
Or idle rants of Poetry, and Wit.   

We wish they were: but you hear Garnet cry,  
‛ I did it, and would do't again; had I  
‛ As much of Blood, as many Lives as Rome  
‛ Has spilt in what the Fools call Martyrdom;  
‛ As many Souls as Sins; I'd freely stake  
‛ All them, and more for Mother Church's sake.  
For that I'll stride o'er Crowns, swim through a Flood,  
‛ Made up of slaughtered Monarch's Brains, and ' Blood.  
‛ For that no lives of Heretics I'll spare,  
‛ But reap 'em down with less remorse, and care  
‛ Than Tarquin did the Poppy-heads of old,  
‛ Or we drop Beads, by which our Prayers are told.   

Bravely resolved! and 'twas as bravely dared:  
But (lo!) the Recompense, and great Reward  
The wight is to the Almanac preferred.  
Rare motives to be damned for holy Cause,  
A few red Letters, and some painted straws!  
Fools! who thus truck with Hell by Mohatra,  
And play their Souls against no stakes away.   

'Tis strange with what an holy Impudence  
The Villain caught, his innocence maintains:  
Denies with Oaths the Fact, until it be  
Less guilt to own it than the perjury:  
By th' Mass, and blessed Sacraments he swears,  
This Mary's Milk, and t'other Mary's Tears,  
And the whole musterroll in Calendars.   

Not yet swallow the Falsehood? if all this  
Won't gain a resty Faith; he will on's knees  
Th' Evangelists, and Lady's Psalter kiss.  
To vouch the Lie: nay, more, to make it good  
Mortgage his Soul upon't, his Heaven, and God.  
Damned faithless Heretics! hard to convince,  
Who trust no Verdict but dull obvious Sense.  
Unconscionable Courts! who Priests deny  
Their Benefit o'th' Clergy, Perjury.   

Room for the Martyred Saints! behold they come!  
With what a noble Scorn they meet their Doom?  
Not Knights o'th' Post, nor often Carted Whores  
Show more of Impudence, or less Remorse.   

O glorious, and heroic Constancy!  
That can forswear upon the Cart, and die  
With gasping Souls expiring in a Lye.  
None but tame Sheepish Criminals repent,  
Who fear the idle Bugbear, Punishment:  
Your Gallant Sinner scorns that Cowardice,  
The poor regret of having done amiss:  
Brave he, to his first Principles still true,  
Can face Damnation, Sin with Hell in view:  
And bid it take the Soul, he does bequeath,  
And blow it thither with his dying breath.   

Dare such, as these, profess Religion's Name?  
Who, should they owned, and be believed, would shame  
Its Practice out o'th' World, would Atheists make  
Firm in their Creed, and vouch it at the Stake?  
Is Heaven for such, whose Deeds make Hell too good,  
Too mild a Penance for their cursed Brood?  
For whose unheard-of Crimes, and damned Sake  
Fate must below new sorts of Torture make,  
Since, when of old it framed that place of Doom,  
'twas thought no guilt, like this, could thither come   

Base recreant Souls! would you have Kings trust you,  
Who never yet kept your Allegiance true  
To any but Hell's Prince? who with more ease  
Can swallow down most solemn Perjuries,  
Than a Town Bully common Oaths, and Lies?  
Are the French Harry's Fates so soon forgot?  
Our last blessed Tudor? or the Powder-Plot?  
And those fine Streamers, that adorned so long  
The Bridge, and Westminster, and yet had hung,  
Were they not stolen, and now for Relics gone?   

Think Tories Loyal, or Scotch Covenanters:  
Robbed Tigers gentle; courteous, fasting Bears:  
Atheists devout, and thrice-wracked Mariners:  
Take Goats for chaste, and cloister'd Marmosites:  
For plain, and open two-edged Parasites:  
Believe Bawds modest, and the shameless Stews,  
And binding Drunkard Oaths, and Strumpet's Vows:  
And when in time these Contradiction meet;  
Then hope to find 'em in a Loyolite:  
To whom, though gasping, should I credit give;  
I'd think 'twere Sin, and damned like unbelief.   

Oh for the Swedish Law enacted here!  
No Scarecrow frightens like a Priest-Gelder,  
Hunt them, as Beavers are, force them to buy  
Their Lives with Ransom of their Lechery.  
Or let that wholesome Statute be revived,  
Which England heretofore from Wolves relieved:  
Tax every Shire instead of them to bring  
Each Year a certain tale of Jesuits in:  
And let their mangled Quarters hang the I'll  
To scare all future Vermin from the Soil.  
Monsters avaunt! may some kind whirlwind sweep  
Our Land, and drown these Locusts in the deep:  
Hence ye loathed Objects of our Scorn, and Hate  
With all the Curses of an injured State:  
Go, foul Impostors, to some duller Soil,  
Some easier Nation with your Cheats beguile:]  
Where your gross common Gulleries may pass,  
To slur, and top on bubbled Consciences:  
Where Ignorance, and th' Inquisition Rules,  
Where the vile Herd of poor Implicit Fools  
Are damned contentedly, where they are led  
Blindfold to Hell, and thank, and pay their Guide.   

Go, where all your black Tribe before are gone,  
Follow Chastel, Ravillac, Clement down,  
Your Catesby, Faux, and Garnet, thousands more,  
And those, who hence have lately raised the Score.  
Where the Grand Traitor now, and all the Crew  
Of his Disciples must receive their Due:  
Where Flames, and Tortures of Eternal Date  
Must punish you, yet ne'er can expiate:  
Learn duller Fiends your unknown Cruelties,  
Such as no Wit, but yours, could e'er devise,   

No Gild, but yours, deserve; make Hell confess  
Itself outdone, its Devils damned for less.    

satire III. Loyala's Will.  

LOng had the famed Impostor found Success,  
Long seen his damned Fraternit●…s increase,  
In Wealth, and Power, Mischief, and Guile improved.  
By Pope●…▪ and Pope-rid Kings upheld, and loved:  
Laden with Years, and Sins, and numerous Scars,  
Got some i'th' Field, but most in other Wars,  
Now finding Life decay, and Fate draw near,  
Grown ripe for Hell, and Roman Calendar,  
He thinks it worth his Holy Thoughts, and Care,  
Some hidden Rules, and Secrets to Impart,  
The Proofs of long●… Experience●… and deep Art,  
Which to his Successors may useful be  
In conduct of their future Villainy.  
Summoned together, all th' Officious Band  
The Orders of their Bedrid-Chief attend;  
Doubtful, what Legacy he will bequeath,  
And wait with greedy Ears his dying Breath:  
With such quick Duty Vassal Fiends below  
To meet commands of their Dread Monarch go.   

On Pillow raised, he does their entrance greet,  
And joys to see the wished Assembly meet:  
They in glad Murmurs tell their Joy aloud,  
Then a deep silence stills th' expecting Crowd,  
Like Delphic Hag of old, by Fiend possessed,  
He swells, wild Frenzy, heaves his panting Breast,  
His bristling Hairs stick up, his Eyeballs glow,  
And from his Mouth long strakes of Drivel flow:  
Thrice with due reverence he himself doth cross,  
Then thus his Hellish Oracles disclose.   

Ye firm Associates of my great Design,  
Whom the same Vows, and Oaths, and Order join,  
The faithful Band, whom I, and Rome have chofe,  
The last Support of our declining Caufe:  
Whose Conquering Troops I with Success have led  
'Gainst all Opposers of our Church, and Head;  
Who e'er to the mad Germane owe their Rise,  
Geneva's Rebels, or the hot-brained Swiss;  
Revolted Heretics, who late have broke  
And durst throw off the long-worn Sacred Yoke:  
You, by whose happy Influence Rome can boast  
A greater Empire, than by Luther lost:  
By whom wide Nature's far-stretched Limits now,  
And utmost Indies to its Crosier Bow:   

Go on, ye mighty Champions of our Cause,  
Maintain our Party, and subdue our Foes:  
Kill Heresy, that rank, and poisonous Weed,  
Which threatens now the Church to overspread:  
Fire Calvin, and his Nest of Upstarts out,  
Who tread our Sacred Mitre under Foot;  
Strayed Germany reduce; let it no more  
Th' Incestuous Monk of Wittenberg adore:  
Make stubborn Engl. once more stoop its Crown,  
And Fealty to our Priestly Sovereign own:  
Regain our Church's Rights, the Island clear  
From all remaining Dregs of Wickliff there.  
Plot, Enterprise, contrive, endeavour: spare  
No toil, nor Pains: no Death, nor Danger fear:  
Restless your Aims pursue: let no defeat  
Your sprightly Courage, and Attempts rebate,  
But urge to fresh, and bolder, ne'er to end  
Till the whole World to our great Caliph bend:  
Till he through every Nation every where  
Bear Sway, and Reign as absolute, as here:  
Till Rome without control, and Contest be  
The Universal Ghostly Monarchy.   

Oh! that kind Heaven a longer Thread would give,  
And let me to that happy Juncture live:  
But 'tis decreed!— at this he paused, and wept,  
The rest alike time with his Sorrow kept:  
Then thus continued he— Since unjust Fate  
Envies my Race of Glory longer date,  
Yet, as a wounded General, ere he dies,  
To his sad Troops, sighs out his last Advice,  
(Who, though they must his fatal Absence moan,  
By those great Lessons conquer, when he's gone)  
So I to you my last Instructions give,  
And breath out Counsel with my parting Life:  
Let each to my important words give Ear,  
Worth your attention, and my dying Care.   

First, and the chiefest thing by me enjoined.  
The Solemn'st tie, that must your Order bind,  
Let each without demur, or scruple pay  
A strict Obedience to the Roman Sway:  
To the unerring Chair all Homage Swear,  
Although a Punk, a Witch, a Fiend sit there:  
Who e'er is to the Sacred Mitre reared,  
Believe all Virtues with the place conferred:  
Think him established there by Heaven, though he  
Has Altars robbed for bribes the choice to buy,  
Or pawned his Soul to Hell for Simony:  
Tho he be Atheist, Heathen, Turk, or Jew,  
Blasphemer, Sacrilegious, Perjured too:  
Tho Pander, Bawd, Pimp, Pathic, Buggerer,  
What e'er old Sodom's Nest of Lechers were:  
Tho Tyrant, Traitor, Pois'oner, Parricide,  
Magician, Monster, all, that's bad beside:  
Fouler than Infamy; the very Lees,  
The Sink, the Jakes, the Common-shore of Vice:  
Straight count him Holy, Virtuous, Good, Devout,  
chaste, Gentle, Meek, a Saint, a God, who not?   

Make Fate hang on his Lips, nor Heaven have  
Power to Predestinate without his leave:  
None be admitted there, but who he please,  
Who buys from him the Patent for the Place.  
Hold those amongst the highest rank of Saints,  
Whom e'er he to that Honour shall advance,  
Tho here the Refuse of the Jail, and Stews,  
Which Hell itself would scarce for lumber choose:  
But count all Reprobate, and Damned, and worse,  
Whom he, when Gout, or Phthisic Rage, shall curse:  
Whom he in Anger Excommunicates,  
For Friday Meals, and abrogating Sprats:  
Or in just Indignation spurns to Hell  
For jeering Holy Toe, and Pantofle.   

What e'er he says, esteem for Holy Writ,  
And text Apocryphal, if he think fit:  
Let arrant Legends, worst of Tales, and Lies,  
Falser than Capgraves, and Voragines,  
Than Quixot, Rabelais, Amadis de Gaul;  
Is signed with Sacred Lead, and Fisher's Seal  
Be thought Authentic and Canonical.  
Again, if he Ordained in his Decrees,  
Let very Gospel for mere Fable pass:  
Let Right be wrong, Black White, and Virtue Vice,  
No Sun, no Moon, nor no Antipodes:  
Forswear your Reason, Conscience, & your Creed,  
Your very Sense, and Euclid, if he bid.   

Let it be held less heinous, less amiss,  
To break all God's Commands, than one of his:  
When his great Mifsions call, without delay,  
Without Reluctance readily Obey,  
Nor let your Inmost Wishes dare gainsay:  
Should he to Bantam, or Japan command,  
Or farthest Bounds of Southern unknown Land,  
Farther than Avarice its Vassals drives,  
Through Rocks, and Dangers, loss of Blood, and Lives;  
Like great Xavier's be your Obedience shown,  
Outstrip his Courage, Glory, and Renown;  
Whom neither yawning Gulfs of deep Despair,  
Nor scorching Heats of burning Line could scare:  
Whom Seas, nor Storms, nor Wracks could make refrain  
From propagating Holy Faith, and Gain.   

If he but nod Commissions out to kill,  
But beckon Lives of Heretics to spill;  
Let th' Inquisition rage, fresh Cruelties  
Make the dire Engines groan with tortured Cries:  
Let Campo Flori every day be strowed  
With the warm Ashes of the Luth'ran Brood:  
Repeat again Bohemian Slaughters o'er,  
And Piedmont Valleys drown with floating Gore:  
Swifter than Murdering Angels, when they fly  
On Errands of avenging Destiny.  
Fiercer than Storms let loose, with eager haste  
Lay Cities, Countries, Realms, whole Nature waste.  
Sack, ●…avish, burn, destroy, slay, massacre,  
Till the same Grave their Lives, and Names inter:   

These are the Rights to our great Mufty due,  
The sworn Allegiance of your Sacred Vow:  
What else we in our Votaries require,  
What other Gift, next follows to inquire.   

And first it will our great Advice befit.  
What Soldiers to your Lists you ought admit,  
To Natives of the Church, and Faith, like you,  
The foremost rank of Choice is justly due:  
Amongst whom the chiefest place assign to those,  
Whose Zeal has mostly Signalised the Cause.  
But let not Entrance be to them denied,  
Who ever shall desert the adverse Side:  
Omit no Promises of Wealth, or Power,  
That may inveigled Heretics allure:  
Those, whom great learning, parts, or wit renowns,  
Cajole with hopes of Honours, Scarlet Gowns,  
Provincial ships, and Palls, and Triple Crowns.  
This must a Rector, that a Provost be,  
A third succeed to the next Abbacy:  
Some Prince's Tutors, others Confessors  
To Dukes, and Kings, and Queens, and Emperors:  
These are strong Arguments, which seldom fail,  
Which more than all yo●…r weak disputes prevail.   

Exclude not those of less desert, decree  
To all Revolters your Foundation free:  
To all, whom Gaming, Drunkenness, or Lust,  
To Need, and Popery shall have reduced:  
To all, whom slighted Love, Ambition crossed,  
Hopes often bilked, and Sought Preferment lost,  
Whom Pride, or Discontent, Revenge, or Spite,  
Fear, Frenzy, or Despair shall Proselyte:  
Those Powerful Motives, which the most bring in,  
Most Converts to our Church, and Order win.  
Reject not those, whom Gild, and Crimes at home  
Have made to us for Sanctuary come:  
Let Sinners of each Hue, and Size, and Kind,  
Here quick admittance, and safe Refuge find:  
Be they from Justice of their Country fled,  
With Blood of Murders, Rapes, and Treasons died:  
No Varlet, Rogue, or Miscreant refuse,  
From Galleys, Jails, or Hell itself broke lose.  
By this you shall in Strength, and Numbers grow  
And shoals each day to your thronged Cloisters flow:  
So Rome's and Mecca's first great Founders did,  
By such wise Methods made their Churches spread.   

When shaved Crown, and hallowed Girdle's Power  
Has dubbed him Saint, that Villain was before;  
Entered, let it his first Endeavour be  
To shake off all remains of Modesty,  
Dull sneaking Modesty, not more unfit  
For needy flattering Poets, when they write,  
Or trading Punks, than for a Jesuit:  
If any Novice feel at first a blush;  
Let Wine, and frequent converse with the Stews  
Reform the Fop, and shame it out of Use;  
Unteach the puling Folly by degrees,  
And train him to a well-bred Shamelesness.  
Get that great Gift, and Talon, Impudence  
Accomplished Mankind's highest Excellence:  
'Tis that alone prefers, alone makes great,  
Confers alone Wealth, Titles, and Estate:  
Gains Place at Court, can make a Fool a Peer,  
An Ass a Bishop, can vil'st Blockheads rear  
To wear Red Hats, and sit in porphyry Chair.  
'Tis Learning, Parts, and Skill, and Wit, and Sense,  
Worth, Merit, Honour, Virtue, Innocence.   

Next for Religion, learn what's fit to take,  
How small a Dram does the just Compond make.  
As much as is by the Crafty Statesmen worn  
For Fashion only, or to serve a turn:  
To bigot Fools its idle Practice leave,  
Think it enough the empty Form to have:  
The outward Show is seemly, cheap, and light,  
The Substance Cumbersome, of Cost, and Weight:  
The Rabble judge by what appears to th' Eye,  
None, or but few, the Thoughts within Descry.  
Make't you a Engine to ambition's Power  
To stalk behind, and hit your Mark more sure:  
A Cloak to cover well-hid Knavery,  
Like it, when used, to be with ease thrown by:  
A shifting Card, by which your Course to steer,  
And taught with every changing Wind to veer.  
Let no Nice, Holy, Conscientious Ass  
Amongst your better Company find place,  
Me, and your. Foundation to disgrace:  
Let Truth be banished, ragged Virtue fly,  
And poor unprofitable Honesty;  
Weak Idols, who their wretched Slaves betray;  
To every Rook, and every Knave a Prey:  
These lie remote, and wide from Interest,  
Farther than Heaven from Hell, or East from West,  
Farneze, as they e'er were distant from the breast.   

Think not yourselves t' Austerities confined,  
Or those strict Rules, which other Orders bind,  
To Capuchins, Carthusians, Cord●…liers  
Leave Penance, meager abstinence, and Prayers:  
In lousy Rags let Begging Friars lie,  
Content on Straw, or Board's to mortify:  
Let them with Sackcloth discipline their Skins,  
And scourge them for their madness, and their Sins:  
Let pining Anchorets in Grottoes starve,  
Who from the Liberties of Nature swerve:  
Who make't their chief Religion not to eat,  
And placed in nastiness, and want of Meat:  
Live you in Luxury, and pampered Ease,  
As if whole Nature were your Cateress.  
Soft be your Beds, as those, which Monarch's Whores  
Lie on, or Gouts of Bedrid Emperors:  
Your Wardrobes stored with choice of Suits, more dear  
Than Cardinals on high Processions wear:  
With Dainties load your Board's, whose every Dish  
May tempt cloyed Gluttons, or Vitellius Wish.  
Each fit a longing Queen: let richest Wines  
With Mirth your Heads inflame, with Lust your Veins:  
Such as the Friends of dying Popes would give  
For Cordials to prolong their gasping Life.   

ne'er let the Nazarene, whose Badge, and Name  
You wear, upbraid you with a Conscious Shame:  
Leave him his slighted Homilies, and Rules,  
To stuff the Squabbles of the wrangling Schools;  
Disdain, that he, and the poor angling Tribe,  
Should Laws, and Government to you prescribe:  
Let none of those good Fools your Patterns make;  
Instead of them, the mighty Judas take.  
Renowned Iscaniot, fit alone to be  
Th' Example of our great Society:  
Whose daring Gild despised the common Road,  
And scorned to stoop at Sin beneath a God.   

And now 'tis time I should Instructions give,  
What Wiles, and Cheats the Rabble best deceive:  
Each Age, and Sex, their different Passions wear,  
To suit with which requires a prudent Care:  
Youth is Capricious, Headstrong, Fickle, Vain,  
Given to Lawless Pleasure, Age to gain:  
Old Wives, in Superstition overgrown,  
With Chimney Tales, and Stories best are won:  
'Tis no mean Talon rightly to descry,  
What several Baits to each you ought apply.  
The Credulous, and easy of Belief,  
With Miracles, and well framed Lies deceive,  
Empty whole Surius, and the Talmud: drain  
Saint Francis, and Saint Mahomet's Alcoran:  
Sooner shall Popes, and Cardinals want Pride,  
Than you a Stock of Lies, and Legends need.   

Tell how blessed Virgin to come down was seen.  
Like Playhouse Punk descending in Machine:  
How she writ B●…llets Doux, and Love-Discourse,  
Made Assignations, Visits, and Amours:  
How Hosts distressed, her Smock for Banner bore,  
Which vanquished Foes, and murdered at twelve Score.  
Relate how Fish in Conventicles met,  
And Mackrel were with Bait of Doctrine caught:  
How cattle have Judicious Hearers been,  
And Stones pathetically cried Amen:  
How cons●…crated Hive●… with Bells was hung,  
And Bees kept Mass, and Holy Anthems Sung:  
How Pigs to th' Ros'ry kneeled, and sheep were taught  
To bleat Te Deum, and Magnificat:  
How Fly-Flap of Church-Censure Houses rid  
Of Infects, which at Curse of Friar died:  
How travelling Saints, well mounted on a Switches,  
Ride Journeys through the Air, like Lapland Witch:  
And ferrying Cowls Religious Pilgrims bore  
O'er waves with the help of Sail, or Oar.  
Nor let Xaviers great Wonders pass concealed,  
How Storms were by th' Almighty Wafer quelled;  
How zealous Crab the sacred Image bore,  
And swum a Catholic to the distant Shore  
With sham's, like these, the giddy Rout misled,  
Their Folly, and their Superstition feed.   

'Twas found a good, and gainful Art of Old  
(And much it did our Church's Power uphold)  
To feign Hobgoblins, Elves, and walking Spirits,  
And Fairies dancing Salenger a Nights:  
White Sheets for Ghosts, and Will-a-wisps have passed  
For Souls in Purgatory unreleast.  
And Crabs in Churchyard crawled in Masquerade,  
To cheat the Parish, and have Masses said.  
By this our Ancestors in happier Days,  
Did store of Credit and Advantage raise:  
But now the Trade is fallen, decayed, and dead,  
ere since Contagious Knowledge has o'erspread:  
With Scorn the grinning Rabble now hear tell  
Of Hecla, Patrick's hole, and Mongibel;  
Believed no more, than Tales of Troy, unless  
In Countries drowned in Ignorance like this.  
Henceforth be wary how such things you feign,  
Except it be beyond the Cape, or Line;  
Except at Mexico, Brazile,  
At the Molucco's, Goa, or Pegu,  
Or any distant, and Remoter Place,  
Where they may currant, and unquestioned pass:  
Where never poaching Heretics resort,  
To spring the Lie, and make't their Game, and Sport.   

But I forget (what should be mentioned most)  
Confession, our chief Privilege and Boast:  
That Staple ware, which ne'er returns in vain,  
ne'er balks the Trader of expected Gain.  
'Tis this, that spies through Court-intrigues, and brings  
Admission to the Cabinets of Kings:  
By this we keep proud Monarches at our Becks,  
And make our Foot-stools of their Thrones & Necks:  
Give'em Commands, and if they Disobey;  
Betray them to th' Ambitious Heir a Prey:  
Hound the Officious Curs on Heretics,  
The Vermin, which the Church infest, and vex:  
And when our turn is served, and Business done,  
Dispatch 'em for reward, as useless grown:   

Nor are these half the Benefits, and Gains,  
Which by wise Manag'ry accrue from thence:  
By this w'unlock the Miser's hoarded Chests,  
And Treasure, though kept close, as statesmen's Breasts:  
This does rich Widows to our Nets decoy,  
Let us their Jointures, and themselves enjoy:  
To us the Merchant does his Customs bring,  
And pays our Duty, though he cheats his King:  
To us Court-Ministers refund, made great  
By Robbery, and Bankrupt of the State:  
Ours is the Soldier's Plunder, Padder's Prize,  
Gabels on Letch'ry, and the Stew's Excise:  
By this our Colleges in Riches shine,  
And vy with Becket's, and Loretto's Shrine.   

And here I must not grudge a word or two  
(My younger Votaries) of Advice to you:  
To you, whom beauty's Charms, and generous Fire  
Of boiling Youth to sports of Love inspire:  
This is your Harvest, here secure, and cheap  
You may the Fruits of unbought Pleasure reap:  
Riot in free, and uncontrolled delight,  
Where no dull Marriage clogs the Appetite:  
Taste every dish of Lust's variety,  
Which Popes, and Scarlet Lechers dearly buy,  
With Bribes, and Bishoprics, and Simony.  
But this I ever to your care commend,  
Be wary how you openly offend:  
Lest scoffing lewd Buffoons descry our Shame,  
And fix disgrace on the great Orders fame.   

When the unguarded Maid alone repairs.  
To ease the burden of her Sins, and Cares;  
When youth in each, and privacy conspire  
To kindle wishes, and befriend desire;  
If she has practised in the Trade  
(Few else of Proselytes to us brought o'er)  
Little of Force, or Artifice will need:  
To make you in the Victory succeed:  
But if some untaught Innocence she be,  
Rude, and unknowing in the mystery;  
She'll cost more labour to be made comply.  
Make her by Pumping understand the sport,  
And undermine with secret trains the Fort,  
Sometimes as if you'd blame her gaudy dress,  
Her Naked Pride, her Jewels, Point, and Lace;  
Find opportunity her Breasts to press:  
Oft feel her hand, and whisper in her ear,  
You find the secret marks of lewdness there:  
Sometimes with naughty sense her blushes raise,  
And make 'em guilt, she never knew, confess;  
‛ Thus (may you say) with such a leering smile,  
‛ So Languishing a look you hearts beguile:  
‛ Thus with your foot, hand, eye, you tokens speak,  
‛ These Signs deny, these Assignations make:  
‛ Thus 'tis you clip, with such a fierce embrace  
‛ You clasp your Lover to your Breast, and Face:  
‛ Thus are your hungry lips with Kisses cloyed,  
‛ Thus is your hand, & thus your tongue employed.   

Ply her with talk with this: and, if she incline,  
To help Devotion, give her Aretine  
Instead o'th' Rosary: never despair,  
She, that to such discourse will lend an Ear▪  
Tho chaster than cold cloistered Nuns she were,  
Will soon prove soft, and pliant to your use,  
As Strumpets on the Carnaval let loose.  
Credit experience; I have tried 'em all,  
And never found th' unerring methods fail:  
Not Ovid, though 'twere his chief Mastery,  
Had greater skill in these Intrigues, than I:  
Nor Nero's learned Pimp, to whom we owe  
What choice Records of Lust are extant now.  
This heretofore, when youth, and sprightly Blood  
Ran in my Veins, I tasted, and enjoyed:  
Ah those blessed days,!— (here the old Lecher smiled,  
With sweet remembrance of past pleasures filled)  
But they are gone! Wishes alone remain,  
And Dreams of Joy, ne'er to be felt again:  
To abler Youth I now the Practice leave,  
To whom this counsel, and advice I give.   

But the dear mention of my gayer days  
Has made me farther, than I would, digress:  
'Tis time we should now in due Place expound,  
How guilt is after shrift to be atoned:  
Enjoin no sour Repentance, Tear, and Grief;  
Eyes weep no cash, and you no profit give:  
Sins, though of the first rate, must punished be,  
Not by their own, but th' Actor's Quality:  
The Poor, whose Purse cannot the Penance bear;  
Let whipping serve, bare feet, and shirts of hair:  
The richer Fools to Compostella send,  
Tome Rome, Monferrat, or the Holy Land:  
Pet Pardons, and the Indulgence-Office drain  
Their Coffers, and enrich the Pope's with gain:  
Make 'em build Churches, Monasteries found  
And dear bought Masses for their crimes compound   

Let Law, and Gospel, rigid precepts set,  
And make the paths to Bliss rugged, and straight:  
Teach you a smooth, an easier way to gain  
heavens joys, yet sweet, and useful sin retain:  
With every frailty, every lust comply,  
T'advance your Spiritual Realm, and Monarchy:  
Pull up weak virtue's fence, give scope and space  
And Purliens to out-lying Consciences:  
Show that the Needle's eye may stretch, and how  
The largest Camel-vices may go through.   

Teach how the Priest Pluralities may buy,  
Yet fear no odious Sin of Simony.  
While Thoughts, and Ducats will directed be:  
Let Whores adorn his exemplary life,  
But no lewd heinous Wife a Scandal give.  
Sooth up the Gaudy Atheist, who maintains  
No Law, but Sense, and owns no God, but Chance.  
Bid Thiefs rob on, the Boisterous Ruffian tell,  
He may for Hire, Revenge, or Honour kill:  
Bid Strumpets persevere, absolve 'em too,  
And take their deuce in kind for what you do:  
Exhort the painful, and industrious Bawd  
To Diligence, and Labour in her Trade:  
Nor think her innocent Vocation ill,  
Whose incomes does the sacred Treasure fill:  
Let Griping Usurers Extortion use,  
No Rapine, Falsehood, Perjury refuse,  
Stick at no Crime, which covetous Popes would scarce  
Act to enrich themselves, and Bastard-Heirs:  
A small Bequest to th' Church can all atttone,  
Wipes off all scores, and Heaven, and all's their own.  
Be these your Doctrines, these the truths, you preach,  
But no forbidden Bible come in reach:  
Your Cheats, and Artifices to Impeach.  
Lest thence Lay-Fools Pernicious knowledge get,  
Throw off Obedience, and your Laws forget:  
Make 'em believe't a spell, more dreadful far,  
Than Bacon, Haly, or Albumazar.  
Happy the time, when th' unpretending Crowd  
No more, than I, its Language understood!  
When the wormeaten Book, linked to a chain,  
In dust lay mouldering in the Vatican;  
Despised, neglected, and forgot, to none,  
But poring Rabbis, or the Sorbon known:  
Then in full power our Sovereign Prelate swayed,  
By Kings, and all the Rabble World Obeyed:  
Here humble Monarch at his feet kneeled down,  
And begged the Alms, and Charity of a Crown:  
There, when in Solemn State he pleased to ride,  
Poor Sceptered Slaves ran Henchboys by his side:  
None, though in thought, his grandeur durst Blaspheme;  
Nor in their very sleep a Treason dream.   

But since the broaching that mischievous Piece,  
Each Alderman a Father Lombard is:  
And every Cit dares impudently know  
More than a Council, Pope, and Conclave too.  
Hence the late Damned Friar, and all the crew  
Of former Crawling Sects their poison drew:  
Hence all the Troubles, Plagues, Rebellions breed;  
We've felt, or feel, or may hereafter dread:  
Wherefore enjoin, that no Lay-coxcomb dare  
About him that unlawful Weapon wear;  
But charge him chiefly not to touch at all  
The dangerous Works of that old Lollard, Paul;  
That arrant Wickliffist, from whom our Foes  
Take all their Batteries to attack our Cause;  
Would he in his first years had Martyred been,  
Never Damascus, nor the Vision seen;  
Then he our Party was, stout, vigorous,  
And fierce in chase of Heretieks, like us:  
Till he at length, by th' Enemies seduced,  
Forsook us, and the hostile side espoused.   

Had not the mighty Julian missed his aims,  
These holy Shreds had all consumed in flames:  
But since th' Immortal Lumber still endures,  
In spite of all his industry, and ours;  
Take care at least it may not come abroad,  
To taint with catching Heresy the Crowd:  
Let them be still kept low in sense, they'll pay  
The more respect, more readily obey.  
Pray that kind Heaven would on their hearts dispense  
A bounteous, and abundant Ignorance,  
That they may never swerve, nor turn awry  
From sound, and Orthodox Stupidity.   

But these are obvious things, easy to know,  
Common to every Monk, a●… well as you:  
Greater Affairs, and more important wait  
To be discussed, and call for our debate:  
Matters, that depth require, and well befit  
Th' Address, and Conduct of a Jesuit.  
How Kingdoms are embroiled, what shakes a Throne,  
How the first seeds of Discontent are sown  
To spring up in Rebellion; how are set  
The secret snares, that circumvent a State:  
How bubbled Monarches are at first beguiled,  
Trepanned, and gulled, at last deposed, and killed.   

When some proud Prince, a Rebel to our Head,  
For disbelieving Holy Church's Creed,  
And Peter-pences, is Heretic decreed;  
And by a solemn, and unquestioned Power  
To Death, and Hell, and You delivred o'er:  
Choose first some dexterous Rogue, well tried, and known  
(Such by Confession your Familiars grown)  
Let him by Art, and Nature fitted be  
For any great, and gallant Villainy,  
Practised in every Sin, each kind of Vice,  
Which deepest Casuists in their searches miss,  
Watchful as Jealousy, wary as Fear,  
Fiercer than Lust, and bolder than Despair,  
But close, as plotting Fiends in Council are.  
To him, in firmest Oaths of Silence bound,  
The worth, and merit of the Deed propound:  
Tell of whole Reams of Pardon, new come o'er,  
Indies of Gold, and Blessings, endless store:  
Choice of Preferments, if he overcome,  
And if he fail, undoubted Maryrdom:  
And Bills for Sums in Heaven, to be drawn  
On Factors there, and at first sight paid down  
With Arts, and Promises, like these; allure,  
And make him to your great design secure.   

And here to know the sundry ways to kill,  
Is worth the Genius of a Machiavelli:  
Cull Northern Brains, in these deep Arts unbred,  
Know nought but to cut Throats, or knock o'th' Head,  
No slight of Murder of the subtlest shape,  
Your busy search, and observation scape:  
Legerdemain of Killing, that dives in,  
And Juggling steals away a Life unseen:  
How gaudy Fate may be in Presents sent,  
And creep insensibly by Touch, or Scent:  
How Ribbons, Gloves, or Saddle-Pomel may  
An unperceived, but certain Death convey;  
Above the reach of Antidotes, above the Power  
Of the famed Pontic Mountebank to cure.  
What e'er is known to acquaint Italian spite,  
In studied Poisoning skilled, and exquisite:  
What e'er great Borgia, or his Sire could boast,  
Which the Expense of half the Conclave cost.   

Thus may the business be in secret done,  
Nor Authors, nor the Accessaries known,  
And the slurred guilt with ease on others thrown.  
But if ill Fortune should your Plot betray,  
And leave you to the rage of Foes a prey;  
Let none his Crime by weak confession own,  
Nor shame the Church, while he'd himself atone  
Let varnished Guile, and feigned Hypocrisies,  
Pretended Holiness, and useful Lies,  
Your well-dissembled Villainy disguise.  
A thousand wily Turns, and Doubles try,  
To foil the Scent, and to divert the Cry:  
Cog, shame, out face, deny, equivocate,  
Into a thousand shapes yourselves translate:  
Remember what the crafty Spartan taught,  
Children with Rattles, Men with Oaths are caught:  
Forswear upon the Rack, and if you fall,  
Let this great comfort make amends for all,  
Those, whom they damn for Rogues, next Age shall see  
Made Advocates i'th' Church's Litany.  
Who ever with bold Tongue, or Pen shall dare  
Against your Arts, and Practices declare;  
What Fool shall e'er presumptuously oppose,  
Your Holy Cheats, and godly Frauds disclose;  
Pronounce him Heretic, Firebrand of Hell,  
Turk, Jew, Fiend, Miscreant, Pagan, Infidel;  
A thousand blacker Names, worse Calumnies,  
All, Wit can think, and pregnant Spite devise:  
Strike home, gash deep, no Lies, nor Slanders spare;  
A Wound, though cured, yet leaves behind a Scar.   

Those, whom your Wit, and Reason can't decry,  
Make scandalous with Loads of Infamy:  
Make Luther Monster, by a Fiend begot,  
Brought forth with Wings, and Tail, and Cloven Foot:  
Make Whoredom, Incest, worst of vice, and shame,  
Pollute, and foul his Manners, Life, and Name.  
Tell how strange Storms ushered his fatal end,  
And Hell's black Troops did for his Soul contend.   

Much more I had to say; but now grown faint,  
And strength, and Spirits for the Subject want:  
Be these great Mysteries, I here unfold,  
Amongst your Order Institutes enroled:  
Preserve them sacred, close and unrevealed;  
As ancient Rome her Sybil's Books concealed.  
Let no bold Heretic with saucy eye  
Into the hidden unseen Archives pry;  
Lest the malicious flouting Rascals turn  
Our Church to Laughter, Raillery, and Scorn.  
Let never Rack, or Torture, Pain, or Fear,  
From your firm Breasts th' important Secrets tear.  
If any treacherous Brother of your own  
Shall to th'World divulg●…, & make them known,  
Let him by worst of Deaths his Gild atone.  
Should but his Thoughts or Dreams suspected be,  
Let him for safety, and prevention die,  
And learn i'th' Grave the Art of Secrecy.   

But one thing more, and then with joy I go,  
Nor as a longer stay of Fate below:  
Give me again once more your plighted Faith,  
And let each seal it with his dying breath:  
As the great Carthaginian heretofore  
The bloody reeking Altar touched, and swore  
Eternal Enmity to th' Roman Power:  
Swear you (and let the Fates confirm the same)  
An endless Hatred to the Luth'ran Name:  
Vow never to admit, or League, or Peace,  
Or Truce, or Commerse with the cursed Race:  
Now, through all Age, when Time, or Place so e'er  
Shall give you power, wage an immortal War:  
Like Theban Feuds, let yours yourselves survive,  
And in your very Dust, and Ashes live.  
Like mine, be your last Gasp their Curse.— At this  
They kneel, and all the Sacred Volumn kiss;  
Vowing to send each year an Hecatomb  
Of Huguenots, an Offering to ●…is Tomb.   

In vain he would continue;-—- Abrupt Death  
A Period puts, and stops his impious Breath:  
In broken Accents he is scarce allowed  
To falter out his Blessing on the Crowd,   

Amen is echoed by Infernal Howl,  
And scrambling Spirits seize his parting Soul.    

satire IU. S. Ignatius his Image brought in, discovering the Rogueries of the Jesuits, and ridiculous Superstition of the Church of Rome.  

ONce I was common Wood, a shapeless Log,  
Thrown out a Pissing-post for every Dog:  
The Workman yet in doubt, what course to take;  
Whether I'd best a Saint, ●…r Hog-trough make,  
After debate resolved me for a Saint,  
And thus famed Loyola I represent:  
And well I may resemble him, for he  
As stupid was, as much a Block as I.  
My right Leg maimed, at halt I seem to stand;  
To tell the Wounds at Pampelune sustained.  
My Sword, and Soldiers Armour here had been,  
But they may in Monserrats' Church be seen:  
Those there to blessed Virgin I laid down  
For Cassock, Surfingle, and shaved Crown,  
The spiritual Garb, in which I now am shown.   

With due Accoutrements, and fit disguise  
I might for Centinel of Corn suffice:  
As once the well-hung God of old stood guard,  
And the invading Crows from Forage scared.  
Now on my head the Birds their Relics leave,  
And Spiders in my mouth their Arras wove:  
And persecuted Rats oft find in me  
A Refuge, and religious Sanctuary.  
But you profaner Heret●…cks, who e'er  
The Inquisition, and its vengeance fear,  
I charge, stand off, at peril come not near:  
None at twelve score untruss, break wind, or piss;  
He enters Fox his Lists, that dare transgress:  
For I'm by Holy Church in reverence had,  
And all good Catholic Folk implore my aid.   

These Pictures, which you see, my Story give,  
The Acts, and Monuments of me alive:  
That Frame, wherein with Pilgrim's weeds I stand,  
Contains my Travels to the Holy Land.  
This me, and my Decemvirate at Rome,  
When I for Grant of my great Order come.  
There with Devotion rapt, I hang in Air,  
With Dove (like Mah'met's) whispering in my ear.  
Here Virgin in Galesh of Clouds descends,  
To be my safeguard from assaulting Fiends.   

Those Tables by, and Crutches of the lame,  
My great Achievements since my death proclaim:  
Pox, Ague, Dropsy, Palsy, Stone, and Gout,  
Legions, of Maladies by me cast out,  
More than the College know, or ever fill  
Quacks Wiping-paper, and the Weekly Bill.  
What Peter's shadow did of old, the same  
Is fancied done by my all-powerful Name;  
For which some wear't about their Necks, and Arms,  
To guard from Dangers, Sicknesses, and Harms;  
And some on Wombs the barren to relieve,  
A Miracle, I better did alive.   

Oft I by crafty Jesuit am taught  
Wonders to do, and many a Juggling Feat.  
Sometimes with Chafing-dish behind me put,  
I sweat like Clapped Debauch in Hothouse shut,  
And drip like any Spitchcocked Huguenot:  
Sometimes by secret Springs I learn to stir,  
As Paste-board Saints dance by miraculous Wire:  
Then I Tradescant's Rarities outdo,  
Sands Waterworks, and Germane Clockwork too,  
Or any choice Device at Barthol'mew.  
Sometimes I utter Oracles, by Priest  
Instead of a Familiar possessed.  
The Church I vindicate, Luther confute,  
And cause amazement in the gaping Rout.   

Such holy Cheats, such Hocus Tricks, as these,  
For Miracles amongst the Rabble pass.  
By this in their esteem I daily grow,  
In Wealth enriched, increased in Votaries too.  
This draws each year vast Numbers to my Tomb,  
More than in Pigrimage to Mecca come.  
This brings each week new Presents to my Shrine,  
And makes it those of India Gods outshine.  
This gives a Chalice, that a Golden Cross,  
Another massy Candlesticks bestows,  
Some Alter-cloaths of costly work, and price  
Plush, Tissue, Ermine, Silks of noblest Dies,  
The Birth, and Passion in Embroideries:  
Some Jewels, rich as those, th' Egyptian Punk  
In Jellies to her Roman Stallion drunk,  
Some offer gorgeous Robes, which serve to wear  
When I on Holy days in state appear;  
When I'm in pomp on high Processions shown,  
Like Pageants of Lord mayor, or Skimmington.  
Lucullus could not such a Wardrobe boast,  
Less those of Popes at their Election cost;  
Less those, which Sicily's Tyrant heretofore  
From Plundered Gods, and Jove's own Shoulders tore.   

Hither, as to some Fair, the Rabble come,  
To barter for the Merchandise of Rome;  
Where Priests, like Mountebanks, on Stage appear,  
T'expose the Frip'ry of their hallowed Ware:  
This is the Lab'ratory of their Trade,  
The Shop, where all their staple Drugs are made;  
Prescriptions, and Receipts to bring in Gain,  
All from the Church Dispensatories ta'en,   

The Pope's Elixir, Holy Waters here,  
Which they with Chemic Art distilled prepare:  
Choice above Goddard's Drops, and all the Trash  
Of Modern Quacks; this is that Sovereign Wash  
For fetching Spots, and Morphew from the Face,  
And scouring dirty clothes, and Consciences.  
One drop of this, if used, had power to fray  
The Legion from the Hogs of Gadara:  
This would have silenced quite the Wiltshire Drum,  
And made the prating Fiend of Mascon dumb.   

That Vessel consecrated Oil contains,  
Kept Sacred, as the famed Ampoulle of France;  
Which some profaner Heretics would use  
For liquoring Wheels of Jacks, of Boots, and Shoes:  
This make the Chrism, which mixed with Snot of Priests,  
Anoint young Cath'licks for the Church's lists;  
And when they're crossed, confessed, and die; by this  
Their launching Souls slide off to endless Bliss:  
As Lapland Saints, when they on Broomsticks fly,  
By help of Magic Unctions mount the Sky.   

You Altar-Pix of Gold is the Abode,  
And safe Repository of their God.  
A Cross is fixed upon't the Fiends to fright,  
And Flies which would the Deity beshit;  
And Mice, which oft might unprepared receive.  
And to lewd Scoffers cause of Scandal give.   

Here are performed the Conjure and Spells,  
For Christening Saints, and Hawks, and Carriers Bells;  
For hall'wing Shreds, and Grains, and Salts, and Bawms,  
Shrines, Crosses, Medals, Shells, and Waxen Lambs:  
Of wondrous Virtue all (you must believe)  
And from all sorts of Ill preservative;  
From Plague, Infection, Thunder, Storm, and Hail,  
Love, Grief, Want, Debt, Sin, and the Devil and all.  
Here Beads are blest, and Pater nosters framed,  
(By some the Tallies of Devotion named)  
Which of their Prayers, and Orisons keep tale,  
Lest they, and Heaven should in the reckoning fail.  
Here Sacred Lights, the Altars graceful Pride,  
Are by Priest's breath perfumed and Sanctified;  
Made some of Wax, of Her'ticks' Tallow some,  
A Gift, which Irish Emma sent to Rome:  
For which great Merit worthily (we're told)  
She's now amongst her Country-Saints enrolled.  
Here holy Banners are reserved in store,  
And Flags, such as the famed Armado bore:  
And hallowed Swords, and Daggers kept for use,  
When resty Kings the Papal Yoke resuse:  
And consecrated Ratsbane, to be laid  
For Her'tick Vermin, which the Church invade.   

But that which brings in most of Wealth, and Gain,  
Does best the Priest's swollen Tripes, and Purses strain;  
Here they each Week their constant Auctions hold  
Of Relics, which by Candle's Inch are sold:  
Saints by the dozen here are set to sale,  
Like Mortals wrought in Gingerbread on Stall.  
Hither are loads from emptied Channels brought,  
And Voiders of the Worms from Sextons bought;  
Which serve for Retail through the World to vent,  
Such as of late were to the Savoy sent:  
Hair from the Skulls of dying Strumpets shorn,  
And Felons Bones from rifled Gibbets torn;  
Like those, which some old Hag at midnight steals.  
For Witchcrafts, Annulets, and Charms, and Spells,  
Are passed for Sacred to the Cheap'ning Rout;  
And worn on Fingers, Breasts, and Ears about.  
This boasts a Scrap of me, and that a Bit  
Of good St. George, St. Patrick, or St. Kit.  
These Locks S. Bridget's were, and those S. Clare's;  
Some for S. Catharine's go, and some for here's  
That wiped her Saviour's feet, washed with her tears.   

Here you may see my wounded Leg, and here  
Those, which to China bore the great Xavier.  
Here may you the grand Traitor's Halter see,  
Some call't the Arms of the Society:  
Here is his Lantern too, but Faux his, not,  
That was embezled by the Huguenot.  
Here Garnet's Straws, and Becket's Bones, and Hair,  
For murdering whom, some Tails are said to wear;  
As learned Capgrave does record their fate,  
And faithful British Histories relate.  
Those are S. Laurence Coals exposed to view,  
Strangely preserved, and kept alive till now.  
That's the famed Wildefortis wondrous Beard,  
For which her Maidenhead the Tyrant spared.  
Yond is the Baptist's Coat, and one of's Heads,  
The rest are shown in many a place besides;  
And of his Teeth as many Sets there are,  
As on their Belts six Operators wear.  
Here Blessed Mary's Milk, not yet turned sour,  
Renowned (like Ass'es') for its healing power,  
Ten Holland Kine scarce in a year give more.  
Here is her Manteau, and a Smock of hers,  
Fellow to that, which once relieved Poitiers:  
Besides her Husband's Utensils of Trade,  
Wherewith some prove, that Images were made.  
Here is the Soldiers Spear, and Passion-Nails,  
Whose quantity would serve for building Paul's:  
Chips, some from Holy Cross, from Tyburn some,  
Honoured by many a Jesuits Martyrdom:  
All held of special, and miraculous Power,  
Not Tabor more approved for Agu's cure:  
Here Shoes, which, once perhaps at Newgate hung,  
Angled their Charity, that passed along,  
Now for S. Peter's go, and th' Office bear  
For Priests, they did for lesser Villains there.   

These are the Father's Implements, and Tools,  
Their gaudy Trangums for inveigling Fools:  
These serve for Baits the simple to ensnare,  
Like Children spirited with Toys at Fair.  
Nor are they half the Artifices yet,  
By which the Vulgar they delude, and cheat:  
Which should I undertake, much easier I,  
Much sooner might compute what Sins there be  
Wiped off, and pardoned at a Jubilee.  
What Bribes every the Datary each year,  
Or Vices treated on by Escobar:  
How many Whores in Rome profess the Trade,  
Or greater numbers by Confession made.   

One undertakes by Scale of Miles to tell  
The Bounds, Dimensions, and Extent of Hell;  
How far, and wide th' Infernal Monarch Reigns,  
How many Germane Leagues his Realm contains:  
Who are his Ministers, pretends to know,  
And all their several Offices below:  
How many Chaudrons he each year expends  
In Coals for roasting Huguenots, and Fiends:  
And with as much exactness states the case,  
As if he'd been Surveyor of the place.   

Another frights the Rout with rueful Stories,  
Of Wild Chimaeras, Limbo's, Purgatories,  
And bloated Souls in smoky durance hung,  
Like a Westphalia Gammon, or Neat's Tongue,  
To be redeemed with Masses, and a Song.  
A good round Sum must the deliverance buy,  
For none may there swear out on poverty.  
Your rich, and bounteous Shades are only eased,  
No Fleet, or Kings-Bench Ghosts are thence released.   

A third, the wicked, and debauched to please,  
Cries up the virtue of Indulgences,  
And all the rates of Vices does assess;  
What price they in the holy Chamber bear,  
And Customs for each Sin imported there:  
How you at best advantages may buy  
Patents for Sacrilege, and Simony.  
What Tax is in the Leach'ry-Office laid  
On Panders, Bawds, and Whores, that ply the Trade:  
What costs a Rape, or Incest, and how cheap  
You may an Harlot, or an Ingle keep;  
How easy Murder may afforded be  
For one, two, three, or a whole Family;  
But not of Her'ticks, there no Pardon lacks,  
'Tis one o'th' Church's meritorious Acts.   

For venial Trifles, less and slighter Faults,  
They ne'er deserve the trouble of your thoughts.  
Ten Ave Maries mumbled to the Cross  
Clear scores of twice ten thousand such as those:  
Some are at sound of christened Bell forgiven,  
And some by squirt of Holy Water driven:  
Others by Anthems played are charmed away,  
As Men cure Bites of the Tarantula.   

But nothing with the Crowd does more enhance  
The value of these holy Charlatans',  
Than when the Wonders of the Mass they view,  
Where spiritual Jugglers their chief mastery show:  
hay Jingo, Sirs! What's this? 'tis Bread you see;  
Presto be gone! 'tis now a Deity.  
Two grains of Doughty, with Cross, and stamp of Priest,  
And five small words pronounced, make up their Christ.  
To this they all fall down, this all adore,  
And straight devour, what they adored before;  
Down goes the tiny Saviour at a bit,  
To be digested, and at length beshit:  
From Altar to Close-Stool, or Jakes preferred,  
First Wafer, than a God, and then a—  
'Tis this, that does the astonished Rout amuse,   

And Reverence to shaved Crown infuse:  
To see a silly, sinful, mortal Wight  
His Maker make, create the Infinite.  
None boggles at th' impossibility;  
Alas, 'tis wondrous Heavenly Mystery!  
None dares the mighty God-maker blaspheme,  
Nor his most open Crimes, and Vices blame:  
Saw he those hands that held his God before,  
Straight grope himself, and by and by a Whore:  
Should they his aged Father kill, or worse,  
His Sisters, Daughters, Wife, himself too force.   

And here I might (if I but durst) reveal  
What pranks are played in the Confessional:  
How haunted Virgins have been dispossessed,  
And Devils were cast out, to let in Priest:  
What Fathers act with Novices alone,  
And what to Punks in shrieving Seats is done;  
Who thither flock to Ghostly Confessor,  
To clear old debts, and tick with Heaven for more.  
Oft have I seen these hallowed Altars stained  
With Rapes, those Pews with Buggeries profaned:  
Not great Cellier, nor any greater Bawd,  
Of note, and long experience in the Trade,  
Has more, and fouler Scenes of Lust suveyed.  
But I these dangerous Truths forbear to tell,  
For fear I should the Inquisition feel.   

Should I tell all their countless Knaveries,  
Their Cheats, and sham's, and Forgeries, and Lies.  
Their Cringing, Cross, Censing, Sprinkling, Chrisms,  
Their Conjure, and Spells, and Exorcisms;  
Their Motly Habits, Maniples, and Stoles,  
Albs, Ammits, Rochets, Chimers, Hoods, and Cowls.  
Should I tell all their several Services,  
Their Trentals, Masses, Dirges, Rosaries;  
Their solemn Pomp's, their Pageants, and Parades,  
Their holy Masks, and spiritual Cavalcades,  
With thousand Antic Tricks, and Gambols more;  
'Twould swell the sum to such a mighty score,  
That I at length should more volum'nous grow,  
Than Crabb, or Surius, lying Fox, or Stow.   

Believe what e'er I have related here,  
As true, as if 'twere spoke from porphyry Chair.  
If I have feigned in aught, or broached a Lie,  
Let worst of Fates attend me, let me be  
Pist on by Porter, Groom, and Oyster-whore,  
Or find my Grave in Jakes, and Common-shore:  
Or make next Bonfire for the Powder-Plot,  
The sport of every sneering Huguenot.   

There like a Martyred Pope in Flames expire,  
And no kind Catholic dare quench the Fire.     

Aude aliquid brevibus Gyaris, & carcere dignum,  
Si vis esse aliquis.—  Juven. Sat. 
ODE.  

1.  
NOW Curses on you all! ye virtuous Fools,  
Who think to fetter freeborn souls,  
And tie'em to dull Morality, and rules.  
The Sagarite be damned, and all the Crew  
Of learned Idiots, who his steps pursue;  
And those more silly Proselytes, whom his fond precepts drew.  
Oh! had his Ethics been with their wild Author drowned,  
Or a like Fate with those lost Writings found,  
Which that grand Plagiary doomed to fire,  
And made by unjust Flames expire:  
They ne'er had then seduced Mortality,  
ne'er lasted to debauch the World with their lewd Pedantry.  
But damned, and more (if Hell can do't) be that thrice cursed name,  
Who ere the Rudiments of Law designed;  
Who e'er did the first Model of Religion frame,  
And by that double Vassalage enthralled Mankind,  
By nought before, but their own Power, or Will confined:  
Now quite abridged of all their Primitive Liberty,  
And slaves to each capricious Monarch's Tyranny.  
More happy Brutes! who the great Rule of Sense observe,  
And ne'er from their first Charter swerve.  
Happy! whose lives are merely to enjoy,  
And feel no stings of Sin, which may their bliss annoy.  
Still unconcerned at Epithets of ill, or good,  
Distinctions, unadult'rate Nature never understood.   

2.  
Hence hated Virtue from our goodly Isle,  
No more our joys beguile;  
No more with thy loathed presence plague our happy state,  
Thou enemy to all, that's brisk, or gay, or brave or great.  
Be gone with all thy pious meager Train,  
To some unfruitful, unfrequented Land,  
And there an Empire gain,  
And there extend thy rigorous command:  
There where illib'ral Nature's nigardise  
Has set a Tax on Vice.  
Where the lean barren Region does enhance  
The worth of dear Intemperance,  
And for each pleasurable sin exacts excise.  
We (thanks to Fate) more cheaply can offend,  
And want no tempting Luxuries,  
No good convenient sinning opportunities;  
Which Nature's bounty could bestow, or Heaven's kindness lend.  
Go follow that nice Goddess to the Skies,  
Who heretofore disgusted at increasing Vice,  
Disliked the World, and thought it too profane,  
And timely hence retired, and kindly ne'er returned again.  
Hence to those Airy Mansions rove,  
Converse with Saints, and holy folks above;  
Those may thy presence woe,  
Whose lazy ease affords them nothing else to do:  
Where haughty scornful I,  
And my great Friends will ne'er vouchsafe thee company.  
thou'rt now an hard, unpracticable good,  
Too difficult for flesh and blood:  
Were I all soul, like them, perhaps I'd learn to practise thee.   

3.  
Virtue! thou solemn grave impertinence,  
Abhorred by all the Men of Wit, and Sense:  
Thoudamned Fatigue! that clogst life's journey here,  
Though thou no weight of wealth or profit bear;  
Thou pu●…ing fond Green-sickness of the mind!  
That mak'st us prove to our own selves unkind,  
Whereby we Coals, and Dirt for diet choose,  
And, pleasure's better food refuse.  
Cursed Jilt! that leadest deluded Mortals on,  
Till they too late perceive themselves undone,  
Choosed by a Dowry in reversion.  
The greatest Votary, thoue'e could boast,  
(Pity so brave a Soul was on thy service lost;  
What Wonders he in wickedness had done,  
Whom thy weak power could so inspire alone?)  
Tho long with fond amours he courted thee,  
Yet dying, did recant his vain Idolatry:  
At length, though late, he did repent with shame,  
Forced to confess thee nothing, but an empty name.  
So was that Lecher gulled, whose haughty love  
Designed a Rape on the Queen Regent of the Gods above:  
When he a Goddess thought he had in chase  
He found a gaudy vapour in the place,  
And with thin Air beguiled his starved embrace.  
Idly he spent his vigour, spent his blood,  
And tired himself t' oblige an unperforming Cloud.   

4.  
If Humane kind to thee ere Worship paid;  
They were by ignorance misled,  
That only them devout, and thee a Goddess made.  
Known haply in the World's rude untaught infancy,  
Before it had out-grown its childish innocence,  
Before it had arrived at sense,  
Or reached the Manhood, and discretion of Debauchery;  
Known in those ancient goodly duller times,  
When crafty Pagans had engrossed all crimes:  
When Christian Fools were obstinately good,  
Nor yet their Gospel-freedom understood.  
Tame easy Fops! who could so prodigally bleed,  
To be thought Saints, and die a Calendar with with red:  
No prudent Heathen e'er seduced could be,  
To suffer Martyrdom for thee:  
Only that arrant Ass whom the false Oracle called Wise  
(No wonder if the Devil uttered lies)  
That snivelling Puritan, who spite of all the mode  
Would be unfashionably good,  
And exercised his whining gifts to rail at Vice:  
Him all the Wits of Athens damned,  
And justly with Lampoons defamed:  
But when the mad Fanatic, could not silenced be  
From broaching dangerous Divinity;  
The wise Republic made him for prevention die,  
And sent him to the Gods, and better company.   

5.  
Let fumbling Age be grave, and wise,  
And virtue's poor contemned Idea prize,  
Who never knew, or now are past the sweets of Vice;  
While we whose active pulses beat  
With lusty youth, and vigorous heat,  
Can all their Beards, and Morals too despise,  
While my plump veins are filled with lust and blood;  
Let not one thought of her intrude,  
Or dare appoach my breast,  
But know 'tis all possessed  
By a more welcome guest:  
And know, I have not yet the leisure to be good.  
If ever unkind destiny  
Shall force long life on me;  
If e'er I must the curse of dotage bear;  
Perhaps I'll dedicate those dregs of Time to her,  
And come with Crutches her most humble Votary.  
When sprightly Vice retreats from hence,  
And quits the ruins of decayed sense;  
She'll serve to usher in a fair pretence,  
And varnish with her name a well-dissembled impotence,  
When Ptisick, Rheums, Catarrhs, and Palsies seize,  
And all the Bill of Maladies,  
Which Heaven to punish overliving Mortals sends;  
Then let her enter with the numerous infirmities,  
Herself the greatest plague, which wrinkles, and grey hairs attends.   

6.  
Tell me, ye Venerable Sots, who court her most,  
What small advantage can she boast,  
Which her great Rival hath not in a greater store engrossed.  
Her boasted calm, and peace of mind  
In Wine, and Company we better find,  
Find it with Pleasure too combined.  
In mighty Wine, where we our senses steep,  
And Lull our Cares, and Consciences asleep:  
But why do I that wild Chimaera name?  
Conscience! that giddy airy Dream,  
Which does from brain sick heads, or ill-digesting stomaches steam.  
Conscience! the vain fantastic fear  
Of punishments, we know not when, nor where:  
Project of crafty Statesmen▪ to support weak Law,  
Whereby they slavish Spirits awe,  
And dastard Souls to forced obedience draw.  
Grand Wheadle! which our Gowned Impostors use,  
The poor unthinking Rabble to abuse.  
Scarecrow! to fright from the forbidden fruit of Vice,  
Their own beloved Paradise:  
Let those vile Canter's wickedness decry,  
Whose Mercenary tongues take pay  
For what they say;  
And yet commend in practice what their words deny,  
While we discerning Heads, who farther pry,  
Their holy Cheats defy  
And scorn their Frauds, and scorn their sanctified Cajoulery.   

7.  
None but dull unbred Fools discredit Vice,  
Who act their wickedness with an ill grace;  
Such their profession scandalise,  
And justly forfeit all that praise;  
All that esteem, that credit, and applause,  
Which we by our wise menage from a sin can raise.  
A true, and brave transgressor ought  
To sin with the same height of spirit, Caesar fought:  
Mean-souled offenders now no honours gain,  
Only debauches of the nobler strain.  
Vice well-improved yields bliss, and fame beside,  
And some for sinning have been deified.  
Thus the lewd Gods of old did move,  
By these brave methods to the seats above.  
Even Jove himself, the Sovereign Deity,  
Father and King of all th' immortal Progeny,  
Ascended to that high Degree;  
By crimes above the reach of weak Mortality.  
He Heaven one large Seraglio made,  
Each Goddess turned a glorious Punk o'th' trade;  
And all that Sacred place  
Was filled with Bastard-Gods of his own race:  
Almighty Lech'ry got his first repute,  
And everlasting Whoring was his chiefest Attribute.   

8.  
How gallant was that Wretch, whose happy guilt  
A Fame upon the Ruins of a Temple built!  
‛ Let Fools, said he, Impiety allege,  
‛ And urge the no great fault of Sacrilege:  
‛ I'll set the Sacred Pile on flame,  
‛ And in its Ashes write my lasting Name,  
‛ My name which thus shall be  
‛ Deathless as its own Deity.  
‛ Thus the vainglorious Carian I'll outdo,  
‛ And Egypt's proudest Monarches too;  
‛ Those lavish Prodigals, who idly did consume  
‛ Their Lives, and Treasures to erect a Tomb,  
‛ And only great by being buried would become:  
‛ At cheaper rates than they I'll buy renown,  
‛ And my loud Fame shall all their silent glories drown.  
So spoke the daring Hector, so did Prophesy:  
And so it proved: in vain did envious Spite  
By fruitless methods try  
To raze his well-built Fame, and Memory  
Amongst Posterity:  
The Boutefeu can now Immortal write,  
While the inglorious Founder is forgotten quite.   

9  
Yet greater was that mighty Emperor;  
(A greater crime befitted his high Power)  
Who sacrificed a City to a Jest,  
And showed he knew the grand intrigues of humour best:  
He made all Rome a Bonfire to his Fame,  
And sung, and played, and danced amidst the Flame;  
Bravely begun! yet pity there he stayed,  
One step to Glory more he should have made:  
He should have heaved the noble frolic higher,  
And made the People on the Funeral pile expire  
Or providently with their blood put out the Fire.  
Had this been done,  
The utmost pitch of glory he had won:  
No greater Monument could be  
To consecrate him to eternity,  
Nor should there need another Herald of his praise, but me.   

10.  
And thou, yet greater Faux, the glory of our Isle,  
Whom baffled Hell esteems its chiefest Foil;  
'Twere injury should I omit thy name  
Whose Action merits all the breath of Fame.  
Methinks, I see the trembling shades below  
Around in humble reverence bow;  
Doubtful they seem, whether to pay their Loyalty  
To their dread Monarch, or to thee:  
No wonder he (grown jealouses of thy feared success)  
Envied Mankind the honour of thy wickedness,  
And spoiled that brave attempt, which must have made his grandeur less.  
How e'er regret not, mighty Ghost,  
Thy Plot by treacherous fortune crossed,  
Nor think thy well deserved glory lost.  
Thou the full praise of Villainy shalt ever share,  
And all will judge thy Act, complete enough, when thou couldst dare,  
So thy great Master fared, whose high disdain  
Contemned that Heaven, where he could not Reign,  
When he with bold Ambition strove  
T' usurp the Throne above,  
And led against the Deity an armed Train,  
Tho from his vast designs he fell,  
O●…e powered by his Almighty Foe,  
Yet gained he Victory in his overthrow:  
He gained sufficient Triumph, that he durst Rebel;  
And 'twas some pleasure to be thought the great'st in Hell.   

11.  
Tell me, you great Triumvirate, what shall I do  
To be illustrious as you?  
Let your examples move me with a generous fire,  
Let them into my daring thoughts inspire  
Somewhat completely wicked, some vast Gyant-crime,  
Unknown, unheard, unthought of by all past and present time.  
'Tis done, 'tis done; Methinks, I feel the powerful charms,  
And a new heat of sin my spirit warms;  
I travel with a glorious mischief, for whose birth,  
My Soul's too narrow, and weak Fate too feeble to bring forth.  
Let the unpitied Vulgar tamely go,  
And stock for company, the wild Plantations down below:  
Such their vile Souls for viler Barter sell,  
Scarce worth the damning, or their room in Hell.  
We are his Grandees, and expect as much preferment there,  
For our good Service, as on Earth we share.  
In them sin is but a mere privative of good,  
The frailty, and defect of flesh and blood:  
In us 'tis a perfection, who profess  
A studied, and elaborate wickedness:  
Wear the great Royal Society of Vice,  
Whose Talents are to make discoveries,  
And advance Sin like other Arts, and Sciences.  
'Tis I the bold Columbus only I,  
Who must new Worlds in Vice descry,  
And fix the pillars of unpassable iniquity.   

12.  
How sneaking was the first debauch that sinned  
Who for so small a Crime sold humane kind!  
How undeserving that high place,  
To be thought Parent of our sin, and race,  
Who by low guilt our Nature doubly did debase!  
Unworthy was he to be thought  
Father of the great first born Cain, which he begot;  
The noble Cain, whose bold, and gallant act  
Proclaimed him of more high extract:  
Unworthy me,  
And all the braver part of his Posterity.  
Had the just Fates designed me in his stead;  
I'd done some great, and unexampled deed:  
A deed, which should decry  
The Stoics dull Equality,  
And show that sin admits transcendency:  
A deed, wherein the Tempter should not share  
Above what Heaven could punish, and above what he could dare.  
For greater crimes than his I would have fell,  
And acted somewhat, which might merit more than Hell,    

An Apology for the foregoing Ode, by way of Epilogue.  

MY part is done, and you'll, I hope, excuse  
Th' extravagance of a repenting Muse,  
Pardon what e'er she hath too boldly said,  
She only acted here in Masquerade.  
For the slight Arguments she did produce,  
Were not to flatter Vice, but to traduce.  
So we Buffoons in Princely dress expose,  
Not to be gay, but more ridiculous.  
When she an Hector for her Subject had,  
She thought she must be Termagant, and mad:  
That made her speak like a lewd Punk o'th' Town,  
Who by converse with Bullies wicked grown,  
Has learned the Mode to cry all Virtue down.  
But now the Vizard's off; she changes Scene,  
And turns a modest civil Girl again.  
Our Poet has a different taste of Wit,  
Nor will to common Vogue himself submit.  
Let some admire the Fops whose Talents lie  
In venting dull insipid Blasphemy;  
He swears he cannot with those terms dispense,  
Nor will be damned for the repute of sense.  
Wit's name was never to profaneness due,  
For than you see he could be witty too:  
He could Lampoon the State, and Libel Kings,  
But that he's Loyal, and knows better things,  
Than Fame, whose guilty Birth from Treason springs.  
He likes not Wit, which can't a Licence claim,  
To which the Author dares not set his Name.  
Wit should be open, court each Reader's eye,  
Not lurk in fly unprinted privacy.  
But Crim●…nal Writers like dull Birds of Night,  
For weakness, or for shame avoid the light;  
May such a Jury for their Audience have,  
And from the Bench, not Pit, their doom receive.  
May they the Tower for their due merits share,  
And a just wreath of Hemp, not Laurel wear:   

He could be Bawdy too, and nick the times,  
In what they dearly love; Damned placket Rhimes,  
Such as our Nobles write—  
Whose nauseous Poetry can reach no higher  
Than what the Codpiece, or its God inspire.  
So lewd, they spend at quill; you'd justly think;  
They wrote with something nastier than Ink.  
But he still thought that little Wit, or none,  
Which a just modesty must never own,  
And a mere Reader with a Blush atone.  
If Ribaldry deserved the praise of Wit,  
He must resign to each illiterate Citt,  
And Prentices, and Carmen challenge it.  
Even they too can be smart, and witty there;  
For all men on that Subject Poets are.  
Henceforth he vows, if ever more he find  
Himself to the base itch of Verse inclined;  
If e'er he's given up so far to write;  
He never means to make his end delight:  
Should he do so; he must despair success:  
For he's not now debauched enough to please,  
And must be damned for want of Wickedness.  
He'll therefore use his Wit another way,  
And next the ugliness of Vice display.  
Tho against Virtue once he drew his Pen,  
He'll ne'er for aught, but her defence again.  
Had he a Genius, and Poetic rage,  
Great as the Vices of this guilty Age.  
Were he all Gall, and armed with store of spite;  
'Twere worth his pains to undertake to write;  
To noble satire he'd direct his aim,  
And by't Mankind, and Poetry reclaim,  
He'd shoot his Quills just like a Porcupine  
At Vice, and make them stab in every Line,  
The world should learn to blush,—  
And dread the Vengeance of his pointed Wit,  
Which worse than their own Consciences should fright,  
And all should think him heavens just Plague, designed  
To visit for the sins of lewd Mankind.    

THE PASSION OF BYBLIS IN Ovid's Metamorphosis  
Imitated in English.  
LONDON, Printed for Jo. Hindmarsh, 1685.   

THE Passion of Byblis OUT OF Ovid's Metamorphosis, B. 9 F. 11. Beginning at Byblis in exemplo est, ut ament concessa puellae. And ending with— Modumque Exit, & infelix committit saepe repelli.  

YOU heedless Maids, whose young, and tender hearts  
Unwounded yet, have scaped the fatal darts;  
Let the sad tale of wretched Byblis move,  
And learn by her to shun forbidden Love,  
Not all the plenty, all the bright resort  
Of gallant Youth, that graced the Carian Court,  
Could charm the haughty Nymph's disdainful heart,  
Or from a Brother's guilty Love divert;  
Caunus she-loved, not as a Sister ought,  
But Honour, Blood, and Shame alike forgot:  
Caunus alone takes up her Thoughts, and Eyes,  
For him alone she wishes, grieves and sighs.   

At first her newborn Passion owns no name,  
A glimmering Spark scarce kindling into flame;  
She thinks it no offence, if from his Lip  
She snatch an harmless bliss, if her fond clip  
With loose embraces oft his Neck surround,  
And love is yet in debts of Nature drowned.   

But Love at length grows naughty by degrees,  
And now she likes, and strives herself to please:  
Well-dressed she comes, & arms her Eyes with darts,  
Her Smiles with charms, and all the studied arts  
Which practised Love can teach to vanquish hearts.  
Industrious now, she labours to be fair,  
And envies all, whoever fairer are.   

Yet knows she not, she loves, but still does grow,  
Insensibly the thing, she does not know:  
Strict honour yet her checked desires does bind,  
And modest thoughts, on this side wish confined:  
Only within she soothes her pleasing flames,  
And now, the hated terms of Blood disclaims:  
Brother sounds harsh; she the unpleasing word  
Strives to forget, and oftener calls him Lord:  
And when the name of Sister grates her ear,  
Could wished unsaid, and rather Byblis hear.   

Nor dare she yet with waking thoughts admit  
A wanton hope: but when returning night  
With Sleeps soft gentle spell her Senses charms,  
Kind fancy often brings him to her Arms:  
In them she oft does the loved Shadow seem  
To grasp, and joys, yet blushes too in Dream.  
She wakes, and long in wonder silent lies,  
And thinks on her late pleasing Ecstasies:  
Now likes, and now abhors her guilty flame,  
By turns abandoned to her Love, and Shame:  
At length her struggling thoughts an utterance find,  
And vent the wild disorders of her mind.   

" Ah me! (she cries) kind Heaven avert! what means  
" This boding form, that nightly rides my dreams?  
" Grant 'em untrue! why should lewd hope divine?  
" Ah! why was this too charming Vision seen?  
" 'Tis true, by the most envious wretch, that sees,  
" He's owned all fair, and lovely, owned a prize,  
" Worthy the conquest of the brightest eyes:  
" A prize that would my highest Ambition fill,  
" All I could wish;— but he's my brother still!  
" That cruel word for ever must disjoin,  
" Nor can I hope, but thus, to have him mine.  
" Since then I waking never must possess;  
" Let me in sleep at least enjoy the bliss,  
" And sure nice Virtue can't forbid me this:  
" Kind sleep does no malicious spies admit,  
" Yet yields a lively semblance of delight:  
" Gods! what a scene of joy was that! how fast  
" I clasped the Vision to my panting breast!  
" With what fierce bounds I sprung to meet my" bliss,  
" While my rapt soul flew out in every kiss!  
" Till breathless, saint, and foftly sunk away,  
" I all dissolved in reeking pleasures lay!  
" How sweet is the remembrance yet! though night  
" Too hasty fled, drove on by envious light.   

" O that we might the Laws of Nature break!  
" How well would Caunus me an Husband make!  
" How well to Wise might he his Byblis take!  
" Would God in all things we had partners been  
" Besides our Parents, and our fatal Kin:  
" Would thou wert nobler, I more meanly born,  
" Then guiltless I'd despaired, and suffered scorn:  
" Happy that Maid unknown, whoever shall prove  
" so blessed, so envied to deserve thy love.  
" Unhappy me! whom the same womb did join,  
" Which now forbids me ever to be thine:  
" Cursed fate! that we alone in that agree,  
" By which we ever must divided be.  
" And must we be? what meant my Vision then?  
" Are they, and all their dear presages vain?  
" Have Dreams no credit, but with easy love?  
" Or do they hit sometimes, and faithful prove?  
" The Gods forbid! yet those whom I invoke,  
" Have loved like me, have their own Sisters took:  
" Great Saturn, and his greater Offspring jove,  
" Both stocked their Heaven with Incestuous love:  
" Gods have their privilege: why do I strive  
" To strain my Hopes to their Prerogative?   

" No, let me banish this forbidden fire,  
" Or quench it with my Blood, and with't expire:  
" Unstained in honour, and unhurt in fame,  
" Let the Grave bury my Love, and Shame:  
" But when at my last hour I gasping lie,  
" Let only my kind Murderer be by:  
" Let him, while I breathe out my soul in sighs,  
" Or gazed away, look on with pitying eyes:  
" Let him (for sure he can't deny me this)  
" Seal my cold Lips with one dear parting Kiss.   

" Besides, 'twere vain should I alone agree  
" To what another's Will must ratify;  
" Could I be so abandoned to consent;  
" What I have pass for good and innocent,  
" He may perhaps as worst of Crimes resent.  
" Yet we amongst our Race examples find  
" Of Brothers, who have been to Sister's kind:  
" Famed Canace could thus successful prove,  
" Could Crown her wishes in a Brother's love.  
" But whence could I these instances produce?  
" How came I witty to my ruin thus?  
" Wither will this mad frenzy hurry on?  
" Hence, hence, you naughty flames, far hence be gone,  
" Nor let me ere the shameful Passion own.   

" And yet should he address; I should forgive,  
" I fear, I fear, I should his suit receive:  
" Shall therefore I, who could not love disown  
" Offered by him, not mine to make him known?  
" And canst thou speak? can thy bold tongue declare?  
" Yes, Love shall force:— and now methinks I dare.  
" But lest fond modesty at length refuse,  
" I will some sure, and better method choose:  
" A Letter shall my secret flames disclose,  
" And hide my Blushes, but reveal their cause.   

This takes, and 'tis resolved as soon as said,  
With this she raised herself upon her bed,  
And propping with her hand her leaning head:  
" Happen what will (says she) I'll make him know  
" What pains, what raging pains I undergo:  
" Ah me! I rave! what tempests shake my breast?  
" And where? O where will this distraction rest?  
Trembling, her Thoughts indite, and oft her Eye  
Looks back for fear of conscious spies too nigh:  
One hand her Paper, t'other holds her Pen,  
And Tears supply that Ink her Lines must drain.   

Now she begins, now stops, and stopping frames  
New doubts, now writes, and now her writing damns.  
She writes, defaces, altars, likes, and blames:  
Oft throws in haste her Pen, and Paper by,  
Then takes 'em up again as hastily:  
Unsteady her resolves, fickle, and vain,  
No sooner made, but straight unmade again:  
What her desires would have, she does not know,  
Displeased withal, what e'er she goes to do:  
At once contending, shame, and hope, and fear,  
Wrack her tossed mind, and in her looks appear.  
Sister was wrote; but soon misguiding doubt  
Recalls it, and the guilty word blots out.  
Again she pauses, and again begins,  
At length her Pen drops out these hasty Lines.  
" Kind health, which you, and only you can grant.  
" Which, if denied, she must for ever want;  
" To you your Lover sends: ah! blushing Shame  
" In silence bids her Paper hide her name:  
" Would God the fatal Message might be done  
" Without annexing it, nor Byblis known,  
" ere blessed success her hopes, and wishes crown.   

" And had I now my smothered grief concealed,  
" It might by tokens past have been revealed:  
" A thousand proofs were ready to impart  
" The inward anguish of my wounded heart:  
" Oft, as your fight a sudden blush did raise,  
" My blood came up to meet you at my face:  
" Oft (if you call to mind) my longing Eyes  
" Betrayed in looks my souls too thin disguise:  
" Think how their Tears, think how my heaving Breast  
" Oft in deep sighs some cause unknown confessed:  
" Think how these Arms did oft with fierce embrace,  
" Eager as my desires, about you press:  
" These Lips too, when they could so happy prove,  
" (●…d you but marked) with close warm kisses striven  
" To whisper something more than Sisters Love.   

" And yet, though rankling grief my mind distressed,  
" Tho raging flames within burn up my breast,  
" Long time I did the mighty pain endure,  
" Long strove to bring the fierce disease to cure:  
" Witness, ye cruel Powers, who did inspire  
" This strange, this fatal, this resistless fire,  
" Witness, what pains (for you alone can know)  
" This helpless wretch to quenched did undergo:  
" A thousand Racks, and Martyrdoms, and more  
" Than a weak Virgin can be thought, I bore:  
" O'rematched in power at last, I'm forced to yield,  
" And to the conquering God resign the field:  
" To you, dear cause of all, I make address,  
" From you with humble prayers I beg redress:  
" You rule alone my arbitrary fate,  
" And life, and death on your disposal wait:  
" Ordain, as you think fit; deny, or grant,  
" Yet know no stranger is your suppliant.  
" But she, who, though to you by Blood allied  
" In nearest bonds, in nearer would be tied.   

" Let doting age debate of Law, and Right,  
" And gravely state the bounds of just, and fit;  
" Whose Wisdom's but their Envy, to destroy  
" And bar those pleasures, which they can't enjoy:  
" Our blooming years, more sprightly, and more gay,  
" By Nature we're designed for love and play:  
" Youth knows no check, but leaps weak virtue's fence,  
" And briskly hunts the noble chase of Sense:  
" Without dull thinking we enjoyment trace,  
" And call that lawful, whatsoever does please.  
" Nor will our guilt want instances alone,  
" 'Tis what the glorious Gods above have done:  
" Let's follow where those great examples went,  
" Nor think that Sin, where Heaven's a precedent.   

" Let neither awe of Father's frowns, nor shame  
" For aught that can be told by blabbing fame  
" Nor any ghastlier fantom, fear can frame,  
" Frighten or stop us in our way to bliss,  
" But boldly let us rush on happiness:  
" Where glorious hazards shall enhanse delight,  
" And that, that makes it dangerous, make it great:   

" Relation too, which does our fault increase,  
" Will serve that fault the better to disguise?  
" That lets us now in private often meet  
" Blessed opportunities for stolen delight:  
" In public often we embrace, and kiss,  
" And fear no jealous, no suspecting eyes.  
" How little more remains for me to crave!  
" How little more for you to give! O save  
" A wretched Maid undone by Love, and you,  
" Who does in tears, and dying accents sue;  
" Who bleeds that Passion, she had ne'er revealed,  
" If not by Love, Almighty Love compelled:  
" Nor ever let her mournful Tomb complain,  
" Here Byblis lies, killed by your cold disdain.   

Here forced to end, for want of room, not will  
To add, her lines the crowded Margin fill,  
Nor space allow for more: she trembling, folds  
The Paper, which her shameful Message holds;  
And sealing, as she wept with boding fear,  
She wet her Signet with a falling Tear.  
This done, a trusty Messenger she called,  
And in kind words the whispered Errand told:  
" Go, carry this with faithful care, she said,  
" To my dear,— there she paused a while, and stayed,  
And by and by— Brother— was heard to add:  
As she delivered it with her commands,  
The Letter fell from out her trembling hands,  
Dismayed with the ill Omen, she anew  
Doubted success, and held, yet bade him go.   

He goes, and after quick admission got  
To Caunus hands the fatal secret brought:  
Soon as the doubtful Youth a glance had cast  
On the first lines, and guest by them the rest,  
Straight horror, and amazement filled his breast:  
Impatient with his rage, he could not stay  
To see the end, but threw't half read away:  
Scarce could his hands the trembling wretch forbear,  
Nor did his tongue those angry threatenings spare:  
" Fly hence, nor longer my chafed fury trust,  
" Thou cursed Pander of detested Lust;  
" Fly quickly hence, and to thy swiftness owe  
" Thy life, a forfeit to my vengeance due:  
" Which, had not danger of my Honour crossed,  
" thou'dst paid by this, and been sent back a Ghost,   

He the rough orders straight obeys, and bears  
The kill news to wretched Byblis ears;  
Like striking Thunder the fierce tidings stun,  
And to her heart quicker than lightning run:  
The frighted blood forsakes her ghastly face,  
And a short death doth every Member seize:  
But soon as sense returns, her frenzy too  
Returns, and in these words breaks forth anew.   

" And justly served;— for why did foolish I  
" Consent to make this rash discovery?  
" Why did I thus in hasty lines reveal  
" That dangerous secret, Honour would conceal?  
" I should have first with art disguised the hook,  
" And seen how well the gaudy bait had took,  
" And found him hung at least before I struck:  
" From shore I should have first descried the wind  
" Whether 'twould prove to my adventure kind,  
" ere I to untried Seas myself resigned:  
" Now dashed on Rocks, unable to retire,  
" I must i'th' wreck of all my hopes expire,   

" And was not I by tokens plain enough  
" Forewarned to quit my inauspicious Love?  
" Did not the Fates my ill success foretell,  
" When from my hands th' unhappy Letter fell?  
" So should my hopes have done, and my design,  
" That, or the day should then have altered been;  
" But rather the unlucky day; when Heaven  
" Such ominous proofs of its dislike had given:  
" And so it had, had not mad Passion swayed,  
" And Reason been by blinder Love misled.   

" Besides (alas!) I should myself have gone,  
" Nor made my Pen a proxy to my Tongue;  
" Much more I could have spoke, much more have told,  
" Than a short Letter's narrow room would hold:  
" He might have seen my looks, my wishing Eyes  
" My melting Tears, and heard my begging Sighs;  
" About his Neck I could have flung my Arms,  
" And been all over Love, all over Charms;  
" Grasped, and hung on his Knees, and there have died,  
" There breathed my gasping Soul out if denied:  
" This and ten thousand things I might have done  
" To make my Passion with advantage known;  
" Which if they each could not have bend his mind,  
" Yet surely all had forced him to be kind.   

" Perhaps he, whom I sent, was too in fault,  
" Nor rightly timed his Message, as he ought;  
" I fear he went in some ill-chosen hour,  
" When cloudy weather made his temper lour.  
" Not those calm seasons of the mind, which prove,  
" The fittest to receive the seeds of Love;   

" These things have ruined me; for doubtless he  
" Is made of humane flesh, and blood, like me;  
" He sucked no Tygress sure, nor Mountain Bear,  
" Nor does his Breast relentless Marble wear.  
" He must, he shall consent, again I'll try,  
" And try again, if he again deny:  
" No scorn, no harsh repulse, or rough defeat  
" Shall ever my desire, or hopes rebate.  
" My earnest suits shall never give him rest,  
" While Life, and Love more durable, shall last:  
" Alive I'll press, till breathe in prayers be lost,  
" And after come a kind beseeching Ghost.   

" For, if I might, what I have done, recall,  
" The first point were, not to have done't at all;  
" But since 'tis done, the second to be gained  
" Is now to have, what I have sought, attained:  
" For he, though I should now my wishes quit,  
" Can never my unchaste attempts forget:  
" Should I desist, 'twill be believed that I  
" By slightly ask, taught him to deny;  
" Or that I tempted him with wily fraud,  
" And snares for his unwary honour laid:  
" Or, what I sent (and the belief were just)  
" Were not th' efforts of Love, but shameful Lust.   

" In fine, I now dare any thing that's ill;  
" I've writ, I have solicited, my will  
" Has been debauched; and should I thus give out,  
" I cannot chaste, and innocent be thought:  
" Much there is wanting still to be fulfilled,  
" Much to my wish, but little to my guilt.   

She spoke; but such is her unsettled mind,  
It 〈◊〉 from thought to thought, like veering wind,  
Now to this point, and now to that inclined:  
What she could wish had unattempted been:  
She straight is eager to attempt again:  
What she reputes, she acts; and now le's lose  
The reins to Love, nor any bounds allows,  
Repulse upon repulse umoved she bears,  
And still sues on, while she her suit despairs.    

A satire Upon a WOMAN, who by her Falsehood and Scorn was the Death of my Friend.  

NO she shall ne'er escape, if Gods there be,  
Unless they perjured grow, and false as she;  
Though no strange Judgement yet the Murd'ress seize  
To punish her, and quit the partial Skies:  
Though no revenging lightni●…g yet has flashed  
From thence, that might her criminal beauty's blast:  
Tho they in their old lustre still prevail,  
By no disease, nor guilt itself made pale.  
Gild, which should blackest Moors themselves but own,  
Would make through all their night new blushes down:  
Though that kind soul, who now augments the blessed,  
Thither too soon by her unkindness chased.  
(Where may it be her smallest, and lightest doom,  
(For that's not half my curse) never to come)  
Though he, when prompted by the highest despair,  
ne'er mentioned her without an Hymn, or Prayer,  
And could by all her scorn be forced no more  
Than Martyrs to revile what they adore.  
Who, had he cursed her with his dying breath;  
Had done but just, and Heaven had forgave:  
Tho ill-made Law 〈◊〉 Sentence has ordained  
For her, no Statute has her Gild arraigned.  
(For Hangmen, women's Scorn, and Doctor's skill,  
All by a licenc'd way of murder kill.)  
Tho she from Justice of all these go free  
And boast perhaps in her success, and cry,  
'Twas but a little harmless perjury:  
Yet think she not, she still secure shall prove,  
Or that none dare avenge an injured Love:  
I rise in Judgement, am to be to her  
Both Witness, Judge, and Executioner:  
Armed with dire satire, and resentful spite,  
I come to haunt her with the ghosts of Wit.  
My Ink unbid starts out, and flies on her,  
Like blood upon some touching murderer:  
And should that fail, rather than want, I would,  
Like Hags, to curse her, write in my own blood.   

Ye spiteful powers (if any there can be,  
That boast a worse, and keener spite than I)  
Assist with Malice, and your mighty aid  
My sworn Revenge, and help me Rhyme her dead:  
Grant I may fix such brands of Infamy,  
So plain, so deeply graved on her, that she,  
Her Skill, Patches, nor Paint, all joined can hide,  
And which shall lasting as her Soul abide:  
Grant my strong hate may such strong poison cast,  
That every breath may taint, and rot, and blast,  
Till one large Gangrene quite o'erspread her fame  
With foul contagion; till her odious name,  
Spit at, and cursed by every mouth like mine,  
Be terror to herself, and all her line.   

Vilest of that viler Sex, who damned us all!  
Ordained to cause, and plague us for, our fall!  
WOMAN! nay worse! for she can nought be said,  
But Mummy by some devil inhabited:  
Not made in Heaven's Mint, but base coined,  
She wears an humane image stamped on Fiend;  
And whoso Marriage would with her contract,  
Is Witch by Law, and that a mere compact:  
Her Soul (if any Soul in her there be)  
By Hell was breathed into her in a lie,  
And its whole stock of falsehood there was lent,  
As if hereafter to be true it meant:  
Bawd Nature taught her jilting, when she made  
And by her make, designed her for the trade:  
Hence 'twas she daubed her with a painted Face,  
That she at once might better cheat, and please:  
All those gay charming looks, that court the eye,  
Are but an ambush to hide treachery;  
Mischief adorned with pomp, and smooth disguise,  
A painted skin stuffed full of guile and lies;  
Within a gaudy Case, a nasty Soul,  
Like T— of quality in a gilt Close-stool:  
Such on a Cloud those flattering colours are,  
Which only serve to dress a Tempest fair.  
So Men upon this Earth's fair surface dwell,  
Within are Fiends, and at the centre Hell:  
Court-promises, the Leagues, which Statesmen make  
With more convenience, and more ease to break,  
The Faith, a Jesuit in allegiance swears,  
Or a Town-jilt to keeping Coxcombs bears,  
Are firm, and certain all, compared with hers:  
Early in falsehood, at her Font she lied,  
And should even then for Perjury been tried:  
Her Conscience stretched, and open as the Stews,  
But laughs at Oaths, and plays with solemn Vows.  
And at her mouth swallows down perjured breath,  
More glib than bits of Lechery beneath:  
Less serious known, when she doth most protest,  
Than thoughts of arrantest Buffoons in jest:  
More cheap, than the vile mercenariest Squire,  
That plies for Half-crown Fees at Westminster,  
And trades in staple▪ Oaths, and Swears to hire:  
Less Gild than hers, less breach of Oath, and Word  
Has stood aloft, and looked through Penance board;  
And he that trusts her in a Deathbed Prayer,  
Has Faith to merit, and save any thing, but her.   

But since her Gild description does outgo;  
I'll try if it outstrip my Curses too;  
Curses, which may they equal my just hate,  
My wish, and her desert, be each so great,  
Each heard like Prayers, and Heaven make 'em fate.   

First, for her Beauties, which the Mischief brought,  
May she affected, they be borrowed thought,  
By her own hand, not that of Nature wrought:  
Her Credit, Honour, Portion, Health, and those  
Prove light, and frail, as her broken Faith, and Vows.  
Some base unnamed Disease, her Carcase foul,  
And make her Body ugly, as her Soul.  
Cankers, and Ulcers eat her, till she be,  
Shunned like Infection, loathed like Infamy.  
Strength quite expired, may she alone retain  
The snuff of Life, may that unquenched remain,  
As in the damned, to keep her fresh for pain:  
Hot Lust light on her, and the plague of Pride  
On that, this ever scorned, as that denied:  
Ache, Anguish, horror, grief, dishonour, shame  
Pursue at once her body, soul, and fame:  
If e'er the Devil-love must enter her  
(For nothing sure but Fiends can enter there)  
May she a just and true tormenter find,  
And that like an ill▪ conscience rack her mind:  
Be some Diseased, and ugly wretch her fate,  
She doomed to love of one, whom all else hate.  
May he hate her, and may her destiny  
Be to despair, and yet love on, and die;  
Or to invent some wittier punishment,  
May he, to plague her, out of spite consent;  
May the old fumbler, though disabled quite,  
Have strength to give her Claps, but no delight:  
May he of her unjustly jealous be  
For one that's worse▪ and uglier far than he:  
May's Impotence ball●…, and torment her lust,  
Yet scarcely her to dreams, or wishes trust:  
Forced to be chaste, may she suspected be,  
Share none o'th' Pleasure, all the Infamy.   

In●…e, that I all curses may complete  
(For I've but cursed in jest, ra●…llied y●…)  
whate'er the Sex deserves, or feels, or fears,  
May all those plagues be hers, and only hers;  
whate'er great Favourites turned out of doors,  
Scorned Lovers, bilked and disappointed Whores,  
Or losing Gamesters vent, what Curses e'er  
Are spoke by sinners raving in despair:  
All those fall on her, as they're all her due,  
Till spite can't think, nor Heaven inflict anew:  
May then (for once I will be kind, and pray)  
No madness take her use of Sense away;  
But may she in full strength of Reason be,  
To feel, and understand her misery;  
Plagued so, till she think damning a release,  
And humbly pray to go to Hell for ease:  
Yet may not all these sufferings here atone  
Her sin, and may she still go sinning on,  
Tick up in Perjury, and run o'th' Score,  
Till on her Soul she can get trust no more▪   

Then may she Stupid, and Repentless die,  
And Heaven itself forgive no more than I,  
But so be damned of mere necessit●…;   
FINIS.   

SOME NEW PIECES Never before Published.  
By the Author of the Satyrs upon the Jesuits.  
— Nos otia vitae  
Solamur cantu, ventosaque gaudia famae  
Quaerimus.—  Stat. Sylu. 
LONDON: Printed by M. C. for Jo. Hindmarsh, Bookseller to his Royal Highness, at the Black Bull in Cornhill, 1684.   

ADVERTISEMENT.  
BEing to appear anew in the World, it may be expected, that I should say something concerning these ensuing Trisies, which I shall endeavour to do with as much briefness, as I did before what I last published in this kind.  
I doubt not but the Reader will think me guilty of an high presumption in adventuring upon a Translation of The Art of Poetry, after two such great Hands as have gone before me in the same attempts: I need not acquaint him, that I mean Ben Johnson, and the Earl of Roscommon, the one being of so established an Authority, that whatever he did is held as Sacred, the other having lately performed it with such admirable success, as almost cuts off all hope in any after Pretenders of ever coming up to what he has eone. Howbeit, when I let him kn●…w, that it was a Task imposed upon me, and not what I voluntarily engaged in; I hope he will be the more favourable in his Censures. I would indeed very willingly have waved the undertaking upon the forementioned account, and urged it as a reason for my declining the same, but it would not be allowed as sufficient to excuse me therefrom. Wherefore, being prevailed upon to make an Essay. I fell to thinking of some course, whereby I might serve myself of the Advantages, which those that went before me, have either not minded, or scrupulously abridged themselves of. This I soon imagined was to be effected by putting Horace into a more modern dress, than hitherto he has appeared in, that is by making him speak, as if he were living, and writing now. I therefore resolved to alter the Scene from Rome to London, and to make use of English names of Men, Places, and Customs, where the Parallel would decently permit, which I conceived would give a kind of new Air to the Poem, and render it more agreeable to the relish of the present Age.  
With these Considerations I set upon the Work, and pursued it accordingly. I have not, I acknowledge, been ever-nice in keeping to the words of the Original, for that were to transgress a Rule therein contained. Nevertheless I have been religiously strict to its sense, and expressed it in as plain, and intelligible a manner, as the Subject would bear. Where I may be thought to have varied from it (which is not above once or twi●…e, and in Passages not much material) the skilful Reader will perceive 'twas necessary for carrying on my proposed design, and the Author himself, were he again alive, would (I believe) forgive me. I have been careful to avoid stiffness, and made it my endeavour to hit (as near as I could) the easy and familiar way of writing, which is peculiar to Horace in his Epistles, and was his proper Talon above any of mankind. After all, 'tis humbly submitted to the judgement of the truly knowing, how I have acquitted myself herein. Let the success be what it will, I shall not however wholly repent of my undertaking, being (I reckon) in some measure recompensed for my pains by the advantage I have reaped of fixing these admirable Rules of Sense so well in my memory.  
The satire and Odes of the Author, which follow next in order, I have translated after the same libertine way. In them also I laboured under the disadvantages of coming after other persons. The satire had been made into a Scene by Ben Johnson, in a Play of his, called the Poetaster. After I had finished my imitation thereof, I came to learn, that it had been done likewise by Dr. Sprat, and since I have had the sight of it amongst the Printed Translations of Horace 's Works. The Odes are there done too, but not so excellently well, as, to discourage any farther endeavours. If these of mine meet with good entertainment in the world, I may perhaps find leisure to attempt some other of them, which at present suffer as much from their Translators, as the Psalms of David from Sternhold and Hopkins.  
The two sacred Odes I designed not to have made public now, forasmuch as they might seem unfit to appear among Subjects of this nature, and were intended to come forth apart hereafter in company of others of their own kind. But, having suffered Copies of them to straggle abroad in Manuscript, and remembering the Fate of some other Pieces of mine, which have formerly stolen into the Press without my leave, or knowledge, and be exposed to the world abominably false and uncorrect; to prevent the same misfortune likely en●…ugh to befall these, I have been persuaded to yield my consent to their Publishing amongst the rest. Nor is the Printing of such Miscellanies altogether so unpresidented, but that it may be seen in the Editions of Dr. Donne, and Mr. Cowley 's Works, whether done by their own appointment, or the sole direction of the Stationers, I am not able to determine.  
As for the two Essays out of Greek, they were occasioned by a report, that some persons found fault with the roughness of my Satyrs formerly published, though, upon what ground they should do it, I could be glad to be informed. Unless I am mistaken, there are not many Lines but will endure the reading without shocking any Hearer, that is not too nice, and censorious. I confess, I did not so much mind the Cadence, as the Sense and expressiveness of my words, and therefore chose not those, which were best disposed to placing themselves in Rhyme, but rather the most keen, and tuant, as being the most suitable to my Argument. And certainly no one that pretends to distinguish the several Colours of Poetry, would expect that Juvenal, when he is lashing of Vice and Villainy, should flow so smoothly, as Ovid, or Tibullus, when they are describing Amours and Gallantries, and have nothing to disturb and ruffle the evenness of their Style.  
Howbeit, to show that the way I took, was out of choice, not want of judgement, and that my Genius is not wholly uncapa●…e of performing upon more gay and agreeable Subjects, if my humour inclined me to exercise it, I have pitched upon these two, which the greatestmen of sense have allowed to be some of the softest and tenderest of all Antiquity. Nay, if we will believe Rapine, one of the best Critics which these latter Ages have produced; they have no other fault, than that they are too tightly delicate for the Character of Pastoral, which should not seem too laboured, and w●…ose chief beauty is an unaffected air of plainness and simplicity.  
That, which laments the Death of Adonis has been attempted in Latin by several great Masters, namely, Vulcanius, Douza, and Monsieur le Feure. The last of them has done it Paraphrastically, but left good part of the Poem toward the latter end untouched, perhaps because he thought it not so capable of Ornament, as the rest. Him I chiefly chose to follow, as being most agreeable to my way of translating, and where I was at a loss for want of his guidance, I was content to steer by my own Fancy.  
The Translation of that upon Bion was begun by another Hand, as far as the first fifteen Verses, but who was the Author I could never yet learn. I have been told that they were done by the Earl of Rochester; but I could not well believe it, both because he seldom meddled with such Subjects, and more especially by reason of an uncorrect line, or two to be found amongst them, at their first coming to my hands, which never used to flow from his excellent Pen. Conceiving it to be in the Original, a piece of as much Art, Grace, and Tenderness, as perhaps was ever offered to the Ashes of a Poet, I thought fit to dedicate it to the memory of that incomparable Person, of whom nothing can be said, or thought so choice and curious, which his Deserts do not surmount. If it be thought mean to have borrowed the sense of another to praise him in, yet at least it argues at the same time a value and reverence, that I durst not think any thing of my own good enough for his Commendation.  
This is all, which I judge material to be said of these following Resveries. As for what others are to be found in the parcel, I reckon them not worth mentioning in particular, but leave them wholly open and unguarded to the mercy o●… the Reader; let him make his Attaques how, and where he please.   

HORACE His ART of POETRY, Imitated in English.  
Addressed by way of Letter to a Friend.  

SHould some ill Painter in a wild design  
To a man's Head an Horse's shoulders join,  
Or Fishes Tail to a fair Woman's Was●…  
Or draw the Limbs of many a different Beast,  
Ill matched, and with as motley Feathers dressed;  
If you by chance were to pass by his Shop;  
Could you forbear from laughing at the Fop,  
And not believe him whimsical, or mad?  
Credit me, Sir; that Book is quite as bad,  
As worthy laughter, which throughout is filled  
With monstrous inconsistencies, more vain, and wild  
Than sick mensDreams, whose neither head, nor tail,  
Nor any parts in due proportion fall.  
But 'twill be said, None ever did deny  
Painters and Poets their free liberty  
Of feigning any thing: We grant it true,  
And the same privilege crave and allow:  
But to mix natures clearly opposite,  
To make the Serpent and the Dove unite,  
Or Lambs from savage Tigers seek defence,  
Shocks Reason, and the Rules of common Sense.   

Some, who would have us think they meant to treat  
At first on Arguments of greatest weight,  
Are 〈◊〉, when here and there a glittering line  
Does through the mass of their corpse rubbish shine:  
In gay digtessions they delight to rove,  
Describing here a Temple, there a Grove,  
A Vale enamelled o'er with pleasant streams,  
A painted Rainbow, or the gliding Thames.  
But how does this relate to their design?  
Though good elsewhere, 'tis here but foisted in.  
A common Dauber may perhaps have skill  
To paint a Tavern Sign, or Landscape well:  
But what is this to drawing of a Fight,  
A Wrack, a Storm, or the last Judgement right?  
When the fair Model, and Foundation shows,  
That you some great Escurial would produce,  
How comes it dwindled to a Cottage thus?  
In fine, whatever work you mean to frame,  
Be uniform, and every where the same.   

Most Poets, Sir, ('tis easy to observe)  
Into the worst of faults are apt to swerve  
Through a false hope of reaching excellence:  
Avoiding length, we often cramp our Sense,  
And make't obscure; oft, when we'd have our stile  
Easie, and flowing, lose its force the while:  
Some, striving to surmount the common flight,  
Soar up in airy Bombast out of sight.  
Others, who fear to a bold pitch to trust  
Themselves, flag low, and humbly sweep the dust:  
And many fond of seeming marvellous,  
While they too carelessly transgress the Laws  
Of likelihood, most odd Chimaeras feign,  
Dolphins in Woods, and Boars upon the Main.  
Thus they, who would take aim, but want the skill,  
Miss always, and shoot wide, or narrow still.   

One of the meanest Workmen in the Town  
Can imitate the Nails, or Hair in Stone,  
And to the life enough perhaps, who yet  
Wants mastery to make the Work complete:  
Troth, Sir, if 'twere my fancy to compose,  
Rather than be this bungling wretch, I'd choos●…  
To wear a crooked and unsightly Nose  
Mongst other handsome features of a Face  
Which only would set off my ugliness.   

Be sure all you that undertake to write,  
To choose a Subject for your Genius fit:  
Try long and often what your Talents are;  
What is the burden, which your parts will bear,  
And where they'll fail: he that discerns with skill  
To ●…ull his Argument, and matter well,  
Will never be to seek for Eloquence  
To dress, or method to dispose his Sense.  
They the chief Art, and Grace in order show  
(If I may claim any pretence to know)  
Who time discreetly what's to be discoursed,  
What should be said at last, and what at first:  
Some passages at present may be heard,  
Others till afterward are best deferred:  
Verse, which disdains the Laws of History,  
Speaks things not as they are, but aught to be:  
Whoever will in Poetry excel,  
Must learn, and use this hidden secret well.   

'Tis next to be observed, that care is due,  
And sparingness in framing words anew:  
You show your mastery, if you have the knack  
So to make use of what known word you take,  
To give't a newer sense: if there be need  
For some uncommon matter to be said;  
Power of inventing terms may be allowed,  
Which Chaucer and his Age ne'er understood:  
Provided always, as 'twas said before,  
We seldom, and discreetly use that power.  
Words new and foreign may be best brought in,  
If borrowed from a Language near akin:  
Why should the peevish Critics now forbid  
To Lee, and Dryden, what was not denied  
To Shakespeare, Ben, and Fletcher heretofore,  
For which they praise, and commendation bore?  
If Spencer's Muse be justly so adored  
For that rich copiousness, wherewith he stored  
Our Native Tongue; for God's sake why should I  
Strait be thought arrogant; if modestly  
I claim and use the selfsame liberty?  
This the just Right of Poets ever was,  
And will be still, to coin what words they please,  
Well fitted to the present Age, and Place,   

Words with the Leaves of Trees a semblance hold  
In this respect, where every year the old  
Fall off, and new ones in their places grow:  
Death is the Fate of all things here below:  
Nature herself by Art has changes felt,  
The Tangier Mole (by our great Monarch built)  
Like a vast Bulwark in the Ocean set,  
From Pirates and from Storms defends our Fleet:  
Fens every day are drained, and Men now Blow,  
And ●…ow, and Reap, where they before might Row,  
And Rivers have been taught by Middleton  
From their old course within new Banks to run,  
And pay their useful Tribute to the Town.  
If Man's and Nature's works submit to Fate,  
Much less must words expect a lasting date:  
Many which we approve for currant now,  
In the next Age out of request shall grow:  
And others which are now thrown out of doors,  
Shall be revived, and come again in force,  
If custom please: from whence their vogue they draw,  
Which of our Speech is the sole Judge, and Law.   

Homer first showed us in Heroic strains  
To write of Wars, of Battles and Campaigns,  
Kings and great Leaders, mighty in Renown,  
And him we still for our chief Pattern own,   

Soft Elegy, designed for grief, and tears,  
Was first devised to grace some mournful Hearse:  
Since to a brisker note 'tis taught to move,  
And clothes our gayest Passions, Joy, and Love.  
But, who was first Inventor of the kind,  
Critics have sought, but never yet could find.  
Gods, Heroes, Warriors, and the losty praise  
Of peaceful Conquerors in Pisa's Race,  
The Mirth and Joys, which Love and Wine produce,  
With other wanton sallies of a Muse,  
The stately Ode does for its Subjects choose.   

Archilochus to vent his Gall and spite,  
In keen iambics first was known to write:  
Dramatic Authors used this sort of Verse  
On all the Greek and Roman theatres,  
As for Discourse and Conversation fit,  
And ap●…'st to drown the noises of the Pit,   

If I discern not the true stile and air,  
Nor how to give the proper Character  
To every kind of work; how dare I claim,  
And challenge to myself a Poet's Name?  
And why had I with awkard modesty,  
Rather than learn, always unskilful be?  
Volp●…ne and M●…rose will not admit  
Of Catiline's high strains, nor is it fit  
To make Sejanus on the Stage appear  
In the low dress, which Comic persons wear.  
What e'er the Subject be, on which you write,  
Give each thing its due place, and time aright:   

Yet Comedy sometimes may raise her stile,  
And angry Chremes is allowed to swell,  
And Tragedy alike sometimes has leave  
To throw off Majesty, when 'tis to grieve:  
Peleus and Telephus in misery,  
Lay their big words, and blust'ring language by,  
If they expect to make their Audience cry.  
'Tis not enough to have your Plays succeed;  
That they be elegant: they must not need  
Those warm and moving touches which impart  
A kind con●…rnment to each Hearers heart,  
And ravish it which way they please with art.  
Where Joy and Sorrow put on good disguise,  
Ours with the persons looks strait sympathise:  
Wouldst have me weep? thyself must first begin:  
Then, Telephus, to pity I incline,  
And think thy case, and all thy suff●…rings mine;  
But if thou'rt made to act thy part amiss,  
I can't forbear to sleep, or laugh, or hiss,  
Let words express the looks, which speakers wear;  
Sad, fit a mournful, and dejected air;  
The passionate must huff, and storm, and rave;  
The gay be pleasant, and the serious grave.  
For Nature works, and moulds our Frame within,  
To take all manner of Impressions in.  
Now makes us hot, and ready to take fire,  
Now hope, now joy, now sorrow does inspire,  
And all these passions in our face appear,  
Of which the Tongue is sole interpreter:  
But he whose words, and Fortunes do not suit,  
By Pit and Gall'ty both, is hooted out.   

Observe what Characters your persons fit,  
Whether the Master speak, or Todelet:  
Whether a man, that's elderly in growth,  
Or a brisk Hotspur in his boiling youth:  
A roaring Bully, or a shirking Cheat,  
A Court-bred Lady, or a tawdry Cit:  
A prating Gossip, or a jilting Whore,  
A travelled Merchant, or an home spun Boor:  
Spaniard, or French, Italian, Dutch, or Dane;  
Native of Turkey, India, or Japan.   

Either from History your persons take,  
Or let them nothing inconsistent speak:  
If you bring great Achilles on the Stage,  
Let him be fierce and brave, all heat and rage,  
Inflexible, and headstrong to all Laws,  
But those, which Arms and his own will impose.  
Cruel Medea must no pity have,  
Ixion must be treacherous, Ino grieve,  
Io must wander, and Orestes rave,  
But if you dare to tread in paths unknown,  
And boldly start new persons of your own;  
Be sure to make them in one strain agree,  
And let the end like the beginning be.   

'Tis difficult for Writers to succeed  
On Arguments, which none before have tried:  
The Iliad, or the Odyssee with ease  
Will better furnish Subjects for your Plays,  
Than that you should your own Invention trust,  
And broth unheard of things yourself the first.  
In copying others works, to make them pass,  
And seem your own, let these few Rules take place:  
When you some of the●…r Story represent,  
Take care that you new Episodes invent:  
Be not too nice the Author's words to trace,  
But vary all with a fresh air, and grace;  
Nor such strict rules of imitation choose,  
Which you must still be tied to follow close,  
Or forced to a retreat for want of room,  
Give over, and ridiculous become:   

Do not like that affected Fool begin,  
King Priam's Fate, and Troy's famed War, I sing.  
What will this mighty Promiser produce?  
You look for Mountains, and out creeps a Mouse.  
How short is this of Homer's fine Address,  
And Art, who ne'er says any thing amiss?  
Muse, speak the man, Who since Troy 's laying waste  
Into such numerous Dangers has been cast,  
So many Towns, and various People past:  
He does not lavish at a blaze his Fire,  
To glare a while, and in a Snuff expire:  
But modesty at first conceals his light,  
In dazzling wonders, then breaks forth to sight;  
Surprises you with Miracles all o'er,  
Makes dreadful Scylla and Charybdis roar,  
Cyclops, and bloody Lestrygons devour:  
Nor does he time in long Preambles spend,  
Describing Meleager's rusul end,  
When he's of Di●…ed's return to treat;  
Nor when he would the Trojan War relare,  
The Tale of brooding Leda's Eggs repeat.  
But still to the designed event hastes on,  
And at first dash, as if before 'twere known,  
Embarks you in the middle of the Plot,  
And what is unimprovable leaves out,  
And mixes Truth and Fiction skilfully,  
That nothing in the whole may disagree.   

Who e'er you are, that set yourselves to write,  
If you expect to have your Audience sit  
Till the fifth Act be done, and Curtain fall;  
Mind what Instructions I shall further tell:  
Our Guise, and Manners alter with our Age,  
And such they must be brought upon the Stage.   

A Child, who newly has to Speech attained,  
And now can go without the Nurse's hand,  
To play with those of his own growth is pleased,  
Suddenly angry, and as soon appeased,  
Fond of new Trifles, and as quickly cloyed,  
And loathes next hour what he the last enjoyed.   

The beardless Youth from Pedagogue got loose;  
Does Dogs and Horses for his pleasures choose;  
Yielding, and soft to every print of vice,  
Resty to those who would his faults chastise,  
Careless of Profit, of expenses vain,  
Haughty, and eager his desires t' obtain.  
And swift to quit the same desires again.   

Those, who to manly years, and sense are grown,  
Seek Wealth and Friendship, Honour and Renown:  
And are discreet, and fearful how to act  
What after they must alter and correct.   

Diseases, Ills, and Troubles numberless  
Attend old Men, and with their Age increase:  
In painful toil they spend their wretched years,  
Still heaping Wealth, and with that wealth new cares:  
Fond to possess, and fearful to enjoy,  
Slow, and suspicious in their managry,  
Full of Delays, and Hopes, lovers of ease,  
Greedy of life, morose, and hard to please,  
Envious at Pleasures of the young and gay;  
Where they themselves now want a stock to play;  
Ill natured Censors of the present Age,  
And what has past since they have quit the Stage:  
But loud Admirers of Queen Besse's time,  
And what was done when they were in their prime.   

Thus, what our tide of flowing years brings in,  
Still with our ebb of life goes out again:  
The humours of Fourscore will never hit  
One of Fifteen, nor a Boy's partly befit  
A fullgrown man: it shows no mean Address,  
If you the tempers of each Age express.   

Some things are best to act, others to tell;  
Those by the ear conveyed, do not so well,  
Nor half so movingly affect the mind,  
As what we to our eyes presented find.  
Yet there are many things, which should not come  
In view, nor pass beyond the Tiring Room:  
Which, after in expressive Language told,  
Shall please the Audience more, than to behold:  
Let not Medea show her fatal rage,  
And cut her children's Throats upon the Stage:  
Nor Oedipus tear out his eye balls there,  
Nor bloody Atreus his dire Feast prepare:  
Cadmus, nor Progne their odd changes take,  
This to a Bird, the other to a Snake:  
Whatever so incredible you show,  
Shocks my Belief, and strait does nauseous grow.   

Five Acts, no more, nor less, your Play must have,  
If you'll an handsome Third Days share receive.  
Let not a God be summoned to attend  
On a slight errand, nor on Wire des●…end,  
Unless th' importance of the Plot engage;  
And let but Three at once speak on the Stage.   

Be sure to make the Chorus still promote  
The chief Intrigue and business of the Plot:  
Betwixt the Acts there must be nothing Sung,  
Which does not to the main Design belong:  
The praises of the Good must here be told;  
The Passions curbed, and foes of Vice extolled:  
Here Thrift and Temperance, and wholesome Laws,  
Strict Justice, and the gentle calms of Peace  
Must have their Commendations, and Applause:  
And Prayers must be sent to Heaven to guide  
Blind Fortune's blessings to the juster side,  
To raise the Poor, and lower prosperous Pride.   

At first the Music of our Stage was rude,  
Whilst in the Cockpit and Black Friars it stood:  
And this might please enough in former Reigns,  
A thrifty, thin, and bashful Audience:  
When Bussy d' Ambois and his Fustian took,  
And men were ravished with Queen Gordobuc.  
But since our Monarch by kind Heaven sent,  
Brought back the Arts with him from Banishment,  
And by his gentle influence gave increase  
To all the harmless Luxuries of peace:  
Favoured by him, our Stage has flourished too,  
And every day in outward splendour grew:  
In Music, Song, and Dance of every kind,  
And all the grace of Action 'tis tefined;  
And since that Operas at length came in,  
Our Players have so well improved the Scene  
With gallantry of Habit, and Machine,  
As makes our Theatre in Glory vie  
With the best Ages of Antiquity:  
And mighty Roscius were heliving now,  
Would envy both our Stage, and Acting too.   

Those, who did first in Tragedy essay  
(When a vile Goat was all the Poet's day)  
Used to allay their Subject's gravity  
With interludes of Mirth, and Raillery:  
Here they brought rough, and naked Satyrs in,  
Whose Farcelike Gesture, Motion, Speech, and Mien  
Resemble those of modern Harlequin.  
Because such antic Tricks, and odd grimace,  
After their drunken Feasts on Holidays,  
The giddy and hot headed Rout would please;  
As the wild Feats of Merry Andrews now  
Divert the senseless Crowd at Bartholomew.   

But he, that would in this Mock-way excel,  
And exercise the Art of Railing well,  
Had need with diligence observe this Rule  
In turning serious things to ridicule:  
If he an Hero, or a God bring in,  
With Kingly Robes and Sceptre lately seen,  
Let them not speak, like Burlesque Characters,  
The wit of Billingsgate and Temple-stairs:  
Nor, while they of those meannesses beware,  
In tearing lines of Bajazet appear.  
Majestic Tragedy as much disdains  
To condescend to low, and trivial strains:  
As a Court-Lady thinks herself disgraced  
To Dance with Dowdies at a May-pole-Feast.   

If in this kind you will attempt to write,  
You must no broad and clownish words admit:  
Nor must you foe confound your Characters,  
As not to mind what person 'tis appears.  
Take a known Subject, and invent it well,  
And let your stile be smooth and natural:  
Though others think it easy to attain,  
They'll find it hard, and imitate in vain:  
So much does method and connexion grace  
The commonest things, the plainest matters raise.   

In my opinion 'tis absurd and odd,  
To make wild Satyrs, coming from the Wood,  
Speak the fine Language of the Park and Mall,  
As if they had their Training at ‛ Whitehall:  
Yet, though I would not have their Words too acquaint,  
Much less can I allow them impudent:  
For men of Breeding, and of Quality  
Must needs be shocked with sulsom Ribaldry:  
Which, though it pass the Footboy and the Cit.,  
Is always nauscous to the Box, and Pit.   

There are but few, who have such skilful ears  
To judge of artless, and ill measured Verse.  
This till of late was hardly understood,  
And still▪ there's too much liberty allowed.  
But will you therefore be so much a fool  
To write at random, and neglect a Rule?  
Or, while your faults are set to general view,  
Hope all men should be blind, or pardon you?  
Who would not such sool hardiness condemn,  
Where, though perchance you may escape from blame.  
Yet praise you never can expect, or claim?  
Therefore be sure your study to apply  
To the great patterns of Antiquity:  
ne'er lay the Greeks and Romans out of sight,  
Ply them by day, and think on them by night.  
Rough hobbling numbers were allowed for Rhyme,  
And clench for deep conceit in former time:  
With too much patience (not to call it worse)  
Both were applauded in our Ancestors:  
If you, or I have sense to judge aright  
Betwixt a Quibble, and true sterling Wit:  
Or ear enough to give the difference  
Of sweet well-sounding Verse from doggrel strains.   

Thespis ('tis said) did Tragedy devise,  
Unknown before, and rude at its first rise:  
In Carts the Gipsy Actors strowled about,  
With faces smeared with Lees of Wine and Soot,  
And through the Towns amused the wondering rout  
Till AEschylus appearing to the Age,  
Contrived a Play house, and convenient Stage.  
Found out the use of Vizards, and a Dress  
(An handsomer, and more gentile Disguise)  
And taught the Actors with a stately Air,  
And Mien to speak, and Tread, and whatsoever  
Gave Port, and grandeur to the Theatre.   

Next this succeeded ancient Comedy,  
With good applause, till too much liberty  
Usurped by Writers had debauched the Stage,  
And made it grow the Grievance of the Age:  
No merit was seoure, no person free  
From its licentious Buffoonery:  
Till for redress the Magistrate was fain  
By Law those Insolences to restrain.   

Our Authors in each kind their praise may claim,  
Who leave no paths untrod, that lead to fame:  
And well they merit it, who scorned to be  
So much the Vassals of Antiquity,  
As those, who know no better than to cloy  
With the old musty Tales of Thebes and Troy:  
But boldly the dull beaten tract forsook,  
And Subjects from our Country story took.  
Nor would our Nation less in Wit appear,  
Than in its great performances of War;  
Were there encouragements to bribe our care,  
Would we to file, and finish spare the pains,  
And add but justness to our manly sense.  
But, Sir, let nothing tempt you to belly  
Your skill, and judgement, by mean flattery:  
Never pretend to like a piece of Wit,  
But what, you're certain, is correctly writ:  
But what has stood all Tests, and is allowed  
By all to be unquestionably good.   

Because some wild Enthusiasts there be  
Who bar the Rules of Art in Poetry.  
Would have it rapture all, and scarce admit  
A man of sober sense to be a Wit;  
Others by this conceit have been misled  
So much, that they're grown statu●…ably mad:  
The Sots affect to be retired alone.  
Court Solitude and Conversation shun,  
In dirty clothes, and a wild Garb appear,  
And scarce are brought to cut their Nails and Hair.  
And hope to purchase credit and esteem,  
When they, like Cromwel's Porter, frantic seem,  
Strange! that they very height of Lunacy,  
Beyond the cure of Alle●…, e'er should be  
A mark of the Elect in Poetry.  
How much as Ass am I that used to Bleed,  
And take a Purge each Spring to clear my Head?  
None otherwise would be so good as I,  
At lofty strains, and rants of Poetry:)  
But, faith, I am not yet so fond of Fame,  
To lose my Reason for a Poet's name.  
Tho I myself am not disposed to write;  
In others I may serve to sharpen Wit:  
Acquaint them what a Poet's duty is,  
And how he shall perform it with success:  
Whence the materials for his work are sought,  
And how with skilful Art they must be wrought:  
And show what is and is not decency,  
And where his faults and excellencies lie.   

Good sense must be the certain standard still  
To all that will pretend to writing well:  
If you'll arrive at that, you needs must be  
Well versed and grounded in Philosophy:  
Then choose a Subject, which you throughly know,  
And words unsought thereon will easy flow.  
whoever will write, must diligently mind  
The several sorts and ranks of humane kind:  
He that has learned, what to his Country's due,  
What we to Parents, Friends, and Kindred owe,  
What charge a Statesman, or a Judge does bear,  
And what the parts of a Commander are;  
Will never be at loss (he may be sure)  
To give each person their due portraiture.  
Take humane life for your original,  
Keep but your Draughts to that, you'll never fail.  
Sometimes in Plays, though else but badly writ  
With nought of Force, or Grace, of Art, or Wit,  
Some one well humoured Character we meet,  
That takes us more than all the empty Scenes,  
And jingling toys of more elaborate Pens.   

Greece had command of Language, Wit and Sense,  
For cultivating which she spared no pains:  
Glory her sole design, and all her aim  
Was how to gain here self immortal Fame:  
Our English Youth another way are bred,  
They're fitted for a Prenticeship, and Trade,  
And Wingate's all the Authors, which they've read.  
The Boy has been a year at Writing-School,  
Has learned Division, and the Golden Rule;  
Scholar enough! cries the old doting Fool,  
I'll hold a Piece, he'll prove an Alderman,  
And come to sit at Church with's Furs and Chain.  
This is the top design, the only praise,  
And sole ambition of the booby Race:  
While this base spirit in the Age does reign,  
And men might nought but Wealth and sordid gain,  
Can we expect or hope it should bring forth  
A work in Poetry of any worth,  
Fit for the learned Bodley to admit  
Among its Sacred Monuments of Wit?   

A Poet should inform us, or divert,  
But joining both he shows his chiefest Art:  
Whatever Precepts you pretend to give,  
Be sure to lay them down both clear and brief:  
By that they're easier far to apprehend,  
By this more faithfully preserved in mind:  
All things superfluous are apt to cloy  
The Judgement, and surcharge the Memory.   

Let whatsoever of Fiction you bring in,  
Be so like Truth, to seem at least akin:  
Do not improbabilities conceive,  
And hope to ram them into my belief:  
ne'er make a Witch upon the Stage appear,  
Riding enchanted Broomstick through the Air:  
Nor Cannibal a living Infant spew,  
Which he had murdered, and devour'd but now.  
The graver sort dislike all Poetry,  
Which does not (as they call it) edify:  
And youthful sparks as much that Wit despise,  
Which is not strewed with pleasant Gaieties.  
But he, that has the knack of mingling well  
What is of use with what's agreeable,  
That knows at once how to instruct and please,  
Is justly crowned by all men's suffrages:  
These are the works, which valued every where,  
every Paul's Churchyard and the Stationer:  
These admiration through all Nations claim,  
And through all Ages spread their Author's Fame.   

Yet there are faults wherewith we ought to bear;  
An Instrument may sometimes chance to jar  
In the best hand, in spite of all its care:  
Nor have I known that skilful Marksman yet  
So fortunate, who never missed the White.  
But where I many excellencies find,  
I'm not so nicely critical to mind  
Each slight mistake an Author may produce,  
Which humane frailty justly may excuse.  
Yet he, who having oft been taught to mend  
A Fault, will still pursue it to the end,  
Is like that scraping Fool, who the same Note  
Is ever playing. and is ever out,  
And silly as that bubble every whit,  
Who at the selfsame blot is always hit.  
When such a lewd incorrigible sot  
Luck's by mere chance upon some happy thought;  
Among such filthy trash, I vex to see't,  
And wonder how (the Devil!) he came by't.  
In works of bulk and length we now and then  
May grant an Author to be overseen:  
Homer himself, how sacred e'er he is,  
Yet claims not a pretence to Faultlesness.   

Poems with Pictures a resemblance bear;  
Some (best at distance) eat a view too near:  
Others are bolder, and stand off to sight;  
These love the shade, those choose the clearest light,  
And dare the survey of the skilfullest eyes:  
Some once, and some ten thousand times will please.   

Sir, though yourself so much of knowledge own  
In these affairs, that you can learn of none,  
Yet mind this certain truth which I lay down:  
Most Callings else do difference allow,  
Where ordinary Parts, and Skill may do:  
I've known Physicians, who respect might claim,  
Tho they ne'er rose to Willis his great fame:  
And there are Preachers who have great renown.  
Yet ne'er come up to Sprat, or Tillotson:  
And Counsellors, or Pleaders in the Hall  
May have esteem, and practice, though they fall  
Far short of smooth-tongued Finch in Eloquence,  
Tho they want Selden's Learning, Vaughan's sense,  
But Verse alone does of no mean admit,  
whoever will please, must please us to the height:  
He must a Cowley or a Fleckno be,  
For there's no second Rate in Poetry:  
A dull insipid Writer none can bear,  
In every place he is the public jeer,  
And Lumber of the Shops and Stationer.   

No man that understands to make a Feast,  
With a coarse Dessert will offend his Guest,  
Or bring ill Music in to grate the ear,  
Because 'tis what the entertain might spare:  
'Tis the same case with those that deal in Wit,  
Whose main design and end should be delight:  
They must by this same sentence stand, or fall,  
Be highly excellent, or not at all.   

In all things else, save only Poetry,  
Men show some signs of common modesty:  
You'll hardly find a Fencer so unwise,  
Who at Bear-garden e'er will fight a Prize,  
Not having learned before: nor at a Wake  
One, that wants skill and strength, the Girdle take,  
Or be so vain the ponderous Weight to sling,  
For fear they should be hissed out of the Ring.  
Yet every Coxcomb will pretend to Verse,  
And write in spite of nature, and his Stars:  
All sorts of Subjects challenge at this time  
The Liberty, and Property of Rhyme.  
The Sot of honour, fond of being great  
By something else than Title, and Estate,  
As if a Patent gave him claim to sense,  
O●… 'twere entailed with an Inheritance,  
Believes a cast of Footboys, and a set  
Of Flanders must advance him to a Wit.  
But you who have the judgement to descry  
Where you excel, which way your Talents lie,  
I'm sure, will never be induced to strain  
Your Genius, or attempt against your vein.  
Yet (this let me advise) if e'er you write,  
Let none of your composures see the light,  
Till they've been throughly weighed, and past the Test  
Of all those Judges who are thought the best:  
While in your Desk they're locked up from the Press,  
You've power to correct them as you please:  
But when they once come forth to view of all,  
Your Faults are Chronicled, and past recall.   

Orpheus the first of the inspired Train,  
By force of powerful numbers did restrain  
Mankind from rage, and bloody cruelty,  
And taught the barbarous world civility,  
Hence rose the Fiction, which the Poets sramed,  
That Lions were by's tweful Magic tamed,  
And Tigers, charmed by his harmonious lays,  
Grew gentle, and said by their savageness:  
Hence that, which of Amphion too they tell,  
The power of whose miraculous Lute could call  
The well-placed stones into the Theban Wall.  
Wondrous were the effects of primitive Verse,  
Which settled and reformed the Universe:  
This did all things to their due ends reduce,  
To public, private, sacred, civil use:  
Marriage for weighty causes was ordained,  
That bridled lust, and lawless Love restrained:  
Cities with Walls, and Rampires were enclosed,  
And property with wholesome Laws disposed:  
And bounds were fixed of Equity and Right,  
To guard weak Innocence from wrongful might.  
Hence Poets have been held a sacred name,  
And placed with first Rates in the Lists of Fame.  
Next these, great Homer to the world appeared,  
Around the Globe his loud alarms were heard,  
Which all the brave to war like action fired:  
And Hesiod after him with useful skill  
Gave Lessons to instruct the Ploughman's toil.  
Verse was the language of the gods of old,  
In which their sacred Oracles were told:  
In Verse were the first rules of virtue taught,  
And Doctrine thence, as now from Pulpits sought:  
By Verse some have the love of Princes gained,  
Who oft vouchsafe so to be entertained,  
And with a Muse their weighty cares unbend.  
Then think it no disparagement, dear Sir,  
To own yourself a Member of that Choir,  
Whom Kings esteem, and Heaven does inspire.   

Concerning Poets there has been contest,  
Whether they're made by Art, or Nature best:  
But if I may presume in this Affair,  
Amongst the rest my judgement to declare,  
No Art without a Genius will avail,  
And Parts without the help of Art will fail:  
But both Ingredients jointly must unite  
To make the happy Character complete.   

None at New-market ever won the Prize,  
But used his Air, and his Exercise,  
His Courses and his Diets long before,  
And Wine, and Women for a time forbore:  
Nor is there any Singing man, we know,  
Of good Repute in either Chapel now,  
But was a Learner once (he'll freely own)  
And by long Practice to that Skill has grown:  
But each conceited Dunce, without pretence  
To the least grain of Learning, Parts, or sense,  
Or any thing but hardened impudence,  
Sets up for Poetry, and dares engage  
With all the topping Writers of the Age:  
" Why should not be put in amongst the rest?  
" Damn him! he scorns to come behind the best:  
" Declares himself a Wit, and vows to draw  
" On the next man, who e'er disowns him so.   

Scribblers of Quality who have Estate,  
To gain applauding Fools at any rate,  
Practise as many tricks as Shopkeepers  
To force a Trade, and put off naughty wares:   

Some hire the House their Follies to expose,  
And are at charge to be ridiculous:  
Others with Wine, and Ordinaries treat  
A needy Rabble to cry up their Wit:  
'Tis strange, that such should the true difference find  
Betwixt a spunging Knave and faithful Friend.  
Take heed how you e'er prostitute your sense  
To such a fawning crew of Sycophants:  
All signs of being pleased the Rogues will feign,  
Wonder, and bless themselves at every line.  
Swearing, " 'Tis soft! 'tis charming! 'tis Divine!  
Here they'll look pale, as if surprised, and there  
In a disguise of grief squeeze out a tear:  
Oft seem transported with a sudden joy,  
Stamp and list up their hands in ecstasy:  
But, if by chance your back once turned appear,  
You'll have'em straight put out their tongues in jeer,  
Or point, or gibe you with a scornful sneer.  
As they who truly grieve at Funerals, show  
Less outward sorrow than hired mourners do;  
So true Admirers less concernment wear  
Before your face than the shame Flatterer.   

They tell of Kings, who never would admit  
A Confident, or bosom-Favourite,  
Till store of Wine had made his secrets float,  
And by that means they'd found his temper out:  
'Twere well if Poets knew some way like this,  
How to discern their friends from enemies.   

Had you consulted learned Ben of old,  
He would your faults impartially have told:  
" This Verse correction wants (he would have said)  
" And so does this: If you replied, you had  
To little purpose several trials made;  
He presently would bid you strike a dash  
On all, and put in better in the place:  
But if he found you once a stubborn sot,  
That would not be corrected in a fault;  
He would no more his pains and counsel spend  
On an abandoned Fool that scorned to mend;  
But bid you in the Devil's name go on,  
And hug your dear impertinence alone.   

A trusty knowing Friend will boldly dare  
To give his sense and judgement, wheresoever  
He sees a Fault: " Here, Sir, good faith, you're low,  
" And must some heightening on the place bestow:  
" There, if you mind, the Rhyme is harsh, and rough,  
" And should be softened to go smoothlier off:  
" Your strokes are here of Varnish left too bare,  
" Your Colours there too thick laid on appear:  
" Your Metaphor is corpse, that Phrase not pure,  
" This Word improper, and that sense obscure.  
In fine, you'll find him a strict Censurer,  
That will not your least negligences spare  
Through a vain fear of disobliging you:  
They are but slight, and trivial things, 'tis true:  
Yet these same Trifles (take a Poet's word)  
Matter of high importance will afford,  
When e'er by means of them you come to be  
Exposed to Laughter, Scorn, and Infamy.   

Not those with Lord have mercy on their doors,  
Venom of Adders, or infected Whores,  
Are dreaded worse by men of sense, and Wit,  
Than a mad Seribler in his raving fit:  
Like Dog, whose tail is pegged into a bone,  
The hooting Rabble all about the Town,  
Pursue the Cur, aund pelt him up and down.  
Should this poor Frantic, as he passed along,  
Intent on's Rhyming work amidst the throng,  
Into Fleet-Ditch, or some deep Cellar fall.  
And till he rend his throat for succour bawl,  
No one would lend an helping hand at call:  
For who (the Plague!) could guests at his design,  
Whether he did not for the nonce drop in?  
I'd tell you, Sir, but questionless you've heard  
Of the odd end of a Sicilian Bard:  
Fond to be deemed a god, this fool (it seems)  
In's fit leapt headlong into AE●…a's Flames.  
Troth, I could be content an Act might pass,  
Such Poets should have leave, when e'er they please,  
To die, and rid us of our Grievances.  
A God's name let'em hang, or drown, or choose  
What other way they will themselves dispose,  
Why should we life against their wills impose?  
Might that same fool I mentioned, now revive,  
He would not be reclaimed, I dare believe,  
But soon be playing his old freaks again,  
And still the same capricious hopes retain.   

'Tis hard to guests, and harder to allege  
Whether for Parricide, or Sacrilege,  
Or some more strange, unknown, and horrid crime,  
Done in their own, or their Forefathers time,  
These scribbling Wretches have been damned to Rhyme:  
But certain 'tis, for such a crackbraind Race  
Bedlam, or Hogsdon is the fittest place:  
Without their Keepers you had better choose  
To meet the Lions of the Tower broke loose,  
Than these wild savage Rhymers in the street,  
Who with their Verses worry all they meet:  
In vain you would release yourself; so close  
The Leeches cleave, that there's no getting loose.   

Remorseless they to no entreaties yield,  
Till you are with inhuman nonsense killed.    

An Imitation of HORACE. BOOK I. satire IX.  
Written in June, 1681.  
Ibam for●…è viâ sacrâ, etc.  

AS I was walking in the Mall of late,  
Alone, and musing on I know not what;  
Comes a familiar Fop, whom hardly I  
Knew by his name, and rudely seizes me:  
Dear Sir, I'm mighty glad to meet with you:  
And pray, how have you done this Age, or two?  
" Well I thank God (said I) as times are now:  
" I wish the same to you. And so passed on,  
Hoping with this the Coxcomb would be gone.  
But when I saw I could not thus get free;  
I asked, what business else he had with me?  
Sir (answered he) If Learning, Parts, or Sense  
Merit your friendship; I have just pretence.  
" I honour you (said I) upon that score,  
" And shall be glad to serve you to my power.  
Mean time, wild to get loose, I try all ways  
To shake him off: Sometimes I walk apace,  
Sometimes stand still: I frown, I chafe, I fret,  
Shrug, turn my back, as in the Baigno, sweat:  
And show all kind of signs to make him guests  
At my impatience, and uneasiness.  
" Happy the solk in Newgate! (whispered I)  
" Who, though in Chains are from this torment free:  
" Would I were like rough Manly in the Play,  
" To send Impertinents with kicks away.!   

He all the while baits me with tedious chat,  
Speaks much about the drought, and how the rate  
Of Hay is raised, and what it now goes at:  
Tells me of a new Comet at the Hague,  
Portending God knows what, a Dearth, or Plague:  
Names every Wench, that passes through the Park,  
How much she is allowed, and who the Spark,  
That keeps her: points, who lately got a Clap,  
And who at the Groomporters had ill hap  
Three nights ago in play with such a Lord:  
When he observed, I minded not a word,  
And did no answer to his trash afford;  
Sir, I perceive you stand on Thorns (said he)  
And fain would part: but, faith, it must not be:  
Come, let us take a Bottle. (I cried) " No;  
" Sir, I am in a Course, and dare not now.  
Then tell me whether you desire to go:  
I'll wait upon you." Oh! Sir, 'tis too far:  
" I visit cross the Water: therefore spare  
" Your needless trouble. Trouble! Sir, 'tis none:  
'Tis more by half to leave you here alone.  
I have no present business to attend,  
At lest which I'll not quit for such a Friend:  
Tell me not of the distance: for I vow,  
I'll cut the Line, double the Cape for you,  
Good faith, I will not leave you: make no words;  
Go you to Lambeth? Is it to my Lords?  
His Steward I most intimately know,  
Have often drunk with his controller too.  
By this I found my Wheadle would not pass,  
But rather served my sufferings to increase:  
And seeing 'twas in vain to vex, or fret,  
I patiently submitted to my Fate.   

Straight he begins again: Sir, if you knew  
My worth but half so throughly as I do;  
I'm sure, you would not value any Friend  
You have, like me: but that I won't commend  
Myself, and my own Talents; I might tell  
How many ways to wonder I excel.  
None has a greater gift in Poetry,  
Or writes more Verses with more ease than I:  
I'm grown the envy of the men of Wit,  
I killed even Rochester with grief, and spite:  
Next for the Dancing part I all surpass,  
St. Andrew never moved with such a grace:  
And'tis well known, when e'er I sing, or set,  
Humphreys, nor Blow could ever match me yet.   

Here I got room to interrupt:" Have you  
" A Mother, Sir, or Kindred living now?  
Not one: they are all dead." Troth, so I guest:  
" The happier they (said I) who are at rest.  
" Poor I am only left unmurdered yet:  
" Haste, I beseech you, and dispatch me quite:  
" For I am well convinced, my time is come:  
" When I was young, a Gipsy told my doom:  
This Lad (said she, and looked upon my hand)  
Shall not by Sword, or Poison come to's end,  
Nor by the Fever, Dropsy, Gout, or Stone,  
But he shall die by an eternal Tongue:  
Therefore, when he's grown up, if he be wise,  
Let him avoid great Talkers, I advise.   

By this time we were got to Westminster;  
Where he by chance a Trial had to hear,  
And, if he were not there, his Cause must fall:  
Sir, if you love me, step into the Hall  
For one half hour," The Devil take me now,  
" (Said I) if I know any thing of Law:  
" Besides I told you whither I'm to go.  
Hereat he made a stand, pulled down his Hat  
Over his eyes, and mused in deep debate:  
" I'm in a strait (said he) what I shall do:  
Whether forsake my business, Sir, or you.  
" Me by all means (say I) No (says my Sot)  
I fear you'll take it ill, If I should do't:  
I'm sure, you will." Not I, by all that's good.  
But I've more breeding, than to be so rude.  
" Pray, don't neglect your own concerns for me:  
" Your Cause, good Sir! My Cause be damued (says he)  
I value't less than your dear Company.  
With this he came up to me, and would lead  
The way; I sneaking after hung my head.   

Next he begins to plague me with the Plot,  
Asks, whether I were known to Oats or not?  
" Not I, ' thank Heaven! I no. Priest have been:  
" Have never Douai, nor St. Omers seen,  
What think you, Sir; will they Fitz-Harris try?  
Will he die, think you? Yes, most certainly.  
I mean, be hanged." Would thou wert so (wished I.)  
Religion came in next; though he'd no more  
Than the Freneb King, his Punk, or Confessor.  
Oh! the sad times, if once the King should die!  
Sir, are you not afraid of Popery?  
" No more than my Superiors: why should I?  
" I've no Estate in Ally Lands to lose,  
But Fire, and Faggot, Sir, how like you these?  
" Come Inquisition, any thing (thought I)  
" So Heaven would bless me to get rid of thee:  
" But 'tis some comfort, that my Hell is here:  
" I need no punishment hereafter fear.   

Scarce had I thought, but he falls on anew  
How stands it, Sir, betwixt his Grace, and you?  
" Sir, he's a man of sense above the Crowd,  
" And shuns the Converse of a Multitude.  
Ay, Sir, (Says he) you're happy, who are near  
His Grace, and have the favour of his ear:  
But let me tell you, if you'll recommend  
This person here, your point will soon be gained.  
Gad, Sir, I'll die, if my own single Wit  
Don't Fob his Minions, and displace 'em quite.  
And make yourself his only Favourite.  
" No, you are out abundantly (said I)  
" We live not, as you think: no Family  
" Throughout the whole three Kingdoms is more free  
" From those ill Customs, which are used to swarm  
" In great men's houses; none e'er does me harm,  
" Because more Learned, or more Rich, than I:  
" But each man keeps his Place, and his Degree.  
'Tis mighty strange (says he) what you relate,  
" But nothing truer, take my word for that.  
You make me long to be admitted too  
Amongst his Creatures: Sir, I beg, that you  
Will stand my Friend: Your Interest is such,  
You may prevail, I'm sure, you can do much.  
He's one, that may be won upon, I've heard,  
Tho at the first approach access be hard.  
I'll spare no trouble of my own, or Friends,  
No cost in Fees, and Bribes to gain my ends:  
I'll seek all opportunities to meet  
With him, accost him in the very street:  
Hang on his Coach, and wait upon him home,  
Fawn, Scrape and Cringe to him, nay, to his Groom.  
Faith, Sir, this must be done, If we'll be great:  
Preferment comes not at a cheaper rate.   

While at this Savage rate he worried me;  
By chance a Doctor, my dear Friend came by,  
That knew the Fellow's humour passing well:  
Glad of the sight, I join him; we stand still:  
Whence came you, Sir? and whither go you now?  
And such like questions passed betwixt us two:  
Straight I begin to pull him by the sleeve.  
Nod, wink upon him, touch my Nose, and give  
A thousand hints, to let him know, that I  
Needed his help for my delivery:  
He, naughty Wag, with an Arch fleering smile  
Seems ignorant of what I mean the while:  
I grow stark wild with rage." Sir, said not you,  
" You'd somewhat to discourse, not long ago,  
" With me in private? I remember't well:  
Some other time, be sure, I will not fail:  
Now I am in great haste upon my word:  
A Messenger came for me from a Lord,  
That's in a bad condition, like to die.  
" Oh! Sir, he can't be in a worse, than I:  
" Therefore for God's sake do not stir from hence.  
Sweet Sir! your pardon: 'tis of consequence:  
I hope you're kinder than to pross my stay,  
Which may be Heaven knows what out of my way.  
This said, he left me to my murderer:  
Seeing no hopes of my relief appear:  
" Confounded be the Stars (said I) that swayed  
" This fatal day! would I had kept my Bed  
" With sickness, rather than been visited  
" With this worse P●…gue! what ill have I ere done  
" To pull this eur●…e, this heavy Judgement down?   

While I was thus lamenting my ill hap,  
Comos' aid at length: a brace of Bailiffs clap  
The Rascal on the back:" Here take your Fees,  
" Kind Gentlemen (said I) for my release.  
He would have had me Bail." Excuse me, Sir,  
" I've made a Vow ne'er to be Surety more:  
" My Father was undone by't here●…ofore.   

Thus I got off, and blessed the Fates that he  
Was Prisoner made, I set at liberty.    

Paraphrase upon HORACE. BOOK I. ODE XXXI.  
Quid dedicatum poscit Apollinem  
Vates? etc.—  

1.  
WHat does the Poet's modest Wish require?  
What Boon does he of gracious Heaven desire?  
Not the large Corpse of Esham's goodly Soil,  
Which tyre the Mower's, and the Reaper's toil;  
Not the soft Flocks, on hilly Cotsall fed,  
Nor Lemster Fields with living Fleeces clad:  
He does not ask the Grounds, where gentle Thames,  
Or Severn spread their fattening Streams.  
Where they with wanton windings play;  
And eat their widened Banks insensibly away:  
He does not ask the Wealth of Lombardstreet,  
Which Consciences, and Souls are pawned to get.  
Nor those exhaustless Mines of Gold,  
Which Guinny and Peru in their rich bosoms hold.   

2.  
Let those that live in the Canary Isles,  
On which indulgent Nature ever smiles,  
Take pleasure in their plenteous Vintages,  
And from the juicy Grape its racy Liquor press:  
Let wealthy Merchants, when they Dine,  
Run o'er their costly names of Wine,  
Their Chests of Florence, and their Mont-Alchine.  
Their Mants, Champagns, Chablees, Frontiniacks tell,  
Their Aums of Hock, of Backrag and Moselle:  
He envies not their Luxury  
Which they with so much pains, and danger buy:  
For which so many Storms, and Wrecks they bear,  
For which they pass the straits so oft each year,  
And scape so narrowly the Bondage of Argier.   

3.  
He wants no Cyprus Birds, nor Ortola●…s,  
Nor Daintics fetched from far to please his Sense,  
Cheap wholesome Herbs content his frugal Board.  
The food of unfaln Innocence,  
Which the meanest Village Garden does afford:  
Grant him; kind Heaven, the sum of his desires,  
What Nature, not what Luxury requires:  
He only does a Competency claim,  
And, when he has it, wit to use the same:  
Grant him sound Health, impaired by no Disease,  
Nor by his own Excess:  
Let him in strength of Mind, and Body live.  
But not his Reason, nor his Sense survive:  
His Age (if Age he e'er must live to see)  
Let it from want, Contempt, and Care be free.  
But not from Mirth, and the delights of Poetry,  
Grant him but this, he's amply satisfied.  
And scorns whatever Fate can give beside.    

Paraphrase upon HORACE. BOOK II. ODE XIV.  
Eheu fugaces, Posthume, Posthume,  
Labuntur anni, etc.  

1.  
ALas! dear Friend, alas! time hastes away,  
Nor is it in our power to bribe its stay:  
The rolling years with constant motion run,  
Lo! while I speak, the present minute's gone,  
And following hours urge the foregoing on.  
'Tis not thy Wealth, 'tis not thy Power,  
'Tis not thy Piety can thee secure:  
They're all too feeble to withstand  
Grey Hairs, approaching Age, and thy avoidless end.  
When once thy fatal Glass is run,  
When once thy utmost Thread is spun,  
'Twill then be fruitless to expect Reprieve:  
Couldst thou ten thousand Kingdoms give  
In purchase for each hour of longer life,  
They would not buy one gasp of breath,  
Not move one jot inexorable Death.   

2.  
All the vast stock of humane Progeny,  
Which now like swarms of Infects ●…wl  
Upon the Surface of Earth's spacious Ball,  
Must quit this Hillock of Mortality,  
And in its Bowels buried lie.  
The mightiest King, and proudest Potentate,  
In spite of all his Pomp, and all his State,  
Must pay this necessary Tribute unto Fate.  
The busy, restless Monarch of the times, which now  
Keeps such a pother, and so much ado  
To fill Gazettes alive,  
And after in some lying Annal to survive;  
Even He, even that great mortal Man must die,  
And stink, and rot as well as thou, and I,  
As well as the poor tattered Wretch, that begs his bread,  
And is with scraps out of the common Basket said.   

3.  
In vain from dangers of the bloody Field we keep,  
In vain we escape  
The sultry Line, and stormy Cape,  
And all the treacheries of the faithless Deep:  
In vain for health to foreign Countries we repair,  
And change our English for Mompellier Air,  
In hope to leave our fears of dying there:  
In vain with costly far fetched Drugs we strive  
To keep the wasting vital Lamp alive:  
In vain on Doctors feeble Art rely;  
Against resistless Death there is no remedy:  
Both we, and they for all their skill must die,  
And fill alike the Bedrols of Mortality.   

4.  
Thou must, thou must resign to Fate, my Friend,  
And leave thy House, thy Wife, and Family behind:  
Thou must thy fair, and goodly Manors leave,  
Of these thy Trees thou shalt not with thee take,  
Save just as much as will thy Coffin make:  
Nor wilt thou be allowed of all thy Land, to have,  
But the small pittance of a six-foot Grave.  
Then shall thy prodigal young Heir  
Lavish the Wealth, which thou for many a year  
Hast hoarded up with so much pains and care:  
Then shall he drain thy Cellars of their Stores,  
Kept sacred now as vaults of buried Ancestors:  
Shall set th' enlarged Butts at liberty,  
Which there close Prisoners under durance lie,  
And wash these stately Floors with better Wine  
Than that of consecrated Prelates when they dine.    

The PRAISE of HOMER. ODE.  

1.  
HAil God of Verse! pardon that thus I take in vain  
Thy sacred, everlasting Name,  
And in unhallowed Lines blaspheme:  
Pardon that with strange Fire thy Altars I profane.  
Hail thou! to whom we mortal Bards our Faith submit,  
Whom we acknowledge our sole Text, and holy Writ:  
None other Judge infallible we own,  
But Thee, who art the Canon of authentic Wit alone.  
Thou art the unexhausted Ocean, whence  
Sprung first, and still do flow th' eternal Rills of sense:  
To none but Thee our Art Divine we owe;  
From whom it had its Rise, and full Perfection too.  
Thou art the mighty Bank, that ever dost supply  
Throughout the world the whole Poetic Company:  
With thy vast stock alone they traffic for a name,  
And send their glorious Ventures out to all the Coasts of Fame,   

2.  
How trulier blind was dull Antiquity,  
Who fastened that unjust Reproach on Thee?  
Who can the senseless Tale believe?  
Who can to the false Legend credit give?  
Or think thou wantedst sight, by whom all others see?  
What Land, or Region, how remote soe'er,  
Does not so well described in thy great Draughts appear,  
That each thy native Country seems to be,  
And each t'have been surveyed, and measured out By thee?  
Whatever Earth does in her pregnant Bowels bear,  
Or on her fruitful Surface wear;  
What e'er the spacious Fields of Air contain,  
Or far extended Territories of the Main;  
Is by thy skilful Pencil so exactly shown,  
We scarce discern where thou, or Nature best has drawn,  
Nor is thy quick all-piercing Eye  
Or checked, or bounded here:  
But farther does surpass, and farther does descry:  
Beyond the Travels of the Sun, and Year.  
Beyond this glorious Scene of starry Tapestry,  
Where the vast Purliews of the Sky,  
And boundless waste of Nature lies,  
Thy Voyages thou mak'st, and bold Discoveries.  
What there the Gods in Parliament debate,  
What Votes, or Acts i'th' Heavenly Houses pass,  
By Thee so well communicated was;  
As if thou'dst been of that Cabal of State,  
As if Thou hadst been sworn the Privy-Counsellor of Fate.   

3.  
What Chief, who does thy Warrior's great Exploits survey,  
Will not aspire to Deeds as great as they?  
What generous Readers would he not inspire  
With the same gallant Heat, the same ambitious Fire?  
Methinks from Ida's top with noble Joy I view  
The warlike Squadrons by his daring Conduct led;  
I see th' immortal Host engaging on his side,  
And him the blushing Gods outdo.  
Where e'er he does his dreadful Standards bear,  
Horror stalks in the Van, and Slaughter in the Rear.  
Whole Swarths of Enemies his Sword does mow,  
And Limbs of mangled Chiefs his passage strew,  
And floods of reeking Gore the Field o'reslow:  
While Heavn's dread Monarch from his Throne of State,  
With high concern upon the Fight looks down,  
And wrinkles his Majestic Brow into a Frown,  
To see bold Man, like him, distribute Fate.   

4.  
While the great Macedonian Youth in Nonage grew,  
Not yet by Charter of his years set free  
From Guardians, and their slavish tyranny,  
No Tutor, but the Budge Philosophers he knew:  
And well enough the grave, and useful Tools  
Might serve to read him Lectures, and to please  
With unintelligible Jargon of the Schools,  
And airy Terms and Notions of the Colleges:  
They might the Art of Prating, and of Brawling teach,  
And some insipid Homilies of Virtue preach:  
But when the mighty Pupil had outgrown  
Their musty Discipline, when manlier Thoughts possessed  
His generous Princely Breast,  
Now ripe for Empire, and a Crown,  
And filled with lust of Honour, and Renown;  
He than learned to contemn  
The despicable things, the men of Phlegm:  
Straight he to the dull Pedants gave release,  
And a more noble Master straight took place:  
Thou, who the Grecian Warrior so couldst praise,  
As might in him just envy raise,  
Who (one would think) had been himself too high  
To envy any thing of all Mortality,  
'Twas thou that taught'st him Lessons lostier far,  
The Art of Reigning, and the Art of War:  
And wondrous was the Progress, which he made,  
While he the Acts of thy great Pattern read:  
The World too narrow for his boundless Conquests grew,  
He Conquered one, and wished, and wept for new:  
From thence he did those Miracles produce,  
And Fought, and Vanquiihed by the Conduct of a Muse.   

5.  
No wonder rival Nations quarrelled for thy Birth,  
A Prize of greater and of higher worth  
Than that which led whole Greece, and Asia forth,  
Than that, for which thy mighty Hero fought,  
And Troy with ten years' War, and its Destruction bought.  
Well did they think it noble to have bore that Name,  
Which the whole world would with ambition claim:  
Well did they Temples raise  
To Thee, at whom Nature herself stood in amaze,  
A work, she never tried to mend, nor could,  
In which mistaking Man, by chance she formed a God.  
How gladly would our willing Isle resign  
Her fabulous Arthur, and her boasted Constantine,  
And half her Worthies of the Norman Line,  
And quite the honour of their Births to be insured to Thine?  
How justly might it the wise choice approve.  
Prouder in this than Crete to have brought forth Almighty Jove?   

6.  
Unhappy we, thy British Off spring here,  
Who strive by thy great Model Monuments to rear:  
In vain for worthless Fame we toil,  
That's penned in the straight limits of a narrow Isle:  
In vain our Force, and Art we spend  
With noble labours to enrich our Land,  
Which none beyond our Shores vouchsafe to understand.  
Be the fair structure ne'er so well designed,  
The parts with ne'er so much proportion joined;  
Yet foreign Bards (such is their Pride, or Prejudice)  
All the choice Workmanship for the Materials sake despise.  
But happier thou thy Genius didst dispense  
In Language universal as thy sense:  
All the rich Bullion, which thy Sovereign Stamp does wear  
On every Coast of Wit does equal value bear,  
Allowed by all, and currant every where.  
No Nation yet has been so barbarous found,  
Where thy transcendent Worth was not renowned.  
Throughout the World thou art with Wonder read,  
Where ever Learning does its Commerce spread,  
Where ever Fame with all her Tongues can speak,  
Where ever the bright God of Wit does his vast Journeys take,   

7.  
Happy above Mankind that envied Name,  
Which Fare ordained to be thy glorious Theme:  
What greater Gift could bounteous Heaven bestow  
On its chief Favourite below?  
What nobler Trophy could his high Deserts be fit,  
Than these thy vast erected Pyramids of Wit?  
Not Statutes cast in solid Brass,  
Nor those, which Art in breathing Marble does express,  
Can boast an equal Life, or lastingness  
With their well-polished Images, which claim  
A Nich in thy Majestic Mohuments of Fame.  
Here their embalmed incorruptible memories  
Can proudest Lovures, and Escurials despise,  
And all the needless helps of Aegypts' costly Vanities.  
No Blasts of Heaven, or Ruin of the Spheres,  
Not all the washing Tides of rolling years,  
Nor the whole Race of battering time shall e'er wear out  
The great Inscriptions, which thy Hand has wrought,  
Here thou, and they shall live, and bear an endless date,  
Firm, as enroled in the eternal Register of Fate.  
For ever cursed be that mad Emperor,  
(And cursed enough he is be sure)  
May future Poets on his hated Name  
Shed all their Gall, and foulest Infamy,  
And may it here stand branded with eternal shame,  
Who thought thy Works could mortal be,  
And sought the glorious Fabric to destroy:  
In this (could Fate permit it to be done)  
His damned Successor he had outgone,  
Who Rome and all its Palaces in Ashes laid,  
And the great Ruins with a savage Joy surveyed:  
He bu●…ht but what might be rebuilt and richer made.  
But had the impious Wish succeeded here,  
'T had razed what Age, nor Art could e'er repair.  
Not that vast universal Flame,  
Which at the final Doom  
This beauteous Work of Nature must consume,  
And Heaven and all its Glories in one Urn entomb,  
Will burn a nobler, or more lasting Frame:  
As firm, and strong as that it shall endure,  
Through all the Injuries of Time secure,  
Nor die, till the whole world its Funeral Pile become.    

Two Pastorals out of the Greek.  

BION. A Pastoral, in Imitation of the Greek of Moschus, bewailing the Death of the Earl of ROCHESTER.  

MOurn all ye Groves, in darker shades be seen,  
Let Groans be heard, where gentle Winds have been:  
Ye Albion Rivers, weep your Fountains dry,  
And all ye Plants your moisture spend, and die:  
Ye melancholy Flowers, which once were Men,  
Lament, until you be transformed again:  
Let every Rose pale as the Lily be,  
And Winter Frost seize the A●…emone:  
But thou, O Hyacinth, more vigorous grow  
In mournful Letters thy sad glory show,  
Enlarge thy grief, and flourish in thy woe:  
For Bion, the beloved Bion's dead,  
His voice is gone, his tuneful breath is fled.   

Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Hearse  
With never-fading Garlands, neverdying Verse.   

Mourn ye sweet Nightingales in the thick Woods,  
Tell the sad news to all the British Floods:  
See it to Isis, and to I'm conveyed,  
To Thames, to Humber, and to utmost Tweed:  
And bid them waste the bitter tidings on,  
How Bion's dead, how the loved Swain is gone,  
And with him all the Art of graceful Song.   

Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Hearse  
With never-fading Garlands, neverdying Verse.   

Ye gentle Swans, that haunt the Brooks, and Springs,  
Pine with sad grief, and droop your sickly Wings:  
In doleful notes the heavy loss bewail,  
Such as you sing at your own Funeral,  
Such as you sung when your loved Orpheus fell.  
Tell it it to all the Rivers, Hills, and Plains,  
Tell it to all the British Nymphs and Swains,  
And bid them too the dismal tidings spread  
Of Bion's fate, of England's Orpheus dead,   

Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Hearse  
With never-fading Garlands, neverdying Verse.   

No more, alas! no more that lovely Swain  
Charms with his tuneful Pipe the wondering Plain:  
Ceased are those Lays, ceased are those sprightly airs,  
That wooed our Souls into our ravished Ears:  
For which the listening streams forgot to run,  
And Trees leaned their attentive branches down:  
While the glad Hills, loath the sweet sounds to lose,  
Lengthened in Echoes every heavenly close.  
Down to the melancholy Shades he's gone,  
And there to Lethe's Banks reports his moan:  
Nothing is heard upon the Mountains now  
But pensive Herds that for their Master low:  
Straggling and comfortless about they rove,  
Unmindful of their Pasture, and their Love.   

Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Hearse,  
With never-fading Garlands, neverdying Verse.   

For thee, dear Swain, for thee, his much loved Son,  
Does Phoebus' Clouds of mourning black put on:  
For thee the Satyrs and the rustic Fauns  
Sigh and lament through all the Woods and Lawns:  
For thee the Fairies grieve, and cease to dance  
In sportful Rings by night upon the Plains:  
The water Nymphs alike thy absence mourn,  
And all their Springs to tears and sorrow turn:  
Sad Echo too does in deep silence moan,  
Since thou art mute, since thou art speechless grown:  
She finds nought worth her pains to imitate,  
Now thy sweet breath's stopped by untimely fate:  
Trees drop their Leaves to dress thy Funeral,  
And all their Fruit before its Autumn fall:  
Each Flower sades, and hangs its withered head,  
And scorns to thrive, or live, now thou art dead:  
Their bleating Flocks no more their Udders fill,  
The painful Bees neglect their wont toil:  
Alas! what boots it now their Hives to store  
With the rich spoils of every plundered Flower,  
when thou, that wast all sweetness, art no more?   

Come, all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Hearse,  
With never-fading Garlands, neverdying Verse.   

Ne'er did the Dolphins on the lonely Shore  
In such loud plaints utter their grief before:  
Never in such sad Notes did Philomela  
To the relenting Rocks her sorrow tell:  
Ne'er on the Beech did poor Alcyone  
So weep, when she her floating Lover saw:  
Nor that dead Lover, to a Seafowl turned,  
Upon those Waves, where he was drowned, so mourned:  
Nor did the Bird of Memnon with such grief  
Bedew those Ashes, which late gave him life:  
As they did now with vying grief bewail,  
As they did all lament dear Bion's fall.   

Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Hearse  
With never-fading Garlands, neverdying Verse.   

In every Wood, on every Tree, and Bush  
The Lark, the Linnet, Nightingale, and Thrush,  
And all the feathered Choir, that used to throng  
In listening Flocks to learn his well-tuned Song.  
Now each in the sad Consort bear a part,  
And with kind Notes repay their Teacher's Art:  
Ye Turtles too (I charge you) here assist,  
Let not your murmurs in the crowd be missed:  
To the dear Swain do not ungrateful prove,  
That taught you how to sing, and how to love.   

Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Hearse  
With never-fading Garlands, neverdying Verse,   

Whom hast thou left behind thee, skilful Swain,  
That dares aspire to reach thy matchless strain:▪  
Who is there after thee, that dares pretend  
Rashly to take thy warbling Pipe in hand?  
Thy Notes remain yet fresh in every ear,  
And give us all delight, and all despair:  
Pleased Echo still does on them meditate,  
And to the whistling Reeds their sounds repeat:  
Pan only e'er can equal thee in Song,  
That task does only to great Pan belong:  
But Pan himself perhaps will fear to try,  
Will fear perhaps to be outdone by thee.   

Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Hearse  
With never-fading Garlands, neverdying Verse.   

Fair Galatea too laments thy death:  
Laments the ceasing of thy tuneful breath:  
Ost she, kind Nymph, resorted heretosore  
To hear thy artful measures from the shore:  
Not harsh like the rude Cyclops were thy lays,  
Whose grating sounds did her soft ears displease:  
Such was the force of thy enchanting tongue,  
That she for ever could have heard thy Song,  
And chid the hours, that did so swiftly run,  
And thought the Sun too hasty to go down,  
Now does that lovely Nereid for thy sake  
The Sea, and all her fellow Nymphs forsake:  
Pensive upon the Beach, she sits alone,  
And kindly tends the Flocks from which thou'rt gone.   

Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Hearse  
With never-fading Garlands, neverdying Verse.   

With thee, sweet Bion, all the grace of Song,  
And all the Muses boasted Art is gone:  
Mute is thy Voice, which could all hearts command,  
Whose power no Shepherdess could e'er withstand:  
All the soft weeping Loves about thee moan,  
At once their Mother's darling, and their own:  
Dearer wast thou to Venus than her Loves,  
Than her charmed Girdle, than her faithful Doves,  
Than the last gasping Kisses, which in death  
Adonis gave, and with them gave his breath.  
This, Thames, ah! this is now the second loss,  
For which in tears thy weeping Current flows:  
Spencer, the Muse's glory, went before,  
He passed long since to the Elysian shore:  
For him (they say) for him, thy dear-loved Son,  
Thy Waves did long in sobbing murmurs groan,  
Long filled the Sea with their complaint, and moan:  
But now, alas! thou dost afresh bewail,  
Another Son does now thy sorrow call:  
To part with either thou alike wast loath,  
Both dear to Thee, dear to the Fountains both:  
He largely drank the Rills of sacred Cham,  
And this no less of Isis' nobler stream:  
He sung of Hero's, and of hardy Knights  
Far-famed in Battles, and renowned Exploits:  
This meddled not with bloody Fights, and Wars,  
Pan was his Song, and Shepherds harmless jars,  
Loves peaceful combats, and its gentle cares.  
Love ever was the subject of his Lays,  
And his soft Lays did Venus ever please.   

Come all ye Muses, come adorn the Shepherd's Hearse  
With never fading Garlands, neverdying Verse.   

Thou, sacred Bion, art lamented more  
Than all our tuneful Bards, that died before:  
Old Chaucer, who first taught the use of Verse,  
No longer has the tribute of our tears:  
Milton, whose Muse with such a daring flight  
Led out the warring Seraphims to fight:  
Blessed Cowley too, who on the banks of Cham  
So sweetly sighed his wrongs, and told his flame:  
And He, whose Song raised Cooper's Hill so high,  
As made its glory with Parnassus vie:  
And soft Orinda, whose bright shining name  
Stands next great Sappho in the ranks of fame:  
All now unwept, and unrelented pass,  
And in our grief no longer share a place:  
Bion alone does all our tears engross,  
Our tears are all too few for Bion's loss.   

Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Hearse  
With never-fading Garlands, neverdying Verse.   

Thee all the Herdsmen mourn in gentlest Lays,  
And rival one another in thy praise:  
In spreading Letters they engrave thy Name  
On every Bark, that's worthy of the same:  
Thy Name is warbled forth by every tongue,  
Thy Name the Burden of each Shepherd's Song;  
Waller, the sweetest of living Bards, prepares  
For thee his tenderest, and his mournfull'st airs,  
And I, the meanest of the British Swains,  
Amongst the rest offer these humble strains:  
If I am reckoned not unblessed in Song.  
'Tis what I owe to thy all-teaching tongue:  
Some of thy Art, some of thy tuneful breath  
Thou didst by Will to worthless me bequeath:  
Others thy Flocks, thy Lands, thy Riches have,  
To me thou didst thy Pipe, and Skill vouch●…afe.   

Come all y●… Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's H●…rse  
With never-fading Garlands, neverdying Verse.   

Alas by what ill Fate, to man unkind,  
Were we to so severe a lot designed?  
The meanest Flowers which the Gardens yield,  
The vilest Weeds that flourish in the Field,  
Which must e'er long lie dead in Winter's Snow,  
Shall spring again, again more vigorous grow:  
Yond Sun, and this bright glory of the day,  
Which night is hasting now to snatch away,  
Shall rise anew more shining and more gay:  
But wretched we must harder measure find,  
The great'st, the bravest, the witt●…'st of mankind,  
When Death has once put out their light. in vain  
Ever expect the dawn of Life again:  
In the dark Grave insensible they lie,  
And there sleep our endless Eternity  
There tho●… to silence ever art confined,  
While less deserving Swains are left behind:  
So please the Fates to deal with us below,  
They cull out thee, and let dull Moevius go:  
Moevius still lives; still let him live for me,  
He, and his Pipe shall ne'er my envy be:  
None e'er that heard thy sweet, thy Artful Tongue,  
Will grate their ears with his rough untuned Song   

Come, all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Hearse  
With never-fading Garlands, neverdying Verse.   

A fierce Disease, sent by ungentle Death,  
Snatched Bion hence, and stopped his hallowed breath:  
A fatal damp put out that heavenly fire,  
That sacred heat which did his breast inspire.  
Ah! what malignant ill could boast that power,  
Which his sweet voice's Magic could not cure?  
Ah cruel Fare! how couldst thou choose but spare?  
How couldst thou exercise thy rigout here?  
Would thou hadst thrown thy Dart at worthless me,  
And let this dear, this valued life go free:  
Better ten thousand meaner Swains had died,  
Than this best work of Nature been destroyed.   

Come, all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Hearse  
With never-fading Garlands, neverdying Verse.   

Ah! would kind Death alike had sent me hence;  
But grief shall do the work, and save its pains:  
Grief shall accomplish my desired doom,  
And soon dispatch me to Elysium:  
There, Bion, would I be, there gladly know,  
How with thy voice thou charmest the shades below.  
Sing, Shepherd, sing one of thy strains divine,  
Such as may melt the fierce Elysian Queen:  
She once herself was pleased with tuneful strains,  
And sung, and danced on the Sicilian Plains:  
Fear not, thy Song should unsuccessful prove,  
Fear not, but 'twill the pitying Goddess move:  
She once was won by Orpheus heavenly Lays,  
And gave his fair Eurydice release.  
And thine as powerful (question not, dear Swain)  
Shall bring thee back to these glad Hills again.   

Even I myself, did I at all excel,  
Would try the utmost of my voice and skill,  
Would try to move the rigid King of Hell.    

The Lamentation for ADONIS. Imitated out of the Greek of Bion of Smyrna.  
PASTORAL.  

IMourn Adonis, fair Adonis dead,  
He's dead, and all that's lovely, with him fled:  
Come all ye Loves, come hither and bemoan  
The charming sweet Adonis' dead and gone:   

Rise from thy Purple Bed, and rich Alcove,  
Throw off thy gay attire, great Queen of Love:  
Henceforth in sad and mournful weeds appear,  
And all the marks of grief, and sorrow wear,  
And tear thy locks, and beat thy panting breast,  
And cry, My dear Adonis is deceased.   

I mourn Adonis, the soft Loves bemoan  
The gentle sweet Adonis dead and gone.   

On the cold Mountain lies the wretched Youth,  
Killed by a Savage Boar's unpitying tooth:  
In his white thigh the fatal stroke is found,  
Nor whiter was that tooth, that gave the wound:  
From the wide wound fast flows the streaming gore  
And stains that skin which was all snow before:  
His breath with quick short tremble comes and goes,  
And Death his fainting eyes begins to close:  
From his pale lips the ruddy colour's fled,  
Fled, and has left his kisses cold and dead:  
Yet Venus never will his kisses leave,  
The Goddess ever to his lips will cleave:  
The kiss of her dear Youth does please her still,  
But her poor Youth does not the pleasure feel:  
Dead he feels not her love, feels not her grief,  
Feels not her kiss, which might even life retrieve.   

I mourn Adonis the sad Loves bemoan  
The comely fair Adonis dead and gone.   

Deep in his Thigh, deep went the kill smart,  
But deeper far it goes in Venus' heart:  
His faithful Dogs about the Mountain yell,  
And the hard Fate of their dead Master tell:  
The troubled Nymphs alike in doleful strains  
Proclaim his death through all the Fields & Plains:  
But the sad Goddess, most of all forlorn,  
With love distracted, and with sorrow torn,  
Wild in her look, and rueful in her air,  
With Garments rend, and with dishevelled hair,  
Through Brakes, through Thickets, and through pathless ways,  
Through Woods, through Haunts, and Dens of Savages,  
Undressed, unshod, careless of Honour, Fame,  
And Danger, flies, and calls on his loved name.  
Rude Brambles, as she goes, her body tear,  
And her cut feet with blood the stones besmear.  
She thoughtless of the unfelt smart flies on,  
And fills the Woods, and Valleys with her moan,  
Loudly does on the Stars and Fates complain,  
And prays them give Adonis back again:  
But he, alas! the wretched Youth, alas!  
Lies cold, and stiff, extended on the grass:  
There lies he steeped in gore, there lies he drowned,  
In purple streams, that gush from his own wound.   

All the soft band of Loves their Mother mourn,  
At once of beauty, and of love forlorn.  
Venus has lost her Lover, and each grace,  
That sat before in triumph in her face,  
By grief chased thence, has now forsaken the place.  
That day which snatched Adonis from her arms,  
That day bereft the Goddess of her charms.   

The Woods and Trees in murmuring sighs bemoan  
The fate of her Adonis dead and gone.   

The Rivers too, as if they would deplore  
His death, with grief swell higher than before:  
The Flowers weep in tears of dreary dew;  
And by their drooping heads their sorrow show:  
But most the Cyprian Queen with shrieks, and groans,  
Fills all the neighbouring Hills, and Vales, and Towns:  
The poor Adonis dead! is all her cry,  
Adonis' dead! sad Echo does reply.   

What cruel heart would not the Queen of Love  
To melting tears, and soft compassion move,  
When she saw how her wretched Lover fell,  
Saw his deep wound, saw it ineurable?  
Soon as her eyes his bleeding wounds surveyed,  
With eager eclipse she did his Limbs invade,  
And these soft, tender, mournful things she said:   

" Whither, O whither fli'st thou, wretched Boy,  
" Stay my Adonis, stay my only joy,  
" Ostay, unhappy Youth, at least till I  
" With one kind word bespeak thee, ere thou die,  
" Till I once more embrace thee, till I seal  
" Upon thy dying lips my last farewell.  
" Look up one minute, give one parting kiss,  
" One kiss, dear Youth, to dry these flowing eyes:  
" One kiss as thy last Legacy I'd fain  
" Preserve, no God shall take it off again.  
" Kiss, while I watch thy swimming eyeballs roll,  
" Watch thy last gasp, and catch thy springing soul.  
" I'll suck it in, I'll hoard it in my heart,  
" I with that facred pledge will never part,  
" But thou wilt part, but thou art gone, far gone  
" To the dark shades, and leav'st me here alone.  
" Thou diest, but hopeless I must suffer life,  
" Must pine away with easless endless grief.  
" Why was I born a Goddess? why was I  
" Made such a wretch to want the power to die?  
" If I by death my sorrows might redress,  
" If the cold Grave could to my pains give ease,  
" I'd gladly die, I'd rather nothing be  
" Than thus condemned to immortality:  
" In that vast empty void, and boundless waist,  
" We mind not what's to come, nor what is past.  
" Of life, or death we know no difference,  
" Nor hopes, nor fears at all affect our sense:  
" But those who are of pleasure once bereft,  
" And must survive, are most unhappy left:  
" To ravenous sorrow they are left a prey,  
" Nor can they ever drive despair away.   

" Take, cruel Proserpina, take my loved Boy,  
" Rich with my spoils, do thou my loss enjoy.  
" Take him relentless Goddess, for thy own,  
" Never till now wast thou my envy grown.  
" Hard Fate! that thus the best of things must be  
" Always the plunder of the Grave, and thee:  
" The Grave, and thou now all my hopes engross,  
" And I for ever must Adonis lose.  
" thou'rt dead, alas! alas! my Youth, thou'rt dead,  
" And with thee all my pleasures too are fled:  
" They're all like fleeting vanished dreams passed o'er,  
" And nought but the remembrance left in store  
" Of tasted joys ne'er to be tasted more:  
" With thee my Cestos, all my charms are gone,  
" Thy Venus must thy absence ever moan,  
" And spend the tedious livelong nights alone.  
" Ah! heedless Boy, why wouldst thou rashly choose  
" Thy self to dangerous pleasures to expose?  
" Why wouldst thou hunt? why wouldst thou any more  
" Venture with Dogs to chase the foaming Boar?  
" Thou waste all fair to mine, to humane eyes,  
" But not (alas!) to those wild Savages.  
" One would have thought thy sweetness might have charmed  
" The roughest kind, the fiercest rage disarmed:  
" Mine (I am sure) it could; but woe is thee!  
" All wear not eyes, all wear not breasts like me.   

In such sad words the Dame her grief did vent;  
While the Wing'd Loves kept time with her complaint:  
As many drops of Blood as from the wound  
Of slain Adonis fell upon the ground,  
So many tears, and more you might have told,  
That down the cheeks of weeping Venus' roul'd:  
Both tears, and blood to new born flowers give rise,  
Hence Roses spring, and thence Anemonies.   

Cease, Venus, in the Woods to mourn thy Love,  
Thou'st vented sighs, thou'st lavished tears enough:  
See! Goddess, where a glorious bed of State  
Does ready for thy dear Adonis wait:  
This bed was once the Scene of Love, and Joy,  
But now must bear the wretched, murdered Boy:  
There lies he, like a pale, and withered Flower,  
Which some rude hand had cropped before its hour:  
Yet smiles, and beauties still live in his face,  
Which death can never frighten from their place.  
There let him lie upon that conscious bed,  
Where you loves mysteries so oft have tried:  
When you've enjoyed so many an happy night,  
Each lengthened into ages of delight.  
There let him lie, there heaps of Flowers strew,  
Roses and Lilies store upon him throw,  
And myrtle Garlands lavishly bestow:  
Pour Mirth, and Balm, and costliest Ointments on,  
Flowers are faded, Ointments worthless grown,  
Now thy Adonis, now thy Youth is gone,  
Who was all sweetnesses comprised in one.   

In Purple wrapped, Adonis lies in state,  
A Troop of mourning Loves about him wait:  
Each does some mark of their kind sorrow show,  
One breaks his Shafts, t'other unstrings his Bow,  
A third upon his Quiver wreaks his hate,  
As the sad causes of his hasty fate:  
This plucks his bloody garments off, that brings  
Water in Vessels from the neighbouring Springs,  
Some wash his Wound, some fan him with thei●… Wings:   

All equally their Mother's loss bemoan,  
All moan for poor Adonis' dead and gone.   

Sad Hymen too the fatal loss does mourn.  
His Tapers all to Funeral Tapers turn,  
And all his withered Nuptial Garlands burn:  
His gay, and airy Songs are heard no more,  
But mournful Strains, that hopeless love deplore.  
Nor do the Graces fail to bear a part  
With wretched Venus in her pain and smart:  
The poor Adonis dead! by turns they cry,  
And strive in grief the Goddess to outvie.  
The Muses too in softest Lays bewail  
The hapless Youth, and his fled Soul recall:  
But all in vain;— ah! numbers are too weak  
To call the lost, the dead Adonis' back:  
Not all the powers of Verse, or charms of Love  
The deaf remorseless Proserpina can move.   

Cease then, sad Queen of Love, thy plaints give o'er,  
Till the next year reserve thy grief in store:  
Reserve thy Sighs, and tears in store till then,  
Then thou must sigh, than thou must weep again.     

Paraphrase upon the 137. Psalm.  

1.  
Ver. 1. FAr from our pleasant native Palestine,  
Where great Euphrates with a mighty current flows,  
And does in watery limits Babylon confine,  
Cursed Babylon! the cause, and author of our woes;  
There on the River's side  
Sat wretched, Captive we.  
And in sad Tears bewailed our misery.  
Tears, whose vast store increased the neighbouring Tide:  
We wept, and straight our grief before us brought  
A thousand distant Objects to our thought.  
As oft as we surveyed the gliding Stream,  
Loved Jordan did our sad remembrance claim:  
As oft as we th' adjoining City viewed,  
Dear Zions razed Walls our Grief renewed:  
We thought on all the Pleasures of our happy Land,  
Late ravished by a cruel Conqu'rour's hand:  
We thought on every piteous, every mournful thing,  
That might access to our enlarged sorrows bring;  
Deep silence told the greatness of our Grief,  
Of grief too great by Vent to find relief:  
Our Harps as mute and dumb, as we,  
Hung useless, and neglected by,  
And now and then a broken String would lend a sigh,  
As if with us they felt a sympathy,  
And mourned their own, and our Captivity:  
The gentle River too, as if compassionate grown,  
As 'twould its Natives cruelty atone,  
As it passed by, in murmurs gave a pitying Groan.   

2.  
There the proud Conquerors, who gave us Chains,  
Who all our sufferings and misfortunes gave,  
Did with rude Insolence our Sorrows brave,  
And with insulting Raillery thus mocked our Pains,  
Play us (said they) some brisk, and airy strain,  
Such as your Ancestors were wont to hear  
On Shilo 's pleasant Plain,  
Where all the Virgins met in Dances once a year:  
Or one of those,  
Which your illustrious David did compose,  
While he filled Israel 's happy Throne,  
Great Soldier, Poet, and Musician all in one:  
Oft (have we heard) he went with Harp in hand,  
Captain of all 〈◊〉 harmonious Band,  
And vanquished all the Choir with's single skill alone:  
Forbid it Heaven! forbid thou great thrice-hallowed Name,  
We should thy Sacred Hymns defame,  
Or them with impious ears profane.  
No, no, inhuman slaves, is this a time  
(Oh cruel, and preposterous demand!)  
When every Joy, and every Smile's a crime.  
A Treason to our poor unhappy native Land?  
Is this a time for sprightly Airs,  
When every look the Badge of sorrow wears,  
And Livery of our Miseries,  
Sad miseries that call for all our Breath in sighs,  
And all the Tribute of our eyes,  
And moisture of our Veins our very blood in tears?  
When nought can claim our Thoughts, Jerusalem, but thou,  
Nought, but thy sad Destruction, Fall, and Overthrow?   

3.  
Oh dearest City! late our Nations justest Pride!  
Envy of all the wondering world beside!  
Oh sacred Temple, once th' Almighty's blessed abode,  
Now quite forsaken by our angry God  
Shall ever distant time, or Place  
Your firm Ideas from my Soul deface?  
Shall they not still take up my Breast  
As long as that, and Life, and I shall last?  
Grant Heaven (nor shall my Prayers the Curse withstand)  
That this my learned, skilful hand  
(Which now o'er all the tuneful strings can boast command,  
Which does as quick, as ready, and unerring prove,  
As nature, when it would its joints or fingers move)  
Grant it forget its Art and feeling too,  
When I forget to think, to wish, to pray for you:  
For ever tied with Dumbness be my tongue,  
When it speaks aught that shall not to your Praise belong,  
If that be not the constant subject of my Muse, and Song.   

4.  
Remember, Heaven, remember Edom on that day,  
And with like sufferings their spite repay,  
Who made our Miseries their cruel Mirth and Scorn,  
Who laughed to see our flaming City burn,  
And wished it might to Ashes turn:  
Raze, raze it (was their cursed cry)  
Raze all its stately Structures down,  
And lay its Palaces, and Temple levelly with the ground,  
Till Zion buried in his dismal Ruins lie,  
Forgot alike its Place, its Name, and Memory.  
And thou proud Babylon! just Object of our Hate,  
Thou too shalt feel the sad reverse of Fate,  
Tho thou art now exalted high,  
And with thy lofty head o'retop'st the Sky,  
As if thou wouldst the Powers above defy;  
Thou (if those Powers (and sure they will) prove just,  
If my Prophetic Grief can aught foresee)  
Ere long shalt lay that lofty head in dust,  
And blush in Blood for all thy present Cruelty:  
How, loudly then shall we retort these bitter Taunts!  
How gladly to the Music of thy Fetters dance!   

5.  
A day will come (oh might I see't!) e'er long  
That shall revenge our mighty wrong:  
Then blessed, for ever blessed be he  
Whoever shall returned on thee,  
And grave it deep, and paid with bloody Usury:  
May neither aged Groans, nor Infant Cries,  
Nor piteous Mother's Tears, nor ravished Virgins Sighs,  
Soften thy unrelenting Enemies,  
Let them as thou to us inexorable prove,  
Nor Age nor Sex their deaf Compassion move;  
Rapes, Murders, Slaughters, Funerals,  
And all thou durst attempt within our Zions Wall,  
May'st thou endure, and more, till joyful we  
Confess thyself outdone in artful cruelty.  
Blessed, yea, thrice blessed be that barbarous Hand  
(Oh grief, that I such dire Revenge commend!)  
Who tears out Infants from their Mother's Womb,  
And hurls them yet unborn unto their Tomb:  
Blessed he who plucks them from their Parents Arms,  
That Sanctuary from all common harms,  
Who with their Skulls, and Bones shall pave thy Streets all o'er,  
And fill thy glutted Channels with their scattered Brains and Gore.    

Paraphrase upon the HYMN of St. AMBROSE.  
ODE.  

1.  
TO Thee, O God, we thy just Praises sing,  
To Thee we Thy great Name rehearse:  
We are Thy Vassals, and this humble Tribute bring  
To Thee, acknowledged only Lord and King,  
Acknowledged sole and Sovereign Monarch of the Universe.  
All parts of this wide Universe adore,  
Eternal Father, thy Almighty power:  
The Skies, and Stars, Fire, Air, and Earth, and Sea,  
With all their numerous nameless Progeny  
Confess, and their due Homage pay to thee;  
For why? thou spak'st the Word, and mad'st them all from Nothing be.  
To thee all Angels, all thy glorious Court on high,  
Seraph and Cherub, the Nobility,  
And whatsoever Spirits be  
Of lesser Honour, less Degree;  
To Thee in heavenly Lays  
They sing loud Anthems of immortal Praise:  
Still Holy, Holy, Holy Lord of Hosts they cry,  
This is their business, this their sole employ,  
And thus they spend their long and blessed Eternity.   

2.  
Farther than Nature's utmost shores and limits stretch  
The streams of thy unbounded Glory reach;  
Beyond the straits of scanty Time, and Place,  
Beyond the ebbs and flows of matter's narrow Seas  
They reach, and fill the Ocean of Eternity and Space.  
Infused like some vast mighty soul,  
Thou dost inform and actuate this spacious whole:  
Thy unseen hand does the well-joynted Frame sustain,  
Which else would to its primitive Nothing shrink again.  
But most thou dost thy Majesty display  
In the bright Realms of everlasting Day:  
There is Thy residence, there dost Thou reign,  
There on a State of dazzling Lustre sit,  
There shine in Robes of pure refined Light;  
Where Sun's corpse Rays are but a Foil and Stain,  
And refuse Stars the sweep of thy glorious Train.   

3.  
There all Thy Family of menial Saints,  
Huge Colonies of blessed Inhabitants,  
Which Death through countless Ages has transplanted hence,  
Now on Thy Throne for ever wait,  
And fill the large Retinue of thy heavenly State.  
There reverend Prophets stand, a pompous goodly show.  
Of old thy Envoys extraordinary here,  
Who brought thy sacred Embassies of Peace and War,  
That to th' obedient, this the rebel world below.  
By them the mighty Twelve have their abode,  
Companions once of the Incarnate suff●…ring God,  
Partakers now of all his Triumphs there,  
As they on earth did in his Misery's share.  
Of Martyr's next a crowned and glorious Choir,  
Illustrious Heroes, who have gained  
Through dangers, and Red Seas of Blood the Promised Land,  
And passed through Ordeal Flames to the Eternity in Fire.  
There all make up the Consort of thy Praise,  
To Thee they sing (and never cease)  
Loud Hymns, and Hallelujahs of Applause:  
An Angel-Laureat does the Sense and Strains compose,  
Sense far above the reach of mortal Verse,  
Strains far above the reach of mortal ears,  
And all, a Muse unglorified can fancy, or rehearse.   

4.  
Nor is this Consort only kept above,  
Nor is it to the Blessed alone confined;  
But Earth, and all thy Faithful here are joined,  
And strive to vie with them in Duty and in Love:  
And, though they cannot equal Notes and Measures raise,  
Strive to return th' imperfect Echoes of thy Praise.  
They through all Nations own thy glorious Name,  
And every where the great Three-One proclaim,  
Thee, Father of the World, and Us, and Him,  
Who must Mankind, whom Thou didst make, Redeem,  
Thee, blessed Saviour, the adored, true, only Son  
To man debased, to rescue Man undone:  
And Thee, Eternal, Holy Power,  
Who dost by Grace exalted Man restore  
To all, he lost by the old Fall, and Sin before:  
You blessed and glorious Trinity,  
Riddle to baffled Knowledge and Philosophy,  
Which cannot conprehend the mighty Mystery  
Of numerous One, and the unnumbered Three  
Vast topless Pile of Wonders! at whose sight  
Reason itself turns giddy with the height,  
Above the fluttering pitch of humane Wit,  
And all, but the strong wings of Faith, that Eagles' towering flight.   

5.  
Blessed Jesus! how shall we enough adore,  
Or thy unbounded Love, or thy unbounded Power?  
Thou art the Prince of Heaven, thou are the Almighty's Heir,  
Thou art th' Eternal Offspring of th' Eternal Sire:  
Hail thou the World's Redeemer! whom to free  
From bonds of Death and endless misery,  
Thou thought'st it no disdain to be  
Inhabiter in low mortality:  
Th' Almighty thought it no disdain  
To dwell in the pure Virgins spotless Womb,  
There did the boundless Godhead, and whole Heaven find room,  
And a small point the Circle of Infinity contain.  
Hail Ransom of Mankind, all-great, all-good!  
Who didst atone us with thy Blood,  
Thyself the Offering, Altar, Priest, and God:  
Thyself didst die to be our glorious Bail  
From Death's Arrests, and the eternal Flaming Jail:  
Thyself thou gav'st th' inestimable Price,  
To Purchase and Redeem our mortgaged Heaven and Happiness.  
Thither, when thy great Work on Earth had end,  
When Death itself was slain and dead,  
And Hell with all its Powers captive led;  
Thou didst again triumphantly Ascend:  
There dost Thou now by Thy great Father sit on high,  
With equal Glory, equal Majesty,  
Joynt-Ruler of the everlasting Monarchy.   

6.  
Again from thence thou shalt with greater triumph come,  
When the last Trumpet sounds the general Doom:  
And (lo!) thou comest, and (lo!) the direful sound does make  
Through Death's wide Realm Mortality awake:  
And (lo) they all appear  
At Thy Dread Bar,  
And all receive th' unalterable Sentence there.  
Affrighted Nature trembles at the dismal Day,  
And shrinks for fear, and vanishes away:  
Both that, and Time breath out their last, and now they die,  
And now are swallowed up and lost in vast Eternity.  
Mercy, O mercy, angry God  
Stop, stop thy flaming Wrath, too fierce to be withstood,  
And quench it with the Deluge of thy Blood;  
Thy precious Blood which was so freely spilt  
To wash us from the stains of Sin and Gild:  
O write us with it in the Book of Fate  
Amongst thy Chosen, and Predestinate,  
Free Denizens of Heaven, of the Immortal State.   

7.  
Guide us, O Saviour! guide thy Church below,  
Both Way, and Star, Compass, and Pilot Thou:  
Do thou this frail and t●…tt'ring Vessel steer  
Through Life's tempestuous Ocean here,  
Through all the tossing Waves of Fear,  
And dangerous Rocks of black Despair.  
Safe under Thee we shall to the wished Haven move,  
And reach the undiscovered Lands of Bliss above,  
Thus low (behold!) to thy great Name we bow,  
And thus we ever wish to grow:  
Constant, as Time does thy fixed Laws obey,  
To Thee our Worship and our Thanks we pay:  
With these we wake the cheerful Light,  
With these we Sleep, and Rest invite;  
An●… thus we spend our Breath, and thus we spend our Days,  
And never cease to Sing, and never cease to Praise.   

8.  
While thus each Breast, and Mouth, and Ear  
Are filled with thy Praise, and Love, and Fear,  
Let never Sin get room, or entrance there:  
Vouchsafe, O Lord, through this and all our days  
To guard us with Thy powerful Grace:  
Within our hearts let no usurping Lust be found,  
No rebel Passion tumult raise,  
To break thy Laws, or break our Peace,  
But set thy Watch of Angels on the Place,  
And keep the Tempter still from that forbidden ground.  
Ever, O Lord, to us thy mercies grant,  
Never, O Lord, let us thy mercy's want,  
ne'er want Thy Favour, Bounty, Liberality,  
But let them ever on us be,  
Constant as our own Hope and Trust on Thee:  
On Thee we all our Hope and Trust repose;  
O never leave us to our Foes,  
Never, O Lord, desert our Cause:  
Thus aided and upheld by Thee,  
We'll fear no Danger, Death, nor Misery;  
Fearless we thus will stand a falling world  
With crushing Ruins all about us hurled,  
And face wide gaping Hell, & all its slighted Powers defy.    

A Letter from the Country to a Friend in Town, giving an Account of the Author's Inclinations to Poetry.  
Written in July, 1678.  

AS to that Poet (if so great a one, as he,  
May suffer in comparison with me)  
When heretofore in Scythian exile penned,  
To which he to ungrateful Rome was sent.  
If a kind Paper from his Country came.  
And wore subscribed some known, and faithful Name;  
That like a powerful Cordial, did infuse  
New life into his speechless gasping Muse,  
And straight his Genius, which before did seem  
Bound up in Ice, and frozen as the Clime,  
By its warm force, and friendly influence thawed,  
Dissolved apace, and in soft numbers flowed:  
Such welcome here, dear Sir, your Letter had  
With me shut up in close constraint as bad:  
Not eager Lovers, held in long suspense,  
With warmer Joy, and a more tender sense  
Meet those kind Lines, which all their wishes bless '  
And Sign, and Seal delivered Happiness:  
My grateful Thoughts so throng to get abroad,  
They over run each other in the crowd:  
To you with hasty flight they take their way,  
And hardly for the dress of words will stay.   

Yet pardon, if this only fault●… find,  
That while you praise too much, you are less kind:  
Consider, Sir, 'tis ill and dangerous thus  
To over-lay a young and tender Muse:  
Praise, the fine Diet, which we're apt to love,  
If given to excess, does hurtful prove:  
Where it does weak, distempered Stomaches mee●…  
That surfeits, which should nourishment create.  
Your rich Perfumes such fragrancy dispense,  
Their sweetness overcomes, and palls my sense;  
On my weak head you heap so many Bays,  
I sink beneath 'em, quite oppressed with Praise,  
And a resembling fate with him receive,  
Who in too kind a triumph found his Grave,  
Smothered with Garlands, which Applauders gave,   

To you these Praises justlier all belong,  
By alienating which, yourself you wrong:  
Whom better can such commendations fit  
Than you, who so well teach and practise Wit?  
Verse, the great boast of drudging Fools, from some,  
May most of Scribblers with much straining come:  
They void 'em dribbling, and in pain they write,  
As if they had a Strangury of Wit:  
Your Pen uncalled they readily obey,  
And scorn your Ink should flow so fast as they:  
Each strain of yours so easy does appear,  
Each such a graceful negligence does wear,  
As shows you have none, and yet want no care.  
None of your serious pains or time they cost,  
But what thrown by, you can afford for lost:  
If such the fruits of your loose leisure be,  
Your careless minutes yield such Poetry;  
We guess what proofs your Genius would impart,  
Did it employ you, as it does divert:  
But happy you, more prudent, and more wise,  
With better aims have fixed your noble choice.  
While silly I all thriving Arts refuse,  
And all my hopes, and all my vigour lose,  
In service on that worst of Jilts, a Muse,  
For gainful business court ignoble ease,  
And in gay Trifles waste my ill-spent days.   

Little I thought, my dearest Friend, that you  
Would thus contribute to my Ruin too:  
O'errun with filthy Poetry, and Rhyme,  
The present reigning evil of the time,  
I lacked, and (well I did myself assure)  
From your kind hand I should receive a cure:  
When (lo!) instead of healing Remedies,  
You cherish, and encourage the Disease:  
Inhuman you help the Distemper on,  
Which was before but too inveterate grown.  
As a kind looker on, who interest shares,  
Tho not in's stake, yet in his hopes and fears,  
Would to his Friend a pushing Gamester do,  
Recall his Elbow when he hastes to throw;  
Such a wise course you should have took with me.  
A rash and venturing fool in Poetry.  
Poets are Cullies, whom Rook Fame draws in,  
And wheadles with deluding hopes to win:  
But, when they hit, and most successful are,  
They scarce come off with a bare saving share.   

Oft (I remember) did wise Friends dissuade,  
And bid me quit the trisling barren Trade.  
Oft have I tried (Heaven knows) to mortify  
This vile, and wicked lust of Poetry:  
But still unconquered it remains within,  
Fixed as an Habit, or some darling Sin.  
In vain I better studies there would sow,  
Often I've tried, but none will thrive, or grow:  
All my best thoughts, when I'd most serious be,  
Are never from its foul infection free:  
Nay (God forgive me) when I say my Prayers,  
I scarce can help polluting them with Verse:  
That fabulous Wretch of old reversed I seem,  
Who turn whate'er I touch to Dross and Rhyme.   

Oft to divert the wild Caprice, I try  
If Sovereign Wisdom and Philosophy  
Rightly applied, will give a remedy:  
Straight the great Stagyrite I take in hand,  
Seek Nature, and myself to understand:  
Much I reflect on his vast Worth and Fame,  
And much my low, and grovelling aims condemn,  
And quarrel, that my ill-packed Fate should be  
This vain, this worthless thing called Poetry:  
But when I find this unregarded Toy  
Could his important Thoughts, and Pains employ,  
By reading there I am but more undone,  
And meet that danger, which I went to shun.  
Oft when ill Humour, Shagrin, Discontent  
Give leisure my wild Follies to resent,  
I thus against myself my Passion vent.  
" Enough, mad rhyming Sot, enough for shame,  
" Give o'er, and all thy Quills to Toothpicks Damn;  
" Didst ever thou the Altar rob, or worse,  
" Kill the Priest there, and Maids receiving force?  
" What else could merit this so heavy Curse?  
" The greatest Curse, I can, I wish on him,  
" If there be any greater than to rhyme)  
" Who first did of the lewd invention think,  
" First made two lines with sounds resembling clink,  
" And, swerving from the easy paths of Prose,  
" Fetters, and Chains did on free Sense impose:  
" Cursed too be all the fools, who since have went  
" Misled in steps of that ill Precedent:  
" Want be entailed their lot:— and on I go;  
Wreaking my spite on all the jingling Crew:  
Scarce the beloved Cowley escapes, though I  
Might sooner my own curses fear, than he:  
And thus resolved against the scribbling vein,  
I deeply swear never to write again.   

But when bad Company and Wine conspire  
To kindle, and renew the foolish Fire,  
Straghtways relapsed, I feel the raving fit  
Return, and straight I all my Oaths forget:  
The Spirit, which I thought cast out before,  
Enters again with stronger force, and power,  
Worse than at first, and tyrannises more.  
No sober good advice will then prevail,  
Nor from the raging Frenzy me recall:  
Cool Reason's dictates me no more can move  
Than men in Drink, in Bedlam, or in Love:  
Deaf to all means which might most proper seem  
Towards my cure, I run stark mad in Rhyme:  
A sad poor haunted wretch, whom nothing less  
Than Prayers of the Church can dispossess.   

Sometimes, after a tedious day half spent,  
When Fancy long has hunted on cold Scent,  
Tired in the dull, and fruitless chase of Thought,  
Despairing I grow weary, and give out:  
As a dry Lecher pumped of all my store,  
I loathe the thing, 'cause I can do't no more:  
But, when I once begin to find again,  
Recruits of matter in my pregnant Brain,  
Again more eager I the haunt pursue,  
And with fresh vigour the loved sport renew:  
Tickled with some strange pleasure, which I find,  
And think a secrecy to all mankind,  
I please myself with the vain, false delight,  
And count none happy, but the Fops that write.   

'Tis endless, Sir, to tell the many ways,  
Wherein my poor deluded self I please:  
How, when the Fancy labouring for a Birth,  
With unfelt Throws brings its rude issue forth:  
How after, when imperfect shapeless Thought  
Is by the Judgement into Fashion wrought.  
When at first search I traverse o'er my mind,  
Nought but a dark, and empty Void I find:  
Some little hints at length, like sparks, break thence,  
And glimmering Thoughts just dawning into sense:  
Confused a while the mixed Ideas lie,  
With nought of mark to be discovered by,  
Like colours undistinguished in the night,  
Till the dusk Images, moved to the light,  
Teach the discerning Faculty to choose,  
Which it had best adopt, and which refuse.  
Here rougher strokes, touched with a careless dash,  
Resemble the first sitting of a face:  
There finished draughts in form more full appear,  
And to their justness ask no further care.  
Mean while with inward joy I proud am grown,  
To see the work successfully go on:  
And prise myself in a creating power,  
That could make something, what was nought before▪   

Sometimes a stiff, unwieldy thought I meet,  
Which to my Laws will scarce be made submit:  
But, when, after expense of pains and time,  
'Tis managed well, and taught to yoke in Rhyme,  
I triumph more, than joyful Warriors would,  
Had they some stout, and hardy Foe subdued:  
And idly think, less goes to their Command,  
That makes armed Troops in well-placed order stand,  
Than to the conduct of my words, when they  
March in due ranks, are set in just array.   

Sometimes on wings of Thought I seem on high,  
As men in sleep, though motionless they lie,  
Fledged by a Dream, believe they mount and fly:  
So Witches some enchanted Wand bestride,  
And think they through the airy Regions ride,  
Where Fancy is both Traveller, Way, and Guide:  
Then straight I grow a strange exalted thing,  
And equal in conceit, at least a King:  
As the poor Drunkard, when Wine stums his brains,  
Anointed with that Liquor, thinks he reigns.  
Bewitched by these Delusions 'tis I write,  
(The tricks some pleasant Devil plays in spite)  
And when I'm in the freakish Trance, which I  
Fond silly Wretch, mistake for Ecstasy,  
I find all former Resolutions vain,  
And thus recant them, and make new again.   

" What was't, Irashly vowed▪ shall ever I  
" Quit my beloved Mistress, Poetry?  
" Thou sweet beguiler of my lonely hours,  
" Which thus glide unperceived with silent course:  
" Thou gentle Spell, which undisturbed dost keep  
" My Breast, and charm intruding care asleep:  
" They say, thou'rt poor, and unendowed, what tho?  
" For thee I this vain, worthless world sorgo:  
" Let Wealth, and Honour be for Fortune's Slaves,  
" The Alms of Fools, and Prize of crafty Knaves:  
" To me thou art, whate'er th' ambitious crave,  
" And all that greedy Miser's want, or have:  
" In Youth, or Age, in Travel, or at Home,  
" Here, or in Town, at London, or at Rome,  
" Rich, or a Beggar, free, or in the Fleet,  
" whate'er my Fate is, 'tis my Fate to write.   

Thus I have made my shrifted Muse confess,  
Her secret Feebless, and her Weaknesses:  
All her hid Faults she sets exposed to view,  
And hopes a gentle Confessor in you:  
She hopes an easy pardon for her sin,  
Since 'tis but what she is not wilful in,  
Nor yet has scandalous nor open been.  
Try if your ghostly counsel can reclaim  
The heedless wanton from her guilt and shame:  
At least be not ungenerous to reproach  
That wretched frailty, which you've helped debauch.   

'Tis now high time to end, for fear I grow  
More tedious than old Doaters, when they woe.  
Than travelled Fops, when far fetched lies they prate.  
Or flattering Poets, when they dedicate.  
No dull forgiveness I presume to crave,  
Nor vainly for my tiresome length ask leave  
Lest I, as often formal Coxcombs use.  
Prolong that very fault, I would excuse  
May this the same kind welcome find with you  
As yours did here, and ever shall; Adieu.    

Upon a Printer that exposed him by Printing a Piece of his grossly mangled, and faulty.  

DUll, and unthinking! hadst thou none but me  
To plague, and urge to thine own Infamy?  
Had I some tame and sneaking Author been,  
Whose Muse to Love, and softness did incline,  
Some small Adventurer in Song, that whines  
Chloris and Phyllis out in charming lines,  
Fit to divert mine Hostess, and misled  
The heart of some poor tawdry Waiting Maid;  
Perhaps I might have then forgiven thee,  
And thou hadst scaped from my resentments free.   

But I whom spleen, and manly rage inspire,  
Brook no affront, at each offence take fire:  
Born to chastise the Vices of the Age,  
Which Pulpits dare not, nor the very Stage:  
Sworn to lash Knaves of all degrees, and spare  
None of the kind, however great they are:  
Satyr's my only Province, and delight,  
For whose dear sake alone I've vowed to write:  
For this I seek occasions, court Abuse,  
To show my Parts, and signalise my Muse:  
Fond of a Quarrel, as young Bullies are  
To make their Mettle, and their Skill appear:  
And didst thou think I would a wrong acquit,  
That touched my tenderest part of Honour, Wit?  
No, Villain, may my Sins ne'er pardoned be  
By Heaven itself, if e'er I pardon thee.   

Members from breach of Privilege deter  
By threatening Topham and a Messenger:  
Scroggs, and the Brothers of the Coif oppose,  
By force and dint of Statutes, and the Laws:  
Strumpets of Billingsgate redress their wrongs  
By the sole noise, and foulness of their Tongues:  
And I go always armed for my defence,  
To punish, and revenge an insolence.  
I wear my Pen, as others do their Sword,  
To each affronting Sot, I meet, the word  
Is Satisfaction: straight to Thrusts I go,  
And pointed satire runs him through and through.   

Perhaps thou hop'dst that thy obscurity  
Should be thy safeguard, and secure thee free.  
No, wretch, I mean from thence to fetch thee out,  
Like sentenceed Felons, to be dragged about:  
Torn, mangled, and exposed to scorn, and shame,  
I mean to hang, and Gibbet up thy Name.  
If thou to live in satire so much thirst,  
Enjoy thy wish, and Fame, till envy burst,  
Renowned, as he, whom banished Ovid cursed:  
Or he, whom old Archilochus so stung  
In Verse, that he for shame, and madness hung:  
Deathless in infamy, do thou so live,  
And le●…my Rage, like his, to Halters drive.   

Thou thoughtst perhaps my Gall was spent and gone,  
My Venom drained, and ja stingless Drone:  
Thou thoughtst I had no Curses left in store;  
But to thy sorrow know, and find I've more,  
More, and more dreadful yet, able to scare,  
Like Hell, and urge to Daggers, and Despair:  
Such thou shalt feel, are still reserved by me,  
To vex and force thee to thy Destiny:  
Since thou hast braved my vengeance thus; prepare,  
And tremble from my Pen thy Doom to hear.   

Thou, who with spurious Nonsense durst profane  
The genuine issue of a Poet's Brain,  
May'st thou hereafter never deal in Verse,  
But what hoarse Bellmen in their Walks rehearse,  
Or Smithfield Audience sung on Crickets hears:  
May'st thou print H—, or some duller Ass,  
Jordan, or Him, that wrote Dutch Hudibrass:  
Or next vile Scribbler of the House, whose Play  
Will scarce for Candles, and their snuffing pay:  
May you each other Curse; thyself undone,  
And he the laughingstock of all the Town.   

May'st thou ne'er rise to History, but what  
Poor Grubstreet Peny Chroniclers relate,  
Memoirs of Tyburn, and the mournful State  
Of Cutpurses in Holborn Cavalcade,  
Till thou thyself be the same subject made.  
Compelled by want, may'st thou Print Popery,  
For which be the Cart's Arse, and Pillory,  
Turnips, and rotten Eggs thy destiny.  
Mauled worse than Reading, Christian, or Cellier,  
Till thou daubed o'er with loathsome filth, appear  
Like Brat of some vile Drab in Privy found,  
Which there has lain three months in Ordure drowned.   

The Plague of Poets, Rags, and Poverty,  
Debts, Writs, Arrests, and Sergeants light on thee:  
For others bound, may'st thou to Durance go,  
Condemned to Scraps, and begging with a shoe:  
And may'st thou never from the Jail get free,  
Till thou swear out thyself by Perjury:  
Forlorn, abandoned, pitiless, and poor,  
As a pawned Cully, or a mortgaged Whore,  
May'st thou an Halter want for thy Redress,  
Forced to steal Hemp to end thy miseries,  
And damn thyself to balk the Hangman's Fees.   

And may no faucy Fool have better Fate  
That dares pull down the Vengeance of my Hate.   
FINIS.   

POEMS, AND Translations.  
By the AUTHOR of The Satyrs upon the Jesuits.  
LONDON, Printed for Jos. Hindmarsh, Bookseller to his Royal Highness, at the Black Bull in Cornhill, 1684.   

Advertisement.  
THE Author of the following Pieces must be excused for their being huddled out so confusedly. They are Printed just as he finished them off, and some things there are which he designed not ever to expose, but was fain to do it, to keep the Press at work, when it was once set a going. If it be their Fate to perish, and go the way of all mortal Rhimes, 'tis no great matter in what method they have been placed, no more than whether Ode, Elegy, or satire have the honour of Wiping first. But if they, and what he has formerly made Public, be so happy as to live, and come forth in an Edition all together; perhaps he may then think them worth the sorting in better Order. By that time belike he means to have ready a very Sparkish Dedication, if he can but get himself known to some Great Man, that will give a good parcel of Guinnies for being handsomely flattered. Then likewise the Reader (for his farther comfort) may expect to see him appear with all the Pomp and Trappings of an Author; his Head in the Front very finely cut, together with the Year of his Age, Commendatory Verses in abundance, and all the Hands of the Poets of the Quorum to confirm his Book, and pass it for Authentic. This at present is content to come abroad naked, Undedicated, and unprefaced, without one kind Word to shelter it from Censure; and so let the Critics take it amongst them.   

THE TABLE.  

MOnfieur Boileau's satire upon Man, imitated, Page 1  
Juvenal's thirteenth satire, imitated 25  
David's Lamentation for the Death of Saul and Jonathan, paraphrased. Ode 49  
The Ode of Aristotle in Athenaeus, paraphrased 66  
Upon the Works of Ben. Johnson. Ode 69  
The ninth Ode of the third Book of Horace, imitated 87  
Upon a Lady, who by overturning of a Coach had her Coats behind flung up, and what was under shown to the view of the Company 90  
Catullus, Epigram 7. imitated 97  
The fourth Elegy of the second Book of Ovid's Amours, imitated 99  
The fifth Elegy of the same Book, imitated 104  
The tenth Elegy of the same Book, imitated 110  
A Fragment of Petronius, paraphrased 114  
An Ode of Anacreon, paraphrased 116  
An Allusion to Martial, Book 1. Epigr. 118. 120  
The Dream, an Elegy 122  
A satire, touching Nobility. Out of French 127  
A satire, addressed to a Friend that is about to leave the University and come abroad in the world 137  
Presenting a Book to Cosmelia. Elegy 149  
The Parting. Elegy 153  
Complaining of Absence. Elegy 156  
Promising a Visit. Elegy 158  
The careless Good Fellow. Song 160  
A satire concerning Poetry 164  
The third satire of Juvenal, imitated 180  
A Dithyrambic. The Drunkard's Speech in a Mask 206    

THE EIGHTH satire OF Monsieur BOILEAU, Imitated.  
Written in October, 1682.  
The POET brings himself in, as discoursing with a Doctor of the University upon the Subject ensuing.  

OF all the Creatures in the world that be,  
Beast, Fish, or Fowl, that go, or swim, or fly  
Throughout the Globe from London to Japan,  
The arrantest Fool in my opinion Man.   

What? (straight I'm taken up) an Ant, a Fly,  
A tiny Mite, which we can hardly see  
Without a Perspective, a silly Ass,  
Or freakish Ape? Dare you affirm, that these  
Have greater sense than Man? Ay, questionless.  
Doctor, I find you're shocked at this discourse:  
Man is (you cry) Lord of the Universe;  
For him was this fair frame of Nature made,  
And all the Creatures for his use, and aid:  
To him alone of all the living kind,  
Has bounteous Heaven the reasoning gift assigned.  
True Sir, that Reason ever was his lot,  
But thence I argue Man the greater Sot.   

This idle talk, (say you) and rambling stuff  
May pass in satire, and take well enough  
With Sceptic Fools, who are disposed to jeer  
At serious things: but you must make't appear  
By solid proof. Believe me, Sir, I'll do't:  
Take you the Desk, and let's dispute it out.  
Then by your favour, tell me first of all,  
What 'tis, which you grave Doctor's Wisdom call?  
You answer: 'Tis an evenness of Soul,  
A steady temper, which no cares control,  
No passions ru●…le, nor desires inflame,  
Still constant to its self, and still the same,  
That does in all its slow Resolves advance,  
With graver steps, than Benchers, when they dance.  
Most true; yet is not this, I dare maintain,  
Less used by any, than the Fool, called Man.   

The wiser Emmet, quoted just before,  
In Summer time ranges the Fallows o'er  
With pains, and labour, to lay in his store:  
But when the blust'ring North with ruffling blasts  
Saddens the year, and Nature overcasts;  
The prudent Insect, hid in privacy,  
Enjoys the fruits of his past industry.  
No Ant of sense was e'er so awkard seen,  
To drudge in Winter, loiter in the Spring.   

But sillier man, in his mistaken way,  
By Reason, his false guide, is led astray:  
Tost by a thousand gusts of wavering doubt,  
His restless mind still rolls from thought to thought:  
In each resolve unsteady, and unfixt,  
And when he one day loathes, desires the next.   

Shall I, so famed for many a tuant jest  
On wiving, now go take a jilt at last?  
Shall I turn Husband, and my station choose,  
Amongst the reverend Martyrs of the Noose?  
No, there are fools enough besides in Town,  
To furnish work for satire, and Lampoon:  
Few months before cried the unthinking Sot,  
Who quickly after, hampered in the knot,  
Was quoted for an instance by the rest,  
And bore his Fate, as tamely as the best,  
And thought, that Heaven from some miraculous side,  
For him alone had drawn a faithful Bride.   

This is our image just: such is that vain,  
That foolish, fickle, motley Creature, Man:  
More changing than a Weathercock, his Head  
N●…'r wakes with the same thoughts, he went to bed,  
Irksome to all beside, and ill at ease,  
He neither others, nor himself can please:  
Each minute round his whirling humours run,  
Now he's a Trooper, and a Priest anon,  
To day in Buff, to morrow in a Gown.   

Yet, pleased with idle whimsies of his brain,  
And puffed with pride, this haughty thing would fain  
Be thought himself the only stay, and prop,  
That holds the mighty frame of Nature up:  
The Skies and Stars his properties must seem,  
And turn-spit Angels tread the Spheres for him:  
Of all the Creatures he's the Lord (he cries)  
More absolute, than the French King of his.  
And who is there (say you) that dares deny  
So owned a truth? That may be, Sir, do I.   

But to omit the controversy here,  
Whether, if met, the Passenger and Bear,  
This or the other stands in greater fear.  
Or if an Act of Parliament should pass  
That all the Irish Wolves should quit the place,  
They'd straight obey the Statutes high command,  
And at a minute's warning rid the Land:  
This boasted Monarch of the world, that aw●  
The Creatures here, and with his beck gives Laws;  
This titular King, who th●s pretends to be  
The Lord of all, how many Lords has he?  
The lust of Money, and the lust of Power,  
With Love, and Hate, and twenty passions more,  
Hold him their slave, and chain him to the Oar.   

Scarce has soft sleep in silence closed his eyes,  
Up! (straight says Avarice) 'tis time to rise.  
Not yet: one minute longer. Up! (she cries)  
Th' Exchange, and Shops are hardly open yet.  
No matter: Rise! But after all, for what?  
D'ye ask▪ go, cut the Line, double the Cape,  
Traverse from end to end the spacious deep:  
Search both the Indies, Bantam, and Japan:  
Fetch Sugars from Barbadoes, Wines from Spain.  
What needs all this? I've wealth enough in store,  
I thank the Fates, nor care for adding more.  
You cannot have too much, this point to gain,  
You must no Crime, no Perjury refrain,  
Hunger you must endure, Hardship, and Want,  
Amidst full Barns keep an eternal Lent,  
And though you've more than B—m has spent,  
Or C— n got, like stingy B—el save,  
And grudge yourself the charges of a Grave,  
And the small Ransom of a single Groat,  
From Sword, or Halter to redeem your Throat.  
And pray, why all this sparing? Don't you know?  
Only t'enrich a spendthrift's Heir, or so:  
Who shall, when you are timely dead, and gone,  
With his gilt Coach, and Six amuse the Town,  
Keep his gay brace of Punks, and vainly give  
More for a night, than you to fine for Shrieve.  
But you lose time! the Wind, and Vessel waits,  
Quick, let's aboard! hay for the Downs, and Streights.   

Or, if all-powerful Money fail of charms:  
To tempt the wretch, and push him on to harms:  
With a strong hand does fierce Ambition seize,  
And drag him forth from soft repose and ease:  
Amidst ten thousand dangers spurs him on,  
With loss of Blood and Limbs to hunt renown.  
Who for reward of many a wound and maim,  
Is paid with nought but wooden Legs, and Fame;  
And the poor comfort of a grinning Fate,  
To stand recorded in the next Gazette.   

But hold (cries one) your paltry gibing wit,  
Or learn henceforth to aim it more aright:  
If this be any; 'tis a glorious fault,  
Which through all Ages has been ever thought  
The Hero's virtue, and chief excellence:  
Pray, what was Alexander in your sense?  
A Fool belike. Yes, faith, Sir, much the same:  
A crack brained Huff, that set the world on flame:  
A Lunatic broke loose, who in his fit  
Fell foul on all, invaded all, he met:  
Who, Lord of the whole Globe, yet not content,  
Lacked elbow-room, and seemed too closely penned.  
What madness was't, that, born to a fair Throne,  
Where he might rule with Justice, and Renown,  
Like a wild Robber, he should choose to roam,  
A pitied wretch, with neither house, nor home,  
And hurling War, and Slaughter up and down,  
Through the wide world make his vast folly known?  
Happy for ten good reasons had it been,  
If Macedon had had a Bedlam then:  
That there with Keepers under close restraint  
He might have been from frantic mischief penned.   

But that we mayn't in long digressions now  
Discourse all Rainolds, and the Passions through,   

And ranging them in method stiff, and grave,  
Rhyme on by Chapter, and by Paragraph;  
Let's quit the present Topick of dispute,  
For More and Cudworth to enlarge about;  
And take a view of man in his best light,  
Wherein he seems to most advantage set,   

'Tis he alone (you'll say) 'tis happy he,  
That's framed by Nature for Society:  
He only dwells in Towns, is only seen  
With Manners and Civility to shine;  
Does only Magistrates, and Rulers choose,  
And live secured by Government, and Laws.   

'Tis granted, Sir; but yet without all these,  
Without your boasted Laws, and Policies,  
Or fear of Judges, or of Justices;  
Who ever saw the Wolves, that he can say,  
Like more inhuman Us, so bend on prey,  
To rob their fellow Wolves upon the way?  
Who ever saw Church and Fanatic Bear,  
Like savage Mankind one another tear?  
What Tiger e'er, aspiring to be great,  
In Plots and Factions did embroil the State?  
Or when was't heard upon the Libyan Plains,  
Where the stern Monarch of the Desert reigns,  
That Whig and Tory Lions in wild jars  
Madly engaged for choice of Shrieves and May'rs?  
The fiercest Creatures, we in Nature find,  
Respect their figure still in the same kind;  
To others rough, to these they gentle be,  
And live from Noise, from Feuds, from Actions free.   

No Eagle does upon his Peerage sue,  
And strive some meaner Eagle to undo:  
No Fox was e'er suborned by spite, or hire,  
Against his brother Fox his life to swear:  
Nor any Hind, for Impotence at Rutilio,  
Did e'er the Stag into the Arches put;  
Where a grave Dean the weighty Case might state,  
What makes in Law a carnal Job complete:  
They fear no dreadful Quo Warranto Writ,  
To shake their ancient privilege and right:  
No Courts of Sessions, or Assize are there,  
No Common-Pleas, Kings-Bench, or Chancery-Bar:  
But happier they, by Nature's Charter free,  
Secure, and safe in mutual peace agree,  
And know no other Law, but Equity.   

'Tis Man, 'tis Man alone, that worst of Brutes,  
Who first brought up the trade of cutting Throats,  
Did Honour first, that barbarous term, devise,  
Unknown to all the gentler Savages;  
And, as 'twere not enough t'have fetched from Hell,  
Powder, and Guns, with all the arts to kill,  
Farther to plague the World, he must engross  
Huge Codes, and bulky Pandects of the Laws,  
With Doctor's Glosses to perplex the Cause,  
Where darkened Equity is kept from light,  
Under vast Reams of non sense buried quite.  
Gently, good Sir! (cry you) why all this rant?  
Man has his freaks, and passions; that we grant:  
He has his frailties, and blind sides; who doubts?  
But his least Virtues balance all his Faults.  
Pray, was it not this bold, this thinking Man,  
That measured Heaven, and taught the Stars to scan,  
Whose boundless wit, with soaring wings durst fly,  
Beyond the flaming borders of the sky;  
Turned Nature o'er, and with a piercing view  
Each cranny searched, and looked her through and through:  
Which of the Brutes have Universities?  
When was it heard, that they e'er took Degrees,  
Or were Professors of the Faculties?  
By Law, or Physic were they ever known  
To merit Velvet, or a Scarlet Gown?   

No questionless; nor did we ever read,  
Of Quacks with them, that were Licentiates made,  
By Patent to profess the poisoning Trade:  
No Doctors in the Desk there hold dispute  
About Black-pudding, while the wondering Rout  
Listen to hear the knotty Truth made out:  
Nor Virtuoso's teach deep mysteries  
Of Arts for pumping Air, and smothering Flies.   

But not to urge the matter farther now,  
Nor search it to the depth, what 'tis to know,  
And whether we know any thing or no.  
Answer me only this, What man is there  
In this vile thankless Age, wherein we are,  
Who does by Sense and Learning value bear?  
Wouldst thou get Honour, and a fair Estate,  
And have the looks and favours of the Great?  
Cries an old Father to his blooming Son,  
Take the right course, be ruled by me, 'tis done.  
Leave mouldy Authors to the reading Fools,  
The poring crowds in Colleges and Schools:  
How much is threescore Nobles? Twenty pound.  
Well said; my Son, the Answer's most profound:  
Go, thou knowst all that's requisite to know;  
What Wealth on thee, what Honours haste to flow!  
In these high Sciences thyself employ,  
Instead of Plato, take thy Hodder, Boy.  
Learn there the art to audit an Account,  
To what the King's Revenue does amount:  
How much the Customs, and Excise bring in,  
And what the Managers each year purloin.  
Get a case-hardened Conscience, Irish proof,  
Which nought of pity, sense, or shame can move:  
Turn Algerine, Barbarian, Turk, or Jew,  
Unjust, inhuman, treacherous, base, untrue;  
Ne'er stick at wrong; hang Widows sighs and tears,  
The cant of Priests to frighten Usurers:  
Boggle at nothing to increase thy Store,  
Nor Orphans Spoils, nor plunder of the Poor:  
And scorning paltry rules of Honesty,  
By surer methods raise thy Fortune high.   

Then shoals of Poets, Pedants, Orators,  
Doctors, Divines, Astrologers, and Lawyers,  
Authors of every sort, and every size,  
To thee their Works, and Labours shall address,  
With pompous Lines their Dedications fill,  
And learnedly in Greek and Latin tell  
Lies to thy face, that thou hast deep insight,  
And art a mighty Judge of what they write.  
He that is rich, is every thing, that is,  
Without one grain of Wisdom he is wise,  
And knowing nought, knows all the Sciences:  
He's witty, gallant, virtuous, generous, stout,  
Wellborn, well-bred, well-shaped, well-dressed, what not?  
Loved by the Great, and courted by the Fair,  
For none that e'er had Riches, found despair:  
Gold to the loathsom'st object gives a grace,  
And sets it off, and makes even Bovey please:  
But tattered Poverty they all despise,  
Love stands aloof, and from the Scarecrow flies.   

Thus a staunch Miser to his hopeful Brat  
Chalks out the way that leads to an Estate;  
Whose knowledge oft with utmost stretch of Brain  
No high'r than this vast secret can attain,  
Five and fours nine, take two, and seven remain,   

Go, Doctor, after this, and rack your Brains,  
Unravel Scripture with industrious pains:  
On musty Fathers waste your fruitless hours,  
Correct the Critics, and Expositors:  
Outvie great Stilling fleet in some vast Tome,  
And there confound both Bellarmine and Rome;  
Or glean the Rabbis of their learned store;  
To find what Father Simon has passed o'er:  
Then at the last some bulky piece compile,  
There lay out all your time, and pains, and skill?  
And when 'tis done and finished for the Press,  
To some great name the mighty Work address:  
Who for a full reward of all your toil,  
Shall pay you with a gracious nod or smile:  
Just recompense of life too vainly spent!  
An empty Thank you Sir, and Compliment.   

But, if to higher Honours you pretend,  
Take the advice and counsel of a Friend;  
Here quit the Desk, and throw your Scarlet by,  
And to some gainful course yourself apply.  
Go, practise with some Banker how to cheat,  
There's choice in Town, inquire in Lombard street.  
Let Scot and Ockam wrangle as they please,  
And thus in short with me conclude the case,  
A Doctor is no better than an Ass.   

A Doctor, Sir? yourself: Pray have a care,  
This is to push your Raillery too far.  
But not to lose the time in trifling thus,  
Beside the point, come now more home and close:  
That Man has Reason is beyond debate,  
Nor will yourself, I think, deny me that:  
And was not this fair Pilot given to steer,  
His tottering Bark through Life's rough Ocean here?   

All this I grant: But if in spite of it  
The Wretch on every Rock he sees will split,  
To what great purpose does his Reason serve,  
But to misguide his course, and make him swerve?  
What boots it H. when it says, Give o'er  
Thy scribbling itch, and play the fool no more.  
If her vain counsels, purposed to reclaim,  
Only avail to harden him in shame?  
Lampooned, and hissed, and damned the thousandth time,  
Still he writes on, is obstinate in Rhyme:  
His Verse, which he does every where recite,  
Put all his Neighbours, and his Friends to flight:  
Scared by the rhyming Fiend, they hast away,  
Nor will his very Groom be hired to stay.   

The Ass, whom Nature Reason has denied,  
Content with Instinct for his surer guide,  
Still follows that, and wiselier does proceed:  
He ne'er aspires with his harsh braying Note,  
The Songsters of the Wood to challenge out:  
Nor like this awkard smatterer in Arts,  
Sets up himself for a vain Ass of parts;  
Of reason void, he sees, and gains his end,  
While Man, who does to that false light pretend,  
Wildly gropes on, and in broad day is blind.  
By whimsy led he does all things by chance,  
And acts in each against all common sense.  
With every thing pleased, and displeased at once,  
He knows not what he seeks, nor what he shuns:  
Unable to distinguish good, or bad,  
For nothing he is gay, for nothing sad:  
At random loves, and loathes, avoids, pursues,  
Enacts, repeals, makes, altars, does, undoes.   

Did we, like him, e'er see the Dog, or Bear,  
Chimeras of their own devising fear?  
Frame needless doubts, and for those doubts forego  
The Joys which prompting Nature calls them to?  
And with their Pleasures awkardly at strife,  
With scaring Phantoms palls the sweets of Life?  
Tell me, grave Sir, did ever Man see Beast  
So much below himself, and sense debased,  
To worship Man with superstitious Fear,  
And fond to his Idol Temples rear?  
Was he e'er seen with Prayers, and Sacrifice  
Approach to him, as Ruler of the Skies,  
To beg for Rain, or Sunshine on his knees?  
No never: but a thousand times has Beast  
Seen Man, beneath the meanest Brute debased,  
Fall low to Wood, and Metal heretofore,  
And madly his own Workmanship adore:  
In Egypt oft has seen the Sot bow down,  
And reverence some deified Baboon:  
Has often seen him on the Banks of Nile  
Say Prayers to the Almighty Crocodile:  
And now each day in every street abroad  
Sees prostrate Fools adore a breaden God.   

But why (say you) these spiteful Instances  
Of Egypt, and its gross Idolatries?  
Of Rome, and hers as much ridiculous?  
What are these lewd Buffooneries to us?  
How gather you from such wild proofs as these,  
That Man, a Doctor is beneath an Ass?  
An Ass! that heavy, stupid, lumpish Beast,  
The Sport, and mocking-stock of all the rest?  
Whom they all spurn, and whom they all despise,  
Whose very name all satire does comprise?   

An Ass, Sir? Yes: Pray what should make us laugh?  
Now he unjustly is our jeer, and scoff.  
But, if one day he should occasion find  
Upon our Follies to express his mind;  
If Heaven, as once of old, to check proud Man,  
By miracle should give him Speech again;  
What would he say, d'ye think, could he speak out,  
Nay, Sir, betwixt us two, what would he not?   

What would he say, were he condemned to stand  
For one long hourin Fleetstreet, or the Strand,  
To cast his eyes upon the motley throng,  
The two-legged Herd, that daily pass along;  
To see their odd Disguises, Furs, and Gowns,  
Their Cassocks, Cloaks, Lawn-sleeves, and Pantaloons?  
What would he say to see a Velvet Quack  
Walk with the price of forty killed on's Back;  
Or mounted on a Stage, and gaping loud,  
Commend his Drugs, and Ratsbane to the Crowd?  
What would he think, on a Lord Mayor's day,  
Should he the Pomp and Pageantry survey?  
Or view the Judges, and their solemn Train,  
March with grave decency to kill a Man?  
What would he think of us, should he appear  
In Term amongst the Crowds at Westminster,  
And there the hellish din, and Jargon hear,  
Where S. and his Pack with deep mouthed Notes  
Drown Billingsgate, and all its Oyster-Boats?  
There see the Judges, Sergeants, Barristers,  
Attorneys, Counsellors, Solicitors,  
Cricrs, and Clerks, and all the Savage Crew  
Which wretched man at his own charge undo?  
If after prospect of all this, the Ass  
Should find the voice he had in Esop's days;  
Then, Doctor, then, casting his eyes around  
On human Fools, which every where abound.   

Content with Thistles, from all envy free,  
And shaking his grave head, no doubt he'd cry  
Good faith, Man is a Beast as much as we.    

THE THIRTEENTH satire OF JUVENAL, Imitated.  
Written in April, 1682.  
ARGUMENT.  
The POET comforts a Friend, that is overmuch concerned for the loss of a considerable Sum of Money, of which he has lately been cheated by a person, to whom he entrusted the same. This he does by showing, that nothing comes to pass in the world without Divine Providence, and that wicked Men (however they seem to escape its Punishment here) yet suffer abundantly in the torments of an evil Conscience. And by the way takes occasion to lash the Degeneracy, and Villainy of the present Times.  

THere is not one base Act, which men commit,  
But carries this ill sting along with it,  
That to the Author it creates regret:  
And this is some Revenge at least, that he  
Can ne'er acquit himself of Villainy.  
Tho a Bribed Judge and Jury set him free.   

All people, Sir, abhor (as 'tis but just)  
Your faithless Friend, woe lately broke his Trust,  
And curse the treacherous Deed: But, thanks to Fate,  
That has not blessed you with so small Estate,  
But that with patience you may bear the Cross,  
And need not sink under so mean a Loss.  
Besides your Case for less concern does call,  
Because 'tis what does usually befall:  
Ten thousand such might be alleged with ease,  
Out of the common crowd of Instances.   

Then cease for shame, immoderate regret,  
And don't your Manhood, and your sense forget:  
'Tis womanish, and silly to lay forth  
More cost in Grief than a Misfortune's worth,  
You scarce can bear a puny trifling ill,  
It goes so deep; pray Heaven! it does not kill:  
And all this trouble, and this vainado,  
Because a Friend (forsooth) has proved untrue.  
Shame o'your Beard! can this so much amaze?  
Were you not born in good King Jemmy's days?  
And are not you at length yet wiser grown,  
When threescore Winters on your head have snown;   

Almighty Wisdom gives in Holy Writ  
Wholesome Advise to all, that follow it:  
And those, that will not its great Counsels hear,  
May learn from mere experience how to bear  
(Without vain struggling) Fortune's yoke, and how  
They ought her rudest shocks to undergo,  
There's not a day so solemn through the year,  
Not one red Letter in the Calendar,  
But we of some new Crime discovered hear.  
Theft, Murder, Treason, Perjury, what not?  
Moneys by Cheating, Padding, Poisoning got.  
Nor is it strange; so few are now the Good,  
That fewer scarce were left at Noah's Flood:  
Should Sodoms Angel here in Fire descend,  
Our Nation wants ten Men to save the Land,  
Fate has reserved us for the very Lees  
Of Time, where Ill admits of no degrees:  
An Age so bad old Poets ne'er could frame,  
Nor find a Metal out to give't a name.  
This your Experience knows; and yet for all  
On faith of God, and Man aloud you call,  
Louder than on Queen Bess' day the Rout  
For Antichrist burned in Effigy shout:  
But, tell me, Sir, tell me, grey-headed Boy,  
Do you not know what Lech'ry men enjoy  
In stolen Goods? For God's sake don't you see  
How they all laugh at your simplicity,  
When gravely you forewarn of Perjury?  
Preach up a God, and Hell, vain empty names,  
Exploded now for idle threadbare shams,  
Devised by Priests, and by none else believed,  
E'er since great Hobbs the World has undeceived?   

This might have passed with the plain simple Race  
Of our Forefathers in King Arthur's days:  
ere, mingling with corrupted foreign Seed,  
We learned their Vice, and spoiled our native Breed.  
ere yet blessed Albion, high in ancient Fame,  
With her first Innocence resigned her Name.  
Fair dealing then, and downright Honesty,  
And plighted Faith were good Security:  
No vast Ingrossments for Estates were made,  
Nor Deeds, large as the Lands, which they conveyed:  
To bind a Trust there lacked no formal ties  
Of Paper, Wax, and Seals, and Witnesses,  
Nor ready Coin, but sterling Promises:  
Each took the other's word, and that would go  
For currant then, and more than Oaths do now:  
None had recourse to Chanc'ry for defence,  
Where you forego your Right with less Expense:  
Nor traps were yet set up for Perjurers,  
That catch men by the Heads, and whip off Ears.  
Then Knave, and Villain, things unheard of were,  
Scarce in a Century did one appear,  
And he more gazed at than a Blazing-Star:  
If a young Stripling put not off his Hat  
In high respect to every Beard he met,  
Tho a Lord's Son, and Heir, 'twas held a crime,  
That scarce deserved its Clergy in that time:  
So venerable then was four years' odds,  
And grey old Heads were r●…verenc'd as Gods.   

Now if a Friend once in an Age prove just,  
If he miraculously keep his Trust,  
And without force of Law deliver all  
That's due, both Interest, and Principal;  
Prodigious wonder! fit for Stow to tell,  
And stand recorded in the Chronicle;  
A thing less memorable would require  
As great a Monument as London Fire.  
A man of Faith and Uprightness is grown  
So strange a Creature both in Court and Town,  
That he with Elephants may well be shown.  
A Monster, more uncommon than a Whale  
At Bridge, the last great Comet, or the Hail,  
Than Thames his double Tide, or should he run  
With Streams of Milk, or Blood to Gravesend down.  
You're troubled that you've lost five hundred pound  
By treacherous Fraud: another may be found,  
Has lost a thousand: and another yet,  
Double to that; perhaps his whole Estate.   

Little do folks the heavenly Powers mind,  
If they but scape the knowledge of Mankind:  
Observe, with how demure, and grave a look  
The Rascal lays his hand upon the Book:  
Then with a praying Face, and lifted Eye  
Claps on his Lips, and Seals the Perjury:  
If you persist his Innocence to doubt,  
And boggle in Belief; he'll straight rapout  
Oaths by the volley, each of which would make  
Pale Atheists start, and trembling Bullies quake;  
And more than would a whole Ships Crew maintain  
To the East-Indies hence, and back again.  
As God shall pardon me, Sir, I am free  
Of what you charge me with: let me ne'er see  
His Face in Heaven else: may these hands rot,  
These eyes drop out; if Ie'er had a Groat  
Of yours, or if they ever touched, or saw't.  
Thus he'll run on two hours in length, till he  
Spin out a curse long as the Litany:  
Till Heaven has scarce a Judgement left in store  
For him to wish, deserve, or suffer more.   

These are, who disavow all Providence,  
And think the world is only steered by chance:  
Make God at best an idle looker on,  
A lazy Monarch lolling in his Throne:  
Who his Affairs does neither mind, or know,  
And leaves them all at random here below:  
And such as every foot themselves will damn,  
And Oaths no more than common Breath esteem:  
No shame, nor loss of Ears can frighten these,  
Were every Street a Grove of Pillories.   

Others there be, that own a God, and fear  
His Vengeance to ensue, and yet forswear:  
Thus to himself, says one, Let Heaven decree  
What Doom soe'er, its pleasure will, of me:  
Strike me with Blindness, Palsies, Leprosies,  
Plague, Pox, Consumption, all the Maladies  
Of both the Spitals; so I get my Prize,  
And hold it sure; I'll suffer these, and more;  
All Plagues are light to that of being poor.  
There's not a begging Cripple in the streets  
(Unless he with his Limbs has lost his Wits,  
And is grown fit for Bedlam) but no doubt,  
To have his Wealth would have the Rich man's Gout.  
Grant Heavens Vengeance heavy be; what though?  
The heaviest things move slowliest still we know:  
And, if it punish all, that guilty be,  
'Twill be an Age before it come to me:  
God too is merciful, as well as just;  
Therefore I'll rather his forgiveness trust,  
Than live despised, and poor, as thus I must:  
I'll try, and hope, he's more a Gentleman  
Than for such trivial things as these, to damn.  
Besides, for the same Fact we've often known  
One mount the Cart, another mount the Throne:  
And foulest Deeds, attended with success,  
No longer are reputed wickedness,  
Disguised with Virtue's Livery, and Dress.   

With these weak Arguments they fortify,  
And harden up themselves in Villainy:  
The Rascal now dares call you to account,  
And in what Court you please, join issue on't:  
Next Term he'll bring the Action to be tried,  
And twenty Witnesses to swear on's side:  
And, if that Justice to his Cause be found,  
Expects a Verdict of five hundred pound.  
Thus he, who boldly dares the Gild outface,  
For innocent shall with the Rabble pass:  
While you, with Impudence, and shame run down,  
Are only thought the Knave by all the Town.   

Mean time, poor you at Heaven exclaim, and rail,  
Louder than I— at the Bar does Bawl:  
Is there a Power above? and does he hear?  
And can he tamely Thunder bolts ferbear?  
To what vain end do we with Prayers adore?  
And on our bended knees his aid implore?  
Where is his Rule, if no respect be had,  
Of Innocence, or Gild, of Good, or Bad?  
And who henceforth will any credit show  
To what his lying Priests teach here below?  
If this be Providence; for aught I see,  
Blessed Saint, Vaninus! I shall follow thee:  
Little's the odds 'twixt such a God, and that,  
Which Atheist Lewis used to wear in's Hat.   

Thus you blaspheme, and rave: But pray, Sir, try  
What Comforts my weak Reason can apply,  
Who never yet read Plutarch, hardly saw,  
And am but meanly versed in Seneca.  
In cases dangerous and hard of cure  
We have recourse to Scarborough, or Lower:  
But if they don't so desperate appear,  
We trust to meaner Doctors skill, and care.   

If there were never in the world before  
So foul a deed; I'm dumb, not one word more:  
A God's name then let both your sluices flow,  
And all th' extravagance of sorrow show;  
And tear your Hair, and thump your mournful Breast,  
As if your dearest Firstborn were deceased.  
'Tis granted that a greater Grief attends  
Departed Moneys than departed Friends:  
None ever counterfeits upon this score,  
Nor need he do't: the thought of being poor  
Will serve alone to make the eyes run o'er.  
Lost Money's grieved with true unfeigned Tears,  
More true, than Sorrow of expecting Heirs  
At their dead Father's Funerals, though here  
The Back, and Hands no pompous Mourning wear.   

But if the like Complaints be daily found  
At Westminster, and in all Courts abound;  
If Bonds, and Obligations can't prevail,  
But men deny their very Hand and Seal,  
Signed with the Arms of the whole Pedigree  
Of their dead Ancestors to vouch the Lie,  
If Temple-Walks, and Smithfield never fail  
Of plying Rogues, that set their Souls to sale  
To the first Passenger, that bids a price,  
And make their livelihood of Perjuries;  
For God's sake why are you so delicate,  
And think it hard to share the common Fate?  
And why must you alone be Favourite thought  
Of Heaven, and we for Reprobates castout?   

The wrong you bear, is hardly worth regard,  
Much less your just resentment, if compared  
With greater outrages to others done,  
Which daily happen, and alarm the Town:  
Compare the Villains who cut Throats for Bread,  
Or Houses fire, of late a gainful Trade,  
By which our City was in Ashes laid:  
Compare the sacrilegious Burglary,  
From which no place can Sanctuary be,  
That rifles Churches of Communion-Plate,  
Which good King Edward's days did dedicate:  
Think, who durst fteal S. Alban's Font of Brass,  
That Christened half the Royal Scotish Race:  
Who stole the Chalices at Chichester,  
In which themselves received the day before:  
Or that bold daring hand, of fresh Renown,  
Who, scorning common Booty, stole a Crown:  
Compare too, if you please, the horrid Plot,  
With all the Perjuries to make it out,  
Or make it nothing, for these last three years;  
Add to it Thinne's and Godfrey's Murderers:  
And if these seem but slight, and trivial things,  
Add those, that have, and would have murdered Kings.   

And yet how little's this of Villainy  
To what our Judges oft in one day try?  
This to convince you, do but travel down,  
When the next Circuit comes, with Pemberton,  
Or any of the Twelve, and there but mind,  
How many Rogues there are of Humane kind,  
And let me hear you, when you're back again,  
Say, you are wronged, and, if you dare, complain.   

None wonder, who in Essex Hundreds live,  
Or Sheppy Island, to have Agues rife:  
Nor would you think it much in Africa,  
If you great Lips, and short flat Noses saw:  
Because 'tis so by Nature of each place;  
And therefore there for no strange things they pass.  
In Lands, where Pigmies are, to see a Crane  
(As Kites do Chickens here) sweep up a Man,  
In Armour clad, with us would make a show,  
And serve for entertain at Bartholomew:  
Yet there it goes for no great Prodigy,  
Where the whole Nation is but one foot high:  
Then why, fond Man, should you so much admire,  
Since Knave is of our Growth, and common here?   

But must such Perjury escape (say you)  
And shall it ever thus unpunished go?  
Grant, he weredragged to Jail this very hour,  
To starve, and rot; suppose it in your Power  
To rack, and torture him all kind of ways,  
To hang, or burn, or kill him, as you please;  
▪ And what would your Revenge itself have more?)  
Yet this, all this would not your Cash restore:  
And where would be the Comfort, where the Good.  
〈◊〉 you could wash your Hands in's reaking Blood?   

But, Oh, Revenge more sweet than Life! 'Tis true,  
So the unthinking say, and the mad Crew  
Of hectering Blades, who for slight cause, or none,  
At every turn are into Passion blown:  
Whom the least Trifles with Revenge inspire,  
And at each spark, like Gunpowder, take fire:  
These unprovok'd kill the next Man they meet,  
For being so saucy, as to walk the Street;  
And at the summons of each tiny Drab,  
Cry, Dam! Satisfaction! draw, and Stab.   

Not so of old, the mild good Socrates,  
(Who showed how high without the help of Grace,  
Well-cultivated Nature might be wrought)  
He a more noble way of suffering taught,  
And, though he Guiltless drank the poisonous Dose,  
Ne'er wished a drop to his accufing Foes.  
Not so our great good Martyred King of late  
(Could we his blessed Example imitate)  
Who, though the great'st of mortal sufferers.  
Yet kind to his rebellious Murderers,  
Forgave, and blessed them with his dying Prayers.   

Thus, we by sound Divinity, and Sense  
May purge our minds, and weed all Errors thence:  
These lead us into right, nor shall we need  
Other than them through Life to be our Guide.  
Revenge is but a Frailty, incident  
To crazed, and sickly minds, the poor Content  
Of little Souls, unable to surmount  
An Injury, too weak to bear Affront:  
And this you may infer, because we find,  
'Tis most in poor unthinking Womankind,  
Who wreak their feeble spite on all they can,  
And are more kin to Brute than brayer Man.   

But why should you imagine, Sir, that those  
Escape unpunished, who still feel the Throes  
And Pangs of a racked Soul, and (which is worse  
Than all the Pains, which can the Body curse)  
The secret gnawings of unseen Remorse?  
Believe't, they suffer greater Punishment  
Than Rome's Inquisitors could e'er invent:  
Not all the Tortures, Racks, and Cruelties,  
Which ancient Persecutors could devise,  
Nor all, that Fox his Bloody Records tell,  
Can match what bradshaw's, and Ravilliacs feel,  
Who in their Breasts carry about their Hell.   

I've read this story, but I know nor where,  
Whether in Hackwel, or Beard's Theatre:  
A certain Spartan, whom a Friend, like you,  
Had trusted with a Hundred pound or two,  
Went to the Oracle to know if he  
With safety might the Sum in trust deny.  
'Twas answered, No, that if he durst forswear,  
He should e'er long for's knavery pay dear:  
Hence Fear, not Honesty, made him refund;  
Yet to his cost the Sentence true he found:  
Himself, his Children, all his Family,  
Even the remotest of his whole Pedigree,  
Perished (as there 'tis told) in misery.  
Now to apply: if such be the sad end  
Of Perjury, though but in Thought designed,  
Think, Sir, what Fate awaits your treacherous Friend,  
Who has not only thought, but done to you  
All this, and more; think, what he suffers now,  
And think, what every Villain suffers else,  
That dares, like him, be faithless, base, and false.   

Pale Horror, ghastly Fear, and black Despair  
Pursue his steps, and dog him wheresoever  
He goes, and if from his loathed self he fly,  
To Herd, like wounded Deer, in company,  
These straight creepin and pale his mirth, and joy.  
The choicest Dainties, even by Lumly dressed,  
Afford no Relish to his sickly Taste,  
Insipid all, as Damocles his Feast.  
Even Wine, the greatest Blessing of Mankind,  
The best support of the dejected mind,  
Applied to his dull spirits, warms no more  
Than to his Corpse it could past Life restore.  
Darkness he fears, nor dares he trust his Bed  
Without a Candle watching by his side:  
And, if the wakeful Troubles of his Breast  
To his tossed Limbs allow one moments Rest,  
Straghtways the groans of Ghosts, and hideous Screams  
Of tortured Spirits haunt his frightful Dreams:  
Straight there return to his tormented mind  
His perjured Act, his injured God, and Friend:  
Straight he imagines you before his Eyes,  
Ghastly of shape, prodigious of size.  
With glaring Eyes, cleft Foot, and monstrous Tail,  
And bigger than the Giants at Guild hall,  
Stalking with horrid strides across the Room,  
And guards of Fiends to drag him to his Doom:  
Hereat he falls in dreadful Agonies,  
And dead cold Sweats his trembling Members seize:  
Then starting wakes, and with a dismal cry,  
Calls to his aid his frighted Family;  
There owns the Crime, and vows upon his knees  
The sacred Pledge next morning to release.   

These are the men, whom the least Terrors daunt,  
Who at the sight of their own shadows faint;  
These, if it chance to Lighten, are aghast,  
And quake for fear, lest every Flash should blast:  
These swoon away at the first Thunderclap,  
As if 'twere not, what usually does hap,  
The casual cracking of a Cloud, but sent  
By Angry Heaven for their Punishment:  
And, if unhurt they escape the Tempest now,  
Still dread the greater Vengeance to ensue:  
These the least Symptoms of a Fever fright,  
Water high coloured, want of rest at night,  
Or a disordered Pulse straight makes them shrink,  
And presently for fear they're ready sink  
Into their Graves: their time (think they) is come,  
And Heaven in judgement now has sent their Doom.  
Nor dare they, though in whisper, waft a Prayer,  
Left it by chance should reach th' Almighty's ear,  
And wake his sleeping Vengeance, which before  
So long has their impieties forbore.  
These are the thoughts which guilty Wretches haunt,  
Yet entered, they still grow more impudent:  
After a Crime perhaps they now and then  
Feel pangs and struggle of Remorse within,  
But straitreturn to their old course again:  
They, who have once thrown Shame, and Conscience by,  
Ne'er after make a stop in Villainy:  
Hurried along, down the vast steep they go,  
And find, 'tis all a Precipice below.   

Even this perfidious Friend of yours, no doubt  
Will not with single wickedness give out;  
Have patience but a while, you'll shortly see  
His hand held up at Bar for Felony:  
You'll see the sentenced wretch for Punishment  
To Scilly Isles, or the Caribbes sent;  
Or (if I may his surer Fate divine)  
Hung like Boroski, for a Gibbet-Sign:  
Then may you glut Revenge, and feast your Eyes  
With the dear object of his Miseries:  
And then at length convinced, with joy you'll find  
That the just God is neither deaf, nor blind.    

DAVID'S LAMENTATION For the DEATH of SAUL and JONATHAN, paraphrased.  
Written in September, 1677.  
ODE.  

I.  
AH wretched Israel! once a blessed, and happy State,  
The Darling of the Stars, and Heaven's Care,  
Then all the bordering world thy Vassals were,  
And thou at once their Envy and their Fear,  
How soon art thou (alas!) by the sad turn of Fate  
Become abandoned and forlorn?  
How art thou now become their Pity, and their scorn?  
Thy Lustre all is vanished, all thy Glory fled,  
Thy Sun himself set in a blood red,  
Too sure Prognostic! which does ill portend  
Approaching Storms on thy unhappy Land,  
Left naked, and defenceless now to each invading Hand.  
A fatal Battle, lately fought,  
Has all these miseries, and Misfortunes brought,  
Has thy quick Ruin, and Destruction wrought:  
There fell we by a mighty Overthrow  
A Prey to an enraged, relentless Foe,  
The toil and labour of their wearied Cruelty,  
Till they no more could kill, and we no longer die:  
Vast slaughter all around th' enlarged Mountain swells,  
And numerous Death's increase its former Hills.   

II.  
In Gath let not the mournful News be known,  
Nor published in the streets of Askalon;  
May Fame itself be quite struck dumb!  
Oh may it never to Philistia come,  
Nor any live to bear the cursed Tidings home!  
Lest the proud Enemies new Trophies raise,  
And loudly triumph in our fresh Disgrace:  
No captive Israelite their pompous Joy adorn,  
Nor in sad Bondage his lost Country mourn:  
No Spoils of ours be in their Temples hung,  
No Hymns to Ashdod's Idol sung,  
Nor thankful Sacrifice on his glad Altars burn,  
Kind Heaven forbid! lest the base Heathen Slaves blaspheme  
Thy sacred and unutterable Name,  
And above thine extol their Dagon's Fame.  
Lest the vile Fish's Worship spread abroad,  
Who fell a prostrate Victim once before our conquering God:  
And you, who the great Deeds of Kings and Kingdoms write,  
Who all their Actions to succeeding Age transmit,  
Conceal the blushing Story, ah! conceal  
Our Nation's loss, and our dread Monarch's fall:  
Conceal the Journal of this bloody Day,  
When both by the ill Play of Fate were thrown away:  
Nor let our wretched Infamy, and Fortune's Crime  
Be ever mentioned in the Registers of future Time.   

III.  
For ever, Gilboa, be cursed thy hated Name,  
Th' eternal Monument of our Disgrace, and shame!  
For ever cursed be that unhappy Scene,  
Where Slaughter, Blood, and Death did lately reign!  
No Clouds henceforth above thy barren top appear.  
But what may make thee mourning wear:  
Let them ne'er shake their dewy Fleeces there,  
But only once a year  
On the sad Anniverse drop a remembering Tear:  
No Flocks of Offerings on thy Hills be known,  
Which may by Sacrifice our Gild and thine atone  
No Sheep, nor any of the gentler kind hereafter stay  
On thee, but Bears, and Wolves, and Beasts of prey,  
Or men more savage, wild, and fierce than they;  
A Desert may'st thou prove, and lonely waist,  
Like that, our sinful, stubborn Fathers passed,  
Where they the Penance trod for all, they there transgressed:  
Too dearly wast thou drenched with precious Blood  
Of many a Jewish Worthy, spilt of late,  
Who suffered there by an ignoble Fate,  
And purchased foul Dishonour at too high a rate:  
Great Saul's ran there amongst the common Flood,  
His Royal self mixed with the base Crowd:  
He, whom heavens high and open suffrage chose,  
The Bulwark of our Nation to oppose  
The Power and Malice of our Foes;  
Even He, on whom the Sacred Oil was shed,  
Whose mystic drops enlarged his hallowed Head,  
Lies now (oh Fa●…e, impartial still to Kings!)  
Huddled, and undistinguished in the heap of meaner Things.   

IV.  
Lo! there the mighty Warrior lies,  
With all his Laurels, all his Victories,  
To rav●…nous Fowls, or worse, to his proud Foes, a Prize:  
How changed from that great Saul! whose generous A●…d.  
A conquering Army to distressed Jabesh led,  
At whose approach Ammon's proud Tyrant fled:  
How changed from that great Saul! whom we saw bring  
From vanquished Amalek their captive Spoils, and ●…ing:  
When unbid Pity made him Agag spare;  
Ah Pity! more ●…an Cruelty found guilty there:  
Oft has he made these conquered Enemies bow,  
By whom himself lies conquered now:  
At Micmash his great Might they felt, and knew,  
The same they felt at Dammi●… too:  
Well I remember, when from Helah's Plain  
He came in triumph, met by a numerous Crowd,  
Who with glad shouts proclaimed their Joy aloud;  
A dance of beauteous Virgins led the solemn Train,  
And sung, and praised the man that had his thousands slain.  
Seir, Moab, Zobab felt him, and where e'er  
He did his glorious Standards bear,  
Officious victory followed in the rear:  
Success attended still his brandished Sword,  
And, like the Grave, the gluttonous Blade devoured:  
Slaughter upon its point in triumph sat,  
And scattered Death, as quick, and wide as Fare.   

V.  
Nor less in high Repute, and Worth was his great Son,  
Sole Heir of all his Valour, and Renown,  
Heir too (if cruel Fate had suffered) of his Throne:  
The matchless Jonathan 'twas, whom loud▪ tongued Fame  
Amongst her chiefest Heroes joys to name,  
ere since the wondrous Deeds of Seneh done,  
Where he, himself an Host, o'ercome a War alone:  
The trembling Enemies fled, they tried to fly,  
But fixed amazement stopped, and made them die.  
Great Archer he! to whom our dreadful skill me owe,  
Dreaded by all, who Israel's warlike Prowess know;  
As many Shafts, as his full Quiver held,  
So many Fates he drew, so many killed:  
Quick, and unerring they, as darted Eye-beams, flew,  
As if he gave 'em sight, and swiftness too.  
Death took her Aim from his, and by't her Arrows threw.   

VI  
Both excellent they were, both equally allied  
On Nature, and on Valour's side:  
Great Saul, who scorned a Rival in Renown,  
Yet envied not the Fame of's greater Son,  
By him endured to be surpassed alone:  
He gallant Prince, did his whole Father show,  
And fast, as he could set, the well-writ Copies drew  
And blushed, that Duty bid him not outgo:  
Together they did both the paths to Glory trace,  
Together hunted in the noble Chase,  
Together finished their united Race:  
There only did they prove unfortunate,  
Never till then unblessed by Fate,  
Yet there they ceased not to be great;  
Fearless they met, and braved their threatened fall,  
And fought when Heaven revolted, Fortune durst rebel.  
When public safety, and their Country's care  
Required their Aid, and called them to the toils of War;  
As Parent-Eagles, summoned by their Infant's cries  
Whom some rude hands would make a Prize,  
Haste to Relief, and with their Wings outfly their eyes;  
So swift did they their speedy succour bear,  
So swift the bold Aggressors seize,  
So swift attack, so swift pursue the vanquished enemies:  
The vanquished enemies with all the wings of Fear  
Moved not so quick as they,  
Scarce could their souls fly fast enough away.  
Bolder than Lions, they thick Dangers met,  
Through Fields with armed Troops, and pointed Harvests set,  
Nothing could tame their Rage, or quench their Generous Heat:  
Like those, they marched undaunted, and like those,  
Secure of Wounds, and all that durst oppose,  
So to Resisters fierce, so gentle to their prostrate Foes.   

VII.  
Mourn, wretched Israel, mourn thy Monarch's fall,  
And all thy plenteous stock of sorrow call,  
T'attend his pompous Funeral:  
Mourn each, who in this loss an interest shares,  
Lavish your Grief, exhaust it all in Tears:  
You Hebrew Virgins too,  
Who once in lofty strains did his glad Triumphs sing,  
Bring all your Artful Notes, and skilful Measures now,  
Each charming air of Breath, and string,  
Bring all to grace the Obsequies of your dead King,  
And high, as than your Joy, let now your Sorrow flow.  
Saul, your great Saul is dead,  
Who you with Nature's choicest Dainties fed,  
Who you with Nature's gayest Wardrobe clad,  
By whom you all her Pride, and all her Pleasures had:  
For you the precious Worm his Bowels spun,  
For you the Tyrian Fish did Purple run,  
For you the blessed Arabia's Spices grew,  
And Eastern Quarries hardened Pearly dew;  
The Sun himself turned Labourer for you:  
For you he hatched his golden Births alone,  
Wherewith you were array'ed, whereby you him out-shone.  
All this and more you did to Saul's great Conduct owe,  
All this you lost in his unhappy overthrow.   

VIII.  
Oh Death! how vast an Harvest hast thou reaped of late!  
Never before hadst thou so great,  
Ne'er drunkest before so deep of Jewish Blood,  
ne'er since th' embattled Hosts at Gibeah stood;  
When three whole days took up the work of Fate,  
When a large Tribe entered at once thy Bill,  
Ane threescore thousand Victims to thy Fury fell.  
Upon the fatal Mountain's Head,  
Lo! how the mighty Chiefs lie dead:  
There my beloved Jonathan was slain,  
The best of Princes, and the best of Men;  
Cold Death hangs on his Cheeks like an untimely Frost  
On early Fruit, there sits, and smiles a sullen Boast,  
And yet looks pale at the great Captive, she has ta'en.  
My Jonathan is dead! (oh dreadfullest word of Fame!  
Oh grief! that I can speak't, and not become the same!)  
He's dead, and with him all our blooming Hopes are gone,  
And many a wonder, which he must have done,  
And many a Conquest which he must have won.  
They're all to the dark Grave, and Silence fled  
And never now in story shall be read,  
And never now shall take their date,  
Snatched hence by the preventing hand of envious Fate.   

IX.  
Ah worthy Prince! would I for thee had died!  
Ah, would I had thy fatal place supplied!  
I'd then repaid a Life, which to thy gift I owe,  
Repaid a Crown, which Friendship taught thee to forgo;  
Both Debts, Ine'er can cancel now:  
Oh, dearer than my Soul! if I can call it mine,  
For sure we had the same, 'twas very thine,  
Dearer than Light, or Life, or Fame,  
Or Crowns, or any thing, that I can wish, or think, or name:  
Brother thou wast, but wast my Friend before,  
And that new Title than could add no more:  
Mine more than Blood, Alliance, Nature's self could make,  
Than I, or Fame itself can speak:  
Not yearning Mothers, when first Throes they feel  
To their young Babes in looks a softer Passion tell:  
Nor artless undissembling Maids express  
In their last dying sighs such Tenderness:  
Not thy fair Sister, whom strict Duty bids me wear  
First in my Breast, whom holy Vows make mine,  
Tho all the Virtues of a loyal Wife she bore,  
Could boast an Union so near,  
Could boast a Love so firm, so lasting, so Divine.  
So pure is that which we in Angels find  
To Mortals here, in Heaven to their own kind:  
So pure, but not more great must that blessed Friendship prove  
(Could, ah, could I to that wished Place, and Thee remove)  
Which shall for ever join our mingled Souls above,   

X.  
Ah wretched Israel! ah unhappy state!  
Exposed to all the Bolts of angry Fate!  
Exposed to all thy Enemies revengeful hate!  
Who is there left their fury to withstand?  
What Champions now to guard thy helpless Land?  
Who is there left in listed Fields to head  
Thy valiant Youth, and lead them on to Victory?  
Alas! thy valiant Youth are dead,  
And all thy brave Commanders too:  
Lo! how the Glut, and Riot of the Grave they lie,  
And none survive the fatal Overthrow,  
To right their injured Ghosts upon the barbarous Foe!  
Rest, ye blessed shades, in everlasting Peace,  
Who fell your Country's bloody Sacrifice:  
For ever Sacred be your Memories,  
And may e'er long some dread Avenger rise  
To wipe of heavens and your Disgrace:  
May then these proud insulting Foes  
Wash off our stains of Honour with their Blood.  
May they ten thousand-fold repay our loss.  
For every Life a Myriad, every Drop a Flood.    

THE ODE OF Aristotle in Athenaeus, paraphrased.  

I.  
HOnour! thou greatest Blessing in the gift of Heaven,  
Which only art to its chief Darlings given:  
Cheaply with Blood and Dangers art thou sought,  
Nor canst at any rate be over-bought.  
Thou, shining Honour, are the noblest chase  
Of all the braver part of Humane Race:  
Thou only art worth living for below,  
And only worth our dying too.  
For thee, bright Goddess, for thy charming sake,  
Does Greece such wondrous Actions undertake;  
For thee no Toils, nor Hardships she foregoes,  
And Death amidst ten thousand ghastly Terrors woos.  
So powerfully dost thou the mind inspire,  
And kindlest there so generous a fire,  
As makes thy zealous Votaries  
All things, but Thee despise;  
Makes them the love of Thee prefer  
Before th' enchantments of bewitching Gold,  
Before th' embraces of a Parent's arms,  
Before soft ease, and Love's enticing Charms,  
And all, that Men on Earth most valuable hold.   

II.  
For Thee the Heaven born Hercules  
And Leda's faithful Twins, in Birth no less,  
So many mighty Labours underwent,  
And by their Godlike Deeds proclaimed their high Descent.  
By thee they reached the blessed Abode,  
Th●… worthy Prize, for which in Glory's path they trod.  
By thee great Ajax, and the greater Son  
Of Peleus were exalted to Renown:  
Envied by the Immortals did they go,  
Laden with triumph to the shades below.  
For thee, and thy dear sake  
Did the young Worthy of Atarna lately stake  
His Life in Battle to the chance of Fate,  
And bravely lost, what he so boldly set:  
Yet lost he not his glorious aim,  
But by short Death purchased eternal Fame:  
The grateful Muses shall embalm his Memory,  
And never let it die:  
They shall his great Exploits rehearse,  
And consecrate the Hero in immortal Verse.    

Upon the WORKS of BEN. JOHNSON.  
Written in 1678.  
ODE.  

I.  
GReat Thou! whom 'tis a Crime almost to dare to praise,  
Whose firm established, and unshaken Glories stand,  
And proudly their own Fame command,  
Above our power to lessen or to raise,  
And all, but the few Heirs of thy brave Genius, and thy Bays;  
Hail mighty Founder of our Stage! for so I dare  
Entitle thee, nor any modern Censures fear,  
Nor care what thy unjust Detractors say;  
They'll say perhaps, that others did Materials bring,  
That others did the first Foundations lay,  
And glorious 'twas (we grant) but to begin,  
But thou alone couldst finish the design,  
All the fair Model, and the Workmanship was thine:  
Some bold Adventurers might have been before,  
Who durst the unknown world explore,  
By them it was surveyed at distant view,  
And here and there a Cape, and Line they drew,  
Which only served as hints, and marks to thee,  
Who wast reserved to make the full Discovery:  
Art's Compass to thy painful search we owe,  
Whereby thou wentest so far, and we may after go,  
By that we may Wit's vast, and trackless Ocean try,  
Content no longer, as before,  
Dully to coast along the shore,  
But steer a course more unconfined, and free,  
Beyond the narrow bounds, that penned Antiquity.   

II.  
Never till thee the Theatre possessed  
A Prince with equal Power, and Greatness blessed,  
No Government, or Laws it had  
To strengthen, and establish it,  
Till thy great hand the Sceptre swayed,  
But groaned under a wretched Anarchy of Wit:  
Unformed, and void was then its Poesy,  
Only some pre-existing Matter we  
Perhaps could see,  
That might foretell what was to be;  
A rude, and undigested Lump it lay,  
Like the old Chaos, ere the birth of Light, and Day,  
Till thy brave Genius like a new Creator came,  
And undertook the mighty Frame:  
No shuffled Atoms did the well-built work compose,  
It from no lucky hit of blundering Chance arose  
(As some of this great Fabric idly dream)  
But wise, allseeing Judgement did contrive,  
And knowing Art its Graces give:  
No sooner did thy Soul with active Force and Fire  
The dull and heavy Mass inspire,  
But straight throughout it let us see  
Proportion, Order, Harmony,  
And every part did to the whole agree,  
And straight appeared a beauteous newmade world of Poetry.   

III.  
Let dull, and ignorant Pretenders Art condemn  
(Those only Foes to Art, and Art to them)  
The mere fanatics, and Enthusiasts in Poetry  
(For Schismatics in that, as in Religion be)  
Who make't all Revelation, Trance, and Dream,  
Let them despise her Laws, and think  
That Rules and Forms the Spirit stint:  
Thine was no mad, unruly Frenzy of the brain,  
Which justly might deserve the Chain,  
'Twas brisk, and mettled, but a managed Rage,  
Sprightly as vigorous Youth, and cool as temperate Age:  
Free, like thy Will, it did all Force disdain,  
But suffered Reason's loose, and easy rain,  
By that it suffered to be led,  
Which did not curb Poetic liberty, but guide:  
Fancy, that wild and haggard Faculty,  
Untamed in most, and let at random fly,  
Was wisely governed, and reclaimed by thee,  
Restraint, and Discipline was made endure,  
And by thy calm, and milder Judgement brought to lure;  
Yet when 'twas at some nobler Quarry sent,  
With bold, and towering wings it upward went,  
Not lessened at the greatest height,  
Not turned by the most giddy flights of dazzling Wit.   

IV.  
Nature, and Art together met, and joined,  
Made up the Character of thy great Mind.  
That like a bright and glorious Sphere,  
Appeared with numerous Stars embellished o'er,  
And much of Light to thee, and much of Influence bore,  
This was the strong Intelligence, whose power  
Turned it about, and did th' unerring motions steer:  
Concurring both like vital Seed, and Heat,  
The noble Births they jointly did beget,  
And hard 'twas to be thought,  
Which most of force to the great Generation brought:  
So mingling Elements compose our Bodies frame,  
Fire, Water, Earth, and Air  
Alike their just Proportions share,  
Each undistinguished still remains the same,  
Yet can't we say that either's here, or there,  
But all, we know not how, are scattered every where.   

V.  
Sober, and grave was still the Garb thy Muse put on,  
No tawdry careless slattern Dress,  
Nor starched, and formal with Affectedness,  
Nor the cast Mode, and Fashion of the Court, and Town;  
But neat agreeable, and janty 'twas,  
Well-fitted, it sat close in every place,  
And all became with an uncommon Air, and Grace:  
Rich, costly and substantial was the stuff,  
Not barely smooth, nor yet too coarsely rough:  
No refuse, ill-patched Shreds o'th' Schools,  
The motley wear of read, and learned Fools,  
No French Commodity which now so much does take,  
And our own better Manufacture spoil,  
Nor was it ought of foreign Soil;  
But Staple all, and all of English Growth, and Make:  
What Flowers soe'er of Art it had, were found  
No tinseled slight Embroideries.  
But all appeared either the native Ground,  
Or twisted, wrought, and interwoven with the Piece.   

VI  
Plain Humour, shown with her whole various Face,  
Not masked with any antic Dress,  
Nor screwed in forced, ridiculous Grimace  
(The gaping Rabbles dull delight,  
And more the Actor's than the Poet's Wit)  
Such did she enter on thy Stage,  
And such was represented to the wondering Age:  
Well wast thou skilled, and read in humane kind,  
In every wild fantastic Passion of his mind,  
Didst into all his hidden Inclinations dive,  
What each from Nature does receive,  
Or Age, or Sex, or Quality, or Country give;  
What Custom too, that mighty Sorceress,  
Whose powerful Witchcraft does transform  
Enchanted Man to several monstrous Images,  
Makes this an odd, and freakish Monkey turn,  
And that a grave and solemn Ass Appear,  
And all a thousand beastly shapes of Folly wear:  
whate'er Caprice or Whimsy leads awry  
Perverted, and seduced Mortality,  
Or does incline, and bias it  
From what's Discreet, and Wise, and Right, and Good, and Fit;  
All in thy faithful Glass were so expressed,  
As if they were Reflections of thy Breast,  
As if they had been stamped on thy own mind,  
And thou the universal vast Idea of Mankind.   

VII.  
Never didst thou with the same Dish repeated cloy.  
Tho every Dish, well cooked by thee,  
Contained a plentiful Variety  
To all that could sound relishing Palates be,  
Each Regale with new Delicacies did invite,  
Courted the Taste, and raised the Appetite:  
whate'er fresh dainty Fops in season were  
To garnish, and set out thy Bill of fare  
(Those never found to fail throughout the year,  
For seldom that ill-natured Planet rules,  
That plagues a Poet with a dearth of Fools)  
What thy strict Observation e'er surveyed,  
From the fine, luscious Spark of high, and courtly Breed.  
Down to the dull, insipid Cit,  
Made thy pleased Audience entertainment fit,  
Served up with all the grateful Poignances of Wit.   

VIII.  
Most Plays are writ like Almanacs of late,  
And serve one only year, one only State;  
Another makes them useless, stale, and out of date;  
But thine were wisely calcu●…ed ●…it  
For each Meridian, every 〈◊〉 〈◊〉,  
For all succeeding time, and after-age,  
And all Mankind might thy vast Audience sit,  
And the whole world be justly made thy Stage:  
Still they shall taking be, and ever new,  
Still kept in vogue in spite of all the damning Crew;  
Till the last Scene of this great Theatre,  
Closed, and shut down,  
The numerous Actors all retire,  
And the grand Play of humane Life be done.   

IX.  
Beshrew those envious Tongues, who seek to blast thy Bays,  
Who Spots in thy bright Fame would find, or raise,  
And say, it only shines with borrowed Rays;  
Rich in thyself, to whose unbounded store  
Exhausted Nature could vouchsafe no more,  
Thou couldst alone the Empire of the Stage maintain,  
Couldst all its Grandeur, and its Port sustain,  
Nor neededst others Subsidies to pay,  
Neededst no Tax on foreign, or thy native Country lay,  
To bear the charges of thy purchased Fame,  
But thy own Stock could raise the same,  
Thy sole Revenue all the vast Expense defray,  
Yet like some mighty Conqueror in Poetry,  
Designed by Fate of choice to be  
Founder of its new universal Monarchy,  
Boldly thou didst the learned World invade,  
Whilst all around thy powerful Genius swayed,  
Soon vanquished Rome, and Greece were made submit,  
Both were thy humble Tributaries made,  
And thou return'dst in Triumph with their captive Wit.   

X.  
Unjust, and more ill-natured those,  
Thy spiteful, and malicious Fo●…,  
Who on thy happiest Talon fix ●…lye,  
And call that Slowness, which w●…●…are, and Industry.  
Let me (with Pride so to be guilty thought)  
Share all thy wished Reproach, and share th' shame,  
If Diligence be deemed a fault,  
If to be faultless must deserve their Blame:  
Judge of thyself alone (for none there were,  
Could be so just, or could be so severe)  
Thou thy own Works didst strictly try  
By known and uncontested Rules of Poetry,  
And gav'st thy Sentence still impartially:  
With rigour thou arraign'dst each guilty Line,  
And spar'dst no criminal Sense, because 'twas thine:  
Unbribed with Favour, Love, or Self-conceit,  
(For never, or too seldom we,  
Objects too near us, our own Blemishes can see)  
Thou didst no smallest Delinquencies acquit,  
But saw'st them to Correction all submit,  
Saw'st execution done on all convicted Crimes of Wit.   

XI.  
Some curious Painter, taught by Art to dare  
(For they with Poets in that Title share)  
When he would undertake a glorious Frame  
Of lasting Worth, and fadeless as his Fame;  
Long he contrives, and weighs the bold Design,  
Long holds his doubting hand ere he begin,  
And justly then proportions every stroke, and line,  
And oft he brings it to review.  
And oft he does deface, and dashes oft anew,  
And mixes Oils to make the flitting Colours dure,  
To keep 'em from the tarnish of injurious Time secure;  
Finished at length in all that Care, and Skill can do  
The matchless Piece is set to public View,  
And all surprised about it wondering stand,  
And though no name be found below,  
Yet straight discernth ' unimitable hand,  
And straight they cry 'tis Titian, or 'tis Angelo:  
So thy brave Soul, that scorned all cheap, and easy ways,  
And trod no common road to Praise,  
Would not with rash, and speedy Negligence proceed,  
(For who e'er saw Perfection grow in haste?  
Or that soon done, which must for ever last?)  
But gently did advance with wary heed,  
And showed that mastery is most in justness read:  
Nought ever issued from thy teeming Breast,  
But what had gone full time, could write exactly best,  
And stand the sharpest Censure, and def●…e the rigid'st Test.   

XII.  
'Twas thus th' Almighty Poet (if we dare  
Our weak, and meaner Acts with his compare)  
When he the World's fair Poem did of old design,  
That Work, which now must boast no longer date than thine;  
Tho 'twas in him alike to will, and do,  
Tho the same Word that spoke, could make it too,  
Yet would he not such quick, and hasty methods use,  
Nor did an instant (which it might) the great effect produce,  
But when th' Alwise himself in Council sat,  
Vouchsafed to think and be deliberate,  
When Heaven considered, and th' Eternal Wit, and sense,  
Seemed to take time, and care, and pains,  
It showed that some uncommon Birth,  
That something worthy of a God was coming forth;  
Nought uncorrect there was, nought faulty there,  
No point amiss did in the large voluminous Piece appear,  
And when the glorious Author all surveyed,  
Surveyed whate'er his mighty Labours made,  
Well-pleased he was to find  
All answered the great Model, and Idea of his Mind  
Pleased at himself He in high wonder stood,  
And much his Power, and much his Wisdom did applaud,  
To see how all was perfect, all transcendent Good.   

XIII.  
Let meaner spirits stoop to low precarious Fame,  
Content on gross and corpse Applause to live,  
And what the dull, and senseless Rabble give,  
Thou didst it still with noble scorn contemn,  
Nor wouldst that wretched Alms receive,  
The poor subsistence of some bankrupt, sordid name:  
Thine was no empty Vapour, raised beneath,  
And formed of common Breath,  
The false, and foolish Fire, that's whisked about  
By popular Air, and glares a while, and then goes out;  
But 'twas a solid, whole, and perfect Globe of light,  
That shone all over, was all over bright,  
And dared all sullying Clouds, and feared no darkening night;  
Like the gay Monarch of the Stars and Sky,  
Who wheresoever he does display  
His sovereign Lustre, and majestic Ray,  
Straight all the less, and petty Glories nigh  
Vanish, and shrink away.  
Overwhelmed, and swallowed by the greater blaze of Day;  
With such a strong, an awful and victorious Beam  
Appeared, and ever shall appear, thy Fame,  
Viewed, and adored by all th' undoubted Race of Wit,  
Who only can endure to look on it.  
The rest o'ercome with too much light,  
With too much brightness dazzled, or extinguished quite:  
Restless, and uncontrolled it now shall pass  
As wide a course about the World as he,  
And when his long-repeated Travels cease  
Begin a new, and vaster Race,  
And still tread round the endless Circle of Eternity.    

THE NINTH ODE Of the Third Book of HORACE, IMITATED.  
A Dialogue betwixt the Poet and Lydia.  
Donec Gratus eram tibi, etc.  

I.  
Hor. WHile you for me alone had Charms,  
And none more welcome filled your Arms,  
Proud with content, I slighted Crowns,  
And pitied Monarches on their Thrones.   

II.  
Lyd. While you thought Lydia only fair,  
And loved no other Nymph but her,  
Lydia was happier in your Love,  
Than the blessed Virgins are above.   

III.  
Hor. Now Chloes charming Voice, and Art  
Have gained the conquest of my Heart:  
For whom, ye Fates, I'd wish to die,  
If mine the Nymphs dear Life might buy.   

IV.  
Lyd. Thyrsis by me has done the same,  
The Yough burns me with mutual Flame:  
For whom a double Death I'd bear;  
Would Fate my dearest Thyrsis spare.   

V.  
Hor. But say, fair Nymph, if I once more  
Become your Captive as before?  
Say, I throw off my Chloes' chain,  
And take you to my Breast again?   

VI  
Lyd. Why then, though he more bright appear,  
More constant than a fixed Star;  
Tho you than Wind more fickle be,  
And rougher than the stormy Sea.  
By Heaven, and all its Powers I vow  
I'd gladly live, and die with you.    

UPON A LADY, Who by overturning of a Coach, had her Coats behind flung up, and what was under shown to the View of the Company.  
Out of Voiture.  

I.  
PHillis, 'tis owned, I am your Slave,  
This happy moment dates your Reign;  
No force of Humane Power can save  
My captive Heart, that wears your chain:  
But when my Conquest you designed;  
Pardon, bright Nymph, if I declare,  
It was unjust, and too severe,  
Thus to attack me from behind.   

II.  
Against the Charms, your Eyes impart,  
With care I had secured my Heart;  
On all the wonders of your Face  
Could safely, and unwounded gaze:  
But now entirely to enthral  
My Breast, you have exposed to view  
Another more resistless Foe,  
From which I had no guard at all.   

III.  
At first assault constrained to yield,  
My vanquished Heart resigned the Field,  
My Freedom to the Conqueror  
Became a prey that very hour:  
The subtle Traitor, who unspied  
Had lurked till now in close disguise,  
Lay all his life in ambush hid  
At last to kill me by surprise.   

IV.  
A sudden Heat my Breast inspired,  
The piercing Flame, like lightning, sent  
From that new dawning Firmament  
Through every Vein my Spirits fired;  
My Heart, before averse to Love,  
No longer could a Rebel prove;  
When on the Grass you did display  
Your radiant B●…M to my survey,  
And shamed the Lustre of the Day.   

V.  
The Sun in Heaven, abashed to see  
A thing more gay, more bright than He,  
Struck with disgrace, as well he might,  
Thought to drive back the Steeds of Light:  
His Beams he now thought useless grown,  
That better were by yours supplied,  
But having once seen your Back side,  
For shame he durst not show his own.   

VI  
Forsaking every Wood, and Grove,  
The Sylvans ravished at the sight,  
In pressing Crowds about you strove,  
Gazing, and lost in wonder quite:  
Fond Zephyr seeing your rich store  
Of Beauty, undescried before,  
Enamoured of each lovely Grace,  
Before his own dear Flora's face,  
Could not forbear to kiss the place.   

VII.  
The beauteous Queen of Flowers, the Rose,  
In blushes did her shame disclose:  
Pale Lilies drooped, and hung their heads,  
And shrunk for fear into their Beds:  
The amorous Narcissus too,  
Reclaimed of fond self-love by you,  
His former vain desire cashiered,  
And your fair Breech alone admired.   

VIII.  
When this bright Object greets our sight,  
All others lose their Lustre quite:  
Your Eyes that shoot such pointed Rays,  
And all the Beauties of your Race,  
Like dwindling Stars, that fly away  
At the approach of brighter Day,  
No more regard, or value bear,  
But when its Glories disappear.   

IX.  
Of some ill Qualities they tell,  
Which justly give me cause to fear;  
But that, which most begets despair,  
It has no sense of Love at all:  
More hard than Adamant it is,  
They say, that no Impression takes,  
It has no Ears, nor any Eyes,  
And rarely, very rarely speaks.   

X.  
Yet I must loved, and own my Flame,  
Which to the world I thus rehearse,  
Throughout the spacious coasts of Fame  
To stand recorded in my Verse:  
No other subject, or design  
Henceforth shall be my Muse's Theme,  
But with just Praises to proclaim  
The fairest ARSE, that e'er was seen.   

XI.  
In pity gentle Phillis hide  
The dazzling Beams of your Back side;  
For should they shine unclouded long.  
All humane kind would be undone.  
Not the bright Goddesses on high,  
That reign above the starry Sky,  
Should they turn up to open view  
All their immortal Tails, can show  
An Arse-h— so divine as you.    

CATULLUS EPIGR. VII. IMITATED.  
Quaeris quot mihi basiationes, etc.  

NAY, Lesbian, never ask me this,  
How many Kisses will suffice?  
Faith, 'tis a question hard to tell,  
Exceeding hard; for you as well  
Ma●… ask what sums of Gold suffice  
The greedy Miser's boundless Wish:  
Think what drops the Ocean store,  
With all the Sands, that make its Shore:  
Think what Spangles deck the Skies,  
When Heaven looks with all its Eyes:  
Or think how many Atoms came  
To compose this mighty Frame:  
Let all these the Counters be,  
To tell how oft I'm kissed by thee:  
Till no malicious Spy ca●… guests  
To what vast height the Scores arise;  
Till weak Arithmetic grow scant,  
And numbers for the reckoning want:  
All these will hardly be enough  
For me stark staring mad with Love.    

SOME ELEGIES OUT OF OVID'S Amours, IMITATED.  

BOOK II. ELEGY IV. That he loves Women of all sorts and sizes.  
Non ego mendosos ausim defendere mores, etc.  

NOt I, I never vainly durst pretend  
My Follies, and my Frailties to defend:  
I own my Faults, if it avail to own,  
While like a graceless Wretch I still go on:  
I hate myself, but yet in spite of Fate  
Am fain to be that loathed thing I hate:  
In vain I would shake off this load of Love,  
Too hard to bear, yet harder to remove:  
I want the strength my fierce Desires to stem,  
Hurried away by the impetuous stream.  
'Tis not one Face alone subdues my Heart,  
But each wears Charms, and every Eye a Dart:  
And wheresoever I cast my Looks abroad,  
In every place I find Temptations strowed,  
The modest kills me with her down cast Eyes,  
And Love his ambush lays in that disguise.  
The Brisk allures me with her gaiety,  
And shows how Active she in Bed will be:  
If Coy, like cloistered Virgins, she appears,  
She but dissembles, what she most desires:  
If she be versed in Arts, and deeply read,  
I long to get a Learned Maidenhead:  
Or if Untaught, and Ignorant she be,  
She takes me then with her simplicity:  
One likes my Verses, and commends each Line,  
And swears that Cowley's are but dull to mine:  
Her in mere Gratitude I must approve,  
For who, but would his kind Applauder love?  
Another damns my Poetry, and me,  
And plays the Critic most judiciously:  
And she too fires my Heart, and she too charms,  
And I'm agog to have her in my arms.  
One with her soft and wanton Trip does please,  
And prints in every step, she sets, a Grace:  
Another walks with stiff ungainly tread;  
But she may learn more pliantness a-bed,  
This sweetly sings; her Voice does Love inspire,  
And every Breath kindles, and blows the fire:  
Who can forbear to kiss those Lips, whose sound  
The ravished Ears does with such softness wound?  
That sweetly plays: and while her Fingers move,  
While o'er the bounding Strings their touches▪ rove,  
My Heart leaps too, and every Pulse beats Love:  
What Reason is so powerful to withstand  
The Magic force of that resistless Hand?  
Another Dances to a Miracle,  
And moves her numerous Limbs with graceful skill:  
And she, or else the Devil's in't, must charm,  
A touch of her would bed rid Hermits warm.  
If tall; I guess what plenteous Game she'll yield,  
Where Pleasure ranges o'er so wide a Field:  
If low; she's pretty: both alike invite,  
The Dwarf, and Giant both my wishes fit,  
Undressed; I think how kill she'd appear,  
If armed with all Advantages she were:  
Richly attired; she's the gay Bait of Love,  
And knows with Art to set her Beauties off.  
I like the Fair, I like the Red haired one,  
And I can find attractions in the Brown:  
If curling Jet adorn her snowy Neck,  
The beauteous Leda is reported Black:  
If curling Gold; Aurora's painted so:  
All sorts of Histories my Love does know.  
I like the Young with all her blooming Charms,  
And Age itself is welcome to my Arms:  
There uncropped Beauty in its flower assails,  
Experience here, and riper sense prevails.  
In fine, whatever of the Sex are known  
To stock this spacious and well furnished Town;  
Whatever any single man can find  
Agreeable of all the numerous kind:  
At all alike my haggard Love does fly,  
And each is Game, and each a Miss for me.    

BOOK II. ELEGY V. To his Mistress that jilted him.  
Nullus amor tanti est: abeas pharetrate Cupido, etc.  

NAY then the Devil take all Love! if I  
So oft for its damned sake must wish to die:  
What can I wish for but to die, when you.  
Dear faithless Thing, I find, could prove untrue?  
Why am I cursed with Life? why am I fain  
For thee, false Jilt, to bear eternal Pain?  
'Tis not thy Letters, which thy Crimes reveal,  
Nor secret Presents, which, thy Falsehood tell:  
Would God my just suspicions wanted cause,  
That they might prove less fatal to my ease:  
Would God less colour for thy guilt there were,  
But that (alas!) too much of proof does bear:  
Blessed he, who what he loves can justify,  
To whom his Mistress can the Fact deny,  
And boldly give his Jealousy the lie,  
Cruel the Man, and uncompassionate,  
And too indulgent to his own Regret,  
Who seeks to have her guilt too manifest,  
And with the murdering secret stabs his Rest.  
I saw, when little you suspected me,  
When sleep, you thought, gave opportunity,  
Your Crimes I saw, and these unhappy eyes  
Of all your hidden stealths were Witnesses:  
I saw in signs your mutual Wishes read,  
And Nods the message of your Hearts conveyed:  
I saw the conscious Board, which writ all o'er  
With scrawls of Wine, Love's mystic cipher bore:  
Your Glances were not mute, but each bewrayed,  
And with your Finger's Dialogues were made:  
I understood the Language out of hand,  
(For what's too hard for Love to understand?)  
Full well I understood for what intent  
All this dumb Talk, and silent Hints were meant:  
And now the Guests were from the Table fled,  
And all the Company retired to bed.  
I saw you then with wanton Kisses greet,  
Your Tongues (I saw) did in your Kisses meet:  
Not such as Sisters to their Brothers give,  
But Lovers from their Mistresses receive:  
Such as the God of War, and Paphian Queen  
Did in the height of their Embraces join.  
Patience, ye Gods! (I cried) what is't I see?  
Unfaithful! why this Treachery to me?  
How dare you let another in my sight  
Invade my native Property, and Right?  
He must not, shall not do't: by Love I swear  
I'll seize the bold usurping Ravisher:  
T●… are my Free hold, and the Fates design,  
That you should be unalienably mine:  
These Favours all to me impropriate are:  
How comes another then to trespass here?  
This, and much more I said, by Rage inspired,  
While conscious shame her Cheeks with Blushes fired:  
Such lovely stains the face of Heaven adorn,  
When Light's first blushes paint the bashful Morn:  
So on the Bush the flaming Rose does glow,  
When mingled with the Lilies neighbouring Snow:  
This, or some other Colour much like these,  
The semblance then of here Complexion was:  
And while her Looks that sweet Disorder wore  
Chance added Beauties undisclosed before:  
Upon the ground she cast her jetty Eyes,  
Her Eyes shot fiercer Darts in that Disgulse:  
Her Face a sad and mournful Air expressed,  
Her Face more lovely seemed in sadness dressed:  
Urged by Revenge, I hardly could forbear,  
Her braided Locks, and tender Cheeks to tear:  
Yet I no sooner had her Face surveyed,  
But straight the tempest of my Rage was laid:  
A look of her did my Resentments' charm,  
A look of her did all their Force disarm:  
And I, that fierce outrageous thing erewhile,  
Grow calm as Infants, when in sleep they smile:  
And now a Kiss am humbly fain to crave,  
She smiled, and straight a throng of Kisses pressed,  
The worst of which, should Jove himself but taste,  
The brandished Thunder from his Hand would wrest:  
Well-pleased I was, and yet tormented too,  
For fear my envied Rival felt them so:  
Better they seemed by far than I ere taught,  
And she in them showed something new methought:  
Fond jealous I myself the Pleasure grudge,  
And they displeased, because they pleased too much:  
When in my mouth I felt her darting Tongue,  
My wounded Thoughts it with suspicion stung:  
Nor is it this alone afflicts my mind,  
More reason for complaint remains behind:  
I grieve not only that she Kisses gave,  
Tho that affords me cause enough to grieve:  
Such never could be taught her but in Bed,  
And Heaven knows what Reward her Teacher had.    

BOOK II. ELEGY X. To a Friend, Acquainting him, that he is in Love with two at one time.  
Tu mihi, tu certè (memini) Graecine, negabas, etc.  

I'VE heard, my Friend, and heard it said by you,  
No man at once could ever well love two:  
But I was much deceived upon that score,  
For single I at once love one, and more:  
Two at one time reign jointly in my Breast,  
Both handsome are, both charming, both well-dressed,  
And hang me, if I know, which takes me best:  
This Fairer is thao that, and that than this,  
That more than this: and this than that does please:  
Tost, like a Ship, by different gusts of Love,  
Now to this Point, and now to that I move.  
Why, Love, why dost thou double thus my pains?  
Was't not enough to bear one Tyrant's chains?  
Why, Goddess, dost thou vainly lavish more  
On one, that was topful of Love before?  
Yet thus I'd rather love, than not at all,  
May that ill Curse my Enemies befall:  
May my worst Foe be damned to love of none,  
Be damned to Continence, and lie alone:  
Let Love's alarms each night disturb my Rest,  
And drowsy sleep never approach my Breast,  
Or straightway thence be by new Pleasure chased.  
Let Pleasure in succession keep my Sense  
Ever awake, or ever in a Trance:  
Let me lie melting in my fair One's Arms,  
Riot in Bliss, and surfeit on her Charms:  
Let her undo me there without control,  
Drain nature quite, suck out my very Soul:  
And, if by one I can't enough be drawn,  
Give me another, clap more Leeches on.  
The Gods have made me of the sporting kind,  
And for the Feat my Pliant Limbs designed:  
What Nature has in Bulk to me denied,  
In Sinews, and in vigour is supplied:  
And should my Strength be wanting to Desire,  
Pleasure would add new Fuel to the Fire:  
Oft in soft Battles have I spent the Night,  
Yet rose next Morning vigorous for the Fight,  
Fresh as the Day, and active as the Light:  
No Maid, that ever under me took pay,  
From my Embrace went unobliged away.  
Blessed he, who in Love's service yields his Breath,  
Grant me, ye Gods, so sweet, to wished a Death!  
In bloody Fields let Soldiers meet their Fate,  
To purchase dear bought Honour at the rate:  
Let greedy Merchants trust the faithless Main,  
And shipwreck Life and Soul for sordid gain:  
Dying, let me expire in gasps of Lust,  
And in a gush of Joy give up the Ghost:   

And some kind pitying Friend shall say of me,  
So did he live, and so deserved to die.     

A FRAGMENT of PETRONIUS, paraphrased.  
Foeda est in coitu, & brevis voluptas, etc.  

I Hate Fruition, now 'tis past,  
'Tis all but nastiness at best;  
The homeliest thing, that man can do,  
Besides, 'tis short, and fleeting too:  
A squirt of slippery Delight,  
That with a moment takes its flight:  
A fulsome Bliss, that soon does cloy,  
And makes us loath what we enjoy.  
Then let us not too eager run,  
By Passion blindly hurried on,  
Like Beasts, who nothing better know,  
Than what mere Lust 〈◊〉 them to:  
For when in Floods of Love we're dronched,  
The Flames are by enjoyment quenched:  
But thus, let's thus together lie,  
And kiss out long Eternity:  
Here we dread no conscious Spies,  
No blushes slain our guiltless Joys:  
Here no Faintness dulls Desires,  
And Pleasure never flags, nor tires:  
This has pleased, and pleases now,  
And for Ages will do so:   

Enjoyment here is never done,  
But fresh, and always but begun.    

AN ODE OF ANACREON, paraphrased.  
The CUP.  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, etc.  

MAke me a Bowl, a mighty Bowl,  
Large, as my capacious Soul,  
Vast, as my thirst is; let it have  
Depth enough to be my Grave;  
I mean the Grave of all my Care,  
For I intent to buried there,  
Let it of Silver fashioned be,  
Worthy of Wine, worthy of me,  
Worthy to adorn the Spheres,  
As that bright Cup amongst the Stars:  
That Cup which Heaven deigned a place:  
Next the Sun its greatest Grace.  
Kind Cup! that to the Stars did go,  
To light poor Drunkards her below:  
Let mine be so, and give me light,  
That I may drink, and revel by't:  
Yet draw no shapes of Armour there,  
No Cask, nor Shield, nor Sword, nor Spear,  
Nor Wars of Thebes, nor Wars of Troy,  
Nor any other martial Toy:  
For what do I vain Armour prize,  
Who mind not such rough Exercise,  
But gentler Sieges, softer Wars,  
Fights, that cause no Wounds, or Scars?)  
I'll have no Battles on my Plate,  
Lest sight of them should Brawls create,  
Lest that provoke to Quarrels too,  
Which Wine itself enough can do.  
Draw me no Constellations there,  
No Ram, nor Bull, nor Dog, nor Bear,  
Nor any of that monstrous fry  
Of Animals, which stock the sky:  
For what are Stars to my Design,  
Stars, which I, when drunk, outshine,  
Out-shone by every drop of Wine?  
I lack no Polestar on the Brink,  
To guide in the wide Sea of Drink,  
But would for ever there be tossed;  
And wish no Haven, seek no Coast.  
Yet, Gentle Artist, if thou'lt try  
Thy Skill, then draw me (let me see)  
Draw me first a spreading Vine,  
Make its Arms the Bowl entwine,  
With kind embraces, such as I  
Twist about my loving she.  
Let its Boughs o'erspread above  
Scenes of Drinking, Scenes of Love:  
Draw next the Patron of that Tree,  
Draw Bacchus and sost Cupid by;  
Draw them both in toping Shapes,  
Their Temples crowned with clustered Grapes:  
Make them lean against the Cup,  
As 'twere to keep their Figures up:  
And when their reeling Forms I view,  
I'll think them drunk, and be so too:   

The Gods shall my examples be,  
The Gods, thus drunk in Effigy.    

An Allusion to MARTIAL. BOOK I. EPIG. 118.  

AS oft, Sir Tradewel, as we meet,  
You're sure to ask me in the street,  
When you shall send your Boy to me,  
To fetch my Book of Poetry,  
And promise you'll but read it o'er,  
And faithfully the Loan restore:  
But let me ye as a Friend,  
You need not take the pains to send:  
'Tis a long way to where I dwell,  
At farther end of Clarkenwel:  
There in a Garret near the Sky,  
Above five pair of Stairs I lie.  
But, if you'd have, what you pretend,  
You may procure it nearer hand:  
In Cornhill, where you often go,  
Hard by th' Exchange, there is, you know,  
A Shop of Rhyme, where you may see  
The Posts all clad in Poetry;  
There H— lives of high renown,  
The noted'st TORY in the Town:  
Where, if you please, inquire for me,  
And he, or's Apprentice, presently  
From the next Shelf will reach you down  
The Piece well bound for half a Crown:  
The Price is much too dear, you cry,  
To give for both the Book, and me:  
Yes doubtless, for such vanities,  
We know, Sir, you are too too wise.    

THE DREAM.  
Written, March 10. 1677.  

LAte as I on my Bed reposing lay,  
And in soft sleep forgot the Toils of Day,  
Myself, my Cares, and Love, all charmed to Rest,  
And all the Tumults of my waking Breast,  
Quiet and calm, as was the silent Night,  
Whose stillness did to that blessed sleep invite;  
I dreamt, and straight this visionary Scene  
Did with Delight my Fancy entertain.   

I saw, methought, a lonely Privacy,  
Remote alike from man's, and Heaven's Eye,  
Girt with the covert of a shady Grove,  
Dark as my thoughts, and secret as my Love:  
Hard by a Stream did with that softness creep,  
As 'twere by its own murmurs hushed asleep;  
On its green Bank under a spreading Tree,  
At once a pleasant, and a sheltering Canopy,  
There I, and there my dear Cosmelia sat,  
Nor envied Monarches in our safe Retreat:  
So heretofore were the first Lovers laid  
On the same Turf of which themselves were made.  
A while I did her charming Glories view,  
Which to their former Conquests added new;  
A while my wanton hand was pleased to rove  
Through all the hidden Labyrinths of Love;  
Ten thousand Kisses on her Lips I fixed,  
Which she with interfering Kisses mixed,  
Eager as those of Lovers are in Death,  
When they give up their Souls too with the Breath.   

Love by these Freedoms first became more bold,  
At length unruly, and too fierce to hold:  
See then (said I) and pity, charming Fair,  
Yield quickly, yield; I can no longer bear  
Th' impatient Sallies of a Bliss so near:  
Tou must, and you alone these storms appease,  
And lay those Spirits which your Charms could raise;  
Come, and in equal Floods let's quench our Flame,  
Come let's— and unawares I went to name  
The Thing, but stopped and blushed methought in Dream.   

At first she did the rude Address disown,  
And checked my Boldness with an angry Frown,  
But yielding Glances, and consenting Eyes  
Proved the soft Traitors to her forced Disguise;  
And soon her looks, with anger rough ere while,  
Sunk in the dimples of a calmer smile:  
Then with a sigh into these words she broke,  
And printed melting Kisses as she spoke:  
Too strong, Philander, is thy powerful Art  
To take a feeble Maid's ill-guarded Heart:  
Too long I've struggled with my Bliss in vain,  
Too long opposed what joft wished to gain,  
Loath to consent, yet loather to deny,  
At once I court, and shun Felicity:  
I cannot, will not yield;— and yet I must,  
Lest to my own Desires I prove unjust:  
Sweet Ravisher! what Love commands thee, do;  
Tho I'm displeased, I shall forgive thee too,  
Too well thou knowst— and there my hand she pressed,  
And said no more, but blushed and smiled the rest   

Ravished at the new grant, fierce eager I  
Leaped furious on, and seized my trembling Prey;  
With guarding Arms she first my Force repelled,  
Shrunk, and drew back, and would not seem to yield;  
Unwilling to o'ercome, she faintly strove,  
One hand pulled to, what t'other did remove:  
So feeble are the struggle, and so weak  
In sleep we seem, and only seem to make:  
Forbear! (she said) ah, gentle Youth, forbear,  
(and still she hug'd, and clasped me still more near)  
Ah! will you? will you force my Rui●… so?  
Ah? do not, do not, do not;— let me go.   

What followed was above the power of Verse,  
Above the reach of Fancy to rehearse:  
Not dying Saints enjoy such Ecstasies,  
When they in Vision antedate their Bliss;  
Not Dreams of a young Prophet are so blessed,  
When holy Trances first inspire his Breast,  
And the God enters there to be a Guest.  
Let duller Mortals other Pleasure's prize,  
Pleasures which enter at the waking Eyes,  
Might I each Night such sweet Enjoyments find,  
I'd wink for ever, be for ever blind.    

A satire TOUCHING NOBILITY.  
Out of Monsieur BOILEAU.  

'TIS granted, that Nobility in Man,  
Is no wild fluttering Notion of the Brain,  
Where he, descended of an ancient Race,  
Which a long train of numerous Worthies grace,  
By Virtues Rules guiding his steady Course,  
Traces the steps of his bright Ancestors.   

But Yet I can't endure an haughty Ass,  
Debauched with Luxury and slothful Ease.  
Who besides empty Titles of high Birth,  
Has no pretence to any thing of Worth,  
Should proudly wear the Fame, which others sought,  
And boast of Honour which himself ne'er got.   

I grant, the Acts which his Forefathers did  
Have furnished matter for old Hollinshead,  
For which their Scutcheon, by the conqueror graced  
Still bears a Lion Rampant for its Crest:  
But what does this vain mass of Glory boot  
To be the branch of such a noble Root,  
If he of all the Heroes of his Line  
Which in the Registers of Story shine,  
Can offer nothing to the World's regard,  
But mouldy Parchments which the Worms have spared?  
If sprung, as he pretends, of noble Race,  
He does his own Original disgrace,  
And, swollen with selfish Vanity and Pride,  
To greatness has no other claim beside,  
But squanders life, and sleeps away his days,  
Dissolved in Sloth, and steeped in sensual ease:   

Mean while to see how much the Arrogant  
Boasts the false Lustre of his high Descent,  
You'd fancy him controller of the Sky,  
And framed by Heaven of other Clay than me.   

Tell me, great Hero, you, that would be thought  
So much above the mean, and humble Rout.  
Of all the Creatures which do men esteem?  
And which would you yourself the noblest deem?  
Put case of Horse: No doubt, you'll answer straight,  
The Racer, which has often'st won the Plate:  
Who full of mettle, and of sprightly Fire,  
Is never distanced in the sleet Career:  
Him all the Rivals of New-market dread,  
And crowds of Vent'rers stake upon his Head:  
But if the Breed of Dragon, often cast,  
Degenerate, and prove a Jade at last;  
Nothing of Honour, or respect (we see)  
Is had of his high Birth, and Pedigree:  
But maugre all his great Progenitors.  
The worthless Brute is banished from the Course,  
Condemned for Life to ply the dirty Road,  
To drag some Cart, or bear some Carrier's Load.   

Then how can you with any sense expect  
That I should be so silly to respect  
The ghost of Honour, perished long ago,  
That's quite extinct, and lives no more in you?  
Such gaudy Trifles with the Fools may pass,  
Caught with mere show, and vain Appearances:  
Virtue's the certain Mark, by Heaven designed,  
That's always stamped upon a noble mind:  
If you from such illustrious Worthies came,  
By copying them your high Extract proclaim:  
Show us those generous Heats of Gallantry,  
Which Ages past did in those Worthies see,  
That zeal for Honour, and that brave Disdain,  
Which scorned to do an Action base, or mean:  
Do you apply your Interest aright,  
Not to oppress the Poor with wrongful Might?  
Would you make Conscience to pervert the Laws,  
Tho bribed to do't, or urged by your own Cause?  
Dare you, when justly called, expend your Blood  
In service for your King's and Countries good?  
Can you in open Field in Armour sleep,  
And there meet danger in the ghastliest shape?   

By such illustrious Marks as these, I find,  
You're truly issued of a noble kind:  
Then fetch your Line from Albanact, or Knute,  
Or, if these are too fresh, from older Brute:  
At leisure search all History to find  
Some great and glorious Warrior to your mind:  
Take Caesar, Alexander, which you please,  
To be the mighty Founder of your Race;  
In vain the World your Parentage belly,  
That was, or should have been your Pedigree.   

But, if you could with ease derive your Kin  
From Hercules himself in a right Line;  
If yet there nothing in your Actions be,  
Worthy the name of your high Progeny;  
All these great Ancestors, which you disgrace,  
Against you are a cloud of Witnesses:  
And all the Lustre of their tarnished Fame  
Serves but to light, and manifest your Shame:  
In vain you urge the merit of your Race,  
And boast that Blood, which you yourselves debase.  
In vain you borrow, to adorn your Name,  
The Spoils, and Plunder of another's Fame;  
If, where I looked for something Great, and Brave,  
I meet with nothing but a Fool, or Knave,  
A Traitor, Villain, Sycophant, or Slave,  
A freakish Madman, fit to be confined,  
Whom Bedlam only can to order bind,  
Or (to speak all at once) a barren Limb,  
And rotten Branch of an illustrious Stem.   

But I am too severe, perhaps you'll think,  
And mix too much of satire with my Ink:  
We speak to men of Birth, and Honour here,  
And those nice Subjects must be touched with care:  
Cry mercy, Sirs! Your Race, we grant, is known;  
But how far backwards can you trace it down?  
You answer: For at least a thousand year,  
And some odd hundreds you can make't appear:  
'Tis much: But yet in short the proofs are clear:  
All Books with your Forefathers Titles shine,  
Whose names have scaped the general wreck of Time:  
But who is there so bold, that dares engage  
His Honour, that in this long Tract of Age  
No one of all his Ancestors deceased  
Had ere the fate to find a Bride unchaste?  
That they have all along Lucretia's been,  
And nothing e'er of spurious Blood crept in,  
To mingle and defile the Sacred Line?   

Cursed be the day, when first this vanity  
Did primitive simplicity destroy,  
In the blessed state of infant time, unknown,  
When Glory sprung from Innocence alone▪  
Each from his merit only Title drew,  
And that alone made Kings, and Nobles too:  
Then, scorning borrowed Helps to prop his Name,  
The Hero from himself derived his Fame:  
But Merit by degenerate time at last,  
Saw Vice ennobled, and herself debased:  
And haughty Pride false pompous Titles feigned,  
T'amuse the World, and Lord it o'er Mankind:  
Thence the vast Herd of Earls and Barons came,  
For Virtue each brought nothing but a Name:  
Soon aster Man, fruitful in Vanities,  
Did Blazoning and Armoury devise,  
Founded a College for the Herald's Art,  
And made a Language of their Terms apart,  
Composed of frightful words, of Chief, and Base,  
Of Chevron, Saltier, Canton, Bend, and Fess,  
And whatsoever of hideous Jargon else  
Mad Guillim, and his barbarous Volume fills.   

Then farther the wild Folly to pursue,  
Plain down right Honour out of fashion grew:   

But to keep up its Dignity, and Birth,  
Expense, and Luxury must set it forth:  
It must inhabit stately Palaces,  
Distinguish Servants by their Liveries,  
And carrying vast Retinues up and down.  
The Duke and Earl be by their Pages known.   

Thus Honour to support itself is brought  
To its last shifts, and thence the Art has got  
Of borrowing every where, and paying nought:  
'Tis now thought mean, and much beneath a Lord  
To be an honest man, and keep his Word;  
Who, by his Peerage, and Protection safe,  
Can plead the privilege to be a Knave:  
While daily Crowds of starving Creditors  
Are forced to dance attendance at his doors,  
Till he at length with all his mortgaged Lands.  
Are forfeited into the Banker's hands:  
Then to redress his wants, the bankrupt Peer  
To some rich trading Sot, turns Pensioner:  
And the next News, you're sure to hear that he  
Is nobly wed into the Company:  
Where for a Portion of ill gotten Gold,  
Himself and all his Ancestors are sold:  
And thus repairs his broken Family  
At the expense of his own Infamy.   

For if you want Estate to set it forth,  
In vain you boast the splendour of your Birth:  
Your prized Gentility for madness goes,  
And each your Kindred shuns and disavows:  
But he that's rich is praised at his full rate,  
And though he once cried Small coal in the street,  
Tho he, nor none of his e'er mentioned were,  
But in the Parish Book, or Register.   

D— lé by help of Chronicle shall trace  
An hundred Barons of his ancient Race.    

A satire. Addressed to a Friend, that is about to leave the University, and come abroad in the World.  

IF you're so out of love with Happiness,  
To quit a College life, and learned ease;  
Convince me first, and some good Reasons give,  
What methods and designs you'll take to live:  
For such Resolves are needful in the Case,  
Before you tread the world's Mysterious Maze:  
Without the Premises in vain you'll try  
To live by Systems of Philosophy:  
Your Aristotle, Cartes, and Legrand,  
And Euclid too in little stead will stand.   

How many men of choice, and noted parts,  
Well fraught with Learning, Languages, and Arts,  
Designing high Preferment in their mind,  
And little doubting good success to find,  
With vast and towering thoughts have flocked to Town,  
But to their cost soon found themselves undone,  
Now to repent, and starve at leisure left,  
Of miseries last Comfort, Hope bereft?   

These failed for want of good Advice, you cry,  
Because at first they fixed on no employ:  
Well then, let's draw the Prospect, and the Scene  
To all advantage possibly we can:  
The world lies now before you, let me hear,  
What course your Judgement counsels you to steer:  
Always considered, that your whole Estate,  
And all your Fortune lies beneath your Hat:  
Were you the Son of some rich Usurer,  
That starved, and damned himself to make his Heir,  
Left nought to do, but to inter the Sot,  
And spend with ease what he with pains had got;  
'Twere easy to advise how you might live,  
Nor would there need instruction then to give:  
But you, that boast of no Inheritance,  
Save that small Stock, which lies within your Brains,  
Learning must be your Trade, and therefore weigh  
With heed, how you your Game the best may play;  
Bethink yourself a while, and then propose  
What way of Life is fitt'st for you to choose.   

If you for Orders, and a Gown design,  
Consider only this, dear Friend of mine,  
The Church is grown so over-stock'd of late,  
That if you walk abroad, you'll hardly meet  
More Porters now than Parsons in the street.  
At every Corner they are forced to ply,  
For Jobs of hawkering Divinity:  
And half the number of the Sacred Herd  
Are fain to strowl, and wander unpreferred:   

If this, or thoughts of such a weighty Charge  
Make you resolve to keep yourself at large;  
For want of better opportunity,  
A School must your next Sanctuary be:  
Go, wed some Grammar-Bridewel, and a Wife,  
And there beat Greek, and Latin●… for your life:  
With Birchen Sceptre there command at will,  
Greater than Busby's self, or Doctor Gill,  
But who would be to the vile drudgery bound  
Where there so small encouragement is found?  
Where you for recompense of all your pains  
Shall hardly reach a common Fidler's gains?  
For when you've toiled, and laboured all you can,  
To dung, and cultivate a barren Brain:  
A Dancing Master shall be better paid,  
Tho he instructs the Heels, and you the Head:  
To such Indulgence are kind Parents grown,  
That nought costs less in Breeding than a Son:  
Nor is it hard to find a Father now,  
Shall more upon a Setting-dog allow:  
And with a freer hand reward the Care  
Of training up his Spaniel, than his Heir.   

Some think themselves exalted to the Sky,  
If they light in some noble Family;  
Diet, an Horse, and thirty pounds a year,  
Besides the advantage of his Lordship's ear,  
The credit of the business, and the State,  
Are things that in a Younster's Sense sound great.  
Little the unexperienced Wretch does know,  
What slavery he oft must undergo:  
Who though in silken Scarf, and Cassock dressed,  
Wears but a gayer Livery at best:  
When Dinner calls the Implement must wait  
With holy Words to consecrate the Meat:  
But hold it for a Favour seldom known,  
If he be deigned the Honour to sit down.  
Soon as the Tarts appear, Sir Crape, withdraw!  
Those Dainties are not for a spiritual Maw:  
Observe your distance, and be sure to stand  
Hard by the Cistern with your Cap in hand:  
There for diversion you may pick your Teeth,  
Till the kind Voider comes for your Relief:  
For mere Board-wages such their Freedom sell,  
Slaves to an Hour, and Vassals to a Bell:  
And if th' enjoyment of one day be stole,  
They are but Prisoners out upon Parole:  
Always the marks of slavery remain,  
And they, though loose, still drag about their Chain.   

And where's the mighty Prospect after all,  
A Chaplainship served up, and seven years' Thrall?  
The menial thing perhaps for a Reward  
Is to some slender Benefice preferred,  
With this Proviso bound, that he must wed  
My Lady's antiquated Waiting-maid,  
In Dressing only skilled, and Marmalade,   

Let others who such meannesses can brook,  
Strike Countenance to every Great man's Look:  
Let those that have a mind, turn slaves to ear,  
And live contented by another's Plate:  
I rate my Freedom higher, nor will I  
For Food and Raiment truck my Liberty.  
But, if I must to my last shifts be put,  
To fill a Bladder, and twelve yards of Gut;  
Rather with counterfeited wooden Leg,  
And my right Arm tied up, I'll choose to beg:  
I'll rather choose to starve at large, than be  
The gawdiest Vassal to Dependency.   

'T has ever been the top of my Desires,  
The utmost height to which my wish aspires.  
That Heaven would bless me with a small Estate,  
Where I might find a close obscure retreat;  
There, free from Noise, and all ambitious ends,  
Enjoy a few choice Books, and fewer Friends,  
Lord of myself, accountable to none,  
But to my Conscience, and my God alone:  
There live unthought of, and unheard of, die,  
And grudge Mankind my very memory.  
But since the Blessing is (I find) too great  
For me to wish for, or expect of Fate:  
Yet, maugre all the spite of Destiny,  
My Thoughts, and Actions are, and shall be free.  
A certain Author, very grave, and sage,  
This Story tells: no matter, what the Page.   

One time, as they walked forth ere break of day,  
The Wolf, and Dog encountered on the way:  
Famished the one, meager, and lean of plight,  
As a cast Poet, who for Bread does write:  
The other fat, and plump, as Prebend, was,  
Pampered with Luxury, and holy Ease,   

Thus met, with Compliments, too long to tell,  
Of being glad to see each other well:  
How now, Sir Towzer? (said the Wolf) I pray,  
Whence comes it, that you look so sleek, and gay?  
While I, who do as well (I'm sure) deserve,  
For want of Livelihood am like to starve?  
Troth Sir (replied the Dog) 'thas been my Fate,  
I thank the friendly Stars, to hap of late  
On a kind Master, to whose care I owe  
All this good Flesh, wherewith you see me now:  
From his rich Voider every day I'm fed  
With Bones of Fowl, and Crusts of finest Bread:  
With Fricassee, Ragoust, and whatsoever  
Of costly Kickshaws now in fashion are,  
And more variety of Boiled and Roast,  
Than a Lord Mayor's Waiter e'er could boast.  
Then, Sir, 'tis hardly credible to tell,  
How I'm respected, and beloved by all:  
I'm the Delight of the whole Family,  
Not darling Shock more Favourite than I:  
I never sleep abroad, to Air exposed,  
But in my warm apartment am enclosed:  
There on fresh Bed of Straw, with Canopy  
Of Hutch above, like Dog of State I lie.  
Besides, when with high Fare, and Nature fired,  
To generous Sports of Youth I am inspired,  
All the proud she's are soft to my Embrace,  
From Bitch of Quality down to Turn-spit Race:  
Each day I try new Mistresses and Loves,  
Nor envy Sovereign Dogs in their Alcoves.  
Thus happy I of all enjoy the best,  
No mortal Cur on Earth yet half so blessed,  
And farther to enhance the Happiness,  
All this I get by idleness, and ease.   

Troth! (said the Wolf) I envy your Estate  
Would to the Gods it were but my good Fate,  
That I might happily admitted be  
A member of your blessed Society!  
I would with Faithfulness discharge my place  
In any thing that I might serve his Grace:  
But, think you, Sir, it mould be feasible,  
And that my Application might prevail?   

Do but endeavour, Sir, you need not doubt;  
I make no question but to bring't about:  
Only rely on me, and rest secure,  
I'll serve you to the utmost of my Power;  
As I'm a Dog of Honour, Sir:— but this  
I only take the Freedom to advise,  
That you'd a little lay your Roughness by,  
And learn to practice Complaisance, like me.   

For that let me alone: I'll have a care,  
And top my part, I warrant, to a hair:  
There's not a Courtier of them all shall vie  
For Fawning, and for Suppleness with me.   

And thus resolved at last, the Travellers  
Towards the House together shape their course:  
The Dog, who Breeding well did understand,  
In walking gives his Guest the upper hand:  
And as they walk along, they all the while  
With Mirth, and pleasant Raillery beguile  
The tedious Time, and Way, till Day drew near,  
And Light came on; by which did soon appear  
The Mastiffs Neck to view all worn and bare.   

This when his Comrade spied, What means (said he)  
This Circle bare, which round your Neck I see?  
If I may be so bold;— Sir, you must know,  
That I at first was rough, and fierce, like you,  
Of Nature cursed, and often apt to bite  
Strangers, and else, who ever came in sight:  
For this I was tied up, and underwent  
The Whip sometimes, and such light Chastisement:  
Till I at length by Discipline grew tame,  
Gentle, and tractable, as now I am:  
'Twas by this short, and slight severity  
I gained these Marks and Badges, which you see:  
But what are they? Allons Monsieur! let's go.  
Not one step farther: Sir, excuse me now.  
Much joy t'ye of your envied, blessed Estate:  
I will not buy Preferment at that rate:   

A God's name, take your golden Chains for me:  
Faith, I'd not be a King, not to be free:  
Sir Dog, your humble Servant, so Godbw'y.    

SOME VERSE Written in Septemb. 1676.  
Presenting a Book to COSMELIA.  

GO, humble Gift, go to that matchless Saint,  
Of whom thou only wast a Copy meant:  
And all, that's read in thee, more richly find  
Comprised in the fair Volume of her mind;  
That living System, where are fully writ  
All those high Morals, which in Books we meet:  
Easie, as in soft Air, there writ they are,  
Yet firm, as if in Brass they graven were.  
Nor is her Talon lazily to know  
As dull Divines, and holy Canters do;  
She acts what they only in Pulpits prate,  
And Theory to Practice does translate:  
Nor her own Actions more obey her Will,  
Than that obeys strict Virtues dictates still:  
Yet does not Virtue from her Duty flow,  
But she is good, because she will be so:  
‛ Her Virtue scorns at a low pitch to fly,  
'tis all free Choice, nought of Necessity:  
By such soft Rules are Saints above confined,  
Such is the Tie, which them to Good does bind.  
The scattered Glories of her happy Sex  
In her bright Soul as in their Centre mix:  
And all that they possess but by Retail,  
She hers by just Monopoly can call:  
Whose sole Example does more Virtues show,  
Than Schoolmen ever taught, or ever knew.  
No Act did e'er within her Practice fall,  
Which for the atonement of a Bush could call:  
No word of hers e'er greeted any ear,  
But what a Saint at her last gasp might hear:  
Scarcely her Thoughts have ever sullied been  
With the least print, or slain of native Sin:  
Devout she is, as holy Hermits are,  
Who share their time 'twixt Ecstasy, and Prayer:  
Modest, as infant Roses in their Bloom,  
Who in a Blush their fragrant Lives consume:  
So chaste, the Dead themselves are only more,  
Who lie divorced from Objects, and from Power:  
So pure, could Virtue in a Shape appear,  
'Twould choose to have no other Form, but Her:  
So much a Saint, I scarce dare call her so,  
For fear to wrong her with a name too low:  
Such the Seraphic Brightness of her mind,  
I hardly can believe her Womankind:  
But think some nobler Being does appear,  
Which to instruct the World, has left the Sphere,  
And condescends to wear a Body here.  
Or, if she mortal be, and meant to show  
The greater Art by being formed below;   

Sure Heaven preserved her by the Fall uncursed,  
To tell how good the Sex was made at first.    

THE PARTING.  

TOO happy had I been indeed, if Fate  
Had made it lasting, as she made it great;  
But 'twas the Plot of unkind Destiny,  
To lift me to, then snatch me from my Joy:  
She raised my Hopes, and brought them just in view,  
And then in spite the pleasing Scene withdrew.  
So He of old the promised Land surveyed,  
Which he might see, but never was to tread:  
So Heaven was by that damned Caitiff seen,  
He saw't, but with a mighty Gulf between,  
He saw't to be more wretched, and despair again:  
Not Souls of dying Sinners, when they go,  
Assured of endless Miseries below,  
Their Bodies more unwillingly desert,  
Than I from you, and all my Joys did part.  
As some young Merchant, whom his Sire unkind  
Resigns to every faithless Wave, and Wind;  
If the kind Mistress of his Vows appear,  
And come to bless his Voyage with a Prayer,  
Such Sighs he vents as may the Gale increase,  
Such Floods of Tears as may the Billows raise:  
And when at length the launching Vessel flies,  
And severs first his Lips, and then his Eyes;  
Long he looks back to see what he adores,  
And while he may, views the beloved Shores.  
Such just concerns I at your Parting had,  
With such sad Eyes your turning Face surveyed:  
Reviewing, they pursued you out of sight,  
Then sought to trace you by left Tracks of Light:  
And when they could not Looks to you convey,  
Towards the loved Place they took delight to stray,  
And aimed uncertain Glances still that way.    

Complaining of ABSENCE.  

TEN days (if I forget not) wasted are  
(A year in any Lover's Calendar)  
Since I was forced to part, and bid adieu  
To all my Joy, and Happiness in you:  
And still by the same Hindrance am detained,  
Which me at first from your loved Sight constrained▪  
Oft I resolve to meet my Bliss, and then  
My Tether stops, and pulls me back again?  
So when our raised Thoughts to Heaven aspire,  
Earth stifles them, and chokes the good desire.  
Curse on that Man, who Business first designed,  
And by't enthralled a freeborn Lover's mind!  
A curse on Fate, who thus subjected me,  
And made me slave to any thing but thee!  
Lover's should be as unconfined as Air,  
Free as its wild Inhabitants from Care:  
So free those happy Lovers are above,  
Exempt from all Concerns but those of Love:  
But I, poor Lover militant below,  
The Cares, and Troubles of dull Life must know;  
Must toil for that, which does on others wait,  
And undergo the drudgery of Fate:  
Yet I'll no more to her a Vassal be,  
Thou now shalt make, and rule my Destiny:  
Hence troublesome Fatigues! all Business hence!  
This very hour my Freedom shall commence:  
Too long that Jilt has thy proud Rival been,  
And made me by neglectful Absence sin;  
But I'll no more obey its Tyranny,  
Nor that, nor Fate itself shall hinder me  
Henceforth from seeing, and enjoying thee.    

Promising a VISIT.  

SOoner may Art, and easier far divide  
The soft embracing waters of the Tide,  
Which with united Friendship still rejoin,  
Than part my Eyes, my Arms, or Lips from thine:  
Sooner it may Time's headlong motion force,  
In which it marches with unalter'd course,  
Or sever this from the succeeding Day,  
Than from thy happy Presence force my stay.  
Not the touched Needle (emblem of my Soul)  
With greater reverence trembles to its Pole,  
Nor Flames with surer instinct upwards go,  
Than mine, and all their motions tend to you.  
Fly swift, ye minutes, and contract the space  
Of Time, which holds me from her dear Embrace:  
When I am there I'll bid you kindly stay,  
I'll bid you rest, and never glide away.  
Thither when Business gives me a Release  
To lose my Cares in soft, and gentle Ease,  
I'll come, and all arrears of Kindness pay,  
And live o'er my whole Absence in one day.  
Not Souls, released from humane Bodies, move  
With quicker haste to meet their Bliss above:  
Than I, when freed from Clogs, that bind me now,  
Eager to seize my Happiness, will go.  
Should a fierce Angel armed with Thunder stand,  
And threaten Vengeance with his brandished hand,  
To stop the entrance to my Paradise;  
I'll venture, and his slighted Bolts despise.  
Swift as the wings of Fear, shall be my Love,  
And me to her with equal speed remove:  
Swift, as the motions of the Eye, or Mind,  
I'll thither fly, and leave slow Thought behind.    

THE CARELESS Good Fellow.  
Written, March 9 1680.  
SONG.  

I.  

APox of this sooling, and plotting of late,  
What a pother, and stir has it kept in the State?  
Let the Rabble run mad with Suspicions, and Fears,  
Let them scuffle, and jar, till they go by the ears:   

Their Grievances never shall trouble my pate,  
So I can enjoy my dear Bottle at quiet.    

II.  

What Coxcombs were those, who would barter their ease  
And their Necks for a Toy, a thin Wafer and Mass?  
At old Tyburn they never had needed to swing,  
Had they been but true Subjects to Drink, and their King;   

A Friend, and a Bottle is all my design;  
He has no room for Treason, that's topful of Wine.    

III.  

I mind not the Members and makers of Laws,  
Let them sit or Prorogue, as his Majesty please:  
Let them damn us to Woollen, I'll never repine  
At my Lodging, when dead, so alive I have Wine:   

Yet oft in my Drink I can hardly forbeat  
To curse them for making my Claret so dear.    

IV.  

I mind not grave Asses, who idly debate  
About Right and Succession, the Trifles of State;  
We've a good King already: and he deserves laughter  
That will trouble his head with who shall come after:   

Come, here's to his Health, and I wish he may be  
As free from all Care, and all Trouble, as we.    

V.  

What care I how Leagues with the Hollander go?  
Or Intrigues betwixt Sidney, and Monsieur D'Avaux?  
What concerns it my Drinking, if Casal be sold,  
If the Conqueror take it by Storming, or Gold?   

Good Bourdeaux alone is the place that I mind,  
And when the Fleet's coming, I pray for a Wind.    

VI  

The Bully of France, that aspires to Renown  
By dull cutting of Throats, and venturing his own;  
Let him fight and be damned, and make Matches, and Treat,  
To afford the News-mongers, and Coffee-house Chat:   

He's but a brave Wretch, while I am more free,  
More safe, and a thousand times happier than Herald    

VII.  

Come He, or the Pope, or the Devil to boot,  
Or come Faggot, and Stake; I care not a Groat;  
Never think that in Smithfield I Porters will heat:  
No, I swear, Mr Fox, pray excuse me for that.   

I'll drink in defiance of Gibbet, and Halter,  
This is the Profession, that never will alter.     

A satire.  
The Person of Spencer is brought in, Dissuading the Author from the Study of POETRY, and showing how little it is esteemed and encouraged in this present Age.  

ONE night, as I was pondering of late  
On all the miseries of my hapless Fate,  
Cursing my rhyming Stars, raving in vain  
At all the Powers, which over Poet's reign:  
In came a ghastly Shape, all pale, and thin,  
As some poor Sinner, who by Priest had been,  
Under a long Lent's Penance, starved, and whipped,  
Or parboiled Lecher, late from Hothouse crept:  
Famished his Looks appeared, his Eyes sunk in,  
Like Morning-Gown about him hung his Skin:  
A Wreath of Laurel on his Head he wore,  
A Book, inscribed the Fairy Queen, he bore.   

By this I knew him, rose, and bowed, and said,  
Hail reverend Ghost! all hail most sacred Shade!  
Why this great Visit? why vouchsafed to me,  
The meanest of thy British Progeny?  
Comest thou in my uncalled, unhallowed Muse,  
Some of thy mighty Spirit to infuse?  
If so; lay on thy Hands, ordain me fit  
For the high Cure, and Ministry of Wit:  
Let me (I beg) thy great Instructions claim,  
Teach me to tread the glorious paths of Fame:  
Teach me (for none does better know than thou)  
How, like thyself, I may immortal grow.   

Thus did I speak, and spoke it in a strain,  
Above my common rate, and usual vein;  
As if inspired by presence of the Bard,  
Who with a Frown thus to reply was heard,  
In stile of satire, such wherein of old  
He the famed Tale of Mother Hubberd told.   

I come, fond Idiot, ere it be too late,  
Kindly to warn thee of thy wretched Fate:  
Take heed betimes, repent, and learn of me  
To shun the dangerous Rocks of Poetry:  
Had I the choice of Flesh and Blood again,  
To act once more in Life's tumultuous Scene:  
I'd be a Portcr, or a Scavenger,  
A groom, or any thing, but Poet here:  
Hast thou observed some Hawker of the Town,  
Who through the Streets with dismal Scream and Tone,  
Cries Matches, Small-coal, Brooms, Old Shoes and Boots,  
Socks, Sermons, Ballads, Lies, Gazettes, and Votes?  
So unrecorded to the Grave I'd go,  
And nothing but the Register tell, who:  
Rather that poor unheard of Wretch I'd be,  
Than the most glorious Name in Poetry,  
With all its boasted Immortality:  
Rather than He, who sung on Phrygia's Shore,  
The Grecian Bullies fight for a Whore:  
Or He of Thebes, whom Fame so much extols  
For praising Jockeys, and New-market Fools.   

So many now, and bad the Scribblers be,  
'Tis scandal to be of the Company:  
The foul Disease is so prevailing grown,  
So much the Fashion of the Court and Town,  
That scarce a man well bred in either's deemed,  
But who has killed, been often clapped, and oft has rhyme:  
The Fools are troubled with a Flux of Brains,  
And each on Paper squirts his filthy sense:  
A leash of Sonnets, and a dull Lampoon  
Set up an Author, who forthwith is grown  
A man of Parts, of Rhyming, and Renown:  
Even that vile Wretch, who in lewd Verse each year  
Describes the Pageants, and my good Lord mayor,  
Whose Works must serve the next Election-day  
For making Squibs, and under Pies to lay,  
Yet counts himself of the inspired Train,  
And dares in thought the sacred Name profane.   

But is it nought (thou'lt say) in Front to stand,  
With Laurel crowned by White, or Loggan 's hand?  
Is it not great, and glorious to be known,  
Marked out, and gazed at thro' the wondering Town,  
By all the Ra●…le passing up and down?  
So Oats and Bedloe have been pointed at,  
And every busy Coxcomb of the State:  
The meanest Felons who through Holborn go,  
More eyes, and looks than twenty Poets draw:  
If this be all, go, have thy posted Name  
Fixed up with Bills of Quack, and public Shame;  
To be the stop of gaping Prentices,  
And read by reeling Drunkards, when they piss;  
Or else to lie exposed on trading Stall,  
While the bilked Owner hires Gazettes to tell,  
Mongst Spaniels lost, that Authors does not sell.   

Perhaps, fond Fool, thou sooth'st thyself in dream,  
With hopes of purchasing a lasting Name?  
Thou think'st perhaps thy Trifles shall remain,  
Like sacred Cowley, and immortal Ben?  
But who of all the bold Adventurers,  
Who now drive on the trade of Fame in Verse  
Can be insured in this unfaithful Sea,  
Where there so many lost and shipwrecked be?  
How many Poems writ in ancient time,  
Which thy Forefathers had in great esteem,  
Which in the crowded Shops bore any rate,  
And sold like News Books, and Affairs of State,  
Have grown contemptible, and slighted since,  
As Pordage, Fleckno, or the British Prince?  
Quarles, Chapman, Heywood, Withers had Applause,  
And Wild, and Ogilby in former days;  
But now are damned to wrapping Drugs, and Wares,  
And cursed by all their broken Stationers:  
And so may'st thou perchance pass up and down,  
And please a while th' admiring Court, and Town,  
Who after shalt in Duck-lane Shops be thrown,  
To mould with Silvester, and Shirley there,  
And truck for Pots of Ale next Stourbridg-Fair.  
Then who'll not laugh to see th' immortal Name  
To vile Mundungus made a Martyr Flame?  
And all thy deathless Monuments of Wit,  
Wipe Porters Tails, or mount in Paper-kite?   

But, grant thy Poetry should find success,  
And (which is rare) the squeamish Critics please;  
Admit▪ it read▪ and praised▪ and courted be  
By this nice Age, and all Posterity;  
If thou expectest aught but empty Fame;  
Condemn thy Hopes, and Labours to the Flame:  
The Rich have now learned only to admire,  
He, who to greater Favours does aspire,  
Is mercenary thought, and writes to hire:  
Wouldst thou to raise thine, and thy Country's Fame,  
Choose some old English Hero for thy Theme,  
Bold Arthur, or great Edward's greater Son,  
Or our fifth Harry, matchless in Renown,  
Make Agincourt, and Cressy F●…ields outvie  
The famed Lavinian Shores, and Walls of Troy;  
What Scipio, what Moecenae wouldst thou find,  
What Sidney now to thy great Project kind?  
Bless me! how great Genius! how each Line  
Is big with Sense! how glorious a Design  
Does thro' the whole, and each Proportion shine!  
How losty all his Thoughts, and how inspired!  
Pity, such wondrous Parts are not preferred:  
Cries a gay wealthy Sot, who would not bail  
For bare five Pounds the Author out of Jail,  
Should he starve there, and rot; who if a Brief  
Came out the needy Poets to relieve,  
To the whole Tribe would searce a Tester give.  
But fifty Guinnies for a Whore and Clap;  
The Peer's well used, and comes off wondrous cheap:  
A Poet would be dear, and out o'th' way.  
Should he expect above a Coach man's pay:  
For this will any dedicate, and lie,  
And dawb the gaudy Ass with Flattery?  
For this will any prostitute his Sense  
To Coxcombs void of Bounty, as of Brains?  
Yet such is the hard Fate of Writers now,  
They're forced for Alms to each great Name to bow:  
Fawn, like her Lap-dog, on her tawdry Grace,  
Commend her Beauty, and belly her Glass,  
By which she every morning primes her Face:  
Sneak to his Honour, call him Witty, Brave,  
And Just, though a known Coward, Fool, or knave,  
And praise his Lineage, and Nobility,  
Whose Arms at first came from the Company.   

'Tis so, 'twas ever so, since heretofore  
The blind old Bard, with Dog and Bell before,  
Was fain to sing for Bread from door to door;  
The needy Muses all turned Gypsies then,  
And of the begging Trade e'er since have been:  
Should mighty Sapph in these days revive,  
And hope upon her stock of Wit to live;  
She must to Creswel's trudg to mend her Gains,  
And let her Tail to hire, as well as Brains.  
What Poet ever fined for Sheriff? or who  
By Wit and Sense did ever Lord Mayor grow?   

My own hard Usage here I need not press,  
Where you have every day before your face  
Plenty of fresh resembling Instances:  
Great Cowley's Muse the same ill Treatment had,  
Whose Verse shall live for ever to upbraid  
Th' ungrateful World, that left such Worth unpaid.  
Waller himself may thank Inheritance  
For what he else had never got by Sense.  
On Butler who can think without just Rage,  
The Glory, and the Scandal of the Age?  
Fair stood his hopes, when first he came to Town,  
Met every where with welcomes of Renown,  
Courted, and loved by all, with wonder read,  
And promises of Princely Favour fed:  
But what Reward for all had he at last,  
After a Life in dull expectance passed?  
The Wretch at summing up his misspent days  
Found nothing left, but Poverty, and Praise:  
Of all his Gains by Verse he could not save  
Enough to purchase Flannel, and a Grave:  
Reduced to want, he in due time fell sick,  
Was fain to die, and be interred on tick:  
And well might bless the Fever that was sent,  
To rid him hence, and his worse Fate prevent.   

You've seen what fortune other Poet's share;  
View next the Factors of the Theatre:  
That constant Mart, which all the year does hold,  
Where Staple wit is bartered, bought, and sold;   

Here trading Scribblers for their Maintenance,  
And Livelihood trust to a Lott'ry chance:  
But who his Parts would in the Service spend,  
Where all his hopes on Vulgar Breath depend?  
Where every Sot, for paying half a Crown,  
Has the Prerogative to cry him down?  
Sidley indeed may be content with Fame,  
Nor care should an ill-judging Audience damn:  
But Settle, and the Rest, that writ for Pence,  
Whose whole Estate's an ounce, or two of Brains,  
Should a thin House on the third day appear,  
Must starve, or live in Tatters all the year.  
And what can we expect that's brave and great,  
From a poor needy Wretch, that writes to eat?  
Who the success of the next Play must wait  
For Lodging, Food, and clothes, and whose chief care  
Is how to sponge for the next Meal, and where?   

Hadst thou of old in flourishing Athens lived,  
When all the learned Arts in Glory thrived,  
When mighty Sephocles the Stage did sway,  
And Poets by the State were held in pay;  
'Twere worth thy Pains to cultivate thy Muse,  
And daily wonders than it might produce;  
But who would now write Hackney to a Stage,  
That's only thought the Nuisance of the Age?  
Go after this, and beat thy wretched Brains,  
And toil to bring in thankless Idiots means:  
Turn o'er dull Horace, and the Classic Fools,  
To poach for Sense, and hunt for idle Rules:  
Be free of Tickets, and the Playhouses,  
To make some tawdry Act'ress there by Prize,  
And spend thy third Days gains 'twixt her clapped Thighs.   

All Trades, and all Professions here abound,  
And yet Encouragement for all is found:  
Here a vile Emp'rick, who by Licence kills,  
Who every Week helps to increase the Bills,  
Wears Velvet, keeps his Coach, and Whore beside,  
For what less Villains must to Tyburn ride.  
There a dull trading Sot, in Wealth o regrown  
By thriving Knavery, can call his own.  
A dozen Manors, and if Fate still bless,  
Expect as many Counties to possess.  
Punks, Panders, Bawds, all their due Pensions gain,  
And every day the Great men's Bounty drain:  
Lavish expense on Wit, has never yet  
Been taxed amongst the Grievances of State.  
The Turkey, Guinny, India Gainers be,  
And all but the Poetic Company:  
Each place of Traffic, Bantam, Smyrna, Zant,  
Greenland, Virginia, Sevil, Alicant,  
And France, that sends us Dildo's, Lace, and Wine,  
Vast profit all, and large Returns bring in:  
Parnassus only is that barren Coast,  
Where the whole Voyage, and Adventure's lost.   

Then be advised, the slighted Muse forsake,  
And Coke, and Dalton for thy study take:  
For Fees each Term sweat in the crowded Hall,  
And there for Charters, and cracked Titles bawl:  
Where M— d thrives, and pockets more each year  
Than forty Laureates of the Theatre,  
Or else to Orders, and the Church betake  
Thyself, and that thy future Refuge make:  
There fawn on some proud Patron to engage  
Th' Advowson of cast Punk, and Parsonage:  
Or soothe the Court▪ and preach up Kingly Right,  
To gain a Prebend'ry, and Mitre by't.  
In fine, turn Pettifogger, Canonist,  
Civilian, Pedant, Mountebank, or Priest,  
Soldier, or Merchant, Fidler, Painter, Fencer,  
Jack-pudding, Juggler, Player, or Rope-dancer:  
Preach, Plead, Cure, Fight, Game, Pimp, Beg, Cheat, or Thieve;  
Be all but Poet, and there's way to live.   

But why do I in vain my Counsel spend  
On one whom there's so little hope to mend?  
Where I perhaps as fruitlessly exhort,  
As Lenten Doctors, when they Preach at Court?  
Not entered Punks from Lust they once have tried,  
Not Fops, and Women from Conceit, and Pride,  
Not Bawds from Impudence, Cowards from Fear,  
Nor seared unfeeling Sinners past Despair,  
Are half so hard, and stubborn to reduce,  
As a poor Wretch, when once poss●…ss'd with Mus●….   

If therefore, what I've said, cannot avail,  
Nor from the Rhyming Folly thee recall,  
But spite of all thou wilt be obstinate,  
And run thyself upon avoidless Fate;  
May'st thou go on unpitied, till thou be  
Brought to the Parish, Bridge, and Beggary:  
Till urged by want, like broken Scribblers, thou  
Turn Poet to a Booth, a Smithfield-Show,  
And write Heroic Verse for Bartholomew:   

Then slighted by the very Nursery,  
May'st thou at last be forced to starve, like me.    

A satire, In Imitation of the Third of JUVENAL.  
Written, May, 1682.  
The Poet brings in a Friend of his, giving him an account why he removes from London to live in the Country.  

THO much concerned to leave my dear old Friend,  
I must however his Design commend  
Of fixing in the Country: for were I  
As free to choose my Residence, as he;  
The Peake, the Fens, the Hundreds, or Landsend,  
I would prefer to Fleetstreet, or the Strand.  
What place so desert, and so wild is there,  
Whose Inconveniencies one would not bear,  
Rather than the Alarms of midnight Fire,  
The falls of Houses, Knavery of Cits,  
The Plots of Factions, and the noise of Wits,  
And thousand other Plagues, which up and down  
Each day and hour infest the cursed Town?   

As Fate would have't, on the appointed day  
Of parting hence, I met him on the way,  
Hard by Mile-end, the place so famed of late,  
In Prose, and Verse for the great Factions Treat;  
Here we stood still, and after Compliments  
Of course, and wishing his good Journey hence,  
I asked what sudden causes made him sly  
The once-loved Town, and his dear Company:  
When, on the hated Prospect looking back,  
Thus with just rage the good old Timon spoke.   

Since Virtue here in no repute is had,  
Since Worth is scorned, Learning and Sense un paid,  
And Knavery the only thriving Trade;  
Finding my slender Fortune every day  
Dwindle, and waste insensibly away,  
I, like a losing Gamester, thus retreat,  
To manage wiselier my last stake of Fate:  
While I have strength, and want no staff to prop  
My tottering Limbs, ere Age has made me stoop  
Beneath its weight, ere all my Thread be spun,  
And Life has yet in store some Sands to run,  
'Tis my Resolve to quit the nauseous Town.   

Let thriving Morecraft choose his dwelling there,  
Rich with the Spoils of some young spendthrift Heir:  
Let the Plot-mongers stay behind, whose Art  
Can Truth to Shame, and Shame to Truth convert:  
Who ●…ver has an House to Build, or Set,  
His Wife, his Conscience, or his Oath to let:  
Who ever has, or hopes for Offices,  
A Navy, Guard, or Custom-house's Place:  
Let sharping Courtiers stay, who there are great  
By putting the false Dice on King, and State.  
Where they, who once were Grooms, and Footboys known,  
Are now to fair Estates, and Honours grown;  
Nor need we envy them, or wonder much  
At their fantastic Greatness, since they're such,  
Whom Fortune oft in her capricious freaks  
Is pleased to raise from Kennels, and the Jakes,  
To Wealth, and Dignity above the rest,  
When she is frolic, and disposed to jest.   

I live in London? What should I do there?  
I cannot lie, nor flatter, nor forswear:  
I can't commend a Book, or Piece of Wit,  
(Tho a Lord were the Author) dully writ:  
I'm no Sir Sydrophel to read the Stars,  
And cast Nativities for longing Heirs,  
When Fathers shall drop off: no Gadbury  
To tell the minute, when the King shall die,  
And you know what— come in: nor can I steer,  
And tack about my Conscience, whensoe'er,  
To a new Point, I see Religion veer.  
Let others pimp to Courtier's Lechery,  
I'll draw no City-Cuckold's Curse on me:  
Nor would I do it, though to be made great,  
And raised to the chief Ministry of State.  
Therefore I think it fit to rid the Town  
Of one, that is an useless member grown.   

Besides, who has pretence to Favour now,  
But he, who hidden Villainy does know,  
Whose Breast does with some burning Secret glow?  
By none thou shalt preferred, or valued be,  
That trusts thee with an honest Secrecy:  
He only may to great men's Friendship reach,  
Who Great Men, when he pleases, can impeach.  
Let others thus aspire to Dignity;  
For me, I'd not their envied Grandeur buy  
For all th' Exchange is worth, that Paul's will cost,  
Or was of late in the Scotch Voyage lost.  
What would it boot, if I, to gain my end,  
Forgo my Quiet, and my ease of mind,  
Still feared, at last betrayed by my great Friend.?   

Another Cause, which I must boldly own,  
And not the least, for which I quit the Town,  
Is to behold it made the Common-shore,  
Where France does all her Filth, and Ordure pour:  
What Spark of true old English rage can bear  
Those, who were Slaves at home, to Lord it here?  
We've all our Fashions, Language, Compliments,  
Our Music, Dances, Curing, Cooking thence;  
And we shall have their Poisoning too e'er long,  
If still in the improvement we go on.   

What wouldst thou say, great Harry, shouldst thou view  
Thy gaudy fluttering Race of English now,  
Their tawdry clothes, Pulvilios, Essences,  
Their Chedreux Perruques, and those Vanities,  
Which thou, and they of old did so despise?  
What Wouldst thou say to see th'infected Town  
With the fowl Spawn of Foreiners o'errun?  
Hither from Paris, and all Parts they come,  
The Spew, and Vomit of their Goals at home;  
To Court they flock, and to St. James his Square,  
And wriggle into Great men's Service there:  
Footboys at first, till they, from wiping Shoes,  
Grow by degrees the Masters of the House:  
Ready of Wit, hardened of Impudence,  
Able with ea●…e to put down either H—  
Both the King's Player, and King's Evidence:  
Flippant of Talk, and voluble of Tongue,  
With words at will, no Lawyer better hung;  
Softer than flattering Court-Parasite,  
Or City-Trader, when he means to cheat:  
No Calling, or Profession comes amiss,  
A needy Monsieur can be what he please,  
Groom, Page, Valet, Quack, Operator, Fencer,  
Perfumer, Pimp; Jack-pudding, Juggler, Dancer:  
Give but the word; the Cur will fetch and bring,  
Come over to the Emperor, or King:  
Or, if you please, fly o'er the Pyramid,  
Which I— n and the rest in vain have tried,   

Can I have patience, and endure to see  
The paltry Foreign Wretch take place of me,  
Whom the same Wind, and Vessel brought ashore,  
That brought prohibited Goods, and Dildo's o'er?  
Then, pray, what mighty Privilege is there  
For me, that at my Birth drew English Air?  
And where's the Benefit to have my Veins  
Run British Blood, if there's no difference  
'Twixt me, and him, the Statute Freedom gave,  
And made a Subject of a trueborn Slave?   

But nothing shocks, and is more loathed by me,  
Than the vile Rascal's fulsome Flattery:  
By help of this false Magnifying Glass,  
A Louse, or Flea shall for a Camel pass:  
Produce an hideous Wight, more ugly far  
Than those ill Shapes, which in old Hangings are,  
He'll make him straight a Beau Garzon appear:  
Commend his Voice, and Singing, though he bray  
Worse than Sir Martin Marr-all in the Play:  
And if he Rhyme; shall praise for Standard Wit,  
More scurvy sense than Pryn, and vicars Writ.   

And here's the mischief, though we say the same,  
He is believed, and we are thought to shame:  
Do you but smile, immediately the Beast  
Laughs out aloud, though he ne'er heard the Jest;  
Pretend, you're sad, he's presently in Tears,  
Yet grieves no more than Marble, when it wears  
Sorrow in Metaphor: but speak of Heat;  
O God how sultry ' 'tis? he'll cry, and sweat  
In depth of Winter: straight, if you complain  
Of Cold; the Wether glass is sunk again:  
Then he'll call for his Frize-Campaign, and swear  
'Tis beyond Eighty, he's in Greenland here.  
Thus he shifts Scenes, and oftener in a day  
Can change his Face, than Actors at a Play:  
There's nought so mean, can scape the flattering Sot,  
Not his Lord's Snuff-box, nor his Powder-Spot:  
If he but Spit, or pick his Teeth; he'll cry,  
How every thing becomes you? let me die,  
Your Lordship does it most judiciously:  
And swear, 'tis fashionable, if he Sneeze,  
Extremely taking, and it needs must please.   

Besides, there's nothing sacred, nothing free  
From the hot Satyr's rampant Lechery:  
Nor Wife, nor Virgin-Daughter can escape,  
Scarce thou thyself, or Son avoid a Rape:  
All must go padlocked: if nought else there be,  
Suspect thy very Stables Chastity.  
By this the Vermin into Secrets creep,  
Thus Families in awe they strive to keep.  
What living for an English man is there,  
Where such as these get head, and domineer,  
Whose use and custom 'tis, never to share.  
A Friend, but love to reign without dispute,  
Without a Rival, full, and absolute?  
Soon as the Insect gets his Honour's ear,  
And fly-blows some of's poisonous malice there,  
Straight I'm turned off, kicked out of doors, discarded,  
And all my former Service disregarded.   

But leaving these Messieurs, for fear that I  
Be thought of the Silk-Weavers Mutiny,  
From the loathed subject let us hasten on,  
To mention other Grievances in Town:  
And further, what Respect at all is had  
Of poor men here? and how's their Service paid,  
Tho they be ne'er so diligent to wait,  
To sneak, and dance attendance on the Great?  
No mark of Favour is to be obtained  
By one, that sues, and brings an empty hand:  
And all his merit is but made a Sport,  
Unless he glut some Cormorant at Court.   

'Tis now a common thing, and usual here,  
To see the Son of some rich Usurer  
Take place of Nobles, keep his first-rate Whore,  
And for a Vaulting bout, or two give more  
Than a Guard-Captains Pay: mean while the Breed  
Of Peers, reduced to Poverty, and there  
Are fain to trudg to the Bankside, and there  
Take up with Porters leave, Suburb-Ware,  
There spend that Blood, which their great Ancestor  
So nobly shed at Cressy heretofore,  
At Brothel-Fights in some foul Common-shore.   

Produce an Evidence, though just he be,  
As righteous Job, or Abraham, or He,  
Whom Heaven, when whole Nature shipwrecked was,  
Thought worth the saving, of all humane Race,  
Or tother, who the flaming Deluge scaped,  
When Sodom's Lechers Angels would have raped;  
How rich he is, must the first question be,  
Next for his Manners, and Integrity:  
They'll ask, what Equipage he keeps, and what  
He's reckoned worth in Money, and Estate,  
For Shrieve how oft he has been known to fine,  
And with how many Dishes he does dine:  
For look what Cash a person has in store,  
Just so much Credit has he, and no more:  
Should I upon a thousand Bibles Swear,  
And call each Saint throughout the Calendar:  
To vouch my Oath; it won't be taken here;  
The Poor flight Heaven, and Thunderbolts (they think)  
And Heaven itself does at such Trifles wink.   

Besides, what store of gibing scoffs are thrown  
On one, that's poor, and meanly clad in Town;  
If his Apparel seem but overworn,  
His Stockings out at heel, or Breeches torn?  
One takes occasion his ripped Shoe to flout,  
And swears 'thas been at Prison-Grates hung out:  
Another shrewdly jeers his coarse Crevat,  
Because himself wears Point: a third his Hat,  
And most unmercifully shows his Wit,  
If it be old, or does not cock aright:  
Nothing in Poverty so ill is born,  
As its exposing men to grinning scorn,  
To be by tawdry Coxcombs pissed upon,  
And made the jesting-stock of each Buffoo●….  
Turn out there, Friend! (cries one at Church) the Pew  
Is not for such mean scoundrel Curs, as you:  
'Tis for your Betters kept: Belike, some Sot,  
That knew no Father, was on Bulks begot:  
But now is raised to an Estate, and Pride,  
By having the kind Proverb on his side:  
Let Gripe and Cheatwel take their Places there,  
And Dash the S●…riv'ners gaudy sparkish Heir,  
That wears three ruin'd Orphans on his back:  
Mean while you in the Alley stand, and sneak:  
And you therewith must rest contented, since  
Almighty Wealth does put such difference.  
What Citizen a Son-in-law will take,  
Bred ne'er so well, that can't a Jointure make?  
What man of sense, that's poor, e'er summoned is  
Amongst the Common-Council to advise?  
At Vestry-Consults when does he appear,  
For choosing of some Parish-Officer,  
Or making Leather-Buckets for the Choir?   

'Tis hard for any man to rise, that feels  
His Virtue clogged with Poverty at heels:  
But harder 'tis by much in London, where  
A sorry Lodging, coarse, and slender Fare,  
Fire, Water, Breathing, every thing is dear:  
Yet such as these an earthen Dish disdain,  
With which their Ancestors, in Edgar's Reign,  
Were served, and thought it no disgrace to dine,  
Tho they were rich, had store of Leather-Coin.  
Low as their Fortune is, yet they despise  
A man that walks the streets in homely Freeze:  
To speak the truth, great part of England now  
In their own Cloth will scarce vouchsafe to go:  
Only, the Statutes Penalty to save,  
Some few perhaps wear Woollen in the Grave.  
Here all go gaily dressed, although it be  
Above their Means, their Rank, and Quality:  
The most in borrowed Gallantry are clad;  
For which the Tradesmen's Books are still unpaid:  
This Fault is common in the meaner sort,  
That they must needs affect to bear the Port  
Of Gentlemen, though they want Income for't.   

Sir, to be short, in this expensive Town  
There's nothing without Money to be done:  
What will you give to be admitted there,  
And brought to speech of some Court-Minister?  
What will you give to have the quarter face,  
The squint and nodding go-by of his Grace?  
His Porter, Groom, and Steward must have Fees;  
And you may see the Tombs, and Tower for less:  
Hard Fate of Suitors! who must pay, and pray  
To Livery-slaves, yet oft go scorned away.   

Who e'reat Barnet, or S. Alban fears  
To have his Lodging drop about his ears,  
Unless a sudden Hurricane besal,  
Or such a Wind as blue old Noll to Hell?  
Here we build slight, what scarce outlasts the Lease,  
Without the helps of Props, and Buttresses:  
And Houses now adays as much require  
To be insured from Falling, as from Fire.  
There Buildings are substantial, though less neat,  
And kept with care both Wind, and Water-tight:  
There you in safe security are blest,  
And nought, but Conscience to disturb your Rest,   

I am for living where no Fires affright,  
No Bells rung backward break my sleep at night:  
I scarce lie down, and draw my Curtains here,  
But straight I'm roused by the next House on Fire:  
Pale, and half dead with Fear, myself I raise,  
And find my Room all over in a blaze:  
By this 'thas seized on the third Stairs, and I  
Can now discern no other Remedy,  
But leaping out at Window to get free:  
For if the Mischief from the Cellar came,  
Be sure the Garret is the last, taketh flame.   

The moveables of P ge were a Bed  
For him, and's Wise, a Pisspot by its side,  
A Looking-glass upon the Cupboards Head,  
A Comb-case, Candlestick, and Pewter-spoon,  
For want of Plate, with Desk to write upon:  
A Box without a Lid served to contain  
Few Authors, which made up his Vatican:  
And there his own immortal Works were laid,  
On which the barbarous Mice for hunger preyed:  
P— had nothing, all the world does know;  
And yet should he have lost this Nothing too,  
No one the wretched Bard would have supplied  
With Lodging, Houseroom, or a Crust of Bread.   

But if the Fire burn down some Great Man's House,  
All straight are interessed in the loss:  
The Court is straight in Mourning sure enough,  
The Act, Commencement, and the Term put off:  
Then we Mischances of the Town lament,  
And Fasts are kept, like Judgements to prevent.  
Out comes a Brief immediately, with speed  
To gather Charity as far as Tweed.  
Nay, while 'tis burning, some will send him in  
Timber, and Stone to build his House again:  
Others choice Furniture: here some rare piece  
Of Rubens, or Vandike presented is:  
There a rich Suit of Moreclack-Tapestry,  
A Bed of Damask, or Embroidery:  
One gives a fine Scritore, or Cabinet,  
Another a huge massy Dish of Plate,  
Or Bag of Gold; thus he at length gets more  
By kind misfortune than he had before:  
And all suspect it for a laid Design,  
As if he did himself the Fire begin.  
Could you but be advised to leave the Town,  
And from dear Plays, and drinking Friends be drawn,  
An handsome Dwelling might be had in Kent,  
Surrey, or Essex, at a cheaper Rent  
Than what you're forced to give for one half year  
To lie, like Lumber, in a Garret here:  
A Garden there, and Well, that needs no Rope,  
Engine, or Pains to Crane its Waters up:  
Water is there through Nature's Pipes conveyed,  
For which no Custom, or Excise is paid:  
Had I the smallest Spot of Ground, which scarce  
Would Summer half a dozen Grasshoppers,  
Not larger than my Grave, though hence remote,  
Far as St. Michael's Mount, I would go to't,  
Dwell there content, and thank the Fates to boot.   

Here want of Rest a nights more People kills  
Than all the College, and the weekly Bills:  
Where none have privilege to sleep, but those,  
Whose Purses can compound for their Repose:  
In vain I go to bed, or close my eyes,  
Methinks the place the middle Region is,  
Where I lie down in Storms, in Thunder rise:  
The restless Bells such Din in Steeples keep,  
That scarce the Dead can in their Churchyards sleep:  
Huzza's of Drunkards, Bell-mens' midnight-Rhimes,  
The noise of Shops, with Hawkers early Screams,  
Besides the Brawls of Coachmen, when they meet,  
And stop in turnings of a narrow Street,  
Such a loud Medley of confusion make,  
As drowsy A— r on the Bench would wake.   

If you walk out in Business ne'er so great,  
Ten thousand stops you must expect to meet:  
Thick Crowds in every Place you must charge through,  
And storm your Passage, wheresoe'er you go:  
While Tides of Followers behind you throng,  
And, pressing on your heels, shove you along:  
One with a Board, or Rafter hits your Head,  
Another with his Elbow boreas your side;  
Some tread upon your Corns, perhaps in sport;  
Mean while your Legs are cased all o'er with Dirt.  
Here you the March of a slow Funeral wait,  
Advancing to the Church with solemn State:  
There a Sedan, and Lackeys stop your way,  
That bears some Punk of Honour to the Play:  
Now you some mighty piece of Timber meet,  
Which tottering threatens ruin to the Street:  
Next a huge Portland Stone, for building Paul's,  
If self almost a Rock, on Carriage rowls:  
Which, if it fall, would cause a Massacre,  
And serve at once to murder, and inter.   

If what I've said can't from the Town affright,  
Consider other dangers of the Night:  
When Brickbats are from upper Stories thrown,  
And emptied Chamber pots come pouring down  
From Garret Windows: you have cause to bless  
The gentle Stars, if you come off with Piss:  
So many Fates attend, a man had need,  
Ne'er walk without a Surgeon by his side:  
And he can hardly now discreet be thought,  
That does not make his Will, ere he go out.   

If this you scape, twenty to one, you meet  
Some of the drunken Scowrers of the Street,  
Flushed with success of warlike Deeds performed,  
Of Constables subdued, and Brothels stormed:  
These, if a Quarrel, or a Fray be missed,  
Are ill at ease a nights, and want their Rest.  
For mischief is a Lechery to some,  
And serves to make them sleep like Laudanum.  
Yet heated, as they are, with Youth, and Wine,  
If they diseern a Train of Flamboes' shine,  
If a Great Man with his gilt Coach appear,  
And a strong Guard of Footboys in the rear,  
The Rascals sneak, and shrink their Heads for fear.  
Poor me, who use no Light to walk about,  
Save what the Parish, or the Skies hang out,  
They value not: 'tis worth your while to hear  
The scuffle, if that be a scuffle, where  
Another gives the Blows, I only bear:  
He bids me stand: of force I must give way,  
For 'twere a senseless thing to disobey,  
And struggle here, where I'd as good oppose  
Myself to P— and his Mastiffs lose.  
Who's there? he cries, and takes you by the Throat,  
Dog! are you dumb? Speak quickly, else my Foot  
Shall march about your Buttocks: whence d'ye come,  
From what Bulk-ridden Strumpet reeking home?  
Saving your reverend Pimpship, where d'ye ply?  
How may onè have a Job of Lechery?  
If you say any thing, or hold your peace,  
And silently go off; 'tis all a case:  
Still he lays on: nay well, if you scape so:  
Perhaps he'll clap an Action on you too  
Of Battery: nor need he fear to meet  
A Jury to his turn, shall do him right,  
And bring him in large Damage for a Shoe  
Worn out, besides the pains, in kicking you.  
A Poor Man must expect nought of redress,  
But Patience: his best way in such a case  
Is to be thankful for the Drubs, and beg  
That they would mercifully spare one leg,  
Or Arm unbroke, and let him go away  
With Teeth enough to eat his Meat next day.   

Nor is this all, which you have cause to fear,  
Oft we encounter midnight Padders here:  
When the Exchanges, and the Shops are close,  
And the rich Tradesman in his Countinghouse  
To view the Profits of the day withdraws.  
Hither in flocks from Shooters-Hill they come,  
To seek their Price, and Booty nearer home:  
Your Purse! they cry; 'tis madness to resist,  
Or strive with a cocked Pistol at your Breast:  
And these each day so strong and numerous grow,  
The Town can scarce afford them Jail-room now.  
Happy the times of the old Heptarchy,  
Ere London knew so much of Villainy:  
Then fatal Carts through Holborn seldom went,  
And Tyburn with few Pilgrims was content:  
A less, and single Prison then would do,  
And served the City, and the County too.   

These are the Reasons, Sir, which drive me hence,  
To which I might add more; would Time dispense,  
To hold you longer; but the Sun draws low,  
The Coach is hard at hand, and I must go:  
Therefore, dear Sir, farewell; and when the Town  
From better Company can spare you down,  
To make the Country with your Presence blest,  
Then visit your old Friend amongst the rest;  
There I'll find leisure to unlade my mind  
Of what remarks I now must leave behind:  
The Fruits of dear Experience, which with these  
Improved will serve for hints, and notices;   

And when you write again, may be ofuse  
To furnish satire for your daring Muse.    

A Dithyrambic. The Drunkard's Speech in a Mask.  
Written in Aug. 1677.  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  

I.  
YES, you are mighty wise, I warrant, mighty wise!  
With all your godly Tricks, and Artifice,  
Who think to chouse me of my dear and pleasant Vice.  
Hence holy Shame! in vain your fruitless Toil▪  
Go, and some unexperienced Fop beguile,  
To some raw ent'ring Sinner cant, and Whine,  
Who never knew the worth of Drunkenness and Wine.  
I've tried and proved, and found it all Divine:  
It is resolved, I will drink on, and die,  
I'll not one minute lose, not I,  
To hear your troublesome Divinity:  
Fill me a topful Glass, I'll drink it on the Knee,  
Confusion to the next that spoils good Company.   

II.  
That Gulp was worth a Soul, like it, it went,  
And throughout new Life, and Vigour sent:  
I feel it warm at once my Head, and Heart,  
I feel it all in all, and all in every part.  
Let the vile Slaves of Business toil, and strive,  
Who want the Leisure, or the Wit to live;  
While we Life's tedious journey shorter make,  
And reap those Joys which they lack sense to take.  
Thus live the Gods (if aught above ourselves there be)  
They live so happy, unconcerned, and free:  
Like us they sit, and with a careless Brow  
Laugh at the petty Jars of Humane kind below:  
Like us they spend their Age in gentle Ease,  
Like us they drink; for what were all their Heaven, alas!  
If sober, and compelled to want that Happiness.   

III.  
Assist almighty Wine, for thou alone hast Power,  
And other I'll invoke no more,  
Assist, while with just Praise I thee odour;  
Aided by thee, I dare thy worth rehearse,  
In Flights above the common pitch of grovelling Verse.  
Thou art the World's great Soul, that heavenly Fire,  
Which dost our dull half-kindled mass inspire.  
We nothing gallant, and above ourselves produce,  
Till thou dost finish Man, and Reinfuse.  
Thou art the only source of all, the world calls great,  
Thou didst the Poets first, and they the Gods create:  
To thee their Rage, their Heat, their Flame they owe,  
Thou run'st half share with Art, and Nature too.  
They owe their Glory, and Renown to thee;  
Thou giv'st their Verse, and them Eternity.  
Great Alexander, that big'st Word of Fame,  
That fills her Throat, and almost rends the same,  
Whose Valour found the World too straight a Stage  
For his wide Victories, and boundless Rage,  
Got not Repute by War alone, but thee,  
He knew, he ne'er could conquer by Sobriety,  
And drunk as well as fought for universal Monarchy.   

IV.  
Pox o' that lazy Claret! how it stays?  
Were it again to pass the Seas;  
'Twould sooner be in Cargo here,  
'Tis now a long East-India Voyage, half a year.  
'Sdeath! here's a minute lost, an Age, I mean,  
Slipped by, and ne'er to be retrieved again.  
For pity suffer not the precious Juice to die,  
Let us prevent our own, and its Mortality:  
Like it, our Life with standing and Sobriety is palled,  
And like it too, when dead, can never be recalled.  
Push on the Glass, let it measure out each hour,  
For every Sand an Health let's pour:  
Swift as the rolling Orbs above,  
And let it too as regularly move:  
Swift as heavens drunken red-faced Traveller, the Sun,  
And never rest, till his last Race be done,  
Till time itself be all run out, and we  
Have drunk ourselves into Eternity.   

V.  
Six in a hand begin! we'll drink it twice a piece.  
A Health to all that love, and honour Vice.  
Six more as oft to the great Founder of the Vine,  
(A God he was, I'm sure, or should have been)  
The second Father of Mankind I meant,  
He, when the angry Powers a Deluge sent,  
When for their Crimes our sinful Race was drowned,  
The only bold, and venturous man was found,  
Who durst be drunk again, and with new Vice the World replant.  
The mighty Patriarch 'twas of blessed Memory,  
Who scaped in the great Wreck of all Mortality,  
And stocked the Globe afresh with a brave drinking Progeny,  
In vain would spiteful Nature us reclaim,  
Who to small Drink our Isle thought fit to damn,  
And set us out o'th' reach of Wine,  
In hope straight Bounds could our vast Thirst confine.  
He taught us first with Ships the Seas to roam,  
Taught us from Foreign Lands to fetch supply,  
Rare Art! that makes all the wide world our home,  
Makes every Realm pay Tribute to our Luxury,   

VI  
Adieu poor tottering Reason! tumble down!  
This Glass shall all thy proud usurping Powers drown,  
And Wit on thy cast Ruins shall erect her Throne:  
Adieu, thou fond Disturber of our Life!  
That check'st our Joys, with all our Pleasure art at strife:  
I've something brisker now to govern me,  
A more exalted noble Faculty,  
Above thy Logic, and vain boasted Pedantry.  
Inform me, if you can, ye reading Sots, what 'tis,  
That guides th' unerring Deities:  
They no base Reason to their Actions bring,  
But move by some more high, more heavenly thing,  
And are without Deliberation wise:  
Even such is this, at lest 'tis much the same,  
For which dull Schoolmen never yet could find a name,  
Call ye this madness? damn that sober Fool,  
('Twas sure some dull Philosopher, some reasoning Tool)  
Who the reproachful Term did first devise,  
And brought a scandal on the best of Vice.  
Go, ask me, what's the rage young Prophets feel,  
When they with holy Frenzy reel:  
Drunk with the Spirits of infused Divinity,  
They rave, and stagger, and are mad, like me.   

VII.  
Oh, what an Ebb of Drink have we?  
Bring us a Deluge, fill us up the Sea,  
Let the vast Ocean be our mighty Cup;  
We'll drink't, and all its Fishes too like Loaches up.  
Bid the Canary Fleet land here: we'll pay  
The Fraight, and Custom too defray:  
Set every man a Ship, and when the Store  
Is emptied; let them straight dispatch, and Sail for more:  
'Tis gone: and now have at the Rhine,  
With all its petty Rivulets of Wine:  
The Empire's Forces with the Spanish well combine,  
We'll make their Drink too in confederacy join.  
‛ Ware France the next: this Round Bourdeaux shall swallow,  
Champagn, Langon, and Burgundy shall follow.  
Quick let's forestall Lorain;  
We'll starve his Army, all their Quarters drain,  
And without Treaty put an end to the Campagn,  
Go, set the Universe a tilt, turn the Globe up,  
Squeeze out the last, the slow unwilling Drop:  
A pox of empty Nature! since the World's drawa dry,  
'Tis time we quit mortality,  
'Tis time we now give out, and die,  
Lest we are plagued with Dulness and Sobriety.  
Beset with Link boys, we'll in triumph go,  
A Troop of staggering Ghosts down to the Shades below:  
Drunk we'll march off, and reel into the Tomb,  
Nature's convenient dark Retiring Room;  
And there, from Noiso removed, and all tumultuous strife,  
Sleep out the dull Fatigue, and long Debauch of Life.   
[Tries to go off, but tumbles down, and falls asleep.  
FINIS.   

REMAINS OF Mr. John Oldham IN VERSE and PROSE.  
LONDON: Printed for Jo. Hindmarsh, Bookseller to his Royal Highness, at the Black Bull in Cornil, 1684.   

Advertisement.  
THe Author of these following Poems being dead, the Publisher thought fit to acquaint the World, that the reason why he exposed them now in Print, was not so much for his own Interest (though a Bookseller that disclaims Interest for a pretence, will no more be believed now adays, than a thorough paced Fanatic, that pretends he makes a journey to New England purely for conscience sake) but for securing the reputation of Mr. Oldham; which might otherwise have suffered from worse hands, and out of a desire he has to print the last Remains of his friend since he had the good fortune to publish his first Pieces.  
He confesses that it is the greatest piece of injustice to publish the posthumous Works of Authors, especially such, that we may suppose they had brought to the file and sent out with more advantages into the World, had they not been prevented by untimely death; and therefore assures you he had never presumed to print these following Miscellanies, had they not already been countenanced by men of unquestionable repute and esteem.  
He is not of the same persuasion with several others of his own profession, that never care how much they lessen the reputation of the Poet, if they can but enhance the value of the Book; that ransacked he Studies of the deceased, and print all that passed under the Author's hands, from Fifteen to Forty, and upwards: and (as the incomparable Mr. Cowley has expressed it) think a rude heap of ill placed Stones a better Monument than a neat Tomb of Marble.  
For the Description of the Country P— (the only part in this Book that he judges liable to exception) he makes you no Apology at all; For to men of candour and judgement any thing that comes from Mr. Oldham will certainly be acceptable; too others that are resolved to damn at first sight he thinks a defence of this nature signifies no more than a Plaintiffs persuasions to a hungry Judge after twelve. However he is very confident that the rest of Mr. Oldham's pieces will abundantly atone for one unfinished draught, and that no man of sense and reason will quarrel at one bad half Crown, in a good, round, substantial lump of Money.   

To the MEMORY of Mr. OLDHAM.  

FArewel, too little and too lately known,  
Whom I began to think and call my own;  
For sure our Souls were near allied; and thine  
Cast in the same Poetic mould with mine.  
One common Note on either Lyre did strike,  
And Knaves and Fools we both abhorred alike:  
To the same Goal did both our Studies drive,  
The last set out the soon did arrive.  
Thus Nisus fell upon the slippery place,  
While his young Friend performed and won the Race.  
O early ripe! to thy abundant store  
What could advancing Age have added more?  
It might (what Nature never gives the young)  
Have taught the numbers of thy native Tongue.  
But satire needs not those, and Wit will shine  
Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line.  
A noble Error, and but seldom made,  
When Poets are by too much force betrayed,  
Thy generous fruits, though gathered ere their prime  
Still showed a quickness; and maturing time  
But mellows what we write to the dull sweets of Rhyme.  
Once more, hail and farewel; farewel thou young,  
But ah too short, Marcellus of our Tongue;  
Thy Brows with Ivy, and with Laurels bound;  
But Fate and gloomy Night encompass thee around.   JOHN DRYDEN.  

Authori Epitaphium.  

HOc, ô Viator, marmore conditae  
Charae recumbunt Exuviae brevem  
Viventis (oh! sors dura) vitam,  
Praecoce coelum animâ petentis.  
Nec praepedita est Mens celeris diù,  
Quin Pustularum mille tumoribus  
Eff●…oruit, portisque mille  
Praepes iter patefecit altum.  
Musarum Alumnus jàm fuit, artibus  
Instructus almis, quas, studio pio,  
Atque aure quam fidâ repostas,  
Oxonij coluit Parentis.  
Hic quadriennis praemia Filii  
Dignus recepit, Vellera candida,  
Collati Honoris signa, necnon  
Innocui simulacra cordis.  
Sed manè montis summa cacumina  
Ascendit ardens, Pierio jugo  
Insedit, atque errore multo  
Ipsum Helicona scatere vidit.  
Nunc pura veri Flumina perspicit,  
Nunc mira Mundi semina concipit,  
Pulchrasque primaevi figuras,  
In speculo species creante.  
At Tu, Viator, Numina poscito,  
Ut dissolutis reliquijs, vaga  
Dùm mens remigret, detur— ah! su  
Terra levis, placidusque somnus.    

On the Death of Mr. John Oldham, A Pindaric Pastoral Ode.  

Stanza I.  
UNdoubtedly 'tis thy peculiar Fate,  
Ah, miserable Astragon!  
Thou art condemned alone  
To bear the Burden of a wretched Life,  
Still in this howling Wilderness to roam,  
While all thy Bosom-friends unkindly go,  
And leave thee to lament them here below.  
Thy dear Alexis would not stay,  
Joy of thy Life, and Pleasure of thine Eyes,  
Dear Alexis went away  
With an invincible Surprise;  
Th' Angellike Youth early disliked this State,  
And cheerfully submitted to his Fate.  
Never did Soul of a Celestial Birth  
Inform a purer piece of Earth.  
O that 'twere not in vain  
To wish what's past might be retrieved again!  
Thy Dotage, thy Alexis, then  
Had answered all thy Vows and Prayers,  
And Crowned with pregnant Joys thy silver Hairs,  
Loved to this day among the living Sons of Men.   

II.  
And thou, my Friend, hast left me too,  
Menalcas! poor Menalcas! even thou,  
Of whom so loudly Fame has spoke  
In the Records of her immortal Book,  
Whose disregarded Worth Ages to come  
Shall wail with Indignation o'er thy Tomb.  
Worthy wert thou to live, as long as Vice  
Should need a satire, that the frantic Age  
Might tremble at the Lash of thy poetic Rage.  
Th' untutored World in after Times  
May live uncensured for their Crimes,  
Freed from the Dreads of thy reforming Pen,  
Turn to old Chaos once again.  
Of all th' instructive Bards, whose more than Theban Lyre.  
Could savage Souls with manly Thoughts inspire,  
Menalcas worthy was to live.  
Say, you his Fellow-Shepherds that survive,  
Tell me, you mournful Swains,  
Has my adored Menalcas left behind;  
In all these pensive Plains  
A gentler Shepherd with a braver mind:  
Which of you all did more Majestic Show,  
Or wore the Garland on a sweeter Brow?   

III.  
— But wayward Astragon resolves no more  
The Loss of his Menalcas to deplore:  
The place to which he wisely is withdrawn  
Is altogether blest;  
There no Clouds overwhelm his Breast,  
No Midnight Cares can break his Rest;  
For all is everlasting cheerful Dawn.  
The Poet's Bliss there shall he long possess,  
Perfect Ease and soft Recess;  
The treacherous World no more shall him deceive;  
Of Hope and Fortune he has taken Leave:  
And now in mighty Triumph does he reign,  
(His Head adorned with Beams of Light)  
O'er the unthinking Rabble's Spite,  
And the dull wealthy Fool's disdain.  
Thrice happy he that dies the Muse's Friend,  
He needs no Obelisque, no Pyramid  
His sacred Dust to hide;  
He needs not for his Memory to provide;  
For he might well foresee his Praise can never end.   Thomas Flatman.  

In memory of the Author.  

TAke this short-summoned loose unfinished Verse  
Cold as thy Tomb, and suddainas thy Hears  
From my sick Thoughts thou canst no better crave,  
Who scarce drag Life, and envy thee thy Grave.  
Me Phoebus always faintly did inspire,  
And gave my narrow Breast more scanty Fire.  
My Hybla-Muse through humble Meads sought Spoil,  
Collecting little Sweets with mighty Toil;  
Yet when some Friend's just Fame did Theme afford,  
Her Voice amongst the tow'ring Swans was heard.  
In vain for such Attendance now I call,  
My Ink overflows with Spleen, my Blood with Gall,  
Yet, sweet Alexis, my Esteem of thee  
Was equal to thy Worth and Love for me.  
Death is thy Gain— that Thought affects me most,  
I care not what th' ill-natured World has lost.  
For Wit with thee expired, how shall I grieve?  
Who grudge th' ingrateful Age what thou didst leave,  
The Tribute of their Verse let others send,  
And mourn the Poet gone, I mourn the Friend.  
Enjoy thy Fate— thy Predecessors come,  
Cowley and Butler to conduct thee home.  
Who would not (Butler cries) like me engage  
New Worlds of Wit to serve a grateful Age?  
For such Rewards what Tasks will Authors shun?  
I pray, Sir, is my Monument begun?   

Enjoy thy Fate, thy Voice in Anthems raise;  
So well tuned here on Earth to our Apollo's Praise:  
Let me retire, while some sublimer Pen  
Performs for thee what thou hast done for Homer and for Ben.   N. T.  

On the ensuing Poems of Mr. John Oldham, and the Death of his good Friend the ingenious Author.  

OBscure and cloudy did the day appear,  
As Heaven designed to blot it from the year;  
The Elements all seemed to disagree,  
At least, I'm sure, they were at strife in me:  
Possessed with Spleen, which Melancholy bred,  
When Rumour told me that my Friend was dead,  
That Oldham honoured for his early Worth,  
Was cropped, like a sweet Blossom from the Earth,  
Where late he grew, delighting every Eye  
In his rare Garden of Philosophy.  
The fatal Sound new Sorrows did infuse,  
And all my Griefs were doubled at the News:  
For we with mutual Arms of Friendship strove,  
Friendship the true and solid part of Love;  
And he so many Graces had in store,  
That Fame or Beauty could not bind me more.  
His Wit in his immortal Verse appears,  
Many his Virtues were, tho' few his Years;  
Which were so spent as if by Heaven contrived,  
To lash the Vices of the longer lived.  
None was more skilful, none more learned than he,  
A Poet in its sacred Quality:  
Inspired above, and could command each Passion,  
Had all the Wit without the Affectation.  
A Calm of Nature still possessed his Soul,  
No cankered Envy did his Breast control:  
Modest as Virgins that have never known  
The jilting Breeding of the nauseous Town;  
And easy as his Numbers that sublime  
His lofty Strains, and beautify his Rhyme,  
Till the Time's Ignominy inspired his Pen,  
And roused the drowsy satire from his Den;  
Then fluttering Fops were his Aversion still,  
And felt the Power of his Satiric Quill.  
The Spark whose Noise proclaims his empty Pate,  
That struts along the Mall with antic Gate;  
And all the Phyllis and the Chloris Fools  
Were damned by his invective Muse in Shoals.  
Who on the Age looked with impartial Eyes,  
And aimed not at the Person, but the Vice.  
To all true Wit he was a constant Friend,  
And as he well could judge, could well commend.  
The mighty Homer he with Care perused,  
And that great Genius to the World infused;  
Immortal Virgil, and Lucretius too,  
And all the Seeds o'th' Soul his Reason knew:  
Like Ovid, could the Lady's Hearts assail,  
With Horace sing, and lash with Juvenal.  
Unskilled in nought that did with Learning dwell,  
But Pride to know he understood it well.  
Adieu thou modest Type of perfect Man;  
Ah, had not thy Perfections that began  
In Life's bright Morning been eclipsed so soon,  
We all had basked and wantoned in thy Noon;  
But Fate grew envious of thy growing Fame,  
And knowing Heaven from whence thy Genius came,  
Assigned thee by immutable Decree  
A glorious Crown of Immortality,  
Snatched thee from all thy mourning Friends below,  
Just as the Bays were planting on thy Brow.  
Thus worldly Merit has the World's Regard;  
But Poets in the next have their Reward;  
And Heaven in Oldham's Fortune seemed to show,  
No Recompense was good enough below:  
So to prevent the World's ingrateful Crimes,  
Enriched his Mind, and bid him die betimes.   T. Durfey.  

On the Death of Mr. John Oldham.  

Hark! is it only my prophetic Fear,  
Or some Death's sad Alarm that I hear?  
By all my Doubts 'tis Oldham's fatal Knell;  
It rings aloud, eternally farewell:  
Farewell thou mighty Genius of our Isle,  
Whose forward Parts made all our Nation smile,  
In whom both Wit and Knowledge did conspire,  
And Nature gazed as if she did admire  
How such few years such Learning could acquire:  
Nay seemed concerned that we should hardly find  
So sharp a Pen, and so serene a Mind.  
Oh then lament; let each distracted Breast  
With universal Sorrow be possessed.  
Mourn, mourn, ye Muses, and your Songs give over;  
For now your loved Adonis is no more.  
He whom ye tutored from his Infant-years,  
Cold, pale and ghastly as the Grave appears:  
He whom ye bathed in your loved murmuring Stream,  
Your daily pleasure, and your mighty Theme  
Is now no more; the Youth, the Youth is dead,  
The mighty Soul of Poetry is fled;  
Fled e'er his Worth or Merit was half known;  
No sooner seen, but in a Moment gone:  
Like to some tender Plant, which reared with Care,  
At length becomes most fragrant, and most fair;  
Long does it thrive, and long its Pride. maintain,  
Esteemed secure from Thunder, Storm or Rain;  
Then comes a Blast, and all the Work is vain.   

But Oh! my Friend, must we no more rehearse  
Thy equal Numbers in thy pleasing Verse?  
In Love how soft, in satire how severe?  
In Passion moving, and in Rage austere!  
Virgil in Judgement, Ovid in Delight,  
An easy Thought with a Meonian Flight;  
Horace in Sweetness, Juvenal in Rage,  
And even Biblis must each Heart engage!  
Just in his Praises, and what most desire,  
Would flatter none for Greatness, Love or Hire;  
Humble, though courted, and what's rare to see,  
Of wondrous Worth, yet wondrous Modesty.  
So far from ostentation he did seem,  
That he was meanest in his own Esteem.  
Alas, young man, why wert thou made to be  
At once our Glory and our Misery?  
Our Misery in losing thee is more  
Than could thy Life our Glory be before:  
For should a Soul celestial Joys possess,  
And strait be banished from that Happiness,  
Oh, where would be its Pleasure? where its ' Gain?  
TheBliss once tasted but augments the Pain:  
So having once so great a Prize in thee,  
How much the heavier must our Sorrows be?  
For if such Flights were in thy younger Days,  
What if thou'dst lived, O what had been thy Praise?  
Eternal Wreaths of neverdying Bays:  
But those are due already to thy Name,  
Which stands enroled in the Records of Fame;  
And though thy great Remains to Ashes turn,  
With lasting Praises we'll supply thy Urn,  
Which like Sepulchral Lamps shall ever burn.   

But hold! methinks, great Shade, I see thee rove  
Through the smooth Path of Plenty, Peace and Love;  
Where Ben. salutes thee first, overjoyed to see  
The Youth that sung his Fame and Memory:  
Great Spencer next, with all the learned Train,  
Do greet thee in a Panegyric Strain:  
Adonis is the Joy of all the Plain.   Tho. Andrews.  

DAMON, an ECLOGUE On the untimely Death of Mr. Oldham.  

Corydon.  
Alexis.   

BEneath a dismal Yew the Shepherds sat,  
And talked of Damon's Muse and Damon's Fate:  
Their mutual Lamentations gave them Ease;  
For sometimes Melancholy itself does please:  
Like Philomela abandoned to distress,  
Yet even their Griefs in Music they express.   Cor. 
I'll sing no more since Verses want a Charm,  
The Muses could not their own Damon arm:  
At least I'll touch this useless Pipe no more,  
Unless, like Orpheus, I could Shades restore.  A. 
Rather, like Orpheus, celebrate your Friend,  
And with your Music Hell itself suspend:  
Tax Proserpina of Cruelty and Hate,  
And sing of Damon's Muse, and Damon's Fate.  C. 
When Damon sung, he sung with such a Grace,  
Lord, how the very London-brutes did gaze!  
Sharp was his satire, nor allayed with Gall;  
'Twas Rage, 'twas generous Indignation all.  A. 
Oh had he lived, and to Perfection grown,  
Not like Marcellus, only to be shown;  
He would have charmed their Sense a nobler way,  
Taught Virgins how to sigh, and Priests to pray.  C. 
Let Priests and Virgins then to him address,  
And in their Songs their Gratitude express,  
While we that know the Worth of easy Verse,  
Secure the Laurel to adorn his Hearse.  A. 
Codrus, you know, that sacred Badge does wear,  
And 'twere injurious not to leave it there;  
But since no Merit can strike Envy dumb,  
Do you with Baccar, guard and grace his Tomb.  C. 
While you (dear Swain) with unaffected Rhyme,  
Majestic, sad, and suited to the Time,  
His Name to future Ages consecrate,  
By praising of his Muse, and mourning of his Fate.  A. 
Alas, I never must pretend to this,  
My Pipe scarce knows a Tune but what is his:  
Let future Ages then for Damon's sake,  
From his own Works a just Idaea take.  
Yet then, but like Alcides he'll be shown,  
And from his meanest part his Size be known.  C. 
'Twill be your Duty then to set it down.  A. 
Once and but once (so Heaven and Fate ordain)  
I met the gentle Youth upon the Plain,  
Kindly, cries he, if you Alexis be,  
And though I know you not you must be he,  
Too long already we have Strangers been;  
This Day, at least, our Friendship must begin.  
Let Business, that perverse Intruder, wait,  
To be above it is poetical and great.  
Then with Assyrian Nard our Heads did shine,  
While rich Sabaean Spice exalts the Wine;  
Which to a just Degree our Spirits fired;  
But he was by a greater God inspired:  
Wit was the Theme, which he did well describe,  
With Modesty unusual to his Tribe.  
But as with ominous Doubts, and aching Heart,  
When Lovers after first Enjoyment part,  
Not half content; for this was but a Taste,  
And wondering how the Minutes flew so fast,  
They vow a Friendship that shall ever last.  
So we— but Oh how much am I accursed!  
To think that this last Office is my first.   

Occasioned by the present Edition of the ensuing Poems, and the Death of the ingenious Author.  

Cursed be the day when first this goodly Isle  
Vile Books, and useless thinking did defile.  
In Greek and Latin-Boggs our Time we waste,  
When all is Pain and Weariness at best:  
Mountains of Whims and Doubts we travel over,  
While treacherous Fancy dances on before:  
Pleased with our Danger still we stumble on,  
To late repent, and are too soon undone.  
Let Bodley now in its own Ruins lie,  
By th'common Hangman burnt for Heresy.  
Avoid the nasty learned Dust, 'twill breed  
More Plagues than ever Jakes or Dunghills did.  
The want of Dulness will the World undo,  
'Tis Learning makes us mad and Rebels too.  
Learning, a Jilt which while we do enjoy,  
Slily our Rest and Quiet steals away;  
That greedily the Blood of Youth receives,  
And nought but Blindness and a Dotage gives.  
Worse than the Pox, or scolding Woman fly  
The awkward Madness of Philosophy.  
That Bedlam Bess, Religion never more  
Fantastic pie-balled, antic Dresses wore:  
Opinion, Pride, Moroseness gives a Fame;  
'Tis Folly, christened with a modish Name.  
Let dull Divinity no more delight;  
It spoils the Man, and makes an Hypocrite.  
The chief Professors to Preferment fly,  
By Cringe and Scrape, the basest Simony.  
The humble Clown will best the Gospel teach,  
And inspired ignorance sounder Doctrines preach.  
A way to Heaven mere Nature well does show,  
Which reasoning and Disputes can never know.  
Yet still proud Tyrant Sense in Pomp appears,  
And claims a Tribute of full threescore Years.  
Sewed in a Sack, with Darkness circled round,  
Each man must be with Snakes and Monkeys drowned.  
Laborious Folly, and compendious Art,  
To waste that Life whose longest Date's too short.  
Laborious Folly, to wind up with Pain  
What Death unravels soon, and renders vain.  
We blindly hurry on in mystic ways,  
Nor wisely tread the Paths of solid Praife.  
There's nought deserves one precious drop of sweat,  
But Poetry, the noblest Gift of Fate,  
Which after Death does a more lasting Life beget.  
Not that which sudden, frantic Heats produce,  
Where Wine and Pride, not Heaven shall raise the Muse.  
Not that small Stock which does Translators make;  
That Trade poor Bankrupt-Poetasters take:  
But such, when God his Fiat did express,  
And powerful Numbers wrought an Universe.  
With such great David tuned his charming Lyre,  
That even Saul and Madness could admire.  
With such Great Oldham bravely did excel,  
That David's Lamentation sung so well.  
Oldham! the Man that could with Judgement writ,  
Our Oxford's Glory, and the World's Delight.  
Sometimes in boundless keenest satire bold,  
Sometimes a soft as those Love-tales he told.  
That Vice could praise, and Virtue too disgrace;  
The first Excess of Wit that e'er did please.  
Scarce Cowley such Pindaric soaring known,  
Yet by his Reader still was kept in view.  
His Fancy, like Jove's Eagle lived above,  
And bearing Thunder still would upward move.  
Oh Noble Kingston! had thy lovely Guest  
With a large stock of Youth and Life been Blest;  
Not all thy Greatness, and thy Virtue's store  
Had surer Comforts been, or pleased thee more.  
But Oh! the date is short of mighty Worth,  
And Angels never tarry long on Earth.  
His soul, the bright, the pure Etherial Flame  
To those loved Regions flew, from whence it came.  
And spite of what Mankind had long believed,  
My Creed says only Poets can be saved.  
That God has only for a number stayed,  
To stop the breach, which Rebel Angels made  
For none their absence can so well supply;  
They are all o'er Seraphic Harmony.  
Then, and not that till then the World shall burn  
And its base Dross, Mankind their fortune mourn,  
While all to their old nothing quick return.  
The peevish Gritick than shall be ashamed,  
And for his Sins of Vanity be damned.   
Oxon, May the 26th. 1684. T. Wood   

CONTENTS.  

COunterpart to the satire against Virtue, Page 1  
Virg. Eclogue VIII. The Enchantment 13  
To Madam L. E. upon her Recovery from a fit of Sickness 22  
On the Death of Mrs. Katherine Kingscourt, a Child of excellent Parts and Piety 31  
A Sunday-thought in Sickness 34  
To the Memory of Mr. Charles Morwent 49  
To the Memory of that worthy Gentleman Mr. Harman Atwood. 95  
Character of a certain ugly Old P— 111    

COUNTERPART TO THE satire against VIRTUE.  
In Person of the Author.  

I.  
PArdon me, Virtue, whatsoe'er thou art,  
(For sure thou of the Godhead art a part,  
And all that is of him must be  
The very Deity.)  
Pardon, if I in aught did thee blaspheme,  
Or injure thy pure Sacred Name:  
Accept unfeigned Repentance, Prayers and Vows,  
The best Atonement of my penitent humble Muse,  
The best that Heaven requires, or Mankind can produce.  
All my Attempts hereafter shall at thy Devotion be,  
Ready to consecrate my Ink and very Blood to thee.  
Forgive me, ye blessed Souls that dwell above,  
Where you by its reward the worth of Virtue prove.  
Forgive (if you can do't) who know no Passion now but Love.  
And you unhappy happy few,  
Who strive with Life, and Humane Miseries below,  
Forgive me too,  
If I in aught disparaged them, or else discouraged you.   

II.  
Blessed Virtue! whose Almighty Power  
Does to our fallen Race restore  
All that in Paradise we lost, and more,  
Lists us to Heaven, and makes us be  
The Heirs and Image of the Deity.  
Soft gentle Yoke! which none but resty Fools refuse,  
Which before Freedom I would ever choose.  
Easie are all the Bonds that are imposed by thee;  
Easie as those of Lovers are,  
(If I with aught less pure may thee compare)  
Nor do they force, but only guide our Liberty:  
By such soft Ties are Spirits above confined;  
So gentle is the Chain which them to Good does bind.  
Sure Card, whereby this frail and tottering Bark we steer  
Through Life's tempestuous Ocean here;  
Through all the tossing Waves of Fear,  
And dangerous Rocks of black Despair.  
Safe in thy Conduct unconcerned we move,  
Secure from all the threatening Storms that blow,  
From all Attacks of Chance below,  
And reach the certain Haven of Felicity above.   

III.  
Best Mistress of our Souls! whose Charms and Beauties last,  
And are by very Age increased,  
By which all other Glories are defaced.  
thou'rt thy own Dowry, and a greater far  
Than All the Race of Womankind e'er brought,  
Tho' each of them like the first Wife were fraught,  
And half the Universe did for her Portion share.  
That tawdry Sex, which giddy senseless we  
Through Ignorance so vainly Deify,  
Are all but glorious Brutes when unendowed with thee.  
'Tis Vice alone, the truer Jilt, and worse,  
In whose Enjoyment tho' we find  
A flitting Pleasure, yet it leaves behind  
A Pain and Torture in the Mind,  
And claps the wounded Conscience with incurable Remorse,  
Or else betrays us to the great Trepans of Humane Kind.   

IV.  
'Tis Vice, the greater Thraldom, harder Drudgery,  
Whereby deposing Reason from its gentle Sway,  
(That rightful Sovereign which we should obey)  
We undergo a various Tyranny,  
And to unnumbered servile Passions Homage pay.  
These with Egyptian Rigour us enslave,  
And govern with unlimited Command;  
They make us endless Toil pursue,  
And still their doubled Tasks renew,  
To push on our too hasty Fate, and build our Grave,  
Or which is worse, to keep us from the Promised Land.  
Nor may we think our Freedom to retrieve,  
We struggle with our heavy Yoke in vain:  
In vain we strive to break that Chain,  
Unless a Miracle relieve;  
Unless th' Almighty Wand enlargement give,  
We never must expect Delivery,  
Till Death, the universal Writ of Ease, does set us free.   

V.  
Some sordid Avarice in Vassalage confines,  
Like Roman Slaves condemned to th' Mimes;  
These are in its harsh Bridewell lashed and punished,  
And with hard Labour scarce can earn their Bread.  
Others Ambition, that Imperious Dame,  
Exposes cruelly, like Gladiators, here  
Upon the World's Great Theatre.  
Through Dangers and through Blood they wade to Fame,  
To purchase grinning Honour and an empty Name.  
And some by Tyrant-Lust are Captive led,  
And with false Hopes of Pleasure fed;  
Till tired with Slavery to their own Desires,  
Life's o'er-charged Lamp goes out, and in a Snuff expires.   

VI  
Consider we the little Arts of Vice,  
The Stratagems and Artifice  
Whereby she does attract her Votaries:  
All those Allurements and those Charms  
Which pimp Transgressor's to her Arms,  
Are but foul Paint, and counterfeit Disguise,  
To palliate her own concealed Deformities,  
And for false empty Joys betray us to true solid Harms.  
In vain she would her Dowry boast,  
Which clogged with Legacies we never gain,  
But with unvaluable Cost;  
Which got we never can retain;  
But must the greatest part be lost,  
To the great Bubbles, Age or Chance, again.  
'Tis vastly overbalanced by the Jointure which we make,  
In which our Lives, our Souls, our All is set at Stake,  
Like silly Indians, foolish we  
With a known Cheat, a losing Traffic hold,  
Whilst led by an ill-judging Eye,  
W' admire a trifling Pageantry,  
And merchandise our Jewels and our Gold,  
For worthless Glass and Beads, or an Exchange's Frippery.  
If we a while maintain th' expensive Trade,  
Such mighty Impost on the Cargoes laid,  
Such a vast Custom to be paid,  
We're forced at last like wretched Bankrupts to give out,  
Clapped up by Death, and in Eternal Durance shut.   

VII.  
What art thou, Fame, for which so eagerly we strive?  
What art thou but an empty Shade  
By the Reflection of our Actions made?  
Thou, unlike others, never follow'st us alive;  
But, like a Ghost, walkest only after we are dead.  
Posthumous Toy! vain aster-Legacy!  
Which only ours can be,  
When we ourselves no more are we!  
Fickle as vain! who dost on vulgar Breath depend,  
Which we by dear Experience find  
More changeable, more veering than th' unconstant Wind.  
What art thou, Gold, that cheatest the Miser's Eyes?  
Which he does so devoutly idolise;  
For whom he all his Rest and Ease does sacrifice.  
'Tis Use alone can all thy Value give,  
And he from that no Benefit can e'er receive.  
Cursed Mineral! near Neighbouring Hell begot,  
Which all th' Infection of thy damned Neighbourhood hast brought.  
Thou Bawd to Murders, Rapes and Treachery,  
And every greater Name of Villainy;  
From thee they all derive their Stock and Pedigree.  
Thou the lewd World with all its crying Crimes dost store,  
And hardly wilt allow the Devil the cause of more.  
And what is Pleasure which does most beguile?  
That Siren which betrays us with a flattering Smile.  
We listen to the treacherous Harmony,  
Which sings but our own Obsequy.  
The Danger unperceived till Death draw nigh;  
Till drowning we want Power to escape the fatal Enemy.   

VIII.  
How frantic is the wanton Epicure!  
Who a perpetual Surfeit will endure?  
Who places all his chiefest Happiness  
In the Extravagancies of Excess,  
Which wise Sobriety esteems but a Disease?  
O mighty envied Happiness to eat!  
Which fond mistaken Sots call Great!  
Poor Frailty of our Flesh! which we each day  
Must thus repair for fear of ruinous Decay!  
Degrading of our Nature, where vile Brutes are fain  
To make and keep up Man!  
Which, when the Paradise above we gain,  
Heaven thinks too great an Imperfection to retain!  
By each Disease the sickly Joys destroyed;  
At every Meal it's nauseous and cloyed,  
Empty at best, as when in Dream enjoyed;  
When, cheated by a slumbering Imposture, we  
Fancy a Feast, and great Regalios by;  
And think we taste, and think we see,  
And riot on imaginary Luxury.   

IX.  
Grant me, O Virtue, thy more solid lasting Joy;  
Grant me the better Pleasures of the Mind,  
Pleasures, which only in pursuit of thee we find,  
Which Fortune cannot mar, nor Chance destroy.  
One Moment in thy blessed Enjoyment is  
Worth an Eternity of that tumultuous Bliss,  
Which we derive from Sense,  
Which often cloys, and must resign to Impotence.  
Grant me but this, how will I triumph in my happy State?  
Above the Changes and Reverse of Fate;  
Above her Favours and her Hate.  
I'll scorn the worthless Treasures of Peru,  
And those of the other Indies too.  
I'll pity Caesar's Self with all his Trophies and his Fame,  
And the vile brutish Herd of Epicures contemn,  
And all the Under-shrievalties of Life not worth a Name.  
Nor will I only owe my Bliss,  
Like others, to a Multitude,  
Where Company keeps up a forced Happiness;  
Should all Mankind surcease to live,  
And none but individual I survive,  
Alone I would be happy, and enjoy my Solitude.  
Thus shall my Life in pleasant Minutes wear,  
Calm as the Minutes of the Evening are,  
And gentle as the motions of the upper Air;  
Soft as my Muse, and unconfined as she,  
When flowing in the Numbers of Pindaric Liberty.  
And when I see pale ghastly Death appear,  
That grand inevitable Test which all must bear,  
Which best distinguishes the blessed and wretched here;  
I'll smile at all it Horrors, court my welcome Destiny,  
And yield my willing Soul up in an easy Sigh;  
And Epicures that see shall envy and confess,  
That I, and those who dare like me be good, the chiefest Good possess.    

Virg. ECLOGUE VIII. The Enchantment.  

Poet,  
Damon,  
Alpheus,  
Speakers.   DAmon and Alpheus, 
the two Shepherds Strains  
I mean to tell, and how they charmed the Plains.  
I'll tell their charming Numbers which the Herd,  
Unmindful of their Grass, in Throngs admired.  
At which fierce Savages astonished stood,  
And every River stopped its listening Flood.  
For you, Great Sir, whether with Cannons Roar  
You spread your Terror to the Holland Shore,  
Or with a gentle and a steady Hand  
In Peace and Plenty rule your Native Land.  
Shall ever that auspicious Day appear,  
When I your glorious Actions shall declare?  
It shall, and I throughout the World rehearse  
Their Fame, fit only for a Spencer's Verse.  
With you my Muse began, with you shall end:  
Accept my Verse that waits on your Command;  
And deign this Ivy Wreathe a place may find  
Amongst the Laurels which your Temples bind.  
'Twas at the time that Night's cool shades withdrew,  
And left the Grass all hung with Pearly Dew;  
When Damon, leaning on his Oaken Wand,  
Thus to his Pipe in gentle Lays complained.  D. 
Arise, thou Morning, and drive on the Day,  
While wretched I with fruitless words inveigh  
Against false Nisa, while the Gods I call  
With my last Breath, tho' hopeless to avail,  
Tho' they regard not my Complaints at all.  
Strike up my Pipe, play me in tuneful Strains  
What I heard sung on the Maenalian Plains.  
Maenalus ever has its warbling Groves,  
And talking Pines, it ever hears the Loves  
Of Shepherds, and the Notes of Mighty Pan,  
The first that would not let the Reeds untuned remain.  
Strike up my Pipe, play me in tuneful Strains  
What I heard sung on the Maenalian Plains.  
Mopsus weds Nisa, Gods! what Lover e'er  
Need after this have reason to despair?  
Griffins shall now leap Mares, and the next Age  
The Deer and Hounds in Friendship shall engage.  
Go, Mopsus, get the Torches ready soon;  
Thou, happy Man, must have the Bride anon.  
Go, Bridegroom, quickly, the Nut-scramble make,  
The Evening-star quits Oeta for thy sake.  
Strike up my Pipe, play me in tuneful Strains  
What I heard sung on the Maenalian Plains.  
How fitly art thou matched who wast so nice!  
Thou haughty Nymph who didst all else despise!  
Who slightest so scornfully my Pipe, my Herd,  
My rough-grown Eyebrows, and unshaven Beard,  
And think'st no God does mortal things regard.  
Strike up my Pipe, play me in tuneful Strains  
What I heard sung on the Maenalian Plains.  
I saw thee young, and in thy Beauty's Bloom,  
To gather Apples with thy Mother, come,  
'Twas in our Hedge-rows, I was there with Pride,  
To show you to the best, and be your Guide.  
Then I just entering my twelfth Year was found,  
I then could reach the tender Boughs from Ground.  
heavens! when I saw, how soon was I undone!  
How to my Heart did the quick Poison run!  
Strike up my Pipe, play me in tuneful Strains  
What I heard sung on the Maenalian Plains.  
Now I'm convinced what Love is; the cold North  
Sure in its craggy Mountains brought him forth,  
Or Africk's wildest Deserts gave him Birth,  
Amongst the Cannibals and Savage Race;  
He never of our Kind, or Country was.  
Strike up my Pipe, play me in tuneful Strains  
What I heard sung on the Maenalian Plains.  
Dire Love did once a Mother's Hand imbrue  
In children's Blood; a cruel Mother, thou;  
Hard 'tis to say of both which is the worst,  
The cruel Mother, or the Boy accursed.  
He a cursed Boy, a cruel Mother thou;  
The Devil a whit to choose betwixt the two.  
Strike up my Pipe, play me in tuneful Strains  
What I heard sung on the Maenalian Plains.  
Let Wolves by Nature shun the Sheepfolds now:  
On the rough Oaks let Oranges now grow:  
Let the corpse Alders bear the Daffodil,  
And costly Amber from the Thorn distil:  
Let Owls match Swans, let Tyt'rus Orpheus be,  
In the Woods Orpheus, and Arion on the Sea.  
Strike up my Pipe, play me in tuneful Strains  
What I heard sung on the Maenalian Plains.  
Let all the World turn Sea, ye Woods adieu!  
To some high Mountain's top I'll get me now,  
And thence myself into the Waters throw.  
There quench my Flames, and let the cruel She  
Accept this my last dying Will and Legacy.  
Cease now my Pipe, cease now those warbling Strains  
Which I heard sung on the Maenalian Plains.  
This Damon's Song; relate ye Muses now  
Alpheus' Reply: All cannot all things do.  A. 
Bring Holy Water, sprinkle all around,  
And see these Altars with soft Fillets bound:  
Male-Frankincense, and juicy Vervain burn,  
I'll try if I by Magic Force can turn here.  
My stubborn Love: I'll try if I can fire  
His frozen Breast: Nothing but Charms are wanting  
Bring Daphnis from the Town, ye Magic Charms;  
Bring home loved Daphnis to my longing Arms.  
Charms in her wont Course can stop the Moon,  
And from her well-fixed Orb can call her down.  
By Charms the mighty Circe (we are told)  
Ulysses famed Companions changed of old.  
Snakes by the Virtue of Enchantment forced,  
Oft in the Meads with their own Poison burst.  
Bring Daphnis from the Town, ye Magic Charms,  
Bring home loved Daphnis to my longing Arms.  
First, these three several Threads I compass round  
Thy Image, thus in Magic Fetters bound:  
Then round these Altars thrice thy Image bear:  
Odd Numbers to the Gods delightful are.  
Bring Daphnis from the Town, ye Magic Charms,  
Bring home loved Daphnis to my longing Arms.  
Go tie me in three knots three Ribbons now,  
And let the Ribbons be of different Hue:  
Go, Amaryllis, tie them straight, and cry,  
At the same time," They're true-love-knots, I tie.  
Bring Daphnis from the Town, ye Magic Charms,  
Bring home loved Daphnis to my longing Arms.  
Look how this Clay grows harder, and look how  
With the same Fire this Wax doth softer grow;  
So Daphnis, let him with my Love do so.  
Strew Meal and Salt (for so these Rites require)  
And set the crackling Laurel Boughs on fire:  
This naughty Daphnis sets my Breast on flame,  
And I this Laurel burn in Daphnis' Name.  
Bring Daphnis from the Town, ye Magic Charms,  
Bring home loved Daphnis to my longing Atms.  
As a poor Heifer, wearied in the Chase,  
Of seeking her loved Steer from place to place.  
Through Woods, through Groves, through Arable, and Waste,  
On some green River's bank lies down at last.  
There Lows her Moan, despairing, and forlorn,  
And, tho' belated, minds not to return:  
Let Daphnis' Case be such, and let not me  
Take any care to give a Remedy.  
Bring Daphnis from the Town, ye magic Charms,  
Bring home loved Daphnis to my longing Arms.  
These Garments erst the faithless Traitor left,  
Dear Pledges of his Love, of which I'm reft:  
Beneath the Threshold these I bury now,  
In thee, O Earth; these Pledges Daphnis owe.  
Bring Daphnis from the Town, ye Magic Charms,  
Bring home loved Daphnis to my longing Arms.  
Of Maeris I these Herbs and Poisons had,  
From Pontus brought: in Pontus' store are bred:  
With these I've oft seen Maeris Wonders do,  
Turn himself Wolf, and to the Forest go:  
I've often seen him Fields of Corn displace,  
From whence they grew, and Ghosts in Churchyards raise.  
Bring Daphnis from the Town, ye Magic Charms,  
Bring home loved Daphnis to my longing Arms.  
Go, Maid, go, bear the Ashes out at door,  
And then forthwith into the neighbouring current pour,  
Over thy Head, and done't look back be sure:  
I'll try, what these on Daphnis will prevail,  
The Gods he minds not, nor my Charms at all.  
Bring Daphnis from the Town, ye Magic Charms,  
Bring home loved Daphnis to my longing Arms.  
Behold! the Ashes while we lingering stay,  
While we neglect to carry them away,  
Have reached the Altar, and have fired the Wood,  
That lies upon't: Heaven send it be for good!  
Something I know not what's the matter: Hark!  
I hear our Lightfoot in the Entry bark.  
Shall I believe, or is it only Dream,  
Which Lovers fancies are too apt to frame?  
Cease now ye Magic Charms, behold him come!  
Cease needless Charms, my Daphnis is at home!   

To Madam L. E. upon her Recovery from a late Sickness.  
Madam,  

PArdon, that with slow Gladness we so late  
Your wished return of Health congratulate:  
Our Joys at first so thronged to get abroad,  
They hindered one another in the crowd;  
And now such haste to tell their Message make,  
They only stammer what they meant to speak.   

You the fair Subject which I am to sing,  
To whose kind Hands this humble joy I bring:  
Aid me, I beg, while I this Theme pursue,  
For I invoke no other Muse but you.   

Long time had you here brightly shone below  
With all the Rays kind Heaven could bestow.  
No envious Cloud e'er offered to invade  
Your Lustre, or compel it to a Shade:  
Nor did it yet by any Sign appear,  
But that you throughout Immortal were.  
Till Heaven (if Heaven could prove so cruel) sent  
To interrupt the Growth of your content.  
As if it grudged those Gifts you did enjoy,  
And would that Bounty which it gave, destroy:  
'Twas since your Excellence did envy move  
In those high Powers and made them jealous prove.  
They thought these Glories should they still have  
shined  
Unsullied, were too much for Womankind.  
Which might they write as lasting, as they're Fair,  
Too great for aught, but Deities appear:  
But Heaven (it may be) was not yet complete,  
And lacked you there to fill your empty Seat.  
And when it could not fairly woe you hence,  
Turned Ravisher, and offered Violence.   

Sickness did first a formal siege begin,  
And by sure slowness tried your Life to win.  
As if by lingering methods Heaven meant  
To chase you hence and tyre you to consent.  
But, this in vain, Fate did to force resort,  
And next by Storm shove to attack the fort.  
A Sleep, dull as your last, did you Arrest,  
And all there Magazines of life possessed.  
No more the Blood its circling course did run,  
But in the veins, like Icicles, it hung.  
No more the Heart (now void of quickening heat)  
The tuneful March of vital Motion beat.  
Stiffness did into all the Sinews climb,  
And a short Death crept cold through every Limb.  
All Signs of Life from sight so far withdrew,  
'Twas now thought Popery to pray for you.   

There might you (were not that sense lost) have seen  
How your true Death would have resented been:  
A Lethargy, like yours, each breast did seize,  
And all by Sympathy catcht your Disease.  
Around you silent Imagery appears,  
And nought in the Spectators moves, but Tears.  
They pay what grief were to your Funeral due,  
And yet dare hope Heaven would your Life renew.   

Mean while, all means, all drugs prescribed are,  
Which the decays of Health, or Strength repair,  
Medicines so powerful they new Souls would save,  
And Life in long-dead Carcases retrieve:  
But these in vain, they rougher Methods try,  
And now you're Martyred that you may not die;  
Sad Scene of Fate! when Tortures were your gain:  
And 'twas a kindness thought to wish you pain!  
As if the slackened string of Life run down,  
Could only by the Rack be screwed in tune.   

But Heaven at last (grown conscious that its power  
Could scarce what was to die with you restore.)  
And loath to see such Glories overcome,  
Sent a post Angel to repeal your doom;  
Straight Fate obeyed the Charge which Heaven sent,  
And gave this first dear Proof, it could Repent:  
Triumphant Charms! what may not you subdue,  
When Fate's your Slave, and thus submits to you!  
It now again the new-broke Thread does knit,  
And for another Clew her spindle fit:  
And life's hid spark which did unquenched remain,  
Caught the fled light and brought it back again:  
Thus you revived, and all our Joy with you,  
Revived and found their Resurrection too:  
Some only grieved, that what was Deathless thought  
They saw so near to Fatal ruin brought:  
Now crowds of Blessings on that happy hand,  
Whose, kill could cager Destiny withstand;  
Whose learned Power has rescued from the Grave,  
That Life which 'twas a Miracle to save;  
That Life which were it thus untimely lost,  
Had been the ●…est Spoil Death ere could boast:  
May he henceforth be God of healing thought,  
By whom such good to you and us was brought:  
Altars and shrines to him are justly due,  
Who showed himself a God by raising you:   

But say, fair Saint, for you alone can know,  
Whither your Soul in this short flight did go;  
Went it to antedate that Happiness,  
You must at last (though late we hope) possess?  
Inform us lest we should your Fate belie,  
And call that Death which was but Ecstasy,  
The Queen of Love (we're told) once let us see:  
That Goddesses from wounds could not be free;  
And you by this unwished Occasion show  
That they like Mortal us can Sickness know:  
Pity! that Heaven should all its Titles give,  
And yet not let you with them ever live.  
You'd lack no point that makes a Deity,  
If you could like it too Immortal be.   

And so you are; half boasts a Deathless State;  
Although your frailer part must yield to Fate.  
By every breach in that fair lodging made,  
Its blessed Inhabitant is more displayed:  
In that white Snow which overspreads your skin,  
We trace ye whiter Soul which dwells within;  
Which while you through this shining Hue display  
Looks like a Star placed in the Milky way:  
Such the bright Bodies of the Blessed are,  
When they for Raiment clothed with Light appear,  
And should you visit now the Seats of Bliss,  
You need not wear another form but this.  
Never did Sickness in such pomp appear,  
As when it thus your Livery did wear,  
Disease itself looked amiable here.  
So Clouds which would obscure the Sun oft gilded be,  
And Shades are taught to shine as bright as he.   

Grieve not fair Nymph, when in your Glass you trace  
The marring footsteps of a pale Disease.  
Regret not that your cheeks their Roses want,  
Which a few Days shall in full store replant,  
Which, whilst your Blood withdraws its guilty Red,  
Tells that you own no faults that blushes need:  
The Sun whose Bounty does each Spring restore  
What Winter from the rifled Meadows tore,  
Which every Morning with an early ray  
Paints the young Blushing Cheeks of instant Day:  
Whose skill (inimitable here below,)  
Limns those gay Clouds which form Heaven's coloured bow,  
That Sun shall soon with Interest repay,  
All the lost Beauty Sickness snatched a way.  
Your Beams like his shall hourly now advance,  
And every minute their swift Growth enhance.   

Mean while (that you no helps of healths refuse)  
Accept these humble Wishes of the Muse:  
Which shall not of their Just Petition fail,  
If she (and she's a Goddess) ought prevail.   

May no profane Disease henceforth approach,  
This sacred Temple with unhallowed touch,  
Or with rude sacrilege its frame debauch.  
May these fair Members always happy be  
In as full Strength and well-set Harmony,  
As the new Foundress of your sex could boast,  
Ere she by Sin her first Persecution lost:  
May Destiny, just to your Merits, twine,  
All your smooth Fortunes in a Silken Line.  
And that you may at Heaven late arrive,  
May it to you its largest Bottom give.  
May Heaven with still repeated Favours bless,  
Till it its Power below its Will confess;  
Till wishes can no more exalt your Fate,  
Nor Poets fancy you more Fortunate.    

On the Death of Mrs. Katherine Kingscourt a Child of Excellent Parts and Piety.  

SHE did, She did— I saw her mount the Sky,  
And with new Whiteness paint the Galaxy.  
Heaven her methought with all its Eyes did view,  
And yet acknowledged all its Eyes too few.  
Methought I saw in crowds blest Spirits meet,  
And with loud Welcomes her arrival greet;  
Which could they grieve, had gone with grief away  
To see a Soul more white, more pure than they.   

Earth was unworthy such a prize as this,  
Only a while Heaven let us share the Bliss:  
In vain her stay with fruitless Tears we'd woe,  
In vain we'd court, when that our Rival grew.  
Thanks, ye kind Powers! who did so long dispense,  
(Since you so wished her) with her absence thence:  
We now resign, to you alone we grant  
The sweet Monopoly of such a Saint;  
So pure a Saint, I scarce dare call her so,  
For fear to wrong her with a Name too low:  
Such a Seraphic brightness in her shined,  
I hardly can believe her Womankind.  
'Twas sure some noble Being left the Sphere,  
Which deigned a little to inhabit here,  
And can't be said to die, but disappear.  
Or if she Mortal was and meant to show  
The greater skill by being made below;  
Sure Heaven preserved her by the fall uncurst,  
To tell how all the Sex were formed at first:  
Never did yet so much Divinity  
In such a small Compendium crowded lie.  
By her we credit what the Learned tell,  
That many Angels in one point can dwell.  
More damned Fiends did not in Mary rest,  
Than lodged of Blessed Spirits in her Breast;  
Religion dawn'd so early in her mind,  
You'd think her Saint whilst in the Womb enshrined:  
Nay, that bright ray which did her Temples paint,  
Proclaimed her clearly, while alive, a Saint.  
Scarce had she learned to lisp Religion's Name,  
E'er she by her Example preached the same,  
And taught her Cradle-like the Pulpit to reclaim.  
No Action did within her Practice fall  
Which for th' Atonement of a Blush could call:  
No word of hers e'er greeted any Ear,  
But what a dying Saint confessed might hear.  
Her Thoughts had scarcely ever sullied been  
By the least Footsteps of Original Sin.  
Her Life did still as much Devotion breath  
As others do at their last Gasp in Death.  
Hence on her Tomb of her let not be said,  
So long she lived; but thus, so long she prayed.    

A Sunday-Thought in Sickness.  
LOrd, how dreadful is the Prospect of Death at the remotest Distance! How the smallest Apprehension of it can palls the most gay, airy and brisk Spirits! Even I, who thought I could have been merry in sight of my Coffin, and drink a Health with the Sexton in my own Grave, now tremble at the least Envoy of the King of Terrors. To see but the shaking of my Glass makes me turn pale, and fear is like to prevent and do the Work of my Distemper. All the Jollity of my Humour and Conversation is turned on a sudden into chagrin and melancholy, black as Despair, and dark as the Grave. My Soul and Body seem at once laid out, and I fancy all the Plummets of Eternal Night already hanging upon my Temples. But whence proceed these Fears? Certainly they are not idle Dreams, nor the accidental Product of my Disease, which disorders the Brains, and fills 'em with odd Chimaeras. Why should my Soul be averse to its Enlargement? Why should it be content to be knit up in two Yards of Skin, when it may have all the World for its Purliew? 'Tis not that I'm unwilling to leave my Relations and present Friends: I'm parted from the first already, and could be severed from both the length of the whole Map, and live with my Body as far distant from them as my Soul must when I'm dead. Neither is it that I'm loath to leave the Delights and Pleasures of the World; some of them I have tried, and found empty, the others covet not, because unknown. I'm confident I could despise 'em all by a Greatness of Soul, did not the Bible oblige me, and Divines tell me, 'tis my Duty. It is not neither that I'm unwilling to go hence before I've established a Reputation, and something to make me survive myself. I could have been content to be Stillborn, and have no more than the Register, or Sexton to tell that I've ever been in the Land of the Living. In Fine, 'tis not from a Principle of Cowardice, which the Schools have called Self-preservation, the poor Effect of Instinct and dull pretence of a Brute as well as me. This Unwillingness therefore, and Aversion to undergo the general Fate, must have a juster Original, and flow from a more important Cause. I'm well satisfied that this other Being within, that moves and actuates my Frame of Flesh and Blood, has a Life beyond it and the Grave; and something in it prompts me to believe its immortality. A Residence it must have somewhere else, when it has left this Carcase, and another State to pass into, unchangeable and everlasting as itself after its Separation. This Condition must be good or bad according to its Actions and Deserts in this Life; for as it owes its Being to some Infinite Power that created it, I well suppose it his Vassal, and obliged to live by his Law; and as certainly conclude, that according to the keeping or breaking of that Law, 'tis to be rewarded or punished hereafter. This Diversity of Rewards and Punishments, makes the two Places, Heaven and Hell, so often mentioned in Scripture, and talked of in Pulpits: Of the later my Fears too cruelly convince me, and the Anticipation of its Torment, which I already feel in my own Conscience. There is, there is a Hell, and damned Fiends, and a neverdying Worm, and that Sceptic that doubts of it, may find 'em all within my single Breast. I dare not any longer with the Atheist disbelieve them, or think 'em the Clergy's Bugbears, invented as Nurses do frightful Names for their Children, to scare 'em into Quietness and Obedience. How oft have I triumphed in my unconcerned, and seared insensibility? How oft boasted of that unhappy suspected Calm, which, like that of the dead Sea, proved only my Curse, and 〈◊〉 treacherous Ambush to those Storms, which at presenc (and will for ever 〈◊〉 dread) shipwreck my Quiet and Hopes▪ How oft have I rejected the Advice of that Bosom-friend, and drowned its Alarms in the Noise of a tumultuous Debauch, or by stupifying Wine (like some condemned Malefactor) armed myself against the Apprehensions of my certain Doom? Now, now the Tyrant awakes, and comes to pay at once all Arrears of Cruelty. At last, but too late (like drowning Mariners) I see the gay Monsters, which inveigled me into my Death and Destruction. Oh the gnawing Remorse of a rash unguarded, unconsidering Sinner! Oh how the Ghosts of former Crimes affright my haunted Imagination, and make me suffer a thousand Racks and Martyrdoms! I see, methinks, the Jaws of Destruction gaping wide to swallow me; and I, (like one sliding on Ice) tho' I see the Danger, cannot stop from running into it. My Fancy represents to me a whole Legion of Devils, ready to tear me in pieces, numberless as my Sins or Fears; and whither, Alas! whither shall I fly for Refuge? Where shall I retreat and take Sanctuary? Shall I call the Rocks and Mountains to cover me, or bid the Earth yawn wide to its Centre, and take me in? Poor shift of escaping Almighty Justice! Distracting Frenzy! that would make me believe Contradictions, and hope to fly out of the Reach of him whose Presence is every where, not excluded Hell itself; for he's there in the Effects of his Vengeance. Shall I invoke some Power infinite as that that created me, to reduce me to nothing again, and rid me at once of my Being and all that tortures it? Oh no, 'tis in vain, I must be forced into Being, to keep me fresh for Torment, and retain Sense only to feel Pain. I must be a dying to all Eternity, and live ever, to live ever wretched. Oh that Nature had placed me in the Rank of things that have only a bare Existence, or at best an Animal Life, and never given me a Soul and Reason, which now must contribute to my Misery, and make me envy Brutes and Vegetables! Would the Womb that bore me had been my Prison till now, or I stepped out of it into my Grave, and saved the Expenses and Toil of a long and tedious Journey, where Life affords nothing of Accommodations to invite one's Stay. Happy had I been if had expired with my first Breath, and entered the Bill of Mortality as soon as the World: Happy if I had been drowned in my Font, and that Water which was to regenerate, and give me New Life, had proved mortal in another sense! I had then died without any Gild of my own but what I brought into the World with me, and that too atoned for; I mean that which I contracted from my first Parents, my unhappiness rather than Fault, inasmuch as I was fain to be born of a sinning Race: Then I had never enhanced it with acquired Gild, never added those innumerable Crimes which must make up my Indictment at the grand Audit. Ungrateful Wretch! I've made my Sins as numerous as those Blessings and Mercies the Almighty Bounty has conferred upon me, to oblige and lead me to Repentance. How have I abused and misemployed those Parts and Talents which might have rendered me serviceable to Mankind, and repaid an interest of Glory to their Donor? How ill do they turn to account which I have made the Patrons of Debauchery, and Pimps and Panders to Vice? How oft have I broke my Vows to my Great Creator, which I would be conscientious of keeping to a silly Woman, a Creature beneath myself? What has all my Religion been but an empty Parade and show? Either an useful Hypocrisy taken up for Interest, or a gay specious Formality worn in Complaisance to Custom and the Mode, and as changeable as my clothes and their Fashion. How oft have I gone to Church (the place where we are to pay him Homage and Duty) as to an Assignation or Play, only for Diversion; or at best, as I must e'er long (for aught I know) with my Soul severed from my Body? How I tremble at the Remembrance! as if I could put the shame upon Heaven, or a God were to be imposed on like my Fellow-Creature: And dare I, convicted of these High Treasons against the King of Glory, dare I expect a Reprieve or Pardon? Has he Thunder, and are not all his Bolts levelled at my Head, to strike me through the very Centre? Yes, I dare appeal to thee, boundless pity and compassion! My own Instances already tells me, that thy Mercy is infinite; for I've done enough to shock Longsufferance itself, and weary out an Eternal Patience. I beseech thee by thy soft and gentle Attributes of Mercy and Forgiveness, by the last dying Accents of my suffering Deity, have Pity on a poor, humble, prostrate and confessing Sinner: And thou great Ransom of lost Mankind, who offered'st thyself a Sacrifice to atone our Gild, and redeem our mortgaged Happiness, do thou be my Advocate, and intercede for me with the angry Judge.  

My Prayers are heard, a glorious Light now shone,  
And (lo!) an Angel-Post comes hastening down:  
From Heaven I see him cut the yielding Air;  
So swift, he seems at once both there and here;  
So quick, my sight in the pursuit was slow,  
And Thought could scarce so soon the Journey go.  
No angry Message in his Look appears,  
His Face no signs of threatening Vengeance wears.  
Comly his shape, of Heavenly Mien and Air,  
Kinder than Smiles of beauteous Virginsare.  
Such he was seen by the blessed Maid of Old  
When he th' Almighty Infant's Birth foretold.  
A mighty Volume in one hand is born,  
Whose opened Leaves the other seems to turn:  
Vast Annals of my Sins in Scarlet writ,  
But now ●…as'd, blot out, and cancelled quite.  
Hark how the Heavenly Whisper strikes mine Ear,  
Mortal, behold thy Crimes all pardoned here!  
Hail Sacred Envoy of th' Eternal King!  
Welcome as the blessed Tidings thou dost bring.  
Welcome as Heaven from whence thou cam'st but now,  
Thus low to thy great God and mine I bow,  
And might I here, O might I ever grow,  
Fixed an unmoved and endless Monument  
Of Gratitude to my Creator sent.    

TO THE MEMORY OF Mr. CHARLES MORWENT.  
A PINDARIC.  
Ignis utique quo clariùs effulsit, citiùs extinguitur, eripit se aufertque ex oculis subitò perfecta virtus: quicquid est absoluti faciliùs transfluit, & optimi neutiquam diurnant.  Cambden. de Phil. Syd. 
O celeres hominum bonorum dies.  Apul. 
LONDON, Printed in the Year, 1684.   

To the Memory of my Dear Friend, Mr. Charles Morwent: A PINDARIC.  
Ostendunt terris hunc tantùm fata, nec ultrà  
Esse sinunt.—  Virg. 

I.  
BEst Friend! could my unbounded Grief but rate  
With due proportion thy too cruel Fate;  
Could I some happy Miracle bring forth,  
Great as my Wishes and thy greater Worth,  
All Helicon should soon be thine,  
And pay a Tribute to thy Shrine.  
The learned Sisters all transformed should be,  
No longer nine, but one Melpomene:  
Each should into a Niobe relent,  
At once thy Mourner and thy Monument.  
Each should become  
Like the famed Memnon's speaking Tomb,  
To sing thy well-tuned Praise;  
Nor should we fear their being dumb,  
Thou still wouldst make 'em vocal with thy Rays.   

II.  
O that I could distil my vital Juice in Tears!  
Or waste away my Soul in sobbing Airs!  
Were I all Eyes,  
To flow in liquid Elegies:  
That every Limb might grieve,  
And dying Sorrow still retrieve;  
My Life should be but one long mourning day,  
And like moist Vapours melt in Tears away.  
I'd soon dissolve in one great Sighs,  
And upwards fly,  
Glad so to be exhaled to Heaven and thee.  
A Sigh which might well-nigh reverse thy death,  
And hope to animate thee with new Breath;  
Powerful as that which heretofore did give  
A Soul to well-formed Clay, and made it live.   

III.  
Adieu, blessed Soul! whose hasty Flight away  
Tells Heaven did ne'er display  
Such Happiness to bless the World with stay.  
Death in thy Fall betrayed her utmost spice,  
And showed her shafts most times are levelled at the white.  
She saw thy blooming Ripeness time prevent;  
She saw, and envious grew, and strait her arrow sent.  
So Buds appearing e'er the Frosts are past,  
Nipped by some unkind Blast,  
Whither in Penance for their forward haste.  
Thus have I seen a Morn so bright,  
So decked with all the Robes of Light,  
As if it scorned to think of Night,  
Which a rude Storm e'er Noon did shroud,  
And buried all its early Glories in a Cloud.  
The day in funeral Blackness mourned,  
And all to Sighs, and all to Tears it turned.   

IV.  
But why do we thy Death untimely deem;  
Or Fate blaspheme?  
We should thy full ripe Virtues wrong,  
To think thee young.  
Fate, when she did thy vigorous Growth behold,  
And all thy forward Glories told,  
Forgot thy tale of Years, and thought thee old.  
The brisk Endowments of thy Mind  
Scorning i'th' Bud to be confined,  
Outran thy Age, and left slow Time behind;  
Which made thee reach Maturity so soon,  
And at first Dawn present a full-spread Noon.  
So thy Perfections with thy Soul agree,  
Both knew no Nonage, knew no Infancy.  
Thus the first Pattern of our Race began  
His Life in middle-age, at's Birth a perfect Man.   

V.  
So well thou acted'st in thy Span of Days,  
As calls at once for Wonder and for Praise.  
Thy prudent Conduct had so learned to measure  
The different while of Toil and Leisure,  
No time did Action want, no Action wanted Pleasure.  
Thy busy Industry could Time dilate,  
And stretch the Thread of Fate:  
Thy careful Thrift could only boast the Power  
To lengthen Minutes, and extend an Hour.  
No single Sand could e'er slip by  
Without its Wonder, sweet as high:  
And every teeming Moment still brought forth  
A thousand Rarities of Worth.  
While some no other Cause for Life can give,  
But a dull Habitude to live:  
Thou scornedst such Laziness while here beneath,  
And Liv'dst that time which others only Breath.   

VI  
Next our just Wonder does commence,  
How so small Room could hold such Excellence.  
Nature was proud when she contrived thy Frame,  
In thee she laboured for a Name:  
Hence 'twas she lavished all her Sto●…te,  
As if she meant hereafter to be poor,  
And, like a Bankrupt, run o'th' Score.  
He ●…rious Hand here drew in straits and joined  
All the Perfections lodge●…in Humane kind;  
Teaching her numerous Gifts to lie  
Cramped in a short Epitome.  
So Stars contracted in a Diamond shine,  
And Jewels in a narrow Point confine  
The Riches of an Indian Mine  
Thus subtle Artists can  
Draw Nature's larger self within a Span:  
A small Frame holds the World, Earth, heavens and all  
Shrunk to the scant Dimensions of a Ball.   

VII.  
Those Parts which never in one Subject dwell,  
But some uncommon Excellence foretell,  
Like Stars did all constellate here,  
And met together in one Sphere.  
Thy Judgement, Wit and Memory conspired  
To make themselves and thee admired:  
And could thy growing Height a longer Stay have known,  
Thou hadst all other Glories, and thyself outdone.  
While some to Knowledge by Degrees arrive,  
Thro tedious Industry improved,  
Thine scorned by such pedantic Rules to thrive;  
But swift as that of Angels moved,  
And made us think it was intuitive.  
Thy pregnant Mind ne'er struggled in its Birth,  
But quick, and while it did conceive, brought forth;  
The gentle Throes of thy prolific Brain  
Were all unstrained, and without Pain.  
Thus when Great Jove the Queen of Wisdom bore  
So easy and so mild his Travels were.   

VIII.  
Nor were these Fruits in a rough Soil bestown  
As Gems are thick'st in rugged Quarries sown.  
Good Nature and good parts so shated thy mind,  
A Muse and Grace were so combined,  
Twashard to guests which with most Lustre shined.  
A Genius did thy whole Comportment act,  
Whose charming Complaisance did so attract,  
As every Heart attacked.  
Such a soft Air thy well-tuned Sweetness swayed,  
As told thy Soul of Harmony was made;  
All rude Aff●…ctions that Disturbers be,  
That mar or disunite Society,  
Were Foreiners to thee.  
Love only in their stead took up its Rest;  
Nature made that thy constant Guest,  
And seemed to form no other Passion for thy Breast   

IX.  
This made thy Courteousness to all extend,  
And thee to the whole Universe a Friend.  
Those which were Strangers to thy native Soil and thee  
No Strangers to thy Love could be,  
Whose Bounds were wide as all Mortality.  
Thy Heart no Island was, disjoined  
(Like thy own Nation) from all human kind;  
But 'twas a Continent to other Country's fixed  
As firm by Love, as they by Earth annexed.  
Thou scornedst the Map should thy Affection guide,  
Like theirs who love by dull Geography,  
Friends but to whom by Soil they are allied:  
Thine reached to all beside,  
To every member of the world's great Family.  
heavens Kindness only claims a Name more general,  
Which we the nobler call,  
Because 'tis common, and vouchsas'd to all.   

X.  
Such thy Ambition of obliging was,  
Thou seemedst corrupted with the very Power to please.  
Only to let thee gratify,  
At once did bribe and pay thy Courtesy.  
Thy Kindness by Acceptance might be bought,  
It for no other Wages sought,  
But would its own be thought.  
No Suitors went unsatisfied away;  
But left thee more unsatisfied than they.  
Brave Titus! thou mightst hear thy true Portraiture find,  
And view thy Rival in a private mind.  
Thou heretofore deserv'dst such Praise,  
When Acts of Goodness did compute thy days,  
Measured not by the Sun's, but thine own kinder Rays.  
Thou thoughtst each hour out of Life's Journal lost,  
Which could not some fresh Favour boast,  
And reckon'dst Bounties thy best Clepsydras.   

XI.  
Some Fools who the great Art of giving want,  
Deflower their Largess with too slow a Grant;  
Where the deluded Suitor dearly buys  
What hardly can defray  
The Expense of Importunities,  
Or the Suspense of torturing Delay.  
Here was no need of tedious Prayers to sue,  
Or thy too backward Kindness woe.  
It moved with no formal State,  
Like theirs whose Pomp does for entreaty wait:  
But met the swift'st Desires half way;  
And Wishes did well nigh anticipate;  
And then as modestly withdrew,  
Nor for its due Reward of Thanks would stay.   

XII.  
Yet might this Goodness to the happy most accrue;  
Somewhat was to the miserable due,  
Which they might justly challenge too.  
Whate'er mishap did a known Heart oppress,  
The same did thine as wretched make;  
Like yielding Waxthine did th' Impressions take,  
And paint its Sadness in as lively Dress.  
Thou couldst afflictions from another Breast translate,  
And foreign Grief impropriate;  
Oft-times our Sorrows thine so much have grown,  
They scarce were more our own;  
We seemed exempt, thou suffer'dst all alone.   

XIII.  
Our smallest Misfortunes scarce could reach thy Ear,  
But made thee give in Alms a Tear;  
And when our Hearts breathed their regret in sighs,  
As a just Tribute to their Miseries,  
Thine with their mournful Airs did symbolise.  
Like throngs of sighs did for its Fibres crowd,  
And told thy Grief from our each Grief aloud:  
Such is the secret Sympathy  
We may betwixt two neighbouring Lutesdesery,  
If either by unskilful hand too rudely bend  
Its soft Complaint in pensive murmurs vent,  
As if it did that Injury resent:  
Untouched the other straight returns the Moan,  
And gives an Echo to each Groan.  
From its sweet Bowels a sad Note's conveyed,  
Like those which to condole are made,  
As if its Bowels too a kind Compassion had.   

XIV.  
Nor was thy goodness bounded with so small extent,  
Or in such narrow Limits penned.  
Let Female Frailty in fond Tears distil,  
Who think that Moisture which they spill  
Can yield Relief,  
Or shrink the Current of another's Grief,  
Who hope that Breath which they in sighs convey,  
Should blow Calamities away.  
Thine did a manlier Form express,  
And scorned to whine at an Unhappiness;  
Thou thought'st it still the noblest Pity to redress.  
So friendly Angels their Relief bestow  
On the unfortunate below  
For whom those purer minds no Passion know:  
Such Nature in that generous Plant is found,  
Whose every Breach does with a Salve abound,  
And wounds itself to cure another's Wound.  
In pity to Mankind it sheds its Juice,  
Glad with expense of Blood to serve their Use.  
First with kind Tears our Maladies bewails,  
And after heals;  
And makes those very Tears the remedy produce.   

XV.  
Nor didst thou to thy Foes less generous appear,  
(If there were any durst that Title wear.)  
They could not offer Wrongs so fast,  
But what were pardoned with like haste;  
And by thy acts of Amne●…ty defaced.  
Had he who wished the Art how to forget,  
Discovered its new Worth in thee,  
He had a double Value on it set,  
And justly scorned th'ignobler Art of Memory.  
No Wrongs could thy great Soul to Grief expose  
'Twas placed as much out of the reach of those,  
As of material Biows.  
No Injuries could thee provoke,  
Thy Softness always dampt the stroke:  
As Flints on Featherbeds are easiest broke.  
Affronts could ne'er thy cool Complexion heat,  
Or chase thy temper from its settled State:  
But still thou stoodst unshockt by all,  
As if thou hadst unlearnt the Power to hate,  
Or, like the Dove, wert born without a Gall.   

XVI.  
Vain Stoics who disclaim all Human Sense,  
And own no Passions to resent Offence,  
May pass it by with unconcerned Neglect,  
And Virtue on those Principles erect,  
Where 'tis not a Perfection, but Defect.  
Let these themselves in a dull Patience please,  
Which their own Statues may possess,  
And they themselves when Carcases.  
Thou only couldst to that high pitch arrive,  
To court Abuses, that thou mightst forgive:  
Wrongs thus in thy Esteem seemed Courtesy,  
And thou the first was e'er obliged by Injury.   

XVII.  
Nor may we think these Godlike Qualities  
Could stand in need of Votaries,  
Which heretofore had challenged Sacrifice.  
Each Assignation, each Converse  
Gained thee some new Idolaters.  
Thy sweet Obligingness could supple Hate,  
And out of it its Contrary create.  
It's powerful Influence made Quarrels cease,  
And Feuds dissolved into a calmer Peace.  
Envy resigned her Force, and vanquished Spite  
Became thy speedy Proselyte.  
Malice could cherish Enmity no more;  
And those which were thy Foes before,  
Now wished they might adore.  
Caesar may tell of Nations took,  
And Troops by Force subjected to his Yoke:  
We read as great a Conqueror in thee,  
Who couldst by milder ways all Hearts subdue,  
The nobler Conquest of the two;  
Thus thou whole Legions mad'ft the Captives be,  
And like him too couldst look, and speak thy Victory.   

XVIII.  
Hence may we Calculate the Tenderness  
Thou didst Express  
To all, whom thou didst with thy Friendship bless:  
To think of Passion by new Mothers bore  
To the young Offspring of their Womb,  
Or that of Lovers to what they Adore,  
Ere Duty it become:  
We should too mean Ideas frame,  
Of that which thine might justly claim,  
And injure it by a degrading Name:  
Conceive the tender Care,  
Of guardian Angels to their Charge assigned,  
Or think how dear  
To Heaven Expiring Martyrs are;  
These are the Emblems of thy mind,  
The only Types to show how thou wast kind.   

XIX.  
On whom soe'er thou didst confer this Tie  
'Twas lasting as Eternity,  
And firm as the unbroken Chain of Destiny,  
Embraces would faint shadows of your Union show  
Unless you could together grow.  
That Union which is from Alliance bred,  
Does not so fastly wed,  
Tho' it with Blood be cemented:  
That Link wherewith the Soul and Body's joined  
Which twists the double Nature in Mankind  
Only so close can bind.  
That holy Fire which Romans to their Vesta paid,  
Which they immortal as the Goddess made,  
Thy noble Flames most fitly parallel;  
For thine were just so pure, and just so durable.  
Those feigned Pairs of Faithfulness which claim  
So high a place in ancient Fame,  
Had they thy better Pattern seen,  
They'd made their Friendship more divine  
And strove to mend their Characters by thine.   

XX.  
Yet had this Friendship no advantage been,  
Unless'twere exercised within;  
What did thy Love to other Objects tie,  
The same made thy own Powers agree,  
And reconciled thyself to thee.  
No Discord in thy Soul did rest,  
Save what its Harmony increased.  
Thy mind did with such regular Calmness move,  
As held resemblance with the greater Mind above.  
Reason there fixed its peaceful Throne,  
And reigned alone.  
The Will its easy Neck to Bondage gave,  
And to the ruling Faculty became a Slave.  
The Passions raised no Civil Wars,  
Nor discomposed thee with intestine Jars:  
All did obey,  
And paid Allegiance to its rightful Sway.  
All threw their resty Tempers by,  
And gentler Figures drew,  
Gentle as Nature in its Infancy,  
As when themselves in their first Being's grew.   

XXI.  
Thy Soul within such silent Pomp did keep,  
As if Humanity were lulled asleep.  
So gentle was thy Pilgrimage beneath,  
Time's unheard Feet scarce make less Noise  
Or the soft Journey which a Planet goes.  
Life seemed all calm as its last Breath.  
A still Tranquillity so hushed thy Breast,  
As if some Halcyon were its Guest,  
And there had built her Nest;  
It hardly now enjoys a greater Rest.  
As that smooth Sea which wears the Name of Pea●…  
Still with one even Face appears,  
And feels no Tides to change it from its place,  
No Waves to alter the fair Form it bears:  
As that unspotted Sky,  
Where Nile does want of Rain supply,  
Is free from Clouds, from Storms is ever free.  
So thy unvaryed mind was always one,  
And with such clear Serenity still shone,  
As caused thy little World to seem all temperate Zone.   

XXII.  
Let Fools their high Extraction boast,  
And Greatness, which no Travel, but their Mothers, cost.  
Let 'em extol a swelling Name,  
Which theirs by Will and Testament became;  
At best but mere Inheritance,  
As oft the Spoils as Gift of Chance.  
Let some ill-placed Repute on Scutcheons rear  
As fading as the Colours which those bear;  
And prise a painted Field,  
Which Wealth as soon as Fame can yield.  
Thou scornedst at such low rates to purchase worth,  
Nor couldst thou owe it only to thy Birth.  
Thy self-born Greatness was above the Power  
Of Parents to entail, or Fortune to deflower.  
Thy Soul, which like the Sun, Heaven moulded bright,  
Disdained to shine with borrowed Light.  
Thus from himself th' Eternal Being grew,  
And from no other 'Cause his Grandeur drew.   

XXIII.  
However if true Nobility  
Rather in Souls than in the Blood does lie:  
If from thy better part we Measures take;  
And that the Standard of our Value make,  
Jewels and Stars become low Heraldry  
To blazon thee.  
Thy Soul was big enough to pity Kings,  
And looked on Empires as poor humble things.  
Great as his boundless mind,  
Who thought himself in one wide Globe confined,  
And for another pined.  
Great as that Spirit whose large Powers roll  
Through the vast Fabric of this spacious Bowl,  
And tell the World as well as Man can boast a Soul.   

XXIV.  
Yet could not this an Haughtiness beget,  
Or thee above the common Level set.  
Pride, whose Alloy does best Endowments mar,  
(As things most lofty smaller still appear)  
With thee did no Alliance bear.  
Low Meritsoft are by too high Esteem belied,  
Whose owners lessen while they raise their Price;  
Thine were above the very Gild of Pride,  
Above all others, and thy own Hyperbole:  
In thee the wid'st Extremes were joined  
The loftiest, and the lowliest Mind.  
Thus though some part of heavens vast Round,  
Appear but low, and seem to touch the Ground.  
Yet 'tis well known almost to bond the Spheres,  
'Tis truly held to be above the Stars.   

XXV.  
While thy brave Mind preserved this noble Frame,  
Thou stoodst at once secure  
From all the Flattery and Obloquy of Fame,  
It's rough and gentler Breath were both to thee the same:  
Nor this could thee exalt, nor that depress thee lower;  
But thou from thy great Soul on both look'dst down  
Without the small concernment of a smile or frown.  
Heaven lessdreads that it should fired be  
By the weak flitting Sparks that upwards fly,  
Less the bright Goddess of the Night  
Fears those loud howl that revile her Light  
Than thou malignant Tongues thy Worth should blast,  
Which was too great for Envy's Cloud to overcast.  
'Twas thy brave Method to despise Contempt,  
And make what was the Fault the Punishment.  
What more Assaults could weak Detraction raise,  
When thou couldst Saint disgrace,  
And turn Reproach to Praise.  
So Clouds which would obscure the Sun, oft guilded be,  
And Shades are taught to shine as bright as he.  
So Diamonds, when envious Night  
Would shroud their Splendour, look most bright,  
And from its Darkness seem to borrow Light.   

XXVI.  
Had Heaven composed thy mortal Frame,  
Free from Contagion as thy Soul or Fame:  
Could Virtue been but Proof against Death's Arms,  
thou'dst stood unvanquished by these Harms,  
Safe in a Circle made by thy own Charms.  
Fond Pleasure, whose soft Magic oft beguiles  
Raw unexperienced Souls,  
And with smooth Flattery cajoles,  
Could ne'er ensnare thee with her Wiles,  
Or make thee Captive to her soothing Smiles.  
In vain that Pimp of Vice assayed to please,  
In hope to draw thee to its rude Embrace.  
Thy Prudence still that Siren passed  
Without being pinioned to the Mast:  
All its Attempts were ineffectual found;  
Heaven fenced thy heart with its own Mound,  
And forced the Tempter still from that forbidden Ground.   

XXVII.  
The mad Capriccios of the doting Age  
Could ne'er in the same Frenzy thee engage;  
But moved thee rather with a generous Rage.  
Gallants, who their high Breeding prize,  
Known only by their Gallanture and Vice,  
Whose Talon is to court a fashionable Sin,  
And act some fine Transgression with a janty Mien,  
May by such Methods hope the Vogue to win.  
Let those gay Fops who deem  
Their Infamies Accomplishment,  
Grow scandalous to get Esteem;  
And by Disgrace strive to be eminent.  
Here thou disdainest the common Road,  
Nor wouldst by ought be wood  
To wear the vain Iniquities o'th' Mode.  
Vice with thy Practice did so disagree,  
Thou scarce couldst bear it in thy Theory.  
Thou didst such Ignorance 'bove Knowledge prize,  
And here to be unskilled, is to be wise.  
Such the first Founders of our Blood,  
While yet untempted, stood  
Contented only to know Good.   

XXVIII.  
Virtue alone did guide thy Actions here,  
Thou by no other Card thy Life didst steer:  
No sly decoy would serve,  
To make thee from its rigid Dictates swerve,  
Thy Love ne'er thought her worse  
Because thou hadst so few Competitors.  
Thou couldst adore her when adored by none  
Content to be her Votary alone:  
When 'twas proscribed the unkind World  
And to blind Cells, and Grottoes hurled,  
When thought the Fantom of some crazy Brain,  
Fit for grave Anchorets to entertain,  
A thin Chimaera, whom dull Gownsmen frame  
To gull deluded Mortals with an empty Name.   

XXIX.  
Thou own'dst no Crimes that shunned the Light,  
Whose Horror might thy Blood affright,  
And force it to its known Retreat.  
While the pale Cheeks do Penance in their White,  
And tell that Blushes are too weak to expiate:  
Thy Faults might all be on thy Forehead wore  
And the whole World thy Confessor.  
Conscience within still kept Assize,  
To punish and deter Impieties:  
That inbred Judge, such strict Inspection bore,  
So traversed all thy Actions o'er;  
Th' Eternal Judge could scarce do more:  
Those little Escapades of Vice,  
Which pass the Cognizance of most  
I'th' Crowd of following Sins forgot and lost,  
Could ne'er its Sentence or Arraignment miss:  
Thou didst prevent the young desires of ill,  
And them in their first Motions kill:  
The very thoughts in others unconfined  
And lawless as the Wind,  
Thou couldst to Rule and Order bind.  
They durst not any stamp, but that of Virtue bear,  
And free from stain as thy most public Actions were.  
Let wild Debauches hug their darling Vice  
And court no other Paradise,  
Till want of Power  
Bids 'em discard the stale Amour,  
And when disabled strength shall force  
A short Divorce,  
Miscall that weak forbearance Abstinence,  
Which wise Morality and better Sense  
Styles but at best a sneaking Impotence.  
Thine far a Nobler Pitch did fly  
'Twas all free choice, nought of Necessity.  
Thou didst that puny Soul disdain  
Whose half strain Virtue only can restrain;  
Nor wouldst that empty Being own  
Which springs from Negatives alone,  
But truly thoughst it always Virtue's Skeleton.   

XXX.  
Nor didst thou those mean Spirits more approve,  
Who Virtue, only for its Dowry love,  
Unbribed thou didst her sterling self espouse:  
Nor wouldst a better Mistress choose.  
Thou couldst Affection to her bare Idea pay  
The first that e'er caressed her the Platonic way.  
To see her in her own Attractions dressed  
Did all thy Love arrest,  
Nor lacked there new Efforts to storm thy Breast.  
Thy generous Loyalty  
Would ne'er a Mercenary be,  
But chose to serve her still without a Livery.  
Yet wast thou not of Recompense debarred,  
But countedst Honesty it's own Reward;  
Thou didst not wish a greater Bliss t' accrue,  
For to be good to thee was to be happy too,  
That secret Triumph of thy mind,  
Which always thou in doing well didst find,  
Were Heaven enough, were there no other Heaven designed.   

XXXI.  
What Virtues few possess but by Retail  
In gross could thee their Owner call;  
They all did in thy single Circle fall.  
Thou wast a living System where were wrote  
All those high Morals which in Books are sought.  
Thy Practice did more Virtue's share  
Than heretofore the learned Porch e'er knew,  
Or in the Stagyrites scant Ethics grew:  
Devout thou wast as holy Hermits are,  
Which share their time 'twixt Ecstasy and Prayer.  
Modest as Infant Roses in their bloom,  
Which in a Blush their Lives consume.  
So chaste, the Dead are only more,  
Who lie divorced from Objects, and from Power.  
So pure, that if blessed Saints could be  
Taught Innocence, they'd gladly learn of thee.  
Thy Virtue's height in Heaven alone could grow  
Nor to aught else would for Accession owe:  
It only now's more perfect than it was below.   

XXXII.  
Hence, tho' at once thy Soul lived here and there,  
Yet Heaven alone its Thoughts did share;  
It owned no home, but in the active Sphere.  
Its Motions always did to that bright Centre roll,  
And seemed t'inform thee only on Parole.  
Look how the Needle does to its dear North incline,  
As were't not fixed 'twould to that Region climb;  
Or mark what hidden force  
Bids the Flame upwards take its course,  
And makes it with that Swiftness rise,  
As if 'twere winged by th' Air through which it flies.  
Such a strong Virtue did thy Inclinations bend,  
And made 'em still to the blessed Mansions tend.  
That mighty Slave whom the proud Victor's Rage  
Shut Prisoner in a golden Cage,  
Condemned to glorious Vassalage,  
Ne'er longed for dear Enlargement more,  
Nor his gay Bondage with less Patience bore,  
Than this great Spirit brooked its tedious Stay,  
While fettered here in brittle Clay,  
And wished to disengage and fly away.  
It vexed and chafed, and still desired to be  
Released to the sweet Freedom of Eternity.   

XXXIII.  
Nor were its Wishes long unheard,  
Fate soon at its desire appeared.  
And straight for an Assault prepared.  
A sudden and a swift Disease  
First on thy Heart Life's chiefest Fort does seize,  
And then on all the Suburb-vitals preys:  
Next it corrupts thy tainted Blood,  
And scatters Poison through its purple Flood.  
Sharp Aches in thick Troops it sends,  
And Pain, which like a Rack the Nerves extends.  
Anguish through every Member flies,  
And all those inward Gemonieses  
Whereby frail Flesh in Torture dies.  
All the stayed Glories of thy Face,  
Where sprightly Youth lay checked with manly Grace,  
Are now impaired,  
And quite by the rude hand of Sickness marred.  
Thy Body where due Symmetry  
In just proportions once did lie,  
Now hardly could be known,  
It's very Figure out of Fashion grown;  
And should thy Soul to its old Seat return,  
And Life once more adjourn,  
'Twould stand amazed to see its altered Frame,  
And doubt (almost) whether its own Carcase were the same.   

XXXIV.  
And here thy Sickness does new matter raise  
Both for thy Virtue and our Praise;  
'Twas here thy Picture looked most neat,  
When deep'st in Shades 'twas set.  
Thy Virtues only thus could fairer be  
Advantaged by the Foil of Misery.  
Thy Soul which hastened now to be enlarged,  
And of its grosser Load discharged,  
Began to act above its wont rate,  
And gave a Prelude of its next unbodyed State.  
So dying Tapers near their Fall,  
When their own Lustre lights their Funeral,  
Contract their Strength into one brighter Fire,  
And in that Blaze triumphantly expire.  
So the bright Globe that rules the Skies,  
Tho' he gild Heaven with a glorious Rise,  
Reserves his choicest Beams to grace his Set;  
And then he looks most great,  
And then in greatest Splendour dies.   

XXXVI.  
Thou sharpest pains didst with that Courage bear,  
And still thy Looks so unconcerned didst wear:  
Beholders seemed more indisposed than thee;  
For they were sick in Effigy.  
Like some well-fashioned Arch thy Patience stood.  
And purchased Firmness from its greater Load.  
Those Shapes of Torture, which to view in Paint  
Would make another faint;  
Thou couldst endure in true Reality,  
And feel what some could hardly bear to see.  
Those Indians who their Kings by Torture chose,  
Subjecting all the Royal Issue to that Test  
Could ne'er thy Sway refuse,  
If he deserves to reign that suffers best.  
Had those fierce Savages thy Patience viewed,  
Thou'dst claimed their Choice alone▪  
They with a Crown had paid thy Fortitude,  
And turned thy Death bed to a Throne   

XXXVII.  
All those Heroic Piety's,  
Whose Zeal to Truth made them its Sacrifice:  
Those nobler Scaevola's, whose holy Rage  
Did their whole selves in cruel Flames engage,  
Who did amidst their Force unmoved appear,  
As if those Fires but lambent were;  
Or they had found their Empyreum there.  
Might these repeat again their Days beneath,  
They'd seen their Fates out-acted by a natural Death,  
And each of them to thee resign his Wreath.  
In spite of Weakness and harsh Destiny,  
To relish Torment, and enjoy a Misery:  
So to caress a Doom,  
As make its Sufferings Delights become:  
So to triumph o'er Sense and thy Disease,  
As amongst Pains to revel in soft Ease:  
These wonders did thy Virtue's worth enhance,  
And Sickness to dry Martyrdom advance.   

XXXVIII.  
Yet could not all these Miracles stern Fate avert,  
Or make't withhold the Dart.  
Only she paused a while with Wonder struck,  
A while she doubted if that Destiny was thine,  
And turned over again the dreadful Book,  
And hoped she had mistake;  
And wished she might have cut another Line.  
But dire Necessity  
Soon cried 'twas thee,  
And bade her give the fatal Blow.  
Straight she obeys, and straight the vital Powers grow  
Too weak to grapple with a stronger Foe,  
And now the feeble Strife forgo.  
Life's sapped Foundation every Moment sinks,  
And every Breath to lesser compass shrinks;  
Last panting Gasps grow weaker each Rebound,  
Like the faint Tremble of a dying Sound:  
And doubtful Twilight hovers o'er the Light,  
Ready to usher in Eternal Night.   

XXXIX.  
Yet heré thy Courage taught thee to outbrave  
All the slight Horrors of the Grave:  
Pale Death's Arrest  
Ne'er shocked thy Breast;  
Nor could it in the dreadfulst Figure dressed.  
That ugly Skeleton may guilty Spirits daunt,  
When the dire Ghosts of Crimes departed haunt,  
Armed with bold Innocence thou couldst that Mormo dare,  
And on the barefaced King of Terrors stare,  
As free from all Effects as from the Cause of Fear.  
Thy Soul so willing from thy Body went,  
As if both parted by Consent.  
No Murmur, no Complaining, no Delay,  
Only a Sigh, a Groan, and so away.  
Death seemed to glide with Pleasure in,  
As if in this Sense too 't had lost her Sting.  
Like some well-acted Comedy Life swiftly passed,  
And ended just so still and sweet at last.  
Thou, like its Actors, seemedst in borrowed Habit here  
And couldst, as easily beneath,  
As they do that, put off Mortality.  
Thou breathedst out thy Soul as free as common Breath,  
As unconcerned as they are in a feigned Death.   

XL.  
Go happy Soul, ascend the joyful Sky,  
Joyful to shine with thy bright Company:  
Go mount the spangled Sphere,  
And make it brighter by another Star:  
Yet stop not there, till thou advance yet higher,  
Till thou art swallowed quite  
In the vast unexhausted Ocean of Delight:  
Delight which there alone in its true Essence is,  
Where Saints keep an eternal Carnival of Bliss:  
Where the Regalios of refined Joy,  
Which fill, but never cloy.  
Where Pleasures ever growing, ever new,  
Immortal as thyself, and boundless too.  
There may'st thou learned by Compendium grow;  
For which in vain below  
We so much time, and so much pains bestow.  
There may'st thou all Idaea's see,  
All wonders which in Knowledge be  
In that fair beatific mirror of the Deity.   

XLI.  
Mean while thy Body mourns in its own Dust,  
And puts on Sables for its tender Trust.  
Tho' dead, it yet retains some untouched Grace,  
Wherein we may thy Soul's fair Footsteps trace;  
Which no Disease can frighten from its wont place:  
Even its Deformities do thee become,  
And only serve to consecrate thy Doom.  
Those marks of Death which did its Surface slain  
Now hallow, not profane.  
Each Spot does toa Ruby turn;  
What soiled but now, would now adorn●…  
Those Asterisks placed in the Margin of thy Skin  
Point out the nobler Soul that dwelled within:  
Thy lesser, like the greater World appears  
All over bright, all over stuck with Stars.  
So Indian Luxury when it would be trim,  
Hangs Pearls on every Limb.  
Thus amongst ancient Picts Nobility  
In Blemishes did lie;  
Each by his Spots more honourable grew,  
And from their Store a greater Value drew:  
Their Kings were known by th' Royal Stains they bore,  
And in their Skins their Ermine wore.   

LXII.  
Thy Blood where Death triumphed in greatest State,  
Whose Purple seemed the Badge of Tyrant-Fate,  
And all thy Body o'er  
Its ruling Colours bore:  
That which infected with the noxious Ill  
But lately helped to kill,  
Whose Circulation fatal grew.  
And through each part a swifter Ruin threw.  
Now conscious, it's own Murder would arraign,  
And throngs to sally out at every Vein.  
Each Dropa redder than its native Dye puts on,  
As if in its own Blushes 'twould its Gild atone.  
A sacred Rubric does thy Carcase paint,  
And Death in every Member writes thee Saint.  
So Phoebus clothes his dying Rays each Night,  
And blushes he can live no longer to give Light.   

LXIII.  
Let Fools, whose dying Fame requires to have  
Like their own Carcases a Grave,  
Let them with vain Expense adorn  
Some costly Urn,  
Which shortly, like themselves, to Dust shall turn.  
Here lacks no Carian Sepulchre,  
Which Ruin shall e'er long in its own Tomb inter.  
No fond Egyptian Fabric built so high  
As if 'twould climb the Sky,  
And thence reach Immortality.  
Thy Virtues shall embalm thy Name,  
And make it lasting as the Breath of Fame.  
When frailer Brass  
Shall moulder by a quick Decrease;  
When brittle Marble shall decay,  
And to the Jaws of Time become a Prey.  
Thy Praise shall live, when Graves shall buried lie,  
Till Time itself shall die,  
And yield its triple Empire to Eternity.    

To the Memory of that worthy Gentleman, Mr. Harman Atwood.  
PINDARIC.  

I.  
No, I'll no more repine at Destiny,  
Now we poor common Mortals are content to die.  
When thee, blessed Saint, we cold and breathless see,  
Thee, who if aught that's great and brave,  
Aught that is excellent might save,  
Hadst justly claimed Exemption from the Grave,  
And cancelled the black irreversible Decree.  
Thou didst alone such Worth, such Goodness share  
As well deserved to be immortal here;  
Deserve a Life as lasting as the Fame thou art to wear.  
At least, why went thy Soul without its Mate?  
Why did they not together undivided go?  
So went (we're told) the famed Illustrious Two.  
(Nor could they greater Merits show,  
Although the best of Patriarches that,  
And this the best of Prophets was)  
Heaven did alive the blessed Pair translate;  
Alive they launched into Life's boundless Happiness,  
And never passed Death's straits and narrow Seas;  
Ne'er entered the dark gloomy Thoroughfare of Fate.   

II.  
Long time had the Profession under Scandal lain,  
And felt a general tho' unjust Disdain,  
An upright Lawyer Contradiction seemed,  
And was at least a Prodigy esteemed.  
If one perhaps did in an Age appear,  
He was recorded like some Blazing Star;  
And Statues were erected to the wondrous Man,  
As heretofore to the strange honest Publican.  
To thee the numerous Calling all its thanks should give,  
To thee who couldst alone its lost Repute retrieve.  
Thou the vast wide extremes didst reconcile,  
The first, almost, e'er taught it was not to beguile.  
To each thou didst distribute Right so equally,  
Even Justice might herself correct her Scales by thee.  
And none did now regret,  
Her once bewailed Retreat,  
Since all enjoyed her better Deputy.  
Henceforth succeeding Time shall bear in mind,  
And Chronicle the best of all the kind:  
The best e'er since the man that gave  
Our suffering God a Grave;  
(That God who living no Abode could find,  
Tho' he the World had made, and was to save)  
Embalming him, he did embalm his Memory,  
And make it from Corruption free:  
Those Odours kindly lent perfumed the Breath of Fame,  
And fixed a lasting Fragrancy upon his Name;  
And raised it with his Saviour to an Immortality.   

III.  
Hence the stale musty Paradox of equal Souls,  
That ancient vulgar Error of the Schools,  
Avowed by dull Philosophers and thinking Fool.  
Here might they find their feeble Arguments o'erthrown:  
Here might the grave Disputers find  
Themselves all baffled by a single Mind,  
And see one vastly larger than their own,  
Tho' all of theirs were mixed in one.  
A Soul as great as e'er vouchsafed to be  
Inhabiter in low Mortality;  
As e'er th' Almighty Artist laboured to infuse,  
Through all his Mint he did the brightest choose;  
With his own Image stamped it fair,  
And bid it ever the Divine Impression wear;  
And so it did, so pure, so well,  
We hardly could believe him of the Race that fell:  
So spotless still, and still so good,  
As if it never lodged in Flesh and Blood.  
Hence conscious too, how high, how nobly born:  
It never did reproach its Birth,  
By valuing aught of base or meaner worth,  
But looked on earthly Grandeur with Contempt and Scorn.   

IV.  
Like his All-great Creator, who  
Can only by diffusing greater grow:  
He made his chiefest Glory to communicate,  
And chose the fairest Attribute to imitate.  
So kind, so generous, and so free,  
As if he only lived in Courtesy.  
To be unhappy did his Pity claim,  
Only to want it did deserve the same:  
Nor lacked there other Rhetoric than Innocence and Misery.  
His unconfined unhoarded Store  
Was still the vast Exchequer of the poor;  
And whatsoe'er in pious Acts went out  
He did in his own Inventory put:  
For well the wise and prudent Banker knew  
His Gracious Sovereign above would all repay,  
And all th' expenses of his Charity defray;  
And so he did, both Principal and Interest too,  
And he by holy Prodigality more wealthy grew.  
Such, and so universal is the Influence  
Which the kind bounteous Sun does here dispense:  
With an unwearied indefatigable Race,  
He travels round the World each day,  
And visits all Mankind, and every place,  
And scatters Light and Blessings all the way.  
Tho' he each hour new Beams expend,  
Yet does he not like wasting Tapers spend.  
Tho' he ten thousand years disburse in Light,  
The boundless Stock can never be exhausted quite.   

V.  
Nor was his Bounty stinted or designed,  
As theirs who only partially are kind;  
Or give where they Return expect to find:  
But like his Soul, its fair Original:  
'Twas all in all,  
And all in every part,  
Silent as his Devotion, open as his Heart.  
Bribed with the Pleasure to oblige and gratify,  
As Air and Sunshine he disposed his Kindness free,  
Yet scorned Requitals, and worse hated Flattery,  
And all obseovious Pomp of vain formality.  
Thus the Almighty Bounty does bestow  
Its Favours on our undeserving Race below;  
Conferred on all its loyal Votaries;  
Conferred alike on its rebellious Enemies.  
To it alone our All we owe,  
All that we are and are to be,  
Each Art and Science to its Liberality,  
And this same trifling jingling thing called Poetry.  
Yet the great Donor does no costly Gratitude require,  
No Charge of Sacrifice desire;  
Nor are w' expensive Hecatombs to raise,  
As heretofore,  
To make his Altars float with reeking Gore.  
A small Return the mighty Debt and Duty pays,  
Even the cheap humble Offering of worthless Thanks and Praise.   

VI  
But how, blessed Saint, shall I thy numerous Virtue's sum,  
If one or two take up this room?  
To what vast Bulk must the full Audit come?  
As that bold Hand that drew the fairest Deity,  
Had many naked Beauties by,  
And took from each a several Grace, and Air, and Line,  
And all in one Epitome did join  
To paint his bright Immortal in a Form Divine:  
So must I do to frame thy Character.  
I'll think whatever Men can good and lovely call,  
And then abridge it all,  
And crowd, and mix the various Ideas there;  
And yet at last of a just Praise despair.  
Whatever ancient Worthies boast,  
Which made themselves and Poets their Describers great,  
From whence old Zeal did Gods and Shrines create;  
Thou hadst thyself alone engrossed,  
And all their scattered Glories in thy Soul did meet:  
And future Ages, when they eminent Virtues see,  
(If any after thee  
Dare the Pretence of Virtue own,  
Without the Fear of being far outdone)  
Shall count 'em all but Legacy,  
Which from the Strength of thy Example flow,  
And thy fair Copy in a less correct Edition show.   

VII.  
Religion over all did a just Conduct claim,  
No false Religion which from Custom came,  
Which to its Font and Country only owed its Name:  
No Issue of devout and zealous Ignorance,  
Or the more dull Effect of Chance;  
But 'twas a firm well-grounded Piety,  
That knew all that it did believe, and why;  
And for the glorious Cause durst die,  
And durst out-suffer ancient Martyrology.  
So knit and interwoven with its being so,  
Most thought it did not from his Duty, but his Nature flow.  
Exalted far above the vain small Attacks of Wit,  
And all that vile gay lewd Buffoons can bring,  
Who try by little Railleries' to ruin it,  
And jeered into an unreguarded poor defenceless thing,  
The Men of Sense who in Confederacy join,  
To damn Religion had they viewed but thine,  
They'd have confessed it pure, confessed it all divine,  
And free from all Pretences of Imposture or Design.  
Powerful enough to counter-act lewd Poets and the Stage,  
And Proselyte as fast as they debauch the Age;  
So good, it might alone a guilty condemned World reprieve,  
Should a destroying Angel stand  
With brandished Thunder in his Hand,  
Ready the bidden Stroke to give;  
Or a new Delugethreaten this and every Land.   

VIII.  
Religion once a quiet and a peaceful Name,  
Which all the Epithets of Gentleness did claim,  
Late proved the Source of Faction and intestine Jars:  
Like the Fair teeming Hebrew, she  
Did travel with a wrangling Progeny,  
And harboured in her Bowels Feuds and Civil Wars.  
Surly, uncomplaisant, and rough she grew,  
And of a soft and easy Mistress turned a Shrew.  
Passion and Anger went for marks of Grace,  
And looks deformed and sullen sanctified a Face.  
Thou first its meek and primitive Temper didst restore,  
First showd'st how men were pious heretofore:  
The gaulless Dove, which other where could find no Rest,  
Early retreated to its Ark, thy Breast,  
And strait the swelling Waves decreased  
And strait tempestuous Passions ceased,  
Like Winds and Storms where some fair Halcyon builds her Nest.  
No overheating Zeal did thee inspire,  
But 'twas a kindly gentle Fire,  
To warm, but not devour,  
And only did refine, and make more pure:  
Such is that Fire that makes thy present blessed Abode  
The Residence and Palace of our God.  
And such was that bright unconsuming Flame,  
So mild, so harmless and so tame,  
Which heretofore i'th' Bush to Moses came:  
At first the Vision did the wondering Prophet scare,  
But when the voice had checked his needless Fear  
He bowed and worshipped and confessed the Deity was there.   

IX.  
Hail Saint Triumphant! hail heavens happy Guest.  
Hail new Inhabitant amongst the blessed!  
Methinks I see kind Spirits in convoy meet.  
And with loud Welcomes thy Arrival greet.  
Who, could they grieve, would go with Grief away  
To see a Soul more white, more pure than they:  
By them thou'rt led on high  
To the vast glorious Apartment of the Deity.  
Where circulating Pleasures make an endless Round  
To which scant Time or Measure sets no Bound,  
Perfect unmixed Delights without Alloy,  
And whatsoe'er does earthly Bliss annoy,  
Which oft does in Fruition Pall and oftener Cloy:  
Where being is no longer Life but Ecstasy,  
But one long Transport of unutterable Joy.  
A Joy above the boldest Flights of daring verse,  
And all a Muse unglorifyed can fancy or rehearse:  
There happy Thou  
From Troubles and the bustling toil of Business free,  
From noise and tracas of tumultuous Life below,  
Enjoyest the still and calm Vacation of Eternity.    

CHARACTER OF A Certain Ugly Old P—  
— Deformem & tetrum ante omnia Vultum,  
Dissimilemque sui, desormem pro cute pellem,  
Pendentésque genas, ac tales aspice rugas,  
Quales, umbriferos ubi pandit Tabraca saltus,  
In vetulâ scalpit jam mater simia bucca, etc.  Juv. Sat. 10 
Assist ye nasty Powers  
To describe him throughout,  
I'll dip my Pen in Turd,  
And write upon a shitten Clout.  Tartaret. de modo Cacandi. p. 9 
LONDON, Printed in the Year, 1684.   

CHARACTER.  
NO wonder if I am at a Loss to describe him, whom Nature was as much puzzled to make. 'Tis here as in Painting, where the most misshapen. Figures are the greatest Proofs of Skill. To draw a Thersites or AEsop well, requires the Pencil of Vandike or Titian, more than the best Features and Lineaments. All the Thoughts I can frame of him are as rude and indigested as himself. The very Idea and Conception of him are enough to cramp Grammar, to disturb Sense, and confound Syntax. He's a Solecism in the great Construction, therefore the best Description of him is Nonsense, and the fittest Character to write it in, that Pot-hook-hand the Devil used at Oxford in Queen's Colledge-Library. He were Topick enough for convincing an Atheist that the World was made by Chance. The first Matter had more of Form and Order, the Chaos more of Symmetry and Proportion. I could call him Nature's By-blow, Miscarriage and Abortive, or say, he is her Embryo slinked before Maturity; but that is stale and flat, and I must fly a higher Pitch to reach his Deformity. He is the ugliest she ever took Pains to make so, and Age to make worse. All the Monsters of Africa lie kenneled in his single Skin. He's one of the Grotesques of the Universe, whom the grand Artist drew only (as Painters do uncouth ugly Shapes) to fill up the empty Spaces and Cantons of this▪ great Frame. He's Man anagrammatized: A Mandrake has more of Humane Shape: His Face carries Libel and Lampoon in't. Nature at its Composition wrote Burlesque, and showed him how far she could outdo Art in Grimace. I wonder 'tis not hired by the Playhouses to draw Antic Vizards by. Without doubt he was made to be laughed at, and designed for the Scaramuchio of Mankind. When I see him, I can no more forbear than at sight of a Zany or Nokes; but am like to run the Risque of the Philosopher, looking on an Ass mumbling Thistles. He's more ill-favoured than the Picture of Winter drawn by a Fellow that dawbs Sign-Posts, more lowering than the last day of January. I have seen a handsomer Mortal carved in Monumental Gingerbread, and woven in Hangings at Mortlock. If you have ever viewed that wooden Gentleman that peeps out of a Country Barber's Window, you may fancy some Resemblance of him. His damned squeezing Close-stool. Face can be likened to nothing better than the Buttocks of an old wrinkled Baboon, straining upon an Hillock. The very Sight of him in a morning would work with one beyond Jalap and Rhubarb. A Doctor (I'm told) once prescribed him to one of his Parishioners for a Purge: he wrought the Effect, and gave the Patient fourteen Stools. 'Tis pity he is not drawn at the City Charges, and hung up in some public Forica as a Remedy against Costiveness.  
Indeed by his Hue you might think he had been employed to that use: One would take him for the Picture of Scoggin or Tarleton on a Privy-house Door, which by long standing there has contracted the Colour 〈◊〉 the neighbouring Excrements. Reading lately how Garagantua came into the World at his Mother's Ear, it put an unlucky thought into my Head concerning him: I presently fancied that he was v●…ided, not brought forth; that his Dam was delivered of him on t'other side, beshit him coming out, and he has ever since retained the Stains. His filthy Countenance looks like an old Chimney-piece in a decayed Inn, sullied with Smoak, and the sprinkling of Ale-pots. 'Tis dirtier than an ancient thumbed Record, greasier than a Chandler's Shop-book, You'd imagine▪ Snails had crawled the Hay upon it. The Case of it is perfect velum, and has often been mistaken for it: A Scrivener was like to cheapen it for making Indentures and Deeds: Besides 'tis as wrinkled as a walking Buskin: It has more Furrows than all Cotsall. You may resemble it to a Gammon of Bacon with the Sword off. I believe the Devil travels over it in his Sleep with Hobnails in his Shoes. By the Maggot-eaten Surface, you'd swear he had been dug out of his Grave again with all his Worms about him to bait Eel-hooks. But enough of it in General, I think it time to descend to Particulars; I wish I could divide his Face, as he does his Text, i. e. tear it asunder: 'Tis fit I▪ begin with the most remarkable part of it. His Mouth (saving your presence Christian Readers) is like the Devil's Arse of Peak, and is just as large. By the Scent you'd take it for the Hole of a Privy: He may be wound by a good Nose at twelvescore; I durst have ventured at first being in Company that he dieted on Assa-foetida. His very Discourse stinks in a Literal Sense; 'tis breaking-Wind, and you'd think he talked at the other End. Last New-years-day he tainted a Loin of Veal with saying Grace: All the Guests were fain to use the Fanatical Posture in their own Defence, and stand with their Caps over their Eyes like Malefactors going to be turned off. That too that renders it the more unsupportable is that it can't be stopped: The Breach is too big ever to be closed. Were he a Milliner, he might measure Ribbon by it without the help of his Yard or Counter. It reaches so far backwards, those, that have seen him with his Peruke off, say it may be discerned behind. When he gapes, 'twould stretch the Duchess of Cl to straddle over: I had almost said, 'tis as wide as from Dover to Calais. Could he shut it, the Wrinkles round about would represent the Form of the Seamens Compass, and should he bluster; 'twere a pretty Emblem of those swelling Mouths, at the Corners of Maps puffing out Storms. When he Smokes, I am always thinking of Mongibel and its Eruptions. His Head looks exactly like a Device on a Kitchen Chimney; His Mouth the Vent and his Nose the Fane. And now I talk of his Snout, I dare not mention the Elephants for fear of speaking too little: I'd make bold with the old Wit, and compare it to the Gnomon of a Dial; but that he has not Teeth enough to stand for the twelve Hours. 'Tis so long, that when he rides a Journey, he makes use of it to open Gates. He's fain to snite it with both Hands. It cannot be wiped under as much as the Royal Breech. A Man of ordinary Bulk might find Shelter under its Eves, were it not for the Droppings. One protested to me in Raillery that when he looks against the Sun, it shadows his whole Body, as some story of the Sciopodes Feet. Another Hyperbolical Rascal would make me believe that the Arches of it are as large as any two of London-Bridge, or the great Rialto at Venice. Not long ago I met a one-leged Tarpawlin that had been begging at his Door, but could get nothing: The witty Whoreson (I remember) swore that his Bow-sprit was as long as that of the Royal Sovereign. I confess, stood he in my way: I durst not venture round by his Foreside, for fear of going half a mile about. 'Tis perfec●… doubling the Cape: He has this Privilege for being unmannerly that it will not suffer him to put off his Hat: And therefore ('tis said) at home he has a Cord fastened to it, and draws it off with a Poultry, and so receives the Addresses of those that visit him. This I'm very confident, he has not heard himself sneeze these seven Years: And that leads me to his Tools of Hearing: His Ears resemble these of a Country Justice's Black Jack, and are of the same matter, hue, and size: He's as well hung as any Hound in the Country; but by their Bulk and growing upward, he deserves to be ranked with a graver of Beasts: His single self might have shown with Smeck, and all the Club Divines. You may pair enough from the sides of his Head to have furnished a whole Regiment of Roundheads: He wears more there then all the Pillories in England ever have done. Man-devile tells us of a People somewhere, that use their Ears for Cushions: He has reduced the Legend to Probability: A Servant of his (that could not conceal the Midas) told me lately in private, that going to Bed he binds them on his Crown, and they serve him instead of Quilt Nightcaps. The next observable that falls under my Consideration is his Back: Nor need I go far out of my way to meet it, for it peeps over his Shoulders: He was built with a Buttress to support the weight of his Nose; and help balance it. Nature hung on him a Knapsack, and made him represent both Tinker and Budget too. He looks like the Visible Tie of AEneas bolstering up his Father, or like a Beggar-Woman, endorsed with her whole Litter, and with Child behind. You may take him for Anti-Christopher with the Devil at his Back. I believe the Atlas in Wadham-Garden at Oxford was carved by him. Certainly he was begot in a Cupping-Glass: His Mother longed for Pumpions, or went to see some Camel shown while she was conceiving him. One would think a Mole has crept into his Carcase before 'tis laid in the Churchyard, and Rooted in it, or that an Earthquake had disordered the Symmetry of the Microcosm, sunk one Mountain and put up another. And now I should descend lower, if I durst venture: But I'll not defile my Pen: My Ink is too cleanly for a farther Description. I must beg my Reader 's Distance: as if I were going to Untruss. Should I mention what is beneath, the very Jakes would suffer by the Comparison, and 'twere enough to bring a Boghouse in Disgrace. Indeed he ought to have been drawn, like the good People on the Parliament-House, only from the Shoulders upwards. To me 'tis a greater Prodigy than himself, how his Soul has so long endured so nasty a Lodging. Were there such a thing as a Metempsychosis, how gladly would it exchange its Carcase for that of the worst and vilest Brute: I'm sufficiently persuaded against the whim of Praeexistence; for any thing that had the Pretence of Reason would never have entered such a Durance of Choice: Doubtless it must have been guilty of some unbeard of Sin, for which Heaven dooms it Penance in the present Body, and ordains it its first Hell here. And 'tis disputable which may prove the worst, for 't has suffered half an Eternity already. Men can hardly tell which of the two will outlive the other. By his Face you'd guests him one of the Patriarches, and that he lived before the Flood: His Head looks as if't had worn out three or four Bodies, and were Legacied to him by his Great-Grand-father. His Age is out of Knowledge, I believe he was born before Registers were invented. He should have been a Ghost in Queen Mary's Days. I wonder Holingshead does not speak of him. Every Limb about him is Chronicle: Par and John of the Times were short-Livers to him. They say, he can remember when Paul's was Founded, and London-Bridge built. I myself have heard him tell all the Stories of York and Lancaster upon his own Knowledge. His very Cane and Spectacles are enough to set up an Antiquary. The first was the Walking-staff of Lanfranc Archbishop of Canterbury which is to he seen byhis Arms upon the Head of it: The tother belonged to the Chaplain of William the Conqueror; was of Norman make, and travelled over with him. 'Tis strange the late Author of M. Fickle forgot to make his Sir Arthur Oldlove swear by them, the Oath had been of as good Antiquity as St. Austin's Nightcap, or Mahomet's Threshold. I have often wondered he never set up for a Conjurer: His very Look would bring him in Vogue, draw Custom, and undo Lily and Gadbury. You'd take him for the Ghost of Old Haly or Albumazar, or the Spirit Friar in the Fortune Book, his Head for the enchanted brazen one of Friar Bacon. 'Twould pose a good Physiognomist to give Names to the Lines in his Face. I've observed all the Figures and Diagrams in Agrippa and Ptolomy's Centiloquys there upon strict view. And t'other day a Linguist of my Acquaintance showed me all the Arabic Alphabet betwixt his Brow and Chin. Some have admired how he came to be admitted into Orders, since his very Face is against the Canon: I guess he pleaded the Qualicfiation of the Prophets of Old, to be withered, Toothless and deformed. He can pretend to be an Elisha only by his Baldness. The Devils Oracles heretofore were uttered from such a Mouth. 'Twas then the Candidates for the Tripus were fain to plead Wrinkles and Grey Hairs; a Splay Mouth, and a goggle Eye were the cheapest Simony, and the ugly and crippled were the only men of Preferment. And this leads me to consider him a little in the Pulpit. And there 'tis hard to distinguish whether that or his Skin be the coarser Wainscoat: He represents a Cracked Weatherglass in a Frame. You'd take him by his Looks and Posture for Muggleton doing Pennance and paulted with rotten Eggs. Had his Hearers the trick of Writing shorthand, I should fancy him an Offender upon a Sca●…old, and them Penning his Confession. Not a fluxed Debauch in a sweeting Tub makes worse Faces. He makes Doctrine as Folks do their Water in the Stone or Strangury. Balaams' Ass was a better Divine, and had a better Delivery. The Thorn at Glastenbury had more Sense and Religion, and would make more Converts. He speaks not, but grunts, like one of the Gadaren Hogs after the Devils entered. When I came first to his Church and saw him perched on high against a Pillar, I took him by his gaping for some Juggler going to swallow Bibles and Hour-Glasses. But I was soon convinced that other Feats were to be played, and on a sudden lost all my Senses in Noise. A Drunken Huntsman reeling in while he was at Prayer, asked if he were giving his Parishioners a Hollow: He has preached half his Parish deaf: His Din is beyond the Catadupi of Nile. All his Patron's Pigeons, are frighted from their Apartment, and he's generally believed the Occasion. He may be heard father then Sir Samuel Moorlands Flagelet. Nay one damned mad Rogue swore: Should he take a Text concerning the Resurrection, he might serve for the last Trumpet. And yet in one Respect he's fitted for the Function. His Countenance, if not Doctrine can scare men into Repentance, like an Apparition: Should he walk after he's dead, he would not be more dreadful, then now while he is alive.  
A Maid meeting him in the Dark in a Churchyard, was frighted into Phanaticism. 〈◊〉 is in Bedlam upon the same Occasio●… I dare not approach him without 〈◊〉 Exorcism. In the Name, etc. is the fittest Salutation: Some have thought the Parsonage House haunted since he dwelled there. In Yorkshire ('tis reported) they make use of his Name instead of Rawhead and Bloody-bones to fright Children. He is more terrible than those Phantoms Country Folks tell of by the Fire side, and pretend to have seen, with Leathern-wings, Cloven-feet, and Sawcer-eyes: If he go to Hell (as 'tis almost an Article of my Creed, he will) the Devils will quake for all their warm Dwelling, and crowd up into a Nook for fear of him.  
FINIS.