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, 1683.   

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 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.  
MOnsieur 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 BOILEAV, 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, (you say) 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 ruffle, 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 what 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  
Ne'er 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 awes  
The Creatures here, and with his beck gives laws;  
This titular King, who thus 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 need 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 nonsense 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 his 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,  
Not Orphans spoils, nor plunder of the Poor:  
And scorning paltry rules of Honesty,  
By surer methods raise thy Fortune high.  
When 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 wast your fruitless hours,  
Correct the Critics, and Expositors:  
Outvie great Stilling fleet in some vast Tome,  
And there confound both Bellarmin 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 Lombardstreet.  
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, Six? 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, ere 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 hour in Fleetstreet, or the Strand,  
To cast his eyes upon the motley throng,  
The two-legged Herd, that daily pass along;  
To see their old 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 〈◊〉 and his pack with deepmouthed Notes  
Drown Billingsgate, and all its Oyster-Boats?  
There see the Judges, Sergeants, Barristers,  
Attorneys, Counsellors, Solicitors,  
Criers, 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 IWENAL, 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, who 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 vain ado,  
Because a Friend (forsooth) has proved untrue.  
Shame o' your Beard! can this so much amaze?  
Were you not born in good King Iemmy'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 Advice 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 thro' 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 Besse's 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,  
ere since great Hobbes 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 reverenced 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 Bridg, 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 rap out  
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 I e'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.  
There 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,  
But leaves them all at random here below:  
And such at 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 so e'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— at the Bar does bawl:  
Is there a Power above? and does he hear?  
And can he tamely Thunderbolts forbear?  
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 cast out?  
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 steal 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 Human 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 were dragged 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,  
If 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 the Guiltless drank the poisonous Dose,  
Ne'er wished a drop to his accusing 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 thro' 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 braver 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:  
Nor all the Tortures, Racks, and Cruelties,  
Which ancient Persecutors could devise,  
Nor all, that Fox his Bloody Records tell,  
Can match what Bradshaw, and Ravilliac feel,  
Who in their Breasts carry about their Hell.  
I've read this story, but I know not 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 creep in and palls 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 haunts 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 Guildhall,  
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 scape 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,  
Lest 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 straight return 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 Fate, 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 ravenous Fowls, or worse, to his proud Foes, a Prize:  
How changed from that great Saul! whose generous Aid,  
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 King;  
When unbid Pity made him Agag spare;  
Ah Pity! more can 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 Dammin 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, Zobah felt him, and where ere  
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 Fate.   

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 at 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 dreaded skill we 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,  
Hast 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,  
Thro 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 arrayed, 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,  
And 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 dreadful 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 for go;  
Both Debts, I ne'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:  
Not 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 bear,  
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 thus 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 off 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, art the noblest chase  
Of all the braver part of Human 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,  
The worthy Prize, for which in Glory's paths 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 Hermias' worthy of Atarna lately slake  
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 blest,  
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,  
If 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 human 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 Poignancies 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 calculated fit  
For each Meridian, every Clime of Wit,  
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 keep 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 human 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 her captive Wit.   

X.  
Unjust, and more ill-natured those,  
Thy spiteful, and malicious Foes,  
Who on thy happiest Talon fix a lie,  
And call that Slowness, which was Care, and Industry.  
Let me (with Pride so to be guilty thought)  
Share all thy wished Reproach, and share thy 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 tooseldom 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 slitting 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 discern th' 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 seeming Breast,  
But what had gone full time, could write exactly best,  
And stand the sharpest Censure, and defy 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 Youth 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;  
Thou 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 Human 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  
Thro 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 BUM 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 Backside,  
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 Face,  
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 Backside;  
For should they shine unclouded long,  
All human 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 Sasiationes, 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  
May 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 can 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 downcast 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 bedrid 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 Redhaired 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! (cried I) 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:  
You are my freehold, 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 her 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 Disguise:  
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,  
And beg no worse than she my Rival gave:  
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 e'er 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 than 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 Pleasures 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, so 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 incites them to:  
For when in Floods of Love we're drenched,  
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 here 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 Pole Star 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 soft 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 tell 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  
Thro 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:  
You 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 I oft 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 sleep 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 Ruin 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 Ptophet 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 BOILEAV.  
'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 Rampaut 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 Register 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 fleet 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 Country's 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 after 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 downright 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 overstocked 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 th'advantage of his Lordship's ear,  
The credit of the business, and the State,  
Are things that in a Youngster'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 eat,  
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 would 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 practise 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 Mastiff's 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 VERSES 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:  
Not 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 th' 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 only see, but never 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 motives 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 human 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.  
A Pox of this fooling, 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 forbear  
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 Casel 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 Musae,  
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 tumultous Scene;  
I'd be a Porter, or a Scavenger,  
A Groom, or any thing, but Poet here:  
Hast thou observed some Hawker of the Town,  
Who thro' 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 soul 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 Rabble passing up and down?  
So Oats and Bedloe have been pointed at,  
And every busy Coxcomb of the State:  
The meanest Felons who thro' 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,  
Amongst Spaniels lost, that Author 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 Pordidg, 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 Countries  
Choose some old English Hero for thy Theme, (Fame,  
Bold Arthur, or great Edward's greater Son,  
Or our fifth Harry, matchless in Renown,  
Make Agincourt, and Cressy Fields outvie  
The famed Lavinian Shores, and Walls of Troy;  
What Scipio, what Maecenas 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 lofty 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 scarce 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 coachman'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 Gipsies 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 write 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 Sophocles 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'ergrown  
By thriving Knavery, can call his own  
A dozen Manors, and if Fate still bless,  
Expects 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 Cook, 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 hard, and stubborn to reduce,  
As a poor Wretch, when once possessed with Muse.  
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, Bridg, 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 IWENAL. 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 fly  
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 unpaid,  
And Knavery the only thriving Trade;  
Finding my slender Fortune every day  
Dwindle, and wast 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 ever 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 Ministers 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,  
Forego 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 Foreigners 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 S. 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 ease 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 Garçon 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 Weatherglass 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 Nobless, 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 Need,  
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 human 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 slight 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 Buffoon.  
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 Scriv'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'er at Barnet, or S. Alban fears  
To have his Lodging drop about his ears,  
Unless a sudden Hurricane befall,  
Or such a Wind as blue old Noll to Hell?  
Here we build slight, what scarce outlasts the Lease,  
Without the help 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.  
A 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 Wife, 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 thro' 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 S. 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 thro',  
And storm your Passage, wheresoever 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,  
Itself 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 chamberpots 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 discern 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 slensless 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 one 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 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 Prize, 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 thro' 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 of use  
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 Human 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 adore;  
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 must 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 apiece,  
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, bring 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 we'll 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 drawn 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 Noise 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.