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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

While I was thus lamenting my ill hap,  
Comes aid at length: a brace of Bailiffs clap  
The Rascal on the back: " Here take your Fees,  
" Kind Gentlemen (said I) for my release.  
He would have had me Bail. " Excuse me, Sir,  
" I've made a Vow ne'er to be Surety more:  
" My Father was undone by't heretofore▪  
Thus I got off, and blessed the Fates that he  
Was Prisoner made, I set at liberty.    

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The PRAISE of HOME RODE.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two Pastorals out of the Greek. BION.  

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

MOurn all ye Groves, in darker shades be seen,  
Let Groans be heard, where gentle Winds have been:  
Ye Albion Rivers, weep your Fountains dry,  
And all ye Plants your moisture spend, and die:  
Ye melancholy Flowers, which once were Men,  
Lament, until you be transformed again:  
Let every Rose pale as the Lily be,  
And Winter Frost seize the Avemone:  
But thou, O Hyacinth, more vigorous grow  
In mourniul Letters thy sad glory show,  
Enlarge thy grief, and flourish in thy woe:  
For Bion, the beloved Bion's dead,  
His voice is gone, his tuneful breath is fled.  
Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Hearse  
With never-fading Garlands, neverdying Verse.  
Mourn ye sweet Nightingales in the thick Woods,  
Tell the sad news to all the British Floods:  
See it to Isis, and to I'm conveyed,  
To Thames, to Humber, and to utmost Tweed:  
And bid them waft the bitter tidings on,  
How Bion's dead, how the loved Swain is gone,  
And with him all the Art of graceful Song.  
Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Hearse  
With never-fading Garlands, neverdying Verse.  
Ye gentle Swans, that haunt the Brooks, and Springs,  
Pine with sad grief, and droop your sickly Wings:  
In doleful notes the heavy loss bewail,  
Such as you sing at your own Funeral,  
Such as you sung when your loved Orpheus fell.  
Tell it it to all the Rivers, Hills, and Plains,  
Tell it to all the British Nymphs and Swains,  
And bid them too the dismal tidings spread  
Of Bion's fate, of England's Orpheus dead,  
Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Hearse  
With never-fading Garlands, neverdying Verse.  
No more, alas! no more that lovely Swain  
Charms with his tuneful Pipe the wondering Plain:  
Ceased are those Lays, ceased are those sprightly airs,  
That wooed our Souls into our ravished Ears:  
For which the listening streams forgot to run,  
And Trees leaned their attentive branches down:  
While the glad Hills, loath the sweet sounds to lose,  
Lengthened in Echoes every heavenly close.  
Down to the melancholy Shades he's gone,  
And there to Lethe's Banks reports his moan:  
Nothing is heard upon the Mountains now  
But pensive Herds that for their Master low:  
Straggling and comfortless about they rove,  
Unmindful of their Pasture, and their Love.  
Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Hearse,  
With never-fading Garlands, neverdying Verse.  
For thee, dear Swain, for thee, his much-loved Son,  
Does Phoebus' Clouds of mourning black put on:  
For thee the Satyrs and the rustic Fauns  
Sigh and lament through all the Woods and Lawns:  
For thee the Fairies grieve, and cease to dance  
In sportful Rings by night upon the Plains:  
The water Nymphs alike thy absence mourn,  
And all their Springs to tears and sorrow turn:  
Sad Echo too does in deep silence moan,  
Since thou art mute, since thou art speechless grown:  
She finds nought worth her pains to imitate,  
Now thy sweet breath's stopped by untimely fate:  
Trees drop their Leaves to dress thy Funeral,  
And all their Fruit before its Autumn fall:  
Each Flower fades, and hangs its withered head,  
And scorns to thrive, or live, now thou art dead▪  
Their bleating Flocks no more their Udders fill,  
The painful Bees neglect their wont toil:  
Alas! what boots it now their Hives to store  
With the rich spoils of every plundered Flower,  
when thou, that wast all sweetness, art no more?  
Come, all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Hearse,  
With never-fading Garlands, neverdying Verse.  
Ne'er did the Dolphins on the lonely Shore  
In such loud plaints utter their grief before:  
Never in such sad Notes did Philomela  
To the relenting Rocks her sorrow tell:  
Ne'er on the Beech did poor Alcyone  
So weep, when she her floating Lover saw:  
Nor that dead Lover, to a Seafowl turned,  
Upon those Waves, where he was drowned, so mourned:  
Nor did the Bird of Memnon with such grief  
Bedew those Ashes, which late gave him life:  
As they did now with vying grief bewail,  
As they did all lament dear Bion's fall.  
Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Hearse  
With never-fading Garlands, neverdying Verse.  
In every Wood, on every Tree, and Bush  
The Lark, the Linnet, Nightingale, and Thrush,  
And all the seathered Choir, that used to throng  
In listening Flocks to learn his well-tuned Song.  
Now each in the sad Consort bear a part,  
And with kind Notes repay their Teacher's Art:  
Ye Turtles too (I charge you) here assist,  
Let not your murmurs in the crowd be missed:  
To the dear Swain do not ungrateful prove,  
That taught you how to sing, and how to love.  
Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Hearse  
With never-fading Garlands, neverdying Verse,  
Whom hast thou left behind thee, skilful Swain,  
That dares aspire to reach thy matchless strain?  
Who is there after thee, that dares pretend  
Rashly to take thy warbling Pipe in hand?  
Thy Notes remain yet fresh in every ear,  
And give us all delight, and all despair:  
Pleased Echo still does on them meditate,  
And to the whistling Reeds their sounds repeat.  
Pan only ere can equal thee in Song,  
That task does only to great Pan belong:  
But Pan himself perhaps will fear to try,  
Will fear perhaps to be outdone by thee.  
Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Hearse  
With never-fading Garlands, neverdying Verse.  
Fair Galatea too laments thy death,  
Laments the ceasing of thy tuneful breath:  
Oft she, kind Nymph, resorted heretofore  
To hear thy artful measures from the shore:  
Not harsh like the rude Cyclops were thy lays,  
Whose grating sounds did her soft ears displease:  
Such was the force of thy enchanting tongue,  
That she for ever could have heard thy Song;  
And chid the hours, that did so swiftly run,  
And thought the Sun too hasty to go down,  
Now does that lovely Nereid for thy sake  
The Sea, and all her fellow Nymphs forsake:  
Pensive upon the Beach, she sits alone,  
And kindly tends the Flocks from which thou'rt gone.  
Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Hearse  
With never-fading Garlands, neverdying Verse.  
With thee, sweet Bion, all the grace of Song,  
And all the Muses boasted Art is gone:  
Mute is thy Voice, which could all hearts command,  
Whose power no Shepherdess could e'er withstand:  
All the soft weeping Loves about thee moan,  
At once their Mother's darling, and their own:  
Dearer wast thou to Venus than her Loves,  
Than her charmed Girdle, than her faithful Doves,  
Than the last gasping Kisses, which in death  
Adonis gave, and with them gave his breath.  
This, Thames, ah! this is now the second loss.  
For which in tears thy weeping Current flows:  
Spencer, the Muse's glory, went before,  
He passed long since to the Elysian shore:  
For him (they say) for him, thy dear-loved Son,  
Thy Waves did long in sobbing murmurs groan,  
Long filled the Sea with their complaint, and moan:  
But now, alas! thou dost afresh bewail,  
Another Son does now thy sorrow call:  
To part with either thou alike wast loath,  
Both dear to Thee, dear to the Fountains both:  
He largely drank the Rills of sacred Cham,  
And this no less of Isis' nobler stream:  
He sung of Hero's, and of hardy Knights  
Far-famed in Battles, and renowned Exploits:  
This meddled not with bloody Fights, and Wars,  
Pan was his Song, and Shepherds harmless jars,  
Loves peaceful combats, and its gentle cares.  
Love ever was the subject of his Lays,  
And his soft Lays did Venus ever please.  
Come all ye Muses, come adorn the Shepherd's Hearse  
With never-fading Garlands, neverdying Verse.  
Thou, sacred Bion, art lamented more  
Than all our tuneful Bards, that died before:  
Old Chaucer, who first taught the use of Verse,  
No longer has the tribute of our tears:  
Milton, whose Muse with such a daring flight  
Led out the warring Seraphims to fight:  
Blessed Cowley too, who on the banks of Cham  
So sweetly sighed his wrongs, and told his flame:  
And He, whose Song raised Cooper's Hill so high,  
As made its glory with Parnassus vie:  
And soft Orinda, whose bright shining name  
Stands next great Sappho in the ranks of fame:  
All now unwept, and unrelented pass,  
And in our grief no longer share a place:  
Bion alone does all our tears engross,  
Our tears are all too few for Bion's loss.  
Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Hearse  
With never-fading Garlands, neverdying Verse.  
Thee all the Herdsmen mourn in gentlest Lays,  
And rival one another in thy praise:  
In spreading Letters they engrave thy Name  
On every Bark, that's worthy of the same:  
Thy Name is warbled forth by every tongue,  
Thy Name the Burden of each Shepherd's Song:  
Waller, the sweetest of living Bards, prepares  
For thee his tenderest, and his mournfull'st airs,  
And I, the meanest of the British-Swains,  
Amongst the rest offer these humble strains:  
If I am reckoned not unblessed in Song,  
'Tis what I owe to thy all-teaching tongue:  
Some of thy Art, some of thy tuneful breath  
Thou didst by Will to worthless me bequeath:  
Others thy Flocks, thy Lands, thy Riches have,  
To me thou didst thy Pipe, and Skill vouchsafe.  
Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Hearse  
With never-fading Garlands, neverdying Verse.  
Alas! by what ill Fate, to man unkind,  
Were we to so severe a lot designed?  
The meanest Flowers which the Gardens yield,  
The vilest Weeds that flourish in the Field,  
Which must e'er long lie dead in Winter's Snow,  
Shall spring again, again more vigorous grow:  
Yond Sun, and this bright glory of the day,  
Which night is hasting now to snatch away,  
Shall rise anew more shining and more gay:  
But wretched we must harder measure find,  
The great'st, the bravest, the witti'st of mankind,  
When Death has once put out their light, in vain  
Ever expect the dawn of Life again:  
In the dark Grave insensible they lie,  
And there sleep out endless Eternity.  
There thou to silence ever art confined,  
While less deserving Swains are left behind:  
So please the Fates to deal with us below,  
They cull out thee, and let dull Moevius go:  
Moevius still lives; still let him live for me,  
He, and his Pipe shall ne'er my envy be:  
None e'er that heard thy sweet, thy Artful Tongue,  
Will grate their ears with his rough untuned Song▪  
Come, all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's. Hearse  
With never-fading Garlands, neverdying Verse.  
A fierce Disease, sent by ungentle Death,  
Snatched Bion hence, and stopped his hallowed breath:  
A fatal damp put out that heavenly fire,  
That sacred heat which did his breast inspire.  
Ah! what malignant ill could boast that power,  
Which his sweet voice's Magic could not cure?  
Ah cruel Fate! how couldst thou chuse-but spare?  
How couldst thou exercise thy rigour here?  
Would thou hadst thrown thy Dart at worthless me,  
And let this dear, this valued life go free:  
Better ten thousand meaner Swains had died,  
Than this best work of Nature been destroyed.  
Come, all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Hearse.  
With never-fading Garlands, never dying Verse.  
Ah! would kind Death alike had sent me hence;  
But grief shall do the work, and save its pains:  
Grief shall accomplish my desired doom,  
And soon dispatch me to Elysium:  
There, Bion, would I be, there gladly know,  
How with thy voice thou charmest the shades below.  
Sing, Shepherd, sing one of thy strains divine,  
Such as may melt the fierce Elysian Queen:  
She once herself was pleased with tuneful strains,  
And sung, and danced on the Sicilian Plains:  
Fear not, thy Song should unsuccessful prove,  
Fear not, but 'twill the pitying Goddess move:  
She once was won by Orpheus heavenly Lays,  
And gave his fair Eurydice release.  
And thine as powerful (question not, dear Swain)  
Shall bring thee back to these glad Hills again.  
Even I myself, did I at all excel,  
Would try the utmost of my voice and skill,  
Would try to move the rigid King of Hell.    

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

I Mourn Adonis, fair Adonis dead,  
He's dead, and all that's lovely, with him fled:  
Come all ye Loves, come hither and bemoan  
The charming sweet Adonis' dead and gone:  
Rise from thy Purple Bed, and rich Alcove,  
Throw off thy gay attire, great Queen of Love:  
Henceforth in sad and mournful weeds appear,  
And all the marks of grief, and sorrow wear,  
And tear thy locks, and beat thy panting breast,  
And cry, My dear Adonis is deceased.  
I mourn Adonis, the soft Loves bemoan  
The gentle sweet Adonis dead and gone.  
On the cold Mountain lies the wretched Youth,  
Killed by a Savage Boar's unpitying tooth:  
In his white thigh the fatal stroke is found,  
Nor whiter was that tooth, that gave the wound:  
From the wide wound fast flows the streaming gore  
And stains that skin which was all snow before:  
His breath with quick short tremble comes and goes,  
And Death his fainting eyes begins to close:  
From his pale lips the ruddy colour's fled,  
Fled, and has left his kisses cold and dead:  
Yet Venus never will his kisses leave,  
The Goddess ever to his lips will cleave:  
The kiss of her dear Youth does please her still,  
But her poor Youth does not the pleasure feel:  
Dead he feels not her love, feels not her grief.  
Feels not her kiss, which might even life retrieve.  
I mourn Adonis the sad Loves bemoan  
The comely fair Adonis dead and gone.  
Deep in his Thigh, deep went the kill smart,  
But deeper far it goes in Venus' heart:  
His faithful Dogs about the Mountain yell,  
And the hard Fate of their dead Master tell:  
The troubled Nymphs alike in doleful strains  
Proclaim his death through all the Fields & Plains:  
But the sad Goddess, most of all forlorn,  
With love distracted, and with sorrow torn,  
Wild in her look, and rueful in her air,  
With Garmonts' rent, and with dishevelled hair,  
Through Brakes, through Thickets, and through pathless ways,  
Through Woods, through Haunts, and Dens of Savages,  
Undressed, unshod, careless of Honour, Fame,  
And Danger, flies, and calls on his loved name.  
Rude Brambles, as she goes, her body tear,  
And her cut feet with blood the stones besmear.  
She thoughtless of the unfelt smart flies on,  
And fills the Woods, and Valleys with her moan,  
Loudly does on the Stars and Fates complain,  
And prays them give Adonis back again:  
But he, alas! the wretched Youth, alas!  
Lies cold, and stiff, extended on the grass:  
There lies he steeped in gore, there lies he drowned,  
In purple streams, that gush from his own wound.   

All the soft band of Loves their Mother mourn,  
At once of beauty, and of love forlorn.  
Venus has lost her Lover, and each grace,  
That sat before in triumph in her face,  
By grief chased thence, has now forsaken the place.  
That day which snatched Adonis from her arms,  
That day bereft the Goddess of her charms.  
The Woods and Trees in murmuring sighs bemoan  
The fate of her Adonis dead and gone.  
The Rivers too, as if they would deplore  
His death, with grief swell higher than before:  
The Flowers weep in tears of dreary dew,  
And by their drooping heads their sorrow show:  
But most the Cyprian Queen with shrieks, and groans,  
Fills all the neighbouring Hills, and Vales, and Towns:  
The poor Adonis dead! is all her cry,  
Adonis' dead! sad Echo does reply.   

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

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

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

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

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

In Purple wrapped, Adonis lies in state,  
A Troop of mourning Loves about him wait:  
Each does some mark of their kind sorrow show,  
One breaks his Shafts, t'other unstrings his Bow,  
A third upon his Quiver wreaks his hate,  
As the sad causes of his hasty fate:  
This plucks his bloody garments off, that brings  
Water in Vessels from the neighbouring Springs,  
Some wash his Wound, some fan him with their Wings:  
All equally their Mother's loss bemoan,  
All moan for poor Adonis' dead and gone.  
Sad Hymen too the fatal loss does mourn,  
His Tapers all to Funeral Tapers turn,  
And all his withered Nuptial Garlands burn:  
His gay, and airy Songs are heard no more,  
But mournful Strains, that hopeless love deplore.  
Nor do the Graces fail to bear a part  
With wretched Venus in her pain and smart:  
The poor Adonis dead! by turns they cry,  
And strive in grief the Goddess to outvie.  
The Muses too in softest Lays bewail  
The hapless Youth, and his fled Soul recall:  
But all in vain;— ah! numbers are too weak  
To call the lost, the dead Adonis' back:  
Not all the powers of Verse, or charms of Love  
The deaf remorseless Proserpina can move.  
Cease then, sad Queen of Love, thy plaints give o'er,  
Till the next year reserve thy grief in store:  
Reserve thy Sighs, and tears in store till then,  
Then thou must sigh, than thou must weep again.     


Paraphrase upon the 137. Psalm.  

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

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

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

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

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

Paraphrase upon the HYMN of St. AMBROSE. ODE.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

7.  
Guide us, O Saviour! guide thy Church below,  
Both Way, and Star, Compass, and Pilot Thou;  
Do thou this frail and tottering Vessel steer  
Through Life's tempestuous Ocean here,  
Through all the tossing Waves of Fear,  
And dangerous Rocks of black Despair.  
Safe under Thee we shall to the wished Haven move,  
And reach the undiscovered Lands of Bliss above.  
Thus low (behold!) to thy great Name we bow,  
And thus we ever wish to grow:  
Constant, as Time does thy fixed Laws obey,  
To Thee our Worship and our Thanks we pay:  
With these we wake the cheerful Light,  
With these we Sleep, and Rest invite;  
An●… thus we spend our Breath, and thus we spend our Days,  
And never cease to Sing, and never cease to Praise.   

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Plague of Poets, Rags, and Poverty,  
Debts, Writs, Arrests, and Sergeants light on thee:  
For others bound, may'st thou to Durance go,  
Condemned to Scraps, and begging with a shoe:  
And may'st thou never from the Jail get free,  
Till thou swear out thyself by Perjury:  
Forlorn, abandoned, pitiless, and poor,  
As a pawned Cully, or a mortgaged Whore,  
May'st thou an Halter want for thy Redress,  
Forced to steal Hemp to end thy miseries,  
And damn thyself to balk the Hangman's Fees.  
And may no saucy Fool have better Fate  
That dares pull down the Vengeance of my Hate.    
FINIS.