POEMS ON Several Occasions, Written in imitation of the manner of ANACREON, WITH Other Poems, Letters and Translations.  Cum Thebae, cum Troja foret, cum Caesaris Acta, Ingenium movit Sola Corinna meum. Ovid. Eleg. 
LONDON: Printed for R. Parker at the Unicorn, under the Piazza of the Royal Exchange, in Cornhill. 1696.   

TO THE Right Honourable THE Lord ASHLEY.  
MY LORD,  
THere are many Reasons which ought to have kept me from troubling your Lordship with this Address, but I am willing sometimes to believe there are Others that will a little excuse my Presumption▪ I have been long tempted to use the first Opportunity that should offer, to express my particular Veneration for You. I wish, My Lord, I had now been happy in a better occasion, or that you would not take an Opinion of my Respect and Esteem for You, from the meanness of this Present.  
Authors of all Ages are generally fond of their own Productions; but the Oldest and Youngest are most Infected with this Vanity. Yet I am not so partial to this my first Essay, but I know it wants many Perfections to be fit to come before You. If it Diverts you when you are pleased to be free from the Public Concerns, which so often Employ You, 'tis the utmost of my pretences; I shall be proud of its good Fortune, and have no cause to repent I had the Courage to own it.  
Your Lordship has sufficiently proved that the Gallant Man, and the Man of Business are not incompatable; No Man ever discovered so early such a vast Capacity for the Business you have undertaken. And since you consented to be chosen a Member of the House of Commons, None ever appeared more Solicitous for the Public Could, or knew better how to promote it than your Lordship. You have joined the Vivacity of Youth, with the Wisdom and Temper of Age, and already secured yourself a Character, which others have been Labouring for whole Ages with less success.  
But your Thoughts in affairs of highest consequence, however weighty in themselves, never sit heavy on you; you are not discomposed by them, or prevented from a moderate Enjoyment of those Pleasures, which are the Propiety of men of your Wit and Quality.  
Those who have the Honour to be intimate with You, and are acquainted with the sweetness of your Disposition, and Your unaffected easiness to Your Private Friends, give us such ideas of You, that to be silent here, would be an injustice to Your Merit; however faulty we make ourselves by it to Your Lordship. I can now almost please myself, that I am no better known to You; for certainly my Discretion could not restrain me from consulting my own, more than Your Lordship's pleasure, in dwelling on this Subject.  
The World have so High an Opinion of Your Worth, that they will excuse me for speaking of You, though 'tis even in a Dedication; They will only blame me for concluding so soon; but 'tis that only which can give me any hopes of procuring Your Pardon.  
Such indeed frequently abuse a Man of Quality, with unseasonable Praises who have servile ends to promote by it: but my design is purely to express my Zeal for Your Lordship. I have not yet Learned to Flatter, and it miscarries so often of late, that the Vilest Authors begin to be ashamed of it.  
Most of these Poems, which I humbly Dedicate to You, were Written by a Person in Love, in those Hours which he devoted to the Contemplation of his Mistress: Your Lordship, who is so well with the Fair Sex, must have been sensible of that Passion, which makes us think not always so justly as we ought, you will then pity the Errors you find here, If you can't excuse them; but I Tremble, my Lord, when I think there is not one inconsiderable enough to escape you. Yet though I leave Your Lordship with these apprehensions of your Justice, I would not wholly despair of Your Mercy.  
I am, My Lord, Your Lordship's most Obedient and most Humble Servant. J. Oldmixon.   

THE Preface.  
AFter I have ventured to declare, That most of these Poems were Written in Imitation of Anacreon's Manner, I shall be excused for keeping the Reader a little while from them; since 'tis necessary I should Explain my meaning to some who may think me too forward. I wish I understood Anacreon as well as a great many Gentlemen, who perhaps don't Love him better; but I believe I know enough of him, and of the rest of the Ancients, to find he excelled them all in the Lyric way of Writing, for the Naivete of his Thoughts, and Expressions, for his Gaiety and good Humour, for his Delicacy and Pleasantry, and for most of the Qualities of an honest Gentleman and a Lover. Of all the Ancients Catullus and Horace were happiest in their Imitation of Anacreon; Catullus Copied the Delicate Turn of his Thought, the softness, simplicity, and negligence of his Expression; but Monsieur Rapine tells us, he is not always free from Affectation. Horace imitated him in his Gaiety and good Humour; but he is not so Natural, so Sweet and insinuating as Anacreon, who is ever Pleasant, Free and Graceful, and for the Naivete of Thoughts, I believe will never have his Equal. I might say much more of Anacreon, and the comparison between him, Catullus and Horace; but I will leave it for a fairer Occasion, and acquaint the Reader with what more immediately relates to the Verses I here Publish. I have endeavoured every where to be Easy and Natural; to say no more than what rises directly from the Subject. I have avoided, as far as I could, the Faults of such as have written of Love before me: They were, some of them, Witty Gentlemen, but they seldom speak warmly of their Mistress' Beauties, or their own Passion; when they pretend to it, they discover a greater value for themselves, and would be rather thought Witty and Learned, than Hearty and Passionate. I must confess, I was never touched by any of these Famous Authors. I can scarce read them without Indignation, but I believe their Mistresses were as cold as their Verses, and then I am better satisfied. After what Mr. Walsh has Informed us of their Mistakes in his judicious Preface to his Poems, there is little more for me, or any Man to say on that Subject: You will find nothing in this little Volume, but what was the Real Sentiments of my Heart at the time I Writ it, and he that will not give himself a greater Liberty, has no need to fear being thought forced, or unnatural, which is the greatest Viee in Verses of Love and Gallantry.  
'Tis true, when a Man Industriously avoids Art, he will be in danger of becoming flat and insipid. But we must never let it appear too visibly, and when we mingle it in a Poem, we must manage it so, that it may seem all of a Piece. Art must never be too high for Nature, nor Nature too low for Art, Especially in the Affairs of Love, where the Ladies are to be our Judges, who are very nice in such matters, and will frequently be more taken with a Passionate Look or Gesture, than with formal Speeches, or the finest Arguments. As I have imitated Anacreon in this Naivete of Thought. So I have followed him in his regular measure; and I was once almost resolved to call the Poems that were written in imitation of his manner, Odes; The Numbers being as exactly tried, and as truly Lyrical as I could make them. But the Numbers are too regular and the Poems were not divided into Stanza's, according to the Modern Character of an Ode. Tho Anacreon did not set us this Example, neither did Pindar allow himself to be so Licentious in his Measure, as some who would have us believe they have Imitated him. As for the Stanza, the Ancients and Moderns have frequently used it, and 'tis very beautiful in those who perfectly understand it; yet the sense being to be often closed, and a Connexion of the whole to be still continued; there are few that can confine themselves to such narrow Limits; but when they strive to be Correct in the Stanza, their Thoughts appear imperfect and confused, and have nothing of that Native freedom which ought every where to shine in Poetry. To avoid these Errors, I have given myself more room, but still observed one manner, and kept my Verses to seven or eight Feet, which admits of a softer Cadence, and in little things, pleases the Ear better than the English Heroick of Ten Syllables. Besides, having studied to be always Lyrical, the Numbers according to Mr. Dennis (who is one of our best Judges) should not be extended beyond the eighth Syllable. The Heroic Measure is more sounding, and by consequence not so suitable to the Softness of my Subject, which is generally Love, nor to the simplicity of the Thought and Expression, which I hope will not where appear Forced or Affected.  
If I have not succeeded in Englishing the Two Satyrs out of Boileau, so well as those Gentlemen who have done some others of them, and from whom more is to be expected, I may at least affirm they have not kept closer to the Original, than I have; and perhaps being too tender of the Reputation of that great Man, to mingle my own Thoughts with his, or take the liberties which are allowed in an Imitation, I was obliged in some places, where I strove to be Litteral, to speak too much like Prose; I hope, however, this fault will not be often found, or very much to my disadvantage.  
The Translations out of Catullus, etc. have been often Attempted before, I must own I was not pleased with them myself, nor perhaps will the World be more satisfied with mine: I think, however, in the Numbers and the Turn, I have been more Faithful to the Originals; yet I done't always keep to 'em too servilely.  
After all I can say to insinuate myself into the favour of the Public, I shall make no dependence on my Excuses, though I have many to Offer, which have at least a Colour of Reason; Poetry has not been the business of my Life; I should reckon it amongst my Misfortunes if it had; I only, like Prince Arthur, made it my Diversion, and perhaps, like him, it may be only a Pleasure to the Author. 'Tis too Rich a Study to be a Man's constant Diet, but proper to relish such as are more Grave, and more Profitable.  
Mr. Walsh tells us, A Man ought to be out of Love to Correct those Pieces which he Writes in his Amorous Furies; but I have not had the Patience to tarry for that dismal Hour, and I hope 'twill be late before it overtakes me. This will be some excuse for me to the Fair and Young, whose Hearts are in the same Circumstances; and if some Errors may have escaped me, they will, for their own sakes, forgive such follies which my Passion has made me Guilty of.  
There are some who will condemn me for being too familiar in my Love Descriptions, and going beyond the severity of Religion: These are a sort of Persons who will have the Liberty of their Thoughts, in spite of Law or Reason, who having lost their Taste (if ever they had any) for things of this Nature, are disgusted at the Pleasures others Enjoy, and they are wholly incapable of. If they were People that could be convinced by Good Sense, what the Bishop of Rochester says on this, in his Life of Cowley, is enough to satisfy them. If Devout or Virtuous Men will Superciliously forbid the Minds of the Young, to Adorn those Subjects, about which they are most conversant, they would put them out of all capacity of performing Greater Matters when they come to them, for the exercises of all men's Wits, must be always proper for their Age.  
But lest the Ladies, whom I desire chief to Please, and fear always to Offend, should be prevail d on by these false scruples, to think ill of the following Poems; I assure them here is nothing which has not already been allowed of by the most Virtuous, as well as the most Charming of their Sex.   

THE CONTENTS.  

TO Flavia. pag. 1  
The Contest. pag. 3  
To Cloe. pag. 7  
On a Perfume taken out of a Young Lady's Bosom. pag. 9  
The Grove. pag. 11  
To Corinna. pag. 14  
The Picture. pag. 16  
To Mr. Sergeant, inviting him into the Country. pag. 18  
The Country Wit. pag. 21  
To the Bath, and Zelinda in it. pag. 23  
To Corinna. pag. 25  
To a Gentleman on his being Jilted. pag. 28  
To Lucinda on her Recovery from an Indisposition. pag. 31  
The Respectful Lover. pag. 34  
The second Ode of Anacreon, Translated out of the Greek pag. 36  
Written Extempore in a Young Lady's Almanac. pag. 38  
To Cleora. pag. 39  
A Fragment out of Petronius. pag. 42  
Out of Catullus. pag. 44  
A Song. pag. 46  
A Song. pag. 48  
A Song. pag. 50  
A Song. pag. 52  
An Epigram on a pert slovenly Satirist. pag. 55  
An Epigram of Boileau, imitated. pag. 56  
Another pag. 57  
Another. pag. 58  
The Seventh Satire of Boileau, Englished. pag. 59  
The Second Satire of Boileau, Englished. pag. 67  
To Dr. Turberville of Salisbury. pag. 85    

POEMS.  

TO FLAVIA.  
WHat! Flavia, is your Bounty ceased,  
With the poor Blisses I possessed;  
Possessed, but as a Brother should,  
By halves you have been always good,  
At least to me, when much I fear,  
For others nothing is too dear.  
Ah! Flavia, I would fain believe,  
You are not skilful to deceive;  
Such Youth from Artifice is free,  
And you are only kind to me;  
Thou did you Love, as you profess,  
You'd give me more, or give me less,  
If you at first had used me ill,  
You might with reason do it still;  
You would have had a mock excuse,  
To torture me, or to refuse.  
But when you can so far comply,  
The rest 'tis solly to deny,  
Unless uncommon ways you use,  
And smile on those you would abuse.   

THE CONTEST.  
HElp me, help me! Gentle Love;  
All my wand'ring thoughts remove;  
Fix 'em where they should be true,  
They are all Corinna's due,  
If a long and awful Reign,  
Can in Love a Right obtain.  
Or convince me, I am wrong,  
Tell me! She has ruled too long:  
Tell me! That she was unkind;  
That to Love she ne'er inclined;  
That her Arbitrary sway  
Taught me first to disobey,  
Oh! instruct me what to say.  
I, confounded with my shame,  
Dare not own another Flame.  
Subjects, when they change a King,  
Should some Lawful Reasons bring;  
All my Reasons seem too weak,  
I am Dumb and cannot speak;  
How can I such Beauty wrong,  
One so Witty, Gay and Young;  
Every Charm, and every Grace,  
Dwells in my Corinna's Face:  
But my Cloe is as Fair,  
Happier in a Charming Air:  
So much Beauty, so much youth,  
So much Innocence and Truth,  
'Tis impossible to see,  
And for Loving censure me.  
Sure Corinna cannot blame,  
Such a hopeful, happy Flame;  
When she knows that if I burn,  
'tis in hopes of a return.  
Love, thy Dictates I pursue,  
Tell me therefore, what to do;  
Shall I with Corinna part,  
Shall I throw her from my Heart?  
She does still my suit refuse,  
Is not that a good excuse?  
Oh! if 'tis not, tell me how  
Justice can my Change allow?  
Thou didst first my Soul Inspire,  
Thou dost set my Heart on Fire,  
When Corinna I remove,  
Witness, all the fault is Love;  
Let the Treachery be thine,  
And the Frailty only mine.   

TO CLOE.  
Prithee Cloe, not so fast,  
Let's not run and Wed in haste;  
've a thousand things to do,  
You must fly, and I pursue;  
You must frown, and I must sigh;  
I entreat, and you deny.  
Stay— If I am never crossed,  
Half the Pleasure will be lost;  
Be, or seem to be severe,  
Give me reason to Despair;  
Fondness will my Wishes cloy,  
Make me careless of the Joy.  
Lovers may of course complain  
Of their trouble and their pain;  
But if Pain and Trouble cease,  
Love without it will not please.   

ON A PERFUME Taken out of a Young lady's Bosom.  
Begun! Bold Rival from my Fair,  
Thou hast no Plea for Business there;  
'Twere needless where the Lily grows,  
To add Perfumes, or to the Rose;  
Faint are the Sweets which thou canst give,  
To those which in her Bosom Live;  
Thence tender Wishes, Amorous Sighs,  
Love's Breath, the richest Odours rise.  
Not all the Spices of the East,  
Nor Indian Grove nor Phoenix Nest,  
Send forth an Odour to compare  
With what we find to please, us there  
Where Nature has been so profuse,  
Thy little Arts are of no use.  
Thou canst not add a grace to her,  
She's all Perfection every where.  
Speak saucy thing, for I will know  
How much to her, and me you owe.  
Whence comes this sweetness so Divine?  
Speak, is it hers, or is it thine?  
Ha! Varlet, by the fragrant smell  
'Tis here's, all here's, I know it well;  
I know you robbed Olivia's Store,  
But hence! For you shall steal no more.  
Be gone! She has no room for thee,  
Olivia's bosom must be free,  
For nothing but for Love and me.   

The GROVE.  
OH! 'tis sweet, 'tis wondrous sweet,  
When I and Amarilis meet,  
In a fragrant Shady Grove,  
Full of Wishes, full of Love:  
Oh! What pretty things we say,  
How the Minutes fly away,  
When with glances mingling Kisses,  
We prepare for softer Blisses;  
On some Mossey-bank we lie,  
Play and touch, embrace and die:  
Then from little feuds and jars,  
We proceed to Amorous Wars.  
Oh! how many Heavens we find,  
I am Young and she is Kind.  
Kind and Free without design,  
Mine at Will, and only mine;  
Smiling always, always toying;  
Ever fond, yet never cloying;  
Can the coldest Hermit see  
Half the sweets Enjoyed by me.  
Happy once to see her Eyes,  
Press her Lips, and hear her Sighs,  
Clasp her Waste, and touch her Skin,  
Soon he would forget the Sin,  
All his darling hopes of Bliss  
In a distant Paradise,  
All with ease he would resign  
For a minute's taste of mine.   

To CORINNA.  
FAir Corinna tell me why  
You are often heard to sigh,  
Why your Eyes are often seen  
Kind as Lovers should have been;  
Tell me, Madam, what you mean?  
Something does your Soul employ,  
Love or Anger, Grief or Joy,  
By the Symptoms we discover,  
Something even of a Lover.  
Love, like Murder, will appear,  
Tho' you take the greatest care.  
Every motion will reveal  
What you struggle te conceal,  
Hid it not, for I perceive  
When your Breasts begin to heave,  
When they rise, and when they fall,  
Then I see, and know it all;  
They in spite of all your Art,  
Tell the Conflicts of your Heart,  
Every throb and pant repeat,  
Equal time and motion beat,  
But for whom your Wishes grow,  
That, Oh! that, I cannot know.   

The PICTURE.  
PAinter I have often seen,  
What a Flatterer thou hast been,  
Take thy Pencil now and show  
What thy Art with Truth can do,  
Paint me with the nicest care,  
One that's young and wondrous fair,  
Paint Corinna's Mein and Air,  
On her Eyes employ thy skill,  
Make 'em Kind, but make 'em Kill,  
Make 'em soft, and make 'em bright,  
Let 'em, like her own, delight,  
Draw her Forehead, than her Nose,  
All that's Beautiful suppose,  
Made for Love and Lovers blisses,  
Cheeks and Lips designed for kisses,  
Lips so red and Teeth so white.  
Fancy cannot do her right.  
Such a white and such a red,  
Never can be thought or said;  
All thy Colours will not do,  
Search abroad and seek for new.  
See if nature can supply,  
Colours of so fine a die;  
Draw her Neck, and then her Brea●●  
Draw— What must not be Expressed.  
Charm me with her shape and Skin,  
Let her be all o'er Divine,  
In her Picture let her see;  
What she still denies to me,  
Make her smile, and she will own,  
Naught so hateful as a frown.   

TO Mr. Sergeant Inviting him into the Country.  
COme my Thyrsis, come away,  
Don't your Joy and mine delay;  
But to make 'em both complete,  
Come and taste of my retreat.  
'Tis not such as Hermit's boast,  
When by men or Fortune crossed,  
To some Cell the Fools repair,  
And imagine blessings there.  
Make their virtue a pretence,  
For ill nature and offence.  
Eat the World which in return,  
Treats them with neglect and scorn.  
Nothing looks in my retreat,  
Discontented or unsweet.  
True— 'tis private, and you know,  
Love and Friendship should be so,  
Solitude dissolves the mind,  
Makes it pleasant, free, and kind;  
All our nicest beauties here,  
Scorn th' appearance of severe.  
Seldom, very seldom known,  
To be fierce, or force a frown:  
Seldom are untimely coy,  
When invited to the joy;  
But with wondrous ease comply,  
Or with equal Grace deny.  
When from my Caresses free,  
Love shall force thy thoughts from me;  
Happy in such sweet amours,  
We will pass our hasty hours.  
You with Sylvia, or with Phillis,  
Constant I, with Amaryllis,  
Court and Kiss 'em all the Day;  
All the Evening toy and play,  
All the night-hold— None shall know,  
What at night we mean to do.  
Be it how it will, you'll find  
Nature only makes 'em kind,  
Oft such pleasures may be known,  
You have felt 'em in the Town;  
Yet my, my Thyrsis, you'll confess,  
Fears and Dangers make 'em less.  
Crowds, Diseases, seuds and noise,  
Render 'em imperfect joys;  
But in shades and silence given,  
Every Ecstasy is Heaven.   

THE Country Wit.  
A Country Wit who came to Town,  
Was wondrous willing to be known,  
And that he might not tarry long,  
He saw a Play and writ a Song.  
But this however not enough,  
He went to Will's and borrowed snuff,  
From Dryden's box with many more,  
Who begged the liberty before;  
For you must know amongst the Beaux,  
Wit always enters by the Nose,  
And passing quickly to the Brain,  
Comes tickling down in verse again.  
Our Wit thus favoured writes apace.  
You read the Author in his face.  
With Sonnet, Elegy and Ode,  
He crams a Book and comes abroad.  
But Oh! the sat of human things,  
In vain he writes, in vain he sings,  
The Town uncivilly refuse,  
To listen to a Country Muse;  
And scarce will condescend to damn,  
This mighty Candidate of fame,  
Down to his Seat, the Coxcomb goes,  
He rails at Critics Wits and Beaus.  
He swears that nonsense is preferred,  
That merit never meets reward,  
That envy makes the Critics curse,  
His Poems while they publish worse;  
That spite of what they think or say,  
He'll write or print as well as they.   

TO The Bath and Zelinda in it.  
OH! could I change my form like Jove,  
In showers like him, I'd feast my Love,  
And mingling with the waters play,  
Around Zelinda's breast as they.  
Ah! happy waves you may at large,  
Sport in the bosom of your Charge,  
Survey her Limbs and all her Charms;  
And wanton in her Virgin Arms.  
Be civil yet and have a care,  
You be'nt, too Saucy with my fair,  
Your Rival I shall jealous grow,  
Nor can one eager touch allow;  
You wildly rove, you kiss, embrace  
Her body and reflect her face.  
You're too Officious, and presume,  
To w●nd●● where you should not come.  
You crowd too thick, you stay too long,  
You hurt her with your eager throng;  
But warm her into Love and stay,  
It shall excuse your bold delay,  
Soften her frozen heart and Move,  
Zelinda's Soul to think of Love:  
Ah! melt her breast, for pity, do,  
That I may be as blest as you.   

TO Corinna.  
SAY, Corinna, do you find,  
Nothing in your bosom kind,  
Is it never less severe,  
Or d' ye never wish it were.  
Yes, I read it in your eyes,  
Hear it, know it by your sighs;  
Sighs that gently steal their way,  
Tell me all that you should say,  
Tell me when you seem serene,  
You're not always calm within;  
But are vexed with tumults there,  
Such as oft disturb the fair.  
Say, Corinna, is it true?  
Say, for I'm a Lover too,  
And can tell you what to do;  
He that's worthy to be blest,  
Should be first of Truth possessed.  
Young and constant he must be,  
Fixed like you and Fond like me,  
One that all affronts can bear,  
Exil's, Jealousies, Despair;  
One on whom you may depend,  
For a Lover and a Friend,  
Plead not now for an excuse,  
Man does naught like this produce:  
Justice, Madam, bids you see,  
All these qualities in me.  
Justice tells you I am Herald   

TO A GENTLEMAN ON HIS Being Jilted.  
JIlted! 'Tis strange that you who know,  
What women think as well as do,  
Should in your guesses be deceived,  
But yet 'tis stranger you believed.  
Have not you often said that none,  
About this dam'd intriguing Town,  
Can scape your knowledge but you knew,  
How matters went and who Kept who;  
What Cit, or Worship, or my Lord,  
Allowed for Lodgings, Pins, or board;  
What tricks the keeping fools were played,  
Where, when, by whom and how betrayed,  
No interest, Sir, could yours destroy.  
You still came in and shared the Joy.  
But when you pleased Keep yourself,  
And throw away a little Pelf,  
Your Mistress' were all so true,  
They would not touch a man but you:  
F—! After this 'tis something hard,  
That others should be now preferred.  
But come, consider 'tis no more  
Than Thousands have endured before;  
Consider this will be the Trade,  
While such as sell their Love are paid,  
And there are Cullyes to be had.  
Whilst women, if they once begin  
To wanton,  upon the sin,  
Whilst nature teaches them to cheat,  
Or they find pleasure in deceit;  
In short, while men and women live,  
Tho One will ask, the Other give.   

TO LUCINDA, ON HER Recovery from an Indisposition.  
HEaven, Lucinda, could not long,  
Suffer one so Fair and Young,  
Little able to sustain,  
All the injury of pain;  
To be touched with a disease,  
Which might interrupt her Ease,  
Heaven always guards the fair,  
Beauty's always heavens care.  
Yes, Lucinda is we find,  
Still the Same in face and mind.  
See her Beauties how they shine,  
Perfect all and all divine.  
See how each returning grace,  
Points her eyes and paints her face;  
The Lily and the rose succeed  
The sickly white and Glowing Red,  
Ah! but see that cruel Pride,  
Which we only wish had died,  
Waits at every glance again,  
Little mortified by Pain,  
Settles in her eyes and shows,  
Love and she will still be foes;  
Had her Sickness with its smart  
Touched and mollified her Heart,  
Then her illness wovid have proved  
Happy ills for such as Loved;  
Had it made her undergo  
Half the Torments Lovers know,  
Pity would not now at least  
Have been a stranger to her Breast;  
And pity when it comes so near,  
Tells us Passion is not far,  
Unconcerned at Health or Pain,  
Still she flatters her disdain,  
Ever fixed to be severe,  
See it Lovers and Despair   

THE Respectful Lover.  
MY Mistress is I own above  
The humble proffer of my Love;  
In Justice yet she must confess,  
That nothing can disturb her less;  
It never durst offend her Ear,  
With what she is averse to hear:  
But yielding to a just Despair,  
'Tis modest still, as she is Fair;  
It wishes much, and none that see  
Such Beauty are from Wishes free;  
It hopes for little, naught requires,  
Nor yet discovered its desires;  
It dares not, or it knows not how,  
To tell her what she ought to know;  
How long I have endured the Pain,  
To Love, and wish, and not obtain;  
To find my Passion is unknown,  
Or, what she sees she will not own,  
Or what she coldly may regard,  
She thinks unworthy a Reward.   

THE Secend ODE OF ANACREON. Translated out of the Greek.  
NAture for defence affords  
Fins to Fish, Wings to Birds,  
Hoofs to Horses, Claws to Bears,  
Swiftness to the fearful Hares,  
To Man, their Master, Wit and Sense,  
But what have Women for defence?  
Beauty is their shield and Arms,  
Woman's Weapons 〈◊〉 their Charms;  
Beauties Weapons make us feel  
Deeper Wounds than those of Steel,  
Beauty kindles warm desires,  
Stronger than the fiercest Fires;  
Strength and Wit before it fall,  
Beauty Triumphs over all.   

Written Extempore in a Young Lady's Almanac.  

I.  
THink, bright Myrtilla, when you see  
The constant Changes of the Year,  
That nothing is from Ruin free,  
And Gayest things must disappear.   

II.  
Think of your Glories in their Bloom,  
The Spring of Sprightely youth improve,  
For cruel Age, alas! will come,  
And then 'twill be too late to Love.    

TO Cleora.  

I.  
YOU say you never think of Love,  
Or know not what it is;  
Nor ever had desires to prove  
The sweetness of the bliss.   

II.  
'Tis true, you say't, and we believe,  
However strange it seems,  
You may not wish, but pray forgive,  
If we mistrust your Dreams.   

III.  
A sleep your prejudice is gone,  
And nothing sow'rs the mind,  
Your wishes then a pace come on,  
And force you to be kind.   

iv  
The Angels who your slumbers guard,  
Your tender Breast inspire  
With Love, and Sing the dear reward  
Of every soft desire.   

V  
But when you wake 'tis all forgot,  
The Vision flies away;  
And in the Night what power it got,  
It loses in the day.   

VI  
Your Kindness is to shades confined,  
And dies before the Light,  
By day Cleora then be kind,  
Or be it ever night.    

OUT OF PETRONIUS. An Imitation.  
FRuition is at best but short,  
A silly fulsome fleeting sport,  
Which when 've perfectly enjoyed,  
We're quickly weary, quickly cloyed;  
Let's then no more pollute our Breasts,  
With fires becoming only Beasts,  
Or rush on pleasures, which when known,  
We wish it never had been done:  
But thus, Oh! thus let's lie and Kiss  
Eternity away in bliss,  
No trouble here, or pain you'll find,  
Nor need you blush for being kind;  
These Raptures, Cloe, never cease,  
They please us now, and still will please,  
They ne'er decay as others do,  
But thus, Oh! Thus are always new.   

OUT OF CATULLUS.  
LIsbia let us Live and Love,  
All our little time improve;  
Mirth and Pleasure crown our days,  
Spite of what the Dotard says,  
If the Suns may set, they rise  
Bright again, and gild the Skies.  
Put our Day deprived of Light,  
Sleep succeeds, and endless night,  
An Hundred, now a Thousand more,  
Another hundred warm and close,  
Another thousand, press 'em thus;  
Give me kisses, I am poor,  
When the thousands numerous grow,  
Kiss again that none may know  
What you lend, or what I own,  
While I in gross with haste repay,  
And kiss Eternity away.   

SONG  Set by Mr. Akevoyde. 

I.  
FIE Celia! Scorn the little arts  
Which meaner Beauties use,  
Who think they can't secure our Hearts,  
Unless they still refuse,  
Are coy and shy, will seem to frown  
To raise our Passions higher;  
But when the poor deceit is known,  
It quickly palls desire.   

II.  
Come let's not trifle time away,  
Or stop you know not why;  
Your Blushes, and your Eyes betray  
What Death you mean to die:  
Let all your maiden fears be gone,  
And Love no more be crossed,  
Ah! Celia when the Joys are known,  
You'll curse the Minute's lost.    

SONG Sung at York-Buildings.  Set by Mr. King. 

IF Corinna would but hear,  
What impatient Love could say,  
She would banish idle sear,  
And with ease his Laws obey;  
She would soon approve the Song,  
Like the Voice, and bless the Tongue.   

II.  
Since to Silence I'm confined,  
Sighs and Ogles must declare,  
What Torments my thoughtful mind,  
How I wish, and how despair;  
All the motions of my Heart,  
Sighs and Ogles must impart.    

SONG  Set by Mr. Williams. 

I.  
WHen with Flavia I am toying,  
She with little sports gives o'er,  
Kissing is not half Enjoying,  
Youth and Passion covet more;  
Every touch methinks should move her,  
And to dearer Joys invite,  
When she knows how much I Love her,  
And is fond of the delight.   

II.  
Oh, I see her young and tender,  
Feel her Lips with passion warm,  
See her ready to surrender,  
When her fears dissolve the Charm:  
Banish Flavia! all suspicion,  
All your sullen doubts destroy,  
Trust me, there's no worse condition,  
Than to wish and not Enjoy.    

SONG  Set by Mr. King. 

I.  
THose arts which common Beauty's move,  
Corinna, you despise;  
You think there's nothing wise in Love,  
Or Eloquent in Sighs.  
You laugh at Ogle, Cant, and Song,  
And promises abuse,  
But say— for I have courted long,  
What methods shall I use   

II.  
We must not praise your Charms and Wit,  
Nor talk of Dart and Flame;  
But sometimes you can think it fit  
To smile at what you blame.  
Your Sex's forms, which you disown,  
Alas! You can't forbear,  
But in a minute smile and frown,  
Are tender and severe.   

III.  
Corinna, let us now be free,  
No more your Arts pursue,  
Unless you suffer me to be  
As whimsical as you.  
At last the vain dispute desist,  
To Love resign the Field;  
'Twas custom forced you to resist,  
And custom bids you yield.    

Epigram On a pert, slovenly Satirist.  
PRithee W—s don't write Satire,  
Thou knowst nothing of the matter;  
If thou wouldst be wise and dapper,  
Keep clean thy Face and eke thy paper.   

Some Epigrams OF BOILEAU's  

Imitated.  
IN Vain, my foes have tried a thousand ways  
To rob my Verses of their little praise;  
But if the Fools would easily prevail,  
Let P— own my Works, they cannot ●ail.   

Another.  
PIty me, Sergeant, I'm undone,  
To morrow comes my Trial on;  
R— r comes out, and you will see  
With the same Cannon he will roar,  
Which mawl'd poor Shakespeare heretofore;  
And now comes thundering down on me.  
'Tis done! my fatal hour is come,  
Not that my Muse can find her doom,  
In any thing that he has said;  
But yet to Answer him, my friend,  
The task would ne'er be at an end,  
Alas! the Critic must be read.   

Another.  
AS I walked by th' Exchange, I heard a brisk Fop  
Disputing one day in my Bookseller's Shop,  
That Beaumond to Burnet had never replied,  
And the Case to Dick Parker was lest to be tried.  
Yes, Sirs, it was Printed, I've reason to know,  
Cries Dick, let me see, 'twas some 3 years ago;  
He added, beyond all dispute to remove it,  
He'd bring 'em an hundred fair Copies to prove it.  
Nay, quoth I, coming up, 'tis too many, you're out,  
I ne'er heard the Book went so often about;  
You say right, Sir, says he, you may prove it yourself,  
Look up, there's an hundred and more on my Shelf.    

THE Seventh Satire OF BOILEAU, Englished.  
NO more, my Muse, since Satire don't prevail,  
Let's change our Style for once, and cease to rail;  
'Tis an ill Trade, and we have often found,  
Instead of giving, we receive the wound.  
Many a poor Poet, by his Rage inflamed,  
Has missed his aim, and seen his Writings damned,  
And where, perhaps, he thought he rallied best,  
Some surly Rogue has drubbed him for the jest.  
A tedious Panegyrics coldly wrote,  
Is bundled up, and may at leisure rot:  
It fears no Censures, differing or unjust,  
And has no Enemies but moth and dust.  
But such malicious Authors are not safe,  
Who laugh themselves, and make their Readers Laugh;  
Whom when we Read, we blame, yet still read on,  
Who think that all is Lawful they have done,  
And can't, alas! their merry Fits forego,  
Tho' every grin engages them a foe.  
A Poem soon offends, if too severe,  
For each will think he sees his Image there;  
And he who reads it, may applaud your Art,  
Yet Curses, Fears, and Hates you form his Heart.  
Forget it then, my Muse, and change thy strain,  
The Itch of Satire makes thee write in vain;  
Go learn to Praise, and search among the Throng  
Of Hero's, one deserving of thy Song;  
But oh! For what would I thy Spirits raise,  
I scarce can blunder out a Rhyme for praise;  
As soon as I endeavour thus to rise,  
My fancy flags, and all my fury dies,  
I scratch my Head, I bitten my Nails in vain,  
For all this mighty Labour of my Brain,  
Brings nothing less unnatural abroad,  
Than Blackmore's Poem, or than C—'s Ode,  
I think I'm racked when Praises must be wrote,  
My Pen resists me, and my Paper blots;  
But when I am to rail my thoughts are fired,  
Then, only then, I know I am Inspired.  
As soon as I invoke, Apollo hears,  
The God is ready still to grant my Prayers:  
I think with pleasure, and I write with ease,  
My Words, my Numbers, and the Subject please.  
Were I to Paint the Rascal of the Town,  
My Hand, before I think, writes T— r down.  
Were I to mark you out a perfect Sot,  
My Pen points presently to M—ot.  
I find my Genius with my Wit agrees,  
To mawl a trifling Rhimer as I please,  
My Verse comes breaking like a Tempest down,  
At once you meet with B B —y, Banks and Crown;  
With Y— n, G— n, P—, Durfey, Brown,  
And for one scribbling Blockhead I have named,  
I find a Thousand more stand ready to be damned.  
In Triumph then my Fury hastens on,  
And I in private joy at what is done;  
In vain amidst its course I would engage,  
To stop the Impetuous Torrent of my Rage;  
In vain, I would at least some persons spare,  
My Pen strikes all, and will not one forbear.  
When the mad Fit has mastered me, you know  
What follows— Fly,— if you would miss the Blow.  
Merit, however, I will always prise,  
But Fools provoke me, and offend my Eyes:  
I follow 'em as a Dog pursues his Prey,  
And bark when  I smell 'em in my way:  
I know, to say no more, if Wit is scarce,  
To jingle out a Rhyme, or tag a Verse:  
Or Cobble wretched Prose to numerous Lines:  
There, if I have a Genius, there it shines.  
Thus though even Death, with all the Fears he brings,  
Were hovering o'er to seize me in his ghastly Wings;  
Tho Heaven secured me in a lasting Peace,  
With all the City Pomp, or Country Ease:  
Tho the whole world should think themselves abused,  
At what my Pen had in its rage produced;  
Yet merry, melancholy, rich or Poor,  
I should not cease to Rhyme, but writ the more,  
Poor Muse, I pity thee, some Fop will say,  
Cease your Resentments, and your Heats allay,  
The fool you publish in an angry mood,  
May quench this thirst of Satire in your Blood:  
But why? When Horace and Lucilius show  
What wit in Virtue's Quarrel ought to do.  
The Vapours of their Choler thus exhaled,  
Their Satire fought for Virtue, and prevailed  
With all the Transports of a Noble Rage,  
They baffled and unmasked the Vices of the Age.  
Why! When the furious Pen of Juvenal  
Ran o'er with Floods of Bitterness and Gall,  
Insulting freely o'er the Roman Crimes,  
And lashing all the Follies of the Times,  
Yet safely to the Last the Wits did rave,  
Not one of them was cudgelled to his grave,  
Why then should I a Coxcomb's anger fear?  
Where does my manner or my name appear?  
I done't, like W—, Impudently great,  
With Rhimes and Satyrs every fool I meet,  
Or tumble o'er my Verses in the Street.  
Sometimes indeed, yet what I always dread,  
Where Satire pleases, I am forced to read,  
Where, if they praise the work I often see,  
They Laugh a loud at that, and Low at me;  
Perhaps I'm pleased with what they disapprove,  
And will, in short, still follow what I Love;  
For when a pleasant Thought is once my own,  
I am not easy till I writ it down;  
When with a sacred Fury I am seized,  
I can't resist whoever is displeased.  
Enough— No more of this— let's breathe a while,  
My Hand at last grows weary of the Toil,  
'Tis time, my Muse, to end so harsh a strain,  
Enough— to morrow we'll begin again.   

THE Second Satire OF BOILEAU, Englished. Inscribed to Mr.—  
O Happy Wit! whose rare and fruitful Vein.  
In writing still is ignorant of pain,  
For whom Apollo opens every store,  
Shows you his Mines, and helps you to the Ore,  
Who knows so well, in the disputes of Wit,  
Where sometimes to Defend, and where to hit;  
Teach me, Great Master of your Art, to Rhyme,  
To spare my Study, and to save my time;  
When e'er you please, the happy Rhimes attend,  
And wait your Summons at the Verses end;  
They ne'er perplex you, but observe your pace,  
And where you want, you find them in their place;  
Whilst I, whom Caprice, Vanity and Whim;  
Have for my Sins, I fear condemned to Rhyme,  
Rack my poor thoughts in such attempts as these,  
And sweat in vain for what you find with ease.  
When the fit takes me, oft from Morn to Night  
I study hard, but scribble Black for White,  
To draw the Picture of a perfect Beau,  
The Rhyme obliges me to name B—;  
To name an Author of the first degree,  
Reason's for Dryden, but the Rhyme for Lee;  
Vexed at these difficulties, I give o'er,  
Sad, weary and confused, resolve to write no more;  
I curse the Spirit, with which I am possessed,  
And swear to drive the Daemon from my Breast;  
In vain I curse Apollo and the Nine,  
They quickly tempt me from my late design;  
My Fire's rekindle, I retake my Pen,  
And spite of all my Curses, writ again;  
My Oaths forgot, my Paper I resume,  
From Verse to Verse attending what will come.  
If for a Rhyme, my Muse in such a sit,  
Would frigid words and Epithets permit,  
Or take the next I meet, and tack 'em on,  
To piece a Line, 'tis what the rest have done;  
To praise a Phillis for a thousand Charms;  
The next verse shows the Poet in her Arms;  
When Cloris is informed how much he Loves,  
The Rhyme informs you that she cruel proves:  
When he would talk of Stars or glittering Skies,  
Will he not think of Caelia's sparkling Eyes?  
Caelia, Heaven's Masterpiece, Divinely Fair,  
The Rhyme makes Caelia still without compare;  
With all these shining words by chance composed,  
The Noun and Verb an hundred times transposed.  
How many Poems could I, piece by piece,  
Stitch to my own, and fill a Book with case.  
But when I writ—  
My Judgement trembling at the choice of words,  
Not one improper to the sense affords?  
It ne'er allows that an insipid Phrase,  
Should justle in to fill a vacant place,  
But Writes, and adds, and razes what is done,  
And in four words it seldom passes one.  
Curse on the Man, who in a senseless fit,  
To Rhimes and Numbers first confined his wit,  
And giving to his words a narrow bound,  
First lost his Reason for an empty sound:  
Had I ne'er Travelled in such dangerous ways,  
No Pains nor Envy had disturbed my days;  
But o'er my Bottle with a Jest and Song,  
My pleasant Minutes would have rolled along,  
Like a Fat Prebend, careless and at Ease,  
Content and Lazy, I had lived in peace,  
Slept well at Night, and loitered all the Day.  
From Passion ever free, and ever gay;  
Then limiting th' Ambition of my mind,  
I had not courted Fortune to be kind,  
Despising all her Pomp, I should have known,  
No state of Life more happy than my own;  
Then fond of Rest, and negligent of Fame,  
I had ne'er gone to Court to get a Name,  
But lived in private, and in full delight,  
If no Malicious Power had made me write.  
From the sad hour this frenzy first began,  
With its black Vapours to molest my Brain,  
That some cross Doemon, Jealous of my Ease;  
Flattered my Muse, she had the Power to please,  
Nailed to my Works, and adding something new,  
Or razing out, or still on the Review,  
Still in this wretched Trade I pass my days.  
So low, that B— can my Envy raise,  
Oh! happy B— thy Prodigious Muse,  
Huge Books of Verse can in a year produce.  
True-Rude and Dull, to some she gives offence,  
And seems Created in despite of sense;  
Yet she will find whatever we have said,  
Both Sots to Print her Works, and Fools to read.  
If thy verse Jingle with a lucky Rhyme,  
ne'er mind the Thought, but Prosecute the Chime:  
Unhappy those who would to Sense confine  
Their Verse, and Genius will with Method join,  
Since Fools have all the pleasure, who dispense  
With Art in writing, and despise the Sense,  
Who always Fond of what they last brought forth,  
Admire their skill, and wonder at their worth;  
While Wits sublime their utmost Fancies stretch,  
To get those heights at last they cannot reach;  
And discontented still at what they writ,  
Can't please themselves, when others they delight;  
What all the World applaud they scarce will own,  
And wish for their repose it was undone.  
You then, who see the Ills my Muse endures,  
Show me a way to Rhyme, or teach me yours,  
But lest I should in vain your care implore,  
Teach me Oh!— how to Rhyme no more.   

TO Dr. Turberville Of Salisbury.  
WHat was but little, or but faintly known,  
In former Ages, ripens in our own,  
The sacred Art which we did once believe;  
Too much for man to ask, or Heaven to give,  
The bounteous God at last to you reveals,  
Directs your skill, and as you use it, Heals.  
Of old, when thick Suffusion veiled the sight,  
'Twas Darkness all, and ever during night;  
The wretch despaired, and sought no more for Aid,  
But yielded to the Horror of the shade;  
You quickly now the Solid Clouds dispel,  
The fogs disperse, the rising Vapours Quell;  
You force, you melt, you drive the mists away,  
And show the Ravished Patient, Gladsome Day;  
The Sun before with useless Lustre shined,  
On half the World, for they, Alas! were blind.  
Till his full Empire was by you restored,  
And Man received the Blessing he Implored,  
Looked on the Light, beheld it and Adored.  
Pretenders, though they do not understand,  
Their Art, by chance, may have a Lucky hand;  
Yet if one sees amongst a thousand Blind  
They strive to help, we think their fortune kind.  
But when you touch, you give a certain cure,  
Speedy and Gentle, as the methods sure;  
Like Fate you Doom, and where you promise Light,  
The Patient rises from the threatened Night;  
Or sinks beyond the hopes of human care,  
When Heaven and you confine him to Despair.  
A common Knowledge weak Distempers cures,  
But great are left, for such advice as yours;  
And famed Physicians for a known disease,  
Start at the Wonders you perform with ease,  
To you the Blind in every case repair,  
The Old, the Young, the Ugly and the Fair;  
In all their wants, your Judgements you Display,  
The Old grow strong, and the unhandsome Gay;  
Their Sight by you defended from the rage  
Of sickness, force, of Accident and Age.  
Even Beauty is indebted to your aid,  
For many of the Conquests it has made;  
Those Eyes where Love before in triumph sat,  
Removed, we thought above the rage of fate,  
Wore once the Token of a rude Disease,  
And scarce had left the little charm to please;  
Hopeless of help, from any other powers,  
To you they come, and find relief by yours:  
At your command the Vapours disappear,  
The Clouds are scattered, and the Sight is clear;  
Their Eyes shake off the Burden of the Night,  
And break thro' all, with the returning Light,  
With vast success they reassume their state,  
As the Sun rises Brighter than he sat.  
New Graces, in those radiant Circles move,  
And what before we pitied, now we Love,  
With grateful Souls your Wonders they Proclaim;  
They wish, you were Immortal as your Fame:  
But Nature shortly will we fear decline,  
And Death succeed to make you more Divine,  
Oh! Can our Prayers th' Amighty power Engage;  
To spare you yet below another Age;  
Another still we should be apt to crave,  
And scarce consent to yield you to the Grave;  
Whilst Darkness spreads, and there are men to save:  
For robbed of you, they must Embrace their Doom,  
And Grope for ever in a Starless Gloom.   

TO A Young Lady Who Commanded me To write Satire.  
YOur Sex, Lucinda, other Themes should choose,  
And not impose such hardships on a Muse,  
Who ne'er durst venture, yet on nobler flights,  
Than those which every common Rhimer writes;  
Fields, flowery Meadows, shady Woods and Groves,  
The Nymphs diversions, and the Shepherd's Loves.  
But now you bid me change an Idle tale,  
To stretch my Voice and use myself to Rail.  
A thousand wrongs provoke me to the Fight,  
And what is more, Lucinda bids me write,  
My Coward Muse yet durst not trust her wings,  
And only what she can with safety, sings;  
She knows that Satire is a dangerous course,  
And calls for wit, sublimity and force.  
That every Scribbler ought not to engage,  
To fall on vice with despicable rage;  
For virtue suffers by the vain pretence,  
When Fools affect to draw in its defence;  
When such as by their Spleen and Choler fired,  
On every Whim shall think themselves Inspired.  
Who rob, the Markets, Billingsgate and stews,  
Of names, and terms, and Curses which they use,  
Or furnished by their breeding with enough  
Of such base matter and Plebeian stuff,  
Publish their senseless Ribaldry for Rage,  
And pass the cheat on a believing Age.  
Thus we have known a strange uneasy fool,  
Come snarling up to Town from Country School,  
Fall on the World with Impudence and Noise,  
And as much freedom as he Whipped his Boys;  
None in his Brutal passion he ●●uld spare,  
Ev n Virtue's self his insolence must be ●●,  
Nor awed, 〈◊〉 ●●mper'd, by a form so bright,  
He grow in●●●●d and 〈◊〉 ●t the ●ight;  
●●●●●g'd his fury and divulged his shame,  
The Mob approved it, and the So● had Fame.  
You know, Lucinda, we by Satire mean,  
No course Lampoon uncivil or obscene,  
Where a vile Wit shall nauseous railing use,  
Or to his passion prostitute his Muse;  
A Libeler might then pretend to sense,  
Whose only property is Impudence,  
Then common Whores for scolding we should praise.  
And Carmen have a Ti●●● to the 〈◊〉,  
No— S●ti●e will in brighter Colours shine,  
Her 〈◊〉 is Dreadful, but 'tis all Divine,  
In her true shape, she always will appear,  
Just and Impartial as she is severe;  
The Court and State to her Remarks be long,  
She will but seldom touch a private wrong,  
Unless th' Example should be understood,  
Or private Errors threaten public good.  
But where of Late in England can we find,  
A Pard of such a vast 〈…〉  
Who, scorning Loss of fortune or of blood,  
Dares venture boldly for the common good;  
Whose Genius, fits him for the great design,  
Where strength with Grace and Majesty shall join;  
One justly raving, and Correctly Mad,  
To raise the Good and Mortify the Bad?  
Since Dryden will, or must not speak at least,  
There are None now, None like to be possessed,  
No Pens rise up in Injured merits cause,  
And Mine must never be the first that draws.  
Let Love be still the subject of my Song,  
For Love's the proper business of the Young,  
Ah! suffer me to tread the beaten ways,  
Where I find pleasure, if I meet no praise.    

TWO Letters of Voiture Translated; With other occasional Letters. To Mr. Gourdon at London.  

SIR,  
I Have had more Leisure than I desired, to send you what you demanded of me at parting; and the Winds, instead of carrying away my promise, have given me time to keep it. They have already detained me here this eight days. It would certainly have been very tedious if I had not brought those Thoughts with me from London, which will entertain me yet a great while longer. I'll assure you, you have your share of them, and that my best Thoughts are still employed about you, or about those Things which I saw by your means.  
You may well mistrust that I am not now talking of the Tower or the Lions, which you were pleas d to show me. In one person only, you made me see a greater Treasure than I found there; and One who is at the same time more Cruel than even the Lions or the Leopards. After all this, you will quickly perceive 'tis the Countess of Carlisle, of whom I am speaking. For there is none besides her, of whom I can say so much Good, and so much Ill Whatever danger there is in remembering her, I have not yet been able to forbear it. And to be sincere, I would not part with the Idea I have of her in my Breast, for all that I have seen of what is most Fair, or most desirable in the World. I must confess she is all over a very Bewitching Lady; and there would not be a person under Heaven so worthy to be Beloved, if she knew what Love was, or if her Soul were but as Sensible, as it is Reasonable.  
We can say nothing of her in the condition we know her, but that she is the most Lovely of all things which are not good, and the most agreeable Poison that ever Nature made. I fear her Wit so much, that I was once resolved not to let you have the Verses I send you; for I know she distinguishes in all things, what is Good and what is ill, and that the Goodness which ought to be in her Will, is wholly confined to her Judgement. I shall be little concerned if she condemns them; they are not worthy of a better fortune; they were made before I had the Honour to know Her; and I should be sorry if had, till now, praised or blamed any one to Perfection, since I reserve both the one and the other for her.  
As to you, Sir, I will not make any Excuse, I pretend you are very much obliged to me, and aught to take it kindly that you have been able to persuade me to send you some bad Verses. I can assure you 'tis the only Copy I ever writ twice over; And if you know how Lazy I am, you will reckon my Obedience in this, no small proof of the Power you have over me, and of the Passion, with whlch I would be,  
Sir, etc. Dover, Decemb. 4th. 1633.   

TO Madam SAINTOT, Sent with an Orlando Furioso.  
THis, Madam, is certainly the Noblest Adventure of Orlando. For now that he has the Honour to Kiss your Hands, he performs something more for his own Glory, than when he forced Sceptres from the hands of Kings, and alone, defended the ●rown of Charles the Great. The Title of Furioso, with which he has passed all over the World, ought not to deter you from doing him that Honour. For I am confident, that in approaching you, he will become more Discreet, and as soon as he sees you; will forget his Angelica. At least this I know by Experience, that you have wrought a greater Miracle than this, and with one Word have Cured a Folly more dangerous than his. And indeed 'twould be more Improbable than any thing Ariosto has told us of him, if he were not sensible of the Advantage you have over that Lady; and if he did not confess, that she would never have so much need, as in your presence to fly to the Assistance of her Enchanted Ring. All the Famous Knights in the World were not proof against the Charms of that Beauty. She never struck the Eyes of any, but at the same time she wounded an Heart, and Inflamed with her Love, as many Parts of the World, as the Sun Enlightens; yet that Beauty was but a Picture ill Drawn of the wonderful Things we admire in you.  
All the Colours of Poetry cannot Paint you so Fair as we behold you; nor can the Imagination of Poets reach to such a height. The Chambers of Crystal and the Palaces of Diamonds, which you will read of here, are far more easy to be imagined. And the Enchantments of Amadis, which appear to you so Incredible, are hardly more Incredible than your Own. At the first sight, to seize upon Souls the most Resolute, and the least made for Servitude; to Create in them a sort of Love, which is sensible of Reason and Ignorant both of Hope and Desire; to Transport with Pleasure and Glory, the Minds of those from whom you have Ravished Repose and Liberty, and to render those perfectly satisfied with you, to whom you never were but Cruel. These are effects more strange and more distant from Probability, than the Hippogrifes and flying Chariots of Ariosto, or any of the most Admirable things Romances tell us of. If I should continue this Discourse, I should make a Book larger than this I send you. But this Cavalier, who is not used to give place to any Man, is impatient to see me Address you so long, and therefore Advances to Raccount you himself the History of his Amours. 'Tis a Favour which you have often refused to me. Yet I suffer him to do it without Jealousy, though he is so much happier than I, since he has promised me, in return, to present you with these Lines, and oblige you to read them before any thing else.  
This is an Enterprise which requires a Courage equal to his, to undertake, and yet I am doubtful how it will succeed with him; however, methinks 'tis but just, that since I give him the Means to Entertain you with his Passion, he should acquaint you with something of Mine, and that amongst so many Fables he should inform you of some Truths. I know you will not always be inclined to hear them; though since you are to be Touched by none of them, and that my respect is too much a Trifle to move your Resentment, there can be no great Danger in letting you know, that I esteem you alone above all the rest of the World: To command which, I should not be so Proud, as to Obey you.  
I am, Madam, Yours, etc.   

TO Mr. WALTER At ROME.  
WE admired we heard nothing from you in a long time; but by your last we perceive you were making a Tour from Rome to Naples, and kept us in suspense during your absence from Rome, that you might make us more happy when you came back, in a Description of what you saw at Naples. You remember, Sir, how often I envied you the Happiness you were going to Enjoy in the prospect of those Delicious Countries, which gave birth to the best Muses of Antiquity. I have since often wished myself with you in your Pilgrimage to Virgil's Tomb.  
But now we can hear of your being at Rome, Naples, Mantua, Verona, etc. without the least Emulation. We could no longer have any satisfaction in treading those paths which were before trod by Catullus, Virgil, and Horace. For a Person of good Quality has assured us, the Ancients were a parcel of thoughtless, musty Fellows; that Virgil can hardly pass on him for a good maker of Ditties, and his Georgics are fit only for Ploughmen and Drovers. That Horace must give place to Mr. D D —y; but truly Catullus had a pretty merry way with him, though we have a great many People of Quality who are more Gay, and understand Delicacy, Love and Gallantry much better.  
I think you never designed to go so far as the Morea, or to pay a Visit to Old Athens; and 'tis well you did not give yourself that trouble. The Greeks have utterly lost their Reputation; you would not have been respected a whit the more for breathing over the Ashes of Sophocles, Euripides and Menander. Homer's Achilles, is no more to us now, than a Don Bellianis, and Theocritus is obliged to Veil the Bonnet to some of our Sawneys and Jockeys.  
But if this Honourable Critic has been so severe with the Ancients, he is wondrous kind to the Moderns. He has secured Prince Arthur's Reputation, and thinks it, at least, sit to be compared with Milton's Paradise Lost. We must confess the Poem stands fair in the Opinion of some honest, well-meaning Gentlemen. But you will never forgive any Man, by what Name or Title soever Dignified or Distinguished, who shall draw such Parallels between Dr. B— and Mr. Milton.  
The Dr. is not the only Poet who is happy in the good Graces of this Nice Gentleman; he has taken on him to Praise Mr. C— who, he says, has Matter enough about him to make ten Virgil's; and to show you he is no Niggard, he throws you in a Theocritus, into the bargain: You have often agreed with me, that Mr. C— has a great deal of Merit, and you know we were very glad the Town treated it so civilly at its first appearance, especially in an Age, when People seem to have lost their Relish in Poetry: But you will not consent to every thing, the Person of Honour has said on this Subject. Neither, I suppose, will Mr. C— be obliged to one who shall Print his Panegyric with a Libel on Virgil.  
Thus in a moment the Moderns have got the start of the Ancients: You have Travelled to a fine purpose; most of the Advantages you proposed to yourself by it, are destroyed, since what can be more Ungrateful to us now, than the Names of those Great Men, who made a Figure in the Days of Augustus? But for your comfort, there are some of us that get secretly a corner and Read over Virgil and Horace, with the same pleasure and admiration, which like an innocent Man, you may think they still deserve. We will with joy hear you Discourse of the little Remains you saw of them, and if you could bring us the least Relic of them, we would find out some place private enough to Adore it, inspite of the ill treatment they meet with.  
After I have said so much of these late Criticisms, and of the affairs of Wit and Learning, you may expect a little News from the Theatre; you hear the Town gives Encouragement to two Stages, and there is the oddest Emulation amongst 'em that can be Imagined. For instead of striving who shall get the best Plays, they are both Industrious to secure the worst; The Old House had for a while in this the Advantage of the New; for they got Mr— amongst them; but the New scorned to be out done by such Youngsters, and engaged Mr—, though perhaps you don't think Mr. D— is less intolerable than the other Play Wright. However, for true substantial Dulness in Tragedy, the New House has indisputably the better of 'em; no Man must in this, pretend to Rival Mr. B— who has at last convinced us he is capable of writing a Play more Insipid than any of his former. Thus between the two Houses we are every week presented with a New Monster; I think they ought to hang out the Picture of it, that we may see how we like it before we Enter; 'tis what others, in the same case, make a Conscience of.  
The Old House about two Months ago, made amends for the fatigues of a whole Winter; they gave us Oroonoko, a Tragedy, written by Mr. Southern, with as much purity and force, as any we have yet had from that Great Man. I cant say 'tis Regular enough, but had it been more Correct, we should not easily have known which of Mr. Otways Plays to prefer before it. The New House, to show they can be as Complaisant sometimes, as the Old, presented us lately with a tolerable good Comedy, called, Lover's Luck, written by a Gentleman in the Army: I saw it once, and though I dare not vindicate it, I think 'tis the best of the kind we have had since you left us.  
You tell me you did not give me a larger Description of what you saw Remarkable at Naples, etc. it being big enough for a Volume; you see I don't consider this when I writ to my Friends, I wish you may as easily excuse the length of this, as I would pardon such a freedom in you. I wish you may enjoy a thousand pleasures in the Carnival which you are to pass at Venice, and when that is over, let me tell you, there are no Excuses which ought to keep you any longer from us.  
I am, etc. Lond. Jan. 21. 1695.   

TO N. B—, Esq At ENFIELD.  
I Received from you lately a very Sententious and Grave Epistle suitable indeed to the importance and dignity of the Subject, being in Praise of Matrimony; but why you should Address such a Discourse to me of all Mankind, is what, at first, I could not easily comprehend. You know very well I was never one of those Witty Gentlemen who are always railing at Women and Marriage, as some People make Speeches against the Court, with a design to get Places there. I find the Trick miscarries so often, and see so many of these Satirist; Live with the scandal of old Bachelors, that I am resolved to make my Peace with the Fair as soon as possible.  
You were not wholly Ignorant of this disposition of mine, when you wrote your Letter; and on serious consideration of your proceed, I must tell you plainly, that unless you had some further design in it, you would have thrown away a great deal of very good Morality, abundance of fine Say and Quotations to no purpose in the World. They had been all lost on me, for I was as fully persuaded before of what you say, as I believe you to be sincere when you writ it. However, I am surprised at your excellent Temper and Moderation, for upon some accounts I should have sooner expected from you a Satire, than a Panegirick on a Married Life; and when you speak well of it, it must be confessed you show yourself the most impartial, and freest from Prejudice of any Man, since your own Provocations cannot tempt you to speak against your Conscience.  
This Letter of yours, were it to be Published, and your Circumstances a little better known, were enough to convert some of our most obstinate Marriage-haters; they would see here a person who has suffered from Marriage the injury of Relations, and the inconvenience of a Wife, yet offering himself to Vindicate it to the last. This would be a stronger Argument for it, than any of those you have used to me, and they would be apt to fancy there are those Secret pleasures in this blessed state, perhaps in the disturbances of it, which none know but such as are in it.  
My Friend Mr. Oldmixon has seen your Letter, and joins with me in admiring the Sagacity of it; he is no Marriage-hater I assure you, but what, he says, makes him wonder most, is that being sensible how vexatious it must be to have a Wife out of her Wits, you should still preserve your own, and that being denied the privilege of a Husband, you should never take the liberties of a Bachelor; in this he thinks you might have some relief, if you were not so well contented, and so much in Love with your Condition; And you must certainly be very well pleased with it, when you are always tempting others to Conform to the Doctrine of Matrimony, unless, as we are told in some other cases; you design to betray us into the noose, that you may have Companions in your Misfortune, and laugh at the mischief you have done. And you give me, Sir, some reasons to mistrust your intention at the close of your Letter, when you recommend the ill Natured Lady to me for a Mistress. I cannot help suspecting that you would be very glad to have me as near you own Circumstances as possible, when the choice you have made for me so nearly resembles that which you were pleased to make for yourself.  
Well, Sir, I agree to your sage Counsels, and will give you the Honour of making me a Convert, since you seem so much to affect it; though I assure you, I was far from being in a necessity of your Admonition in this matter, and to speak my mind freely, if I had not been prepossessed before with an ill Opinion of my present state, your Reasons would not have had so complete a Victory, as you may now boast of; the fine froward Lady you wish me to, might have still lived without a Servant, and have lost a very pretty opportunity to show her Talon at Scolding: I wish to God you could change that fault of hers, for any other. I can never beat it out of my Head, but there must be a great deal of plague in Noise, Peevishness, etc. though you know best indeed how far that is tolerable; and I am resolved to take the Advice of People of Experience.  
Bring me then to my Mistress, as soon as you please; secure me in all her other Fair Endowments; give me your promise that I shall clear myself of my Spouse, as easily as you got rid of yours, and see if I am not her, and,  
Lond. Jan. 30. 1696. SIR, Your most Humble Servant, T. S.   

TO Mr. Freeman.  
SIR,  
IF I were, of all Men, the most Extravagant and Whimsical, you, who were once guilty of the same weaknesses, should be the last to Condemn me, since the Passion that robs me of my Reason, has before had the same effects on yourself; you have been long enough blest by it, to forget its former Injuries; and were I to be as happy in my Love, as you have been in yours, I would give you no more cause to complain of my being troublesome, or disturbing your Conversation with Sighs, Groans, Rants, and an Innumerable multitude of Complaints, etc.  
I mistrust, indeed, there are a great many persons in the World who would believe me a very improper Man to make a Husband, were they to see me in some of those fits which you Advise me to be Cured of. But these are persons who never felt the Power of Love. 'Tis true, they are Husbands, and we ought to suppose that all in those Circumstances were first in Min●. We ought to suppose it, if we did not see every day that a Man may easily be an Husband, without being a Lover, or concerning himself any farther about his Mistress, than adjusting her Portion, and Compounding the Settlement. These are your Modern Husbands, and your Modern Lovers; and this is the reason why the Age is so plentifully Stocked with a sort of Animals, which the Ancients used to show for Monsters, as we would now a Rhinoceros, or an Unicorn. But thanks to our Stars, Custom has prevailed on us to look on them with less Astonishment; and even our Children can now play with them, without being Frighted.  
I know some Men, who if they were to Marry, I should suspect they would serve their Wives, as a Friend of mine ●●es his Books, lay them on the Shelf, 〈◊〉 ●ever touch them, but when they 〈◊〉 so much in his way that he cannot ●●●pe them, who when ever he favours 〈◊〉 Author so far as to bring him into his Closet, we know presently he never intends to Read him. But we that are his Friends are ashamed to see a good Library grow mouldy for want of use, and tumble it over, as freely as if it were our own Property.  
The negligence and disrespect of the generality of Husbands would be prevented, if People were ne●●● to Marry before ●●●y give sufficient proofs of their Passion, 〈◊〉 that Interest is not the only Reason of ●heir Engagements: Or if the Proofs we 〈◊〉 did not lie under the scandal of 〈…〉, which you seem to 〈…〉 There are, I confess, in Lo●●, as well as Religion, a Crowd of False Pretenders; and those who talk most of their Sincerity, are most to be suspected. The Enthusiasts in both Cases are to be seldom Trusted: But though we meet with several Instances of their Trenchery, we should not censure all of them for Hippocrites, since we must own, that such as are most Devout, will some times be obliged to discover their Flames: And by their Warmth and Gesture we may Distinguish very often the True Zeal from the Affected.  
You may consider then how far I am to be believed; and I could almost dare you to declare publicly, whether you don't think my Extravagance and Unreasonableness (as you term it) are the most Lawful and Reasonable of any you ever met with; or whether they ever gave you cause to mistruct that I Dissembled? Or whether, when you Reflect on the Advantages Corinna has above all other Women, you do not Excuse me for Loving her to such an Extremity?  
This, Sir, I think you must in Justice declare, and then I shall never repent me of a folly which brings me so many Satisfactions, nor desire to be Cured, but by the same Remedies which succeeded on you; and I dare you further to Publish whether in the height of my Distraction, I forgot once my Duty to my Friends.  
I am, Sir, etc. J. O. January, 17. 1695.   

TO Dr. M— n.  
SIR,  
I Am of your Opinion, that Mr. Cowley succeeded better in his Anacreontiques, than in his other Poems. But he Affected to have a Universal Genius, and that may be the Reason why so great a Wit has left us so Little that is Excellent: We find in all his Writings a Luxuriant Fancy; but 'tis every where Crowded with trivial Points and Turns; the one sometimes very unnatural, & the other seldom truly Delicate. Tho you Commanded me to give you my Opinion on his Anacreontiques, you did not desire me to say any thing of his Pindariques. You knew very well I would Excuse myself if you had; whether I like 'em or not, there is so much due to the man who first Introdced this way of writing amongst us, that none, but the Profane will venture to disturb his Ashes. If Mr. Rhymer had thus considered his Duty to Shakespeare, as he was the Father of our Stage, he would have saved himself, and the World, a great deal of Trouble and Scandal.  
Mr. Dryden has frequently given us a Character of Mr. Cowley's other Verses, but he never said any thing of those written in imitation of Anacreon. 'Tis true, that great Poet is above this Manner, his Genius cannot Stoop to such Petty Employments; But this must not excuse others, who have not his Qualifications, and yet take the same Liberty to think themselves above an Ode or an Elegy. They reckon them amongst the Low Poetry, and nothing can please them now, but Heroick's, Pindarick's, or Tragedy. I have known some who have succeeded in a Madrigal, presently conclude themselves Inspired, and nothing would satisfy them, but they must Venture on an Heroic Poem. You will scarce believe me if I should tell you that an Honest Rhyming Hosier is at this time busy in the Second Part of Prince Arthur. I must confess these things are above my Reach; and I never thought any Person Living capable to pretend to it but Mr. Dryden, and he who knows best what it is, knows also the Task is so difficult, that he durst not attempt it. I send you, enclosed, the Second Ode of Anacreon in English, by comparing it with Mr. Cowley's, you will see best how much I differ from him in his Coppying Anacreon; Mr. Cowley confesses he has Translated it Paraphrastically; and you will perceive where he mingles his own Thoughts with Anacreons, he does it very much to the disadvantage of the Original. Anacreon comes directly on the Subject he Treats of, whilst Mr. Cowley turns and winds to show his Wit and Learning.  
Anacrean gives us one good Thought in an Ode, Adorning it with all the Flowers, and graces of a true Delicacy; and we like it much better than the strange Variety of some of his Imitators. He has in the Ode I send you, Expressed in Twelve words, what Mr. Cowley dwells on almost as many Lines. Some allowance must be made for the Language, but the Difference in the Expression is much more disproportionate. He would hardly have run a Division, when he came to, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  
Mr. Cowley.  
Wisdom to Men she did afford,  
Wisdom for Shield, and Wit for Sword.  
Anacreon would have been loath to own, 
What Steel, what Gold, what Diamond  
More impassable is found.   
He would have startled to have seen the conclusion of his Ode thus paraphrased.  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
They are all Weapon, and they dart,  
Like Porcupines, from every part;  
Who can, alas! their Strength express,  
Armed, when they themselves undress,  
Cap-a-pe, with Nakedness.  
This is a particular sort of Wit, which I am sure is very inconsistent with the Character of Anacreon; Nothing can be more Easy and Natural than this Thought in the Original, where the Translator has been so prodigal of his Points: But in good manners to the Sacred memory of Mr. Cowley, I ought not to say so much against it as I could.  
Through the whole Ode, Mr. Cowley has not at all been exact in his Rhimes or Numbers: If there were no other Faults, this would be enough to Condemn him in things where a sweet Cadence is one of the Chiefest Graces; But every Body knows Mr. Cowley's Felicity was not his measure. However, we will forgive him this, with a great many other mistakes, for the Beauty of his Ode upon Age, which is a masterpiece; and whoever pretends, to give us a Translation of Anacreon, must set that for his Pattern.  
Thus, Sir, I have brought my Thoughts into as little a compass as possible; you have them freely, and without Prejudice, if what I have said will satisfy you for the present; hereafter you may expect something more on this Subject,  
I am, etc. Lond. Dec. 13. 1695.   
FINIS.