POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS By the Right Honourable, THE E Of R—  
Printed at ANTWERPEN.   

An Epistolary Essay from M. G. to O. B. upon their Mutual Poems.  
Dear Friend,  

I Hear this Town does so abound  
With saucy Censurcrs, that faults are found  
Which what of late we (in Poetic rage)  
Bestowing, threw away on the dull Age;  
But (howsoe'er Envy, their spleens may raise,  
To Rob my Brows of the deserved Bays)  
Their thanks at least I merit, since through me,  
They are partakers of your Poetry:  
And this is all I'll say in my defence,  
T' obtain one Line of your well-worded sense,  
I'd be content t' have writ the British Prince.  
I'm none of those who think themselves inspired;  
Nor write with the vain hope to be admired;  
But from a Rule I have (upon long trial)  
T' avoid with care all sort of self denial.  
Which way soe'er desire, and fancy lead,  
(Contemning Fame) that Path I boldly tread;  
And if exposing what I take for wit,  
To my dear self a pleasure I beget,  
No matter though the censuring Critics fret.  
These whom my Muse displeases, are at strife,  
With equal spleen against my course of life,  
The least delight of which, I'll not forgo,  
For all the flattering praise, Man can bestow.  
If I designed to please, the way were then,  
To mend my Manners, rather than my Pen:  
The first's unnatural, therefore unfit,  
And for the second, I despair of it,  
Since Grace is not so hard to get as Wit.  
Perhaps ill Verses, aught to be confined  
In mere good breeding like unsavoury Wind:  
Were reading forced, I should be apt to think,  
Men might no more write scurvily than stink:  
But 'tis your choice, whether you'll read, or no,  
If likewise of your smelling it were so.  
I'd Fart just as I write for my own ease,  
Nor should you be concerned unless you please,  
I'll own, that you write better than I do,  
But I have as much need to write as you.  
What though the Excrements of my dull Brain,  
Flows in a harsh insipid strain;  
Whilst your rich head, eases itself of Wit.  
Must none but Civit Cats have leave to shit?  
In all I write, should Sense, and Wit, and Rhyme,  
Fail me at once, yet something so sublime,  
Shall stamp my Poem, that the World may see,  
It could have been produced by none but me;  
And that's my end, for Man can wish no more,  
Than so to write, as none e'er writ before.  
Yet why am I no Poet of the times?  
I have Allusions, Similes, and Rhymes,  
And Wit, or else 'tis hard that I alone,  
Of the whole Race of Mankind should have none.  
Unequally the partial hand of Heaven,  
Has all but this one only blessing given.  
The World appears like a great Family,  
Whose Lord oppressed with Pride and Poverty.  
(That to a few great bounty he may show)  
Is fain to starve the numerous Train below.  
Just so seems Providence, as poor, and vain,  
Keeping more Creatures than it can maintain.  
Here 'tis profuse, and there it mainly saves,  
And for one Prince, it makes ten thousand Slaves.  
In Wit, aloneed has been Magnificent,  
Of which so just a share to each is sent,  
That the most Avaricious are content.  
For none e'er thought (the due divisions such)  
His own too little, or his Friends too much.  
Yet most Men show, or find great want of Wit  
Writing themselves, or judging what is writ.  
But I, who am of sprightly vigour full,  
Look on Mankind, as envious and dull,  
Born to myself, myself I like alone,  
And must conclude my judgement good, or none.  
For could my sense be naught, how should I know,  
Whether another Mans were good or no?  
Thus I resolve of my own Poetry,  
That 'tis the best, and there's a Fame for me.  
If then I'm happy, what does it advance,  
Whither to merit due, or Arrogance?  
Oh! but the World will take offence hereby,  
Why then the World shall suffer for't, not I  
Did e'er the saucy World, and I agree  
To let it have its beastly will on me?  
Why should my prostituted sense be drawn,  
To every Rule their musty Customs spawn?  
But Men, will censure you, 'tis two to one,  
When e'er they censure, they'll be in the wrong.  
There's not a thing on Earth, that I can name,  
So foolish, and so false, as common Fame.  
It calls the Courtier Knave, the plain Man rude,  
Haughty the grave, and the delightful lewd.  
Impertinent the brisk, Moross the sad,  
Mean the familiar, the reserved one mad.  
Poor helpless Woman, is not favoured more,  
She's a sly Hypocrite, or public Whore.  
Then who the Devil, would give this— to be free  
From th' innocent reproach of infamy.  
These things considered, make me (in despite  
Of idle Rumour) keep at home and write.    

satire.  

Were I (who to my cost already am  
One of those strange prodigious Creatures Man.)  
A Spirit free, to choose for my own share,  
What case of Flesh, and Blood, I pleased to wear,  
I'd be a Dog, a Monkey, or a Bear.  
Or any thing but that vain Animal,  
Who is so proud of being rational.  
The senses are too gross, and he'll contrive  
A sixth, to contradict the other Five;  
And before certain instinct, will prefer  
Reason, which fifty times for one does err.  
Reason, an Ignis fatuus, in the Mind,  
Which leaving light of Nature, sense behind;  
Pathless and dan'grous wand'ring ways it takes,  
Through errors, Fenny-Boggs, and Thorny Brakes;  
Whilst the misguided follower, climbs with pain,  
Mountains of whimsies, heaped in his own Brain:  
Stumbling from thought to thought, falls headlong down,  
Into doubts boundless Sea, where like to drown.  
Books bear him up a while, and makes him try,  
To swim with Bladders of Philosophy;  
In hopes still t'oretake th'escaping light,  
The Vapour dances in his dazzling sight,  
Till spent, it leaves him to eternal Night.  
Then Old Age, and experience, hand in hand,  
Led him to death, and make him understand,  
After a search so painful, and so long,  
That all his Life he has been in the wrong;  
Huddled in dirt, the reasoning Engine lies,  
Who was so proud, so witty, and so wise,  
Pride drew him in, as Cheats, their Bubbles, catch,  
And makes him venture, to be made a Wretch.  
His wisdom did his happiness destroy,  
Aiming to know what World he should enjoy;  
And Wit, was his vain frivolous pretence,  
Of pleasing others, at his own expense.  
For Wits are treated just like common Whores,  
First they're enjoyed, and then kicked out of Doors,  
The pleasure past, a threatening boubt remains,  
That frights th'enjoyer, with succeeding pains:  
Women and Men of Wit, are dangerous Tools,  
And ever fatal to admiring Fools.  
Pleasure allures, and when the Fops escape,  
'Tis not that they're beloved, but fortunate,  
And therefore what thy fear, at least they hate.   

But now methinks some formal Band, and Beard,  
Takes me to task, come on Sir, I'm prepared.   

Then by your favour, any thing that's writ  
Against this gibeing jingling knack called Wit,  
Likes me abundantly, but you take care,  
Upon this point, not to be too severe.  
Perhaps my Muse, were fitter for this part,  
For I profess, I can by very smart  
On Wit, which I abhor with all my heart:  
I long to lash it in some sharp Essay,  
But your grand indiscretion bids me stay,  
And turns my Tide of Ink another way.  
What rage ferments in your degenerate mind,  
To make you rail at Reason, and Mankind?  
Bless glorious Man! to whom alone kind Heaven,  
An everlasting Soul has freely given;  
Whom his great Maker took such care to make,  
That from himself he did the Image take;  
And this fair frame, in shining Reason dressed,  
To dignify his Nature, above Beast.  
Reason, by whose aspiring influence,  
We take a flight beyond material sense.  
Dive into Mysteries, than soaring pierce,  
The flaming limits of the Universe.  
Search Heaven and Hell, find out what's acted there,  
And give the World true grounds of hope and fear.  
Hold mighty Man, I cry, all this we know,  
From the Pathetic Pen of Ingello;  
From P— Pilgrim, S— replies,  
And 'tis this very reason I despise.  
This supernatural gift, that makes a Mite-,  
Think he is the Image of the Infinite:  
Comparing his short life, void of all rest,  
To the Eternal, and the ever blessed.  
This busy, puzzling, stirring up of doubt,  
That frames deep Mysteries, then finds 'em out;  
Filling with Frantic Crowds of thinking Fools,  
Those Reverend Bedlams, Colleges, and Schools  
Borne on whose Wings, each heavy Sot can pierce,  
The limits of the boundless Universe.  
So charming Ointments, make an Old Witch fly,  
And bear a Crippled Carcase through the Sky.  
'Tis this exalted power, whose business lies,  
In Nonsense, and impossibilities.  
This made a Whimsical Philosopher,  
Before the spacious World, his Tub prefer,  
And we have modern Cloistered Coxcombs, who  
Retire to think, cause they have naught to do.  
But thoughts, are given for Actions government,  
Where Action ceases, thoughts impertinent:  
Our Sphere of Action, is life's happiness,  
And he who thinks Beyond, thinks like an Ass.  
Thus, whilst 'gainst false reas'ning I inveigh,  
I own right Reason, which I would obey:  
That Reason that distinguishes by sense,  
And gives us Rules, of good, and ill from thence:  
That bounds desires, with a reforming Will,  
To keep 'em more in vigour, not to kill.  
Your Reason hinders, mine helps t'enjoy,  
Renewing Appetites, yours would destroy.  
My Reasons is my Friend, yours is a Cheat,  
Hunger calls out, my Reason bids me eat;  
Perversely yours, your Appetite does mock,  
This asked for Food, that answers what's a Clock?  
This plain distinction Sir your doubt secures,  
'Tis not true Reason I despise but yours.  
This I think Reason righted, but for Man,  
I'll ne'er recant defend him if you can.  
For all his Pride, and his Philosophy,  
'Tis evident, Beasts are in their degree,  
As wise at least, and better far than he.  
Those Creatures, are the wisest who attain,  
By surest means, the ends at which they aim.  
If therefore Jowler, finds, and Kills his Hares,  
Better than M—, supplies Committed Chairs;  
Though one's a Satesman, th'other but a Hound.  
Jowler, in Justice, would be wiser found.  
You see how far Man's wisdom here extends,  
Look next, if humane Nature makes amends;  
Whose Principles, most generous are, and just,  
And to whose Morals, you would sooner trust.  
Be Judge yourself, I'll bring it to the test,  
Which is the basest Creature Man, or Beast?  
Birds feed on Birds, Beast on each other prey,  
But Savage Man alone, does Man betray:  
Pressed by necessity, they Kill for Food,  
Man, undoes Man, to do himself no good.  
With Teeth, & Claws: by Nature armed thy hunt,  
Nature's allowance, to supply their want.  
But Man, with smiles, embraces Friendships, praise.  
Unhumanely his Fellows life betrays;  
With voluntary pains, works his distress,  
Not through necessity, but wantonness.  
For hunger, or for Love, they fight, or tear,  
Whilst wretched Man, is still in Arms for fear;  
For fear he Arms, and is of Arms afraid,  
By fear, to fear, successively betrayed  
Base fear, the fource whence his best passion came,  
His boasted Honour, and his dear bought Fame.  
That lust of Power, to which he's such a Slave,  
And for the which alone he dares be brave:  
To which his various Projects are designed,  
Which makes him generous, affable, and kind.  
For which he takes such pains to be thought wise,  
And screws his actions, in a forced disguise:  
Leading a tedious life in Misery,  
Under laborious, mean Hypocrisy.  
Look to the bottom, of his vast design,  
Wherein Man's Wisdom, Power, and Glory join;  
The good he acts, the ill he does endure;  
'Tis all for fear, to make himself secure.  
Merely for safety, after Fame we thirst,  
For all Men, would be Cowards if they durst.  
And honesty's against all common sense,  
Men must be Knaves, 'tis in their own defence.  
Mankind's dishonest, if you think it fair;  
Amongst known Cheats, to play upon the square,  
You'll be undone—  
Nor can weak truth, your reputation save,  
The Knaves, will all agree to call you Knave.  
Wronged shall he live, insulted o'er, oppressed.  
Who dares be less a Villain, than the rest.  
Thus Sir you see what humane Nature craves,  
Most Men are Cowards, all Men should be Knaves:  
The difference lies (as far as I can see)  
Not in the thing itself, but the degree;  
And all the subject matter of debate,  
Is only who's a Knave, of the first Rate?   

All this with indignation have I hurled,  
At the pretending part of the proud World,  
Who swollen with selfish vanity, devise,  
False freedoms, holy Cheats, and formal Lies  
Over their fellow Slaves, to tyrannize.   

But if in Court, so just a Man there be,  
(In Court, a just Man, yet unknown to me.)  
Who does his needful flattery direct,  
Not to oppress, and ruin, but protect;  
Since flattery which may so ever laid,  
Is still a Tax on that unhappy Trade.  
If so upright a Statesman, you can find,  
Whose passions bend to his unbyased Mind;  
Who does his Arts, and Policies apply,  
To raise his Country, not his Family;  
Nor while his Pride, owned Avarice withstands,  
Receives Aureal Bribes, from Friends corrupted hands.   

Is there a Churchman who on God relies?  
Whose Life, his Faith, and Doctrine Justifies?  
Not one blown up, with vain Prelatique Pride,  
Who for reproof of Sins, does Man deride:  
Whose envious heart with his obstrep'ous saucy Eloquence,  
Dares chide at Kings, and rail at Men of sense.  
Who from his Pulpit, vents more peevish lies,  
More bitter rail, scandals, Calumnies,  
Than at a gossiping, are thrown about,  
When the good Wives get drunk, and then fall out.  
None of that sensual Tribe, whose Talents lie,  
In Avarice, Pride, Sloth, and Gluttony.  
Who hunt good Livings, but abhor good Lives,  
Whose lust exalted, to that height arrives,  
They act Adunltery with their own Wives.  
And e'er a score of years completed be,  
Can from the lofty Pulpit proudly see,  
Half a large Parish, their own Progeny.   

Nor doting B— who would be adored,  
For domineering at the Council Board;  
A greater Fop, in business at fourscore,  
Fonder of serious Toys, affected more,  
Than the gay glittering Fool, at twenty proves,  
With all his noise, his tawdrey clothes, and loves,   

But a meek humble Man, of modest sense,  
Who Preaching peace, does practice continence;  
Whose pious life's a proof he does believe,  
Mysterious truths, which no Man can conceive.  
If upon Earth there dwell such God like Men,  
I'll here recant my Paradox to them.  
Adore those Shrines of Virtue, Homage pay,  
And with the Rabble World, their Laws obey.  
If such there are, yet grant me this at least,  
Man differs more from Man, than Man from Beast,    

A Ramble in St. JAMES' PARK.  

MUch Wine had passed with grave discourse,  
Of who Fucks who, and who does worse;  
Such as you usually do hear,  
From them that diet at the Bear;  
When I, who still take care to see,  
Drunkenness relieved by Lechery;  
Went out into St. James' Park,  
To cool my Head, and fire my Heart:  
But though St. James has the honour on't,  
'Tis consecrate to Prick and Cunt.  
There by a most incestuous Birth;  
Strange Woods,, spring from the teeming Earth  
For they relate how heretofore,  
When Ancient Pict, began to whore,  
Deluded of his Assignation,  
(Jilting it seems was then in fashion.)  
Poor pensive Lover, in this place,  
Would Frigg upon his Mother's Face:  
Whence Rows of Mandrake's tall did rise,  
Whose lewd Tops Fucked the very Skies.  
Each imitative Branch does twine,  
In some loved fold of Aretine.  
And Nightly now beneath their shade,  
Are Bugg'ries, Rapes, and Incests made.  
Unto this All-sin-sheltring Grove,  
Whores of the Bulk, and the Alcove.  
Great Ladies Chambermaid's, Drudges;  
The Rag-picker; and Heiress trudges;  
Carmen, Divines, great Lords, and Tailors,  
Prentices, Pimps, Poets and Gaolers;  
Footmen, fine Fops, do here arrive,  
And here promisculously they strive.   

Along these hollowed Walks it was,  
That I beheld Corinna pass;  
Who ever had been by to see,  
The proud disdain she cast on me.  
Though charming Eyes, he would have sworn,  
She drapt from Hea'vn that very hour;  
Forsaking the Divine abode.  
In scorn of some despairing God.  
But mark what Creatures Women are.  
So infinitely vile, and fair.   

Three Knights, o'th' Elbow, and the slur,  
With wriggling Tails, made up to her.   

The first was of your Whitehall Blades  
Near kin to th' Mother of the Maids,  
Graced by whose favour he was able,  
To bring a Friend to th' Waiters Table.  
Where he had heard Sir Edward S.—  
Say how the K— loved Bansted Mutton.  
Since when he'd ne'er be brought to eat,  
By's good will any other Meat.  
In this, as well as all the rest,  
He ventures to do like the best.  
But wanting common Sense, th'ingredient,  
In choosing well, not least expedient.  
Converts Abortive imitation.  
To Universal affectation;  
So he not only eats, and talks,  
But feels, and smells, sits down and walks.  
Nay looks, and lives, and loves by Rote,  
In an old tawdrey Birth-Day-Coat.   

The Second was a Gray's Inn Wit,  
A great Inhabiter of the Pit;  
Where Critick-like, he sits and squints,  
Steals Pocket-Handkerchiefs, and hints,  
From's Neighbour, and the Comedy,  
To Court and pay his Landlady.   

The Third a Lady's Eldest Son,  
Within few years of Twenty One;  
Who hopes from his propitious Fate,  
Against he comes to his Estate.  
By these Two Worthies to be made  
A most accomplished tearing Blade.  
One in a strain 'twixt Tune and Nonsense,  
Cries, Madam, I have loved you long since,  
Permit me your fair hand to kiss.  
When at her Mouth her C— says yes.   

In short, without much more ado.  
Joyful, and pleased, away she flew;  
And with these Three confounded Asses,  
From Park, to Hackney-Coach, she passes.  
So a proud Bitch does lead about,  
Of Humble Curs, the Amorous rout:  
Who most obsequiously do hunt,  
The savoury sense of Salt-swolne Cunt.  
Some Power more patient now relate;  
The sense of this surprising Fate.  
Gods! that a thing admired by me,  
Should taste so much of Infamy.  
Had she picked out to rub her Arse on,  
Some stiff-pricked Clown, or well hung Parson.  
Each job of whose Spermatick Sluice,  
Had filled her C—t with wholesome Juice.  
I the proceeding should have praised,  
In hope she had quenched a Fire I raised:  
Such natural freedoms are but just,  
There's something generous in mere Lust.  
But to turn damned abandoned Jade,  
When neither Head nor Tail persuade;  
To be a Whore, in understanding,  
A Passive Pot for Fools to S— in.  
The Devil played booty, sure with thee,  
To bring a blot of infamy.  
But why was I of all Mankind,  
To so severe a fate designed?  
Ungrateful! why this Treachery  
To humble fond, believing me?  
Who gave you Privileges above,  
The nice allowances of Love?  
Did ever I refuse to bear,  
The meanest part your Lust could spare?  
When your lewd C— t, came spewing home,  
Drenched with the Seed of half the Town.  
My Dram of sperm, was supped up after,  
For the digestive Surfeit Water.  
Full gorded at another time,  
With a vast Meal of Nasty Slime;  
Which your devouring C— t had drawn  
From Porter's Backs, and Footman's Brawn.  
I was content to serve you up,  
My B-lock full, for your Grace Cup;  
Nor ever thought it an abuse,  
While you had pleasure for excuse.  
You that could make my Heart away,  
For Noise and Colours, and betray,  
The Secrets of my tender hours,  
To such Knight Errand Paramours;  
When leaning on your Faithless Breast,  
Wrapped in security, and rest.  
Soft kindness all my powers did move,  
And reason lay dissolved in Love.  
May stinking Vapour choke your Womb,  
Such as the Men you dote upon;  
May your depraved Appetite,  
That could in whiffling Fools delight,  
Beget such Frenzies in your Mind,  
You may go mad for the Northwind.  
And fixing all your hopes upon't;  
To have him Bluster in your C—t.  
Turn up your longing Arse to th' Air,  
And perish in a wild despair.  
But Cowards shall forget to Rant,  
Schoolboys to Frigg, old Whores to Paint:  
The Jesuits Fraternity,  
Shall leave the use of Buggery.  
Crablowse, inspired with Grace Divine,  
From Earthy Cod, to Heaven shall climb;  
Physicians, shall believe in Jesus,  
And disobedience cease to please us.  
ere I desist with all my Power,  
To plague this Woman and undo her.  
But my revenge will best be timed,  
When she is Married that is lymd;  
In that most lamentable State,  
I'll make her feel my scorn, and hate;  
Pelt her with Scandals, Truth, or Lies,  
And her poor Cur with jealousies.  
Till I have torn him from her Breech,  
While she whines like a Dog-drawn Bitch.  
Loathed, and deprived, kicked out of Town,  
Into some dirty hole alone,  
To Chew the Cud of Misery,  
And know she owes it all to me.  
And may no Woman better thrive,  
Who dares profane the C—t I S—    

A Letter fancied from Artemisa jam the Town, to Cloe in the Country.  

CLoe, by your command in Verse I write,  
Shortly you'll bid me ride astride and Fight;  
Such Talents better with our Sex agree,  
Than lofty flights of dangerous Poëtry,  
Among the Men, I mean the Men of Wit,  
(At least they passed for such before they writ.)  
How many bold adventurers for the Bays,  
Proudly designing large returns of Praise.  
Who durst that stormy Pathless World explore,  
Were soon dashed back, & wrecked on the dull shore,  
Broke off that little stock they had before.  
How would a Woman's tottering Bark be tossed,  
Where stoutest Ships, the Men of Wit are lost?  
When I reflect on this I strait grow wise,  
And my own self I gravely thus advise.   

Dear Artemisa, Poetry's a Snare,  
Bedlam, has many Mansions; have a care,  
Your Muse diverts you, makes the Reader, sad  
You think yourself inspired, he thinks you mad  
Thus like an Arrant Woman as I am,  
No sooner well convinced writin'gs a shame,  
That Whore, is scarce a more reproachful name  
Than Poetess—  
Like Men that Mary, or like Maids that woe,  
Because it is the worst thing they can do.  
Pleased with the contradiction, and the Sin,  
Me thinks I stand on Thorns till I begin.   

You expect to hear at least, what love has passed  
In this lewd Town, since you, and I saw last  
What change has happened of Intrigues, and whether,  
The old ones last, and who, and who's together?  
But how (my dearest Cloe) should I set  
My Pen to write, what I would fain forget?  
Or name the lost thing Love, without a Tear,  
Since so debauched by illbred Customs here?  
Love, the most generous passion of the Mind,  
The softest refuge innocence can find,  
The safe director of unguided Youth,  
Fraught with kind wishes and secured by Truth;  
That Cordial drop, Heaven in our Cup has thrown,  
To make the naus'ous draught of life go down;  
On which one only blessing, God, might raise,  
In Lands of Atheists, Subsidies of praise;  
For none did, ere so dull, and stupid prove,  
But felt a God, and blest his power in love:  
This only joy, for which poor we were made,  
Is grown like play, to be an Arrant Trade;  
The Rooks creep in, and it has got of late,  
As many little Cheats, and tricks as that:  
But what yet more a Woman's heart would vex,  
'Tis chiefly carried on by our own Sex.  
Oh silly Sex! though born like Monarches free,  
Turn Gipsies, for a meaner liberty,  
And hate restraint, though but from infamy.  
They call what ever is not common, nice,  
And deaf to Nature's Rule, or Love's advice,  
Forsake the pleasure, to pursue the Vice.  
To an exact perfection they have brought,  
The action Love, the passion is forgot;  
'Tis below Wit, they say, if we admire,  
And even with approving, they desire:  
Their private wish, obeys the public voice;  
'Twixt good, and bad, whimsy decides, not choice;  
Fashion grown up to taste, at forms they strike,  
They know what they would have, not what they like.  
Bovy's, a Beauty, if some few agree  
To call him so, the rest to that degree, 
Sir. R. B.   
Affected are, that with their Ears they see.   

Where I was visiting the other Night,  
Comes a fine Lady, with her humble Knight;  
Who had prevailed with her, through her own skill,  
At his request, though much against his will  
To come to London—  
As the Coach stopped, I heard her voice more loud,  
Then a great Bellied Woman's, in a Crowd;  
Telling the Knight, that her affairs require,  
He for some hours, obsequiously retire.  
I think she was ashamed he should be seen,  
Hard fate of Husband, the Gallant had been,  
Thought a diseased, ill favoured Fool, brought in  
Dispatch says she, the business you pretend,  
Your Beastly visit, to your drunken Friends;  
A Bottle, ever makes you look so fine;  
Methinks I long to smell you stink of Wine:  
Your Country drinking Breathes enough to Kill;  
Sour Ale, corrected with a Lemon Pill.  
Prithee farewell, we'll meet again anon,  
The necessary thing, bows, and is gone.  
She flies up stairs, and haste does show,  
That silly Antic Postures will allow.  
And then burst out— And Madam am not I,  
The strangest altered Creature! let me die,  
I find myself rediculously grown,  
Fmbarrast, with my being out of Town.  
Rude, and untaught, like any Indian Queen,  
My Country nakedness, is strangely seen.  
How is Love governed, Love that rules the state  
And pray who are the Men most worn of late?  
When I was married, Fools, were A-la-mode,  
Then Men of Wit, were then held incommode,  
Slow of belief, and sickle in desire,  
Who e'er they'll be persuaded, must inquire,  
As if they came to spy, not to admire.  
With searching wisdom, fatal to their ease,  
They find out why, what may, and should not please.  
Nay take themselves for injured, when we dare,  
Make'em think better of us than we are:  
And if we hide our frailties from their sights,  
Call us deceitful Jilts, and Hypocrites;  
Thy little guess (who at our Arts are grieved)  
The perfect joy of being well deceived:  
Inquisitive, as jealous Cuckolds grow.  
Rather than not be knowing, they will know,  
What being known, creates their certain we.  
Women, should these of all Mankind avoid,  
For wonder by clear knowledge is destroyed,  
Women, who is an Arrant Bird of Night,  
Bold in the dusk, before a Fools dull sight,  
Must fly, when Reason brings the blazing light.  
But the kind easy Fool, apt to admire  
Himself, trust us; his follies all conspire,  
To flatter his, and favour our desire:  
Vain of his proper merit, he with ease.  
Believes we love him best, who best can please:  
On him our gross, dull, common, flatteries, pass.  
Ever most happy, when most made an Ass;  
Heavy to apprehend, though all Mankind  
Perceive us false, the Fop himself, is blind,  
Who doting on himself—  
Thinks every one that sees him of his Mind.  
These are true women's Men here forced to cease,  
Through want of breath, not will to hold her peace;  
She to the Window runs, where she had spied,  
Her much esteemed dear Friend, the Monkey eyed.  
With Forty smiles, as many Antic bows,  
As if't had been the Lady of the House,  
The dirty chattering Monster, she embraced;  
And made it this fine tender Speech at last.  
Kiss me! thou curious Miniature of Man.  
How odd thou art! how pretty! how japan!  
Oh I could live and die with thee! then on  
For half on hour in Compliments she ran.  
I took this time to think what Nature meant,  
When this mixed thing into the World she sent,  
So very wise, yet so impertinent,  
One that knows every thing; that God thought fit,  
Should be an Ass, through choich, not want of wit.  
Whose Foppery, without the help of sense,  
Could ne'er have rise to such an excellence.  
Nature's as lame in making a true Fop,  
As a Philosopher; the very top.  
And dignity of folly, we attain,  
By studious search, and labour of the Brain;  
By observation, Council, and deep thought,  
God, never made a Coxcomb worth a groat;  
We owe that Name to Inductry, and Arts,  
An eminent Fool, must be a Man of parts:  
And such a one was she, who had turned o'er,  
As many Books as Men, loved much, read more;  
Haddit discerning Wit, to her was known,  
Every one's fault, or merit, but her own:  
All the good Qualities, that ever blessed,  
A Woman, so distinguished from the rest,  
Except discretion only, she possessed.   

But now Moncher, dear Pug, says she adieu,  
And the discourse broke off, does thus renew.   

You smile to see me, whom the World perchance  
Mistakes to have some wit, so far advance.  
The interest of Fools, that I approve,  
Their merit more, than men's of wit, and love.  
But in our Sex, too may proofs there are,  
Of such whom Wits undone, and Fools repair:  
This in my time, was so observed a Rule,  
Hardly a Wench, in Town, but had her Fool;  
The meanest common Slut, who long was grown,  
The jest, and scorn of every Pit Buffoon;  
Had yet left charms enough, to have subdued,  
Some Fop, or other, fond to be thought lewd.  
F—, could make an Irish Lord, a Nokes;  
And B— M—, had her City Coke  
A Woman's ne'er so ruined, but she can,  
Be still revenged, on her undoer Man.  
How lost soe'er, she'll find some Lover, more,  
A more abandoned Fool, than she a Whores  
That wretched thing Corinna, who has run  
Through all the several ways of being undone,  
Cozened at first by love, and living then,  
By turning thee too dear-bought-cheat on Men.  
Gay were the hours, and winged with joy they slew,  
When first the Town, her early Beauties knew;  
Courted admired, and loved, with Presents fed,  
Youth in her Cheeks, and pleasure in her Bed.  
Till Fate, or her ill Angel, thought it fit,  
To make her dote upon a Man of Wit,  
Who found 'twas dull to love above a Day,  
Made his ill natured jest, and went away:  
Now scorned of all, forsaken and oppressed.  
she's a Memento mori, to the rest.  
Diseased, decayed, to take up Half a Crown,  
Must Mortgage her Long Scarf, & Mantoe-Gown.  
Poor Greature! who unheard of as a Fly,  
In some dark hole, must all the Winter lie.  
And want she must endure a whole half year,  
That for one Month, she Tawdry may appear:  
In Easter Term, she gets her a new Gown,  
When my young Master's Worship comes to Town;  
From Pedagogue, and Mother, jest set free,  
The hopeful Heir, of a great Family;  
Who with strong Beer, and Beef, the Country rules,  
And ever since the Conqnest, have been Fools.  
And still with careful prospect, to maintain,  
This Character, least crossing of the Strain.  
Should mend the Body Breed, his Friends provide,  
A Cousin of his own to be his Bride.  
And thus set out—  
With an Estate, no Wit, and a young Wife,  
The sole comforts, of a Coxcomb's life;  
Dunghill, and Peas, forfook, he comes to Town,  
Turus' Spark, learns to be lewd, and is undone.  
Nothing suits worse with Vice, than want of sense,  
Fools are still wicked, at their own expense.  
This o'er grown Schoolboy, lost Corinna, wins,  
At the first dush, to make an Ass, begins.  
Pretends to like a Man, that has not known.  
The Vanilies, nor Vices of the Town.  
Fresh in his youth, and faithful in his love,  
Eager of joys, which he does seldom prove,  
Healthful, and strong, he does no pains endure,  
But what the fair one, he adores, can cure:  
Greateful for favours, does the Sex esteem,  
And Libels none, for being kind to him.  
Then of the lewdness of the Town complains,  
Rails at the Wits, and Atheists, and maintains,  
'Tis better than good sense, than Paw'r, or Wealth,  
To have a Blood, untained, youth, and health.  
The illbred Puppy, who had never seen,  
A Creature look so gay, or talk so fine;  
Believes, then falls in love, and then in debt,  
Mortgages all, even to the Ancient Seat,  
To buy this Mystriss, a new House, for life;  
To give her Plate, and Jewels, Robs his Wife.  
And when to the height of fondness he is grown,  
'Tis time to poison him, and all's her own.  
Thus meeting in her common Arms his Fate,  
He leaves her Bastard, Heir to his Estate;  
And as the Race of such an Owl, deserves  
His own dull lawful Progeny he starves  
Nature, who never made a thing in vain,  
But does each Insect, to some end ordain.  
Wisely provides kind-keeping Fools, no doubt  
To patch up Vices, Men of Wit, were out.   

Thus she ran on Two hours, some grains of sense,  
Still mixed with Volleys of impertinence.  
But now 'tis time I should some pity show,  
To Cloe, since I cannot choose but know;  
Readers, must reap the dullness, Writers sow.  
By the next Post, I will such Stories tell,  
As joined to these, shall to a Valume swell;  
Truer than Heaven, more infamous than Hall,  
But you are tired and so am I—   
Farewell.   

The Imperfect Enjoyment.  

NAked she lay, clasped in my longing Arms,  
I filled with Love, and she all over charms,  
Both equally inspired, with eager fire,  
Melting through kindness, flaming in desire.;  
With Arms, Legs, Lips, close clinging to embrace,  
She eclipse me to her Breast, and sucks me to her Face.  
The nimble Tongue (Love's lesser Lightning) played  
Within my Mouth, and to my thoughts conveyed.  
Swift Orders, that I should prepare to throw,  
The All-dissolving Thunderbolt below.  
My fluttering Soul, sprung with the pointed kiss,  
Hangs hovering o'er her Balmy Limbs of Bliss.  
But whilst her busy hand, would guide that part,  
Which should convey my Soul, up to her Heart.  
In liquid Raptures I dissolve all o'er,  
Melt into sperm, and spend at every Poor:  
A touch from any part of her had done't;  
Her Hand, her Foot, her very looks a Cunt.  
Smiling, she chids in a kind murmuring Noise,  
And from her Body wips the clammy joys;  
When with a Thousand Kisses, wandering o'er,  
My panting Breast, and is there then no móre?  
She cries. All this to Love, and Rapture's due,  
Must we not pay a debt to pleasure too?  
But I the most forlone, lost Man alive,  
To show my wished Obedience vanly strive,  
I sing alas! and Kiss, but cannot Swive.  
Eager desires, confound my first intent,  
Succeeding shame, does more success prevent,  
And Rage, at last, confirms me impotent.  
Even her fair Hand, which might bid heat return  
To frozen Age, and make cold Hermits burn,  
Applied to my dead Cinder, warms no more,  
Than Fire to Ashes, could past Flames restore.  
Trembling, confused, despairing, limber, dry,  
A wishing, weak, unmoving lump High,  
This Dart of love, whose piercing point oft tried,  
With Virgin blood, ten thousand Maids has died.  
Which Nature still directed with such Art,  
That it through every C—t, reached every Heart.  
Stiffly resolved, 'twou'd carelessly invade,  
Woman or Boy, nor ought its fury stayed,  
Where e'er it pierced, a Cunt it found or made.  
Now languid lies, in this unhappy hour,  
Shrunk up, and Sapless, like a withered Flower.  
Thou treacherous, base, and deserter of my flame,  
False to my passion, fatal to my Fame;  
By what mistaken Magic dost thou prove,  
So true to lewdness, so untrue to Love?  
What Oyster, Cinder, Beggar, common Whore,  
Didst thou ere fail in all thy Life before?  
When Vice, Disease and Scandal lead the way,  
With what officious haste dost thou obey?  
Like a Rude-roaring Hector, in the Streets,  
That Scuffles, Cuffs, and Ruffles all he meets;  
But if his King, or Country, claim his Aid,  
The Rascal Villain, shrinks, and hides his head:  
Even so thy Brutal Valour, is displayed,  
Breaks every Stews, does each small Whore invade,  
But if great Love, the onset does command,  
Base recreant, to thy Prince, thou dar'st not stand  
Worst part of me, and henceforth hated most,  
Through all the Town, the common Fucking Post;  
On whom each Whore, relieves her tingling Cunt,  
As Hogs, on Goats, do rub themselves and grunt.  
May'st thou to ravenous Shankers, be a Prey,  
Or in consuming Weep waste away.  
May Stranguries, and Stone, thy Days attend.  
May'st thou Piss, who didst refuse to spend,  
When all my joys, did on false thee depend.  
And may ten thousand abler Pricks agree,  
To do the wronged Corinna, right for thee.    

To LOVE.  
O! nunquam pro me satis indignate Cupido.  

OH Love! how cold, and slow to take my part,  
Thou idle Wanderer, about my Heart.  
Why thy Old faithful Soldier, wilt thou see,  
Oppressed in thy own Tents? they murder me.  
Thy Flames Consume, thy Arrows Pierce thy Friends,  
Rather on Foes, pursue more noble ends.  
Achilles' Sword, would generously bestow,  
A Cure, as certain, as it gave the blow.  
Hunters, who follow flying Game, give o'er,  
When the Prey's caught, hope still leads on before.  
We thy own Slaves feel thy Tyrannic blows,  
Whilst thy tame Hands unmoved against thy Foes.  
On Men disarmed, how can you gallant prove,  
And I was long ago disarmed by Love.  
Millions of dull Men, live, and scornful Maids,  
we'll own Love valiant, when he these invades.  
Rome, from each Corner of the wide World, snatched  
A Laurel, or't had been to this day thatched.  
But the Old Soldier, has his resting place,  
And the good battered Horse, is turned to Grass.  
The harassed Whore, who lived a wretch to please,  
Has leave to be a Bawd, and take her ease.  
For me then, who have freely spent my Blood,  
(Love) in thy Service, and so boldly stood.  
In Celia's Trenches; were't not wisely done,  
Even to retire, and live at peace at home?  
No— might I gain a Godhead, to disclaim,  
My glorious Title, to my endless flame:  
Divinity, with scorn, I would forswear,  
Such sweet, dear, tempting Devils, Women are.  
When ere those flames grow faint, I quickly find,  
A fierce black Storm, pour down upon my Mind.  
Headlong, I'm hurled, like Horsemen, who in vain,  
Their (fury foaming) Coursers, would restrain,  
As Ships, just when the Harbour they attain.  
Are snatched by sudden Blasts, to Sea again:  
So Loves fantastic storms, reduce my Heart,  
Half-rescued, and the God resumes his Dart.  
Strike here, this undefended Bosom wound,  
And for so brave a Conquest be renowned.  
Shafts fly so fast to me from every part,  
You'll scarce discern your Quiver, from my Hear  
What Wretch can bear a livelong nights dull rest  
Or think himself in lazy slumbers blest?  
Fool— is not sleep the Image of pale Death?  
There's time for rest, when fate has stopped you breath.  
Me, may my soft deluding dear deceive,  
I'm happy in my hopes, whilst I believe.  
Now let her flatter, then as fond chide.  
Often may I enjoy, of't be denied.  
With doubtful steps, the God of War does move  
By thy example, in Ambiguous Love.  
Blown to and fro like Down from thy own Wing;  
Who knows, when joy, or Anguish, thou wilt brings?  
Yet at thy Mothers, and thy Slave's request,  
Fix an Eternal Fmpire in my Breast;  
And let th' inconstant charming Sex,  
Whose wilful scorn, does Lovers vex;  
Submit their Hearts before thy Throne,  
The Vassal World, is then thy own.    

The Maimed Debauchee.  

AS some brave Admiral, in former War,  
Deprived of force, but pressed with courage still;  
Two Rival-Fleets, appearing from a far,  
Crawls to the top of an adjacent Hill.  
From whence (with thoughts full of concern) he views  
The wise, and daring Conduct of the fight,  
And each bold Action, to his Mind renews,  
His present glory, and his past delight.   

From his fierce Eyes, flashes of rage he throws,  
As from black Clouds, when Lightning breaks away,  
Transported, thinks himself amidst his Foes,  
And absent, yet enjoys the Bloody Day.   

So when my Days of impotence approach,  
And I'm by Pox, and Wines unlucky chance,  
Drov'n from the pleasing Billows of debauch,  
On the dull Shore of lazy temperance.   

My pains at last some respite shall afford,  
Whilst I behold the Battles you maintain,  
When Fleets of Glasses, Sail about the Board;  
From whose Broadsides Volleys of Wit shall rain.   

Nor shall the sight of Honourable Scars,  
Which my too forward Valour did procure.  
Frighten new listed Soldiers from the Wars,  
Past joys have more than paid what I endure.   

Should hopeful Youths (worth being drunk) prove nice,  
And from their fair Inviters meanly shrink,  
Twoved please the Ghost, of my departed Vice,  
If at my Council, they repent and drink,   

Or should some cold complexioned Sot forbid,  
With his dull Morals, our Night's brisk Alarms,  
I'll fire his Blood by telling what I did,  
When I was strong, and able to bear Arms.   

I'll tell of Whores Attacked their Lords at home,  
Bawds Quarters beaten up, and Fortress won,  
Windows demolished, Watches overcome,  
And handsome ills, by my contrivance done.   

Nor shall our Love-fits Cloris be forgot,  
When each the well-looked Linkboy, strove t'enjoy  
And the best Kiss, was the deciding Lot,  
Whether the Boy used you, or I the Boy.   

With Tales like these, I will such heat inspire,  
As to the important mischief shall incline.  
I'll make them long some Ancient Church to fire,  
And fear no lewdness they're called to by Wine.   

Thus States-man-like, I'll saucily impose  
And safe from danger Valiantly advise,  
Sheltered in impotence, urge you to blows,  
And being good for nothing else, be wise.    

The Argument.  

How Tall-boy, Kill-prick, Suck-Prick, did contend,  
For Bridegroom Dildoe, Friend did fight with Friend;  
But Man of God, by Law-Man, called Parson,  
Contrived by turns how each might rub her Arse on.   

SAy heaven-born Muse, for only thou canst tell,  
How discord dire, between Two Widows fell?  
What made the Fair one, and her well shaped Mother,  
Duty forget, and pious Nature smother?  
Who was most modest, virtuous, or fair,  
Was not the cause of contest I dare swear.  
Nor Wit, nor breeding, raised this emulation;  
Those things with them are trifles out of fashion.  
Great was the strife, raised up by envious Fate,  
To ruin Pegos, happy Reign and State.   

When R— with every Eye beheld,  
The Three dear Friends, his Heart with rancour swelled.  
That in one House, they were of one accord,  
Wanton in Bed, and Riotous at Board,  
Preferring Brawny G— to Spiney Lord:  
He Vowed to break this Triple League, of Love,  
And from their Breasts, sweet Friendship to remove.   

In a foul day, from bawdy Bath, he flies,  
To put in Act his hasted enterprise.  
I th' Bower of Bliss, where sacred Ballocks dwells,  
There lives a Hag, deep red in Charms, and Spells;  
Philters, and Potions, that my Magic skill,  
Can give an Eunuch Stones, and Cunt its fill.  
Babes, at her call fly from the breeding Womb,  
With Neighbour T-rd, in loathsome Jakes to roam.  
As oft as Finger, Dildoe, Pego, Rape,  
The Virgin Hymen, she repairs the Gap:  
Famed through the World, for the C—t. mending Trade;  
To her he goes to implore her mighty Aid,  
By Men she's called the Mother of the Maids.  
Hail Worse. Dame (said he) replete with grace.  
Mother, o'th' Maids, Daughter of noble Race!  
Whilst Men of God to Betty B—go.  
Whist Prick, and Pen, with White, and Black does flow,  
My lasting Verse, shall magnify the fame,  
And melting Tarse, adore thy holy name.  
Therefore dear Mother, lend thine equal Ear,  
To my complaint, and favour my just Prayer.  
There is a place, a down a gloomy Vale, the Bath  
Where burdened Nature, lays her nasty Tail;  
Then Thousand Pilgrims, thither do resort,  
For ease, disease, for lechery, and sport:  
Thither two Beldames, and a jilting Wife,  
Came to swive off, the tedious hours of life:  
I willing to contribute to their joy,  
Offered my Mite, to th' young unsatiate Toy,  
Who banished Cuck, cause Cunt he could not cloy.  
Here upright Dame, Kill-prick, the wise old Jew,  
Told me I must Twelve times her Womb bedew,  
ere her Child Suck-prick, should her Buttocks show  
Resolved to win like Hercules, the Prize.  
Twelve times I scoured the Kennel 'twixt her Thighs,  
The cheating Jilt, at th' Twelft, a Dry-Bob, cries.  
My Prick and I, thus cross, bit in high rage,  
Appealed to th' skilful sticklees on the Stage.  
With that fair Tall-boy, and bold Suck-prick, come,  
To squeeze my Tarse, and pass their final doom:  
Saying if on Priapus, I could show,  
One holy Relic, of kind Pearly Dew,  
Ith' twelfth time, in Kill-pricks Arse, did Spew.  
To their deriding Test, I did submit,  
Priapus squeezed, a Snowball, did emit;  
Yet these Two partial Dames, a dry Bob, cry,  
Perform your Bargain (Peer) or frigg, and die.  
Thus was I Rooked of Twelve substantial Fucks,  
By these base stinking, over it chink Nocks.  
Your aid, your aid, dear Mother me inspire,  
With apt revenge to feed my raging fire.   

The gracious Matron, smiling on him said.  
Be it as thou desir'st my dear loved Lad;  
For this abuse, the Rump-fed-Runts shall mourn,  
Till slimey Cunt, to grimey Ace hole turn.  
By her Caves' Mouth, a verdant Myrtle grows,  
Bearing Love's Trophies, on his sacred Boughs.  
The Crowns of Kings, were offered to this Shrine,  
Dildo's and Merkins of thy Royal Line.  
Fair Ladies hearts, with Mitred Pricks transfixed,  
In Mystic manner, make the Crucifix.  
To th' Tree she leads him, from a Bough pulls down,  
A mighty Tool, a Dildoe of renown;  
A Dildoe, long, and large, as Hector's Lance,  
Inscribed, Honi Soit Qui Mal ye Pence.  
Knight of the Garter, made for's vast deserts,  
As Modern Hero, was for's monstrous parts.   

This pious Son (said he) nail up in Box,  
By Carrier, send it these salt burning Nocks,  
Directed thus. To the Lady most deserving  
Who's made most Slaves, and kept most Pricks from Starving.   

O'erjoyed with hoped success away he flies,  
To Bath, disguised, to bear the welcome Prize;  
But when they saw the Image of the Blessed Man!  
Who can express how fast, how swift they ran!  
Each for herself to seize it; no Dog at Deer,  
Nor Hawk, at Herne, showed such a swift carri'ere.  
At once they sauce, on the beloved Prey  
And sworn Friends do engage in Mortal Fray.  
Old Kill-prick, dreadful to her Friends, and Foes,  
Like Luxenburgh, in Back, and Breastplate shows.  
Gygantick Tall-boy famed in the West,  
For Cornish Hugg, to th' fight herself addressed;  
Whilst the Child Suck-prick, hoped to steal away,  
By Stratagem, the glory of the Day.  
But all in vain, Tall-Boy, with one hand held,  
Jove's Prize, with th' other crafty Suck-prick selled:  
But looks, not Menaces, nor crashing blow,  
Could make stout Kill-prick, quit her loved Deldoe:  
Undaunted, she maintained a cruel fight;  
For Conquest scratched. and tore. withal her might.  
So have I seen a crum-back Crab-louse stick,  
With fervent love, to lick creating Prick;  
The more he pulls, the more the loving Wretch,  
Doea strive to stay, and each Hair does catch.  
Till murdering Man, enraged from Ballocks tears,  
The Nock-born-Bratt, and ends his hopeful years.  
So hard it fared with Kill-prick, had not Fate,  
Sent Man of God, to end the dire debate,   

What rage, what fury (said he) do ye stir  
To shed the Blood of Saints, in civil War?  
How well you make the Mother Church, to mourn,  
And to fanatics be the public scorn?  
For shame, dear Souls, reserve your noble blood,  
To spend with Man. Abashed the Warriors stood  
To see the holy Father, in the place,  
But straight on the matter putting a good face;  
Thus Kill-prick spoke.  
To you O Reverend Sir  
The justness of this Cause I will transfer,  
A Cause too great for Laymen, vile to try,  
Fit for Plus Ultras, deep Divinity  
A Cause, for mhich blest Saints, above would die!   

The modest Tall-boy, so devote appears,  
Though stealing Prick, you'd think she had her Prayers;  
And thouhg she'had almost won the bloody Field,  
With Suck-prick (Babe of Grace) to this does yield.  
The case being stated, holy Man does pray,  
For a Blessing on's endeavours, then does say   

Whereas sage Matrons, you do all agree,  
Your case to yield to my integrity,  
Fitter for general Council than weak me,  
Dildoe's a Lawful Tool, deny't who can,  
I'll prove 'tis made for a meet help for Man;  
As unto Rector, Curate, is Assistant,  
So Dildoe's to fallen Prick, when Cunt has pissed on't.  
But her's th' Elect, ordained for Propagation,  
Who trusts in this is blest in Generation;  
This has done more, than Turnbridge, Bath, or Epsom,  
Though ne'er so barran this is sure to help 'em.  
Then pulling out the Rector, of the Females,  
Nine times he bathed him, in their piping hot Tails.  
Panting (quoth he) now peace be on ye all,  
When I am absent then one Dildoe call;  
As those in holy Church, to Image pray,  
When wonder-working Saint, out o'th' way,   

Thus all well pleased to Church away they go,  
To sing Te Deum, for their dear Dildoe.    

An Allusion to Horace.  The 10th satire of the 1st. Book. 
Nempe incomposito Dixi pede, etc.  

Well Sir, 'tis granted, I said D— Rhimes,  
Were stolen, unequal, nay dull many times:  
What foolish Patron, is there found of his,  
So blindly partial, to deny me this?  
But that his Plays, embroidered up, and down,  
With Wit, and Learning, justly pleased the Town,  
In the same Paper, I as freely own.  
Yet having this allowed, the heavy Mass,  
That Stuffs up his loose Volumes, must not pass:  
For by that Rule, I might aswel admit,  
Crowns, tedious Scenes, for Poetry, and Wit.  
'Tis therefore not enough, when your false sense,  
Hits the false Judgement, of an Audience:  
Of clapping Fools, assembled a vast Crowd,  
Till the thronged Playhouse, crack with the dull load;  
Though even that Talon, merits in some sort,  
That can divert the Rabble, and the Court.  
Which blundring S—, never could attain,  
And puzzling O—, labours at in vain.  
But within due proportions circumscribe  
What e'er you write; that with a flowing Tide,  
The Style may rise, yet in its rise forbear,  
With useless words, t' oppress the wearied Ear.  
Here be your Language lofty, there more light,  
Your Rhetoric, with your Poetry unite:  
For Elegance sake, sometimes allay the force  
Of Epithets, 'twill soften the discourse;  
A jest in scorn, points out, and hits the thing.  
More home, than the Moros Satyrs sting.  
Shakespeare, and Johnson, did herein excel,  
And might in this be imitated well;  
Whom refined E—, coppy's not at all,  
But is himself, a sheer Original.  
Nor that slow Drudge, in swift Pindaric strains,  
F—, who C— imitates with pains,  
And rides a jaded Muse, whipped with loose Rains.  
When Lee, makes temperate Scipio, fret, and rave  
And Hannibal, a whining Amorous Slave,  
I laugh, and wish the hot-brained Fustian Fool,  
In B— hands, to be well lashed at School.  
Of all our Modern Wits none seems to me,  
Once to have touched, upon true Comedy,  
But hasty Shadwel, and slow Wicherley  
Shadwells unfinished works do yet impart,  
Great proofs of force of Nature, none of Art;  
With just bold strokes he dashes here, and there,  
Showing great Mastery, with little Care;  
And scorns to varnish his good Touches o'er,  
To make the Fools, and Women, praise'em more.  
But Wicherley, earns hard, what e'er he gains,  
He wants no judgement, nor he spares no pains;  
He frequently excels, and at the least,  
Makes fewer faults, than any of the best.  
Waller, by Nature, for the Bays designed,  
With force, and fire, and fancy unconfined,  
In Panegyrics, does excel Mankind.  
He best can turn, enforce, and soften things,  
To praise great Conquerors, or to fiatter Kings.   

For pointed Satyrs, I would Buckhurst choose,  
The best good Man, with the worst natured Must.  
For Songs, and Verses, mannerly, obscene,  
That can stir Nature up, by spring unseen,  
And without forcing blushes worm the Queen.   

Sidley, as that prevailing, gentle Art,  
That can with a resistless Charm impart,  
The losest wishes, to the chastest heart.  
Raise such a conflict, kindle such a Fire,  
Betwixt declining Virtue, and Desire;  
Till the poor vanquished Maid dissolves away,  
In Dreams all Night, in Sighs, and Tears, all day.   

D—, in vain tried this nice way of wit,  
For he to be a tearing Blade, thought fit,  
But when he would be sharp; he still was blunt,  
To frisk his frollique fancy, he'd cry C— t,  
Would give the Ladies, a dry Bawdy bob,  
And thus got the name of Poet Squab.  
But to be just, 'twill to his praise be found,  
His Excellencies more than faults abound,  
Nor dare I from his sacred Temples tear,  
That Laurel, which he best deserves to wear,  
But does not D—, find even Johnson dull?  
Fletcher and Beaumond, uncorrect, and full,  
Olewd Lines, as he calls 'em? Shakespears style  
Stiff and affected; to his own the while,  
Allowing all the justness that his Pride,  
So Arrogantly had to these denied?  
And may not I, have leave impartially,  
To search, and censure D—, Works, and try,  
If those gross faults, his choice Pen does commit,  
Proceed from want of Judgement, or of Wit?  
Or of his lumpish fancy, does refuse,  
Spirit and Grace, to his loose slattern Muse?  
Five hundred Verses, every Morning writ,  
Proves you no more a Poet, than a Wit:  
Such scribbling Authors, have been seen before  
Mustapha, the English Princess, Forty more,  
Were things perhaps composed in half an hour,  
To write what may securely stand the Test,  
Of being well read over thrice at least;  
Compare each Phrase, examine every Line,  
Weigh every Word, and every Thought refine;  
Scorn all applause, the vile Rout can bestow,  
And be content to please those few who know.  
Canst thou be such a vain mistaken thing,  
To wish thy Works might make a Playhouse ring.  
With the unthinking Laughter, and poor praise,  
Of Fops, and Ladies, Factious for thy Plays?  
Then send a cunning Friend to learn thy doom,  
From the shrewd Judges of the drawing Room.  
I've no Ambition on that idle score,  
But say with Betty M—, heretofore,  
When a Court Lady, called her B—, Whore;  
I please one Man of Wit, am proud on't too,  
Let all the Coxcombs, dance to Bed to you.  
Should I be troubled when the Purblind Knight,  
Who squints more in his Judgement, than his sight,  
Picks silly faults, and censures what I write?  
Or when the poor-fed Poets of the Town  
For Scraps, and Coach-room cry my Verses down?  
I loathe the Rabble, 'tis enough for me,  
If S—, S—, S—, W—,  
G—, B—, B—, B—,  
And some few more, whom I omit to name,  
Approve my sense, I count their censure Fame.    

In defence of satire.  

WHen Shakes. Johns. Fletcher, ruled the Stage,  
They took so bold a freedom with the Age,  
That there was scarce a Knave, or Fool, in Town,  
Of any note, but had his Picture shown;  
And (without doubt) though some it may offend,  
Nothing helps more than satire, to amend  
Ill Manners, or is trulier Virtue's Friend.  
Princes, may Laws ordain, Priests gravely Preach,  
But Poets, most successfully will teach.  
For as a passing Bell, frights from his Meat,  
The greedy Sick man: that too much would Eat;  
So when a Vice, ridiculous is made,  
Our Neighbour's shame, keeps us from growind bad.  
But wholesome remedies, few Palates please,  
Men rather love, what flatters their Disease;  
Pimps, Parasites, Buffoons, and all the Crew,  
That under Friendships' name, weak Man undo;  
Find their false Service, kindlier understood,  
Than such as tell bold Truths to do us good.  
Look where you will, and you shall hardly find,  
A Man, without some sickness of the Mind.  
In vain we wise would seem, while every Lust,  
Whisks us about, as Whirlwinds do the Dust.   

Here for some needless Gain, Wretch is hurled,  
From Pole, to Pole, and Slaved about the World;  
While the reward of all his pains, and Care,  
Ends in that despicable thing, his Heir.   

There a vain Fop, Mortgages all his Land,  
To buy that gaudy Play-thing a Command,  
To ride a Cockhorse, wear a Scarf, at's Arse,  
And play the Pudding, in a May-day-farce.   

Here one whom God to make a Fool, thought fit,  
In spite of Providence, will be a Wit.  
But wanting strength, t'uphold his ill made choice,  
Sets up with Lewdness, Blasphemy, and Noise,  
There at his Mrs. Feet, a Lover lies  
And for a tawdrey, painted Baby dies.  
Falls on his Knees, adores, and is afraid,  
Of the vain Idol, he himself has made.  
These, and a thousand Fools unmentioned here,  
Hate Poets all, because they Poets fear  
Take heed (they cry) yonder Mad Dog will bite,  
He cares not whom he falls on in his fit;  
Come but in's way, and straight a new Lampoone  
Shall spread your mangled Fame about the Town,   

But why am I this bugbear to ye all?  
My Pen is dipped in no such bitter Gall.  
He that can rail at one he calls his Friend,  
Or hear him absent wronged, and not defend;  
Who for the sake of some ill natured Jest,  
Tells what he should conceal, Invents the rest;  
To fatal Midnight quarrels, can betray,  
His brave Companion, and then run away;  
Leaving him to be murdered in the street,  
Then put it off, with some Buffoon Conceit;  
This, this is he, you should beware of all,  
Yet him a pleasant, witty Man, you call  
To whet your dull Debauches up, and down,  
You seek him as top Fidler of the Town.   

But if I laugh when the Court Coxcombs show,  
To see that Booby Sotns dance Provoe.  
Or chattering Porus, from the Side Box grin,  
Tricked like a Lady's Monkey new made clean.  
To me the name of Railer, straight you give,  
Call me a Man that knows not how to live.   

But Wenches to their Keepers, true shall turn,  
Stale Maids of Honour, proffered Husbands scorn,  
Great Statesman, flattery, and Clinches hate,  
And long in Ossice die without Estate.  
Against a Bribe, Court Judges, shall decide,  
The City Knav'ry want, the Clergy Pride.  
ere that black Malice, in my Rhymes you find,  
That wrongs a worthy Man, or hurts a Friend.  
But then perhaps you'll say, why do you write?  
What you think harmless Mirth, the World thinks Spite.  
Why should your Finger's itch to have a lash.  
At Simius, the Buffoon, or Cully Bash?  
What is't to you, if Alidores fine Whore,  
Fucks with some Fop, whilst he's shut out of Door?  
Consider pray, that dangerous Weapon Wit,  
Frightens a Million, when a few you hit.  
Whip but a Cur, as you ride through a Town,  
And straight his Fellow Curs the Quarrel own,  
Each Knave, or Fool, that's conscious of a Crime,  
Tho he escapes now, looks for't another time.   

Sir, I confess all you have said is true,  
But who has not some Folly to pursue?  
Milo turned Quixot, fancied. Battles, Fights,  
When the fifth Bottle, had increased the Lights.   

Warlike Dirt Pies, our Hero Paris forms,  
Which desperate Bessus, without Armour storms.   

Cornus, the kind Husband, e'er was born.  
Still Courts the Spark, that does his Brows adorn.  
Invites him home to dine, and fills his Veins,  
With the hot Blood, which his dear Doxy drains.   

Grandio thinks himself a Beau-Garcon,  
Goggles his Eyes, writes Letters up and down;  
And with his sawch Love, plagues all the Town.  
While pleased to have his Vanity thus fed,  
He's caught with G—, that old Hag a Bed.  
But should I all the crying Follies tell,  
That rouse the sleeping Sayter from his Cell.  
I to my Reader, should as tedious prove,  
As that old Spark, Albanus making love:  
Or florid Roscius, when with some smooth flame,  
He gravely on the public, tries to shame.   

Hold then my Muse, 'tis time to make an end,  
Lest taxing others, thou thyself offend.  
The World's a Wood, in which all loose their way,  
Though by a different Path, each goes Astray.    

On the supposed Author of a late Poem in defence of satire.  

TO rack, and torture thy unmeaning Brain,  
In Satyr's praise, to a low untuned strain,  
In thee was most impertinent and vain.  
When in thy Person, we more clearly see,  
That Satyr's of Divine Authority,  
For God, made one on Man, when he made thee.  
To show there were some Men, as there are Apes.  
Framed for mere sport, who differ but in shapes:  
In thee are all these contradictions joined,  
That make an Ass, prodigious and refined.  
A lump deformed, and shapeless wert thou born.  
Begot in Love's despite, and Nature's scorn;  
And art grown up the most ungraceful Wight,  
Harsh to the Ear, and hideous to the sight,  
Yet Love's thy business, Beauty thy delight.  
Curse on that silly hour, that first inspired,  
Thy madness, to pretend to be admired;  
To paint thy grizly Face to dance, to dress,  
And all those Awkward Follies that express,  
Thy loathsome Love, and filthy daintiness.  
Who needs will be a Ugly Beau-Garcon,  
Spit at, and shunned, by every Girl in Town;  
Where dreadfully LovesScare-Crow, thou art placed  
To fright the tender Flock, that long to taste:  
While every coming Maid, when you appear,  
Starts back for shame, and straight turns chaste for fear.  
For none so poor, or Prostitute have proved,  
Where you made love, t'endure to be beloved.  
‛ Twere-labour lost, or else I would advise.  
But thy half Wit, will ne'er let thee be wise.  
Half-witty, and half-mad, and scarce half-brave,  
Half-honest (which is very much a Knave.)  
Made up of all these halfs, thou canst not pass  
For any thing entirely, but an Ass.    

The Answer.  

Rail on poor feeble Scribbler, speak of me,  
In as bad Terms, as the World speaks o thee.  
Sat swelling in thy Hole, like a vexed Toad,  
And full of Pox, and Malice, spit abroad.  
Thou canst hurt no Man's Fame, with thy ill word  
Thy Pen, is full as harmless as thy Sword.    

Seneca's Troas, Act. 2. Chorus.  

AFter Death, nothing is, and nothing, Death  
The utmost Limits of a gasp of Breath:  
Let the ambitious Zealot, lay aside,  
His hopes of Heaven (where Faith is but his pride)   

Let Slavish Souls, lay by their Fear,  
Nor be concerned, which way, nor where.   

After this life they shall be hurled,  
Dead, we become the Lumber of the world;  
And to that Mass of Matter shall be swept,  
Where things destroyed, with things Unborn, are kept.   

Devouring time swallows up whole,  
Impartial Death confounds Body and Soul.   

For Hell, and the foul Fiend, that rules,  
Gods everlasting fiery Goals,  
Devised by Rogues, dreaded by Fools;  
(With his grim griezly Dog, that keeps the Door)  
Are senseless Stories, idle Tales,  
Dreams, Whimsies, and no more.    

Upon Nothing.  

1  
NOthing thou Elder Brother even to shade,  
Thou hadst a Being, ere the World was made,  
And (well fixed) art alone of ending not afraid,   

2  
ere time, and place, were, time, and place, were not  
When Primitive Nothing, something straight begot,  
Then all Proceeded from the great united— What?   

3  
Something, the gen'ral Attribute of all,  
Severed, from thee, it's sole Original,  
Into thy boundless self, must undistinguished fall.   

4  
Yet something did thy mighty power command.  
And from thy fruitful emptinesses hand,  
Snatched Men, Beasts, Birds, Fire, Aire, and Land.   

5  
Matter, the wickedest Offspring of thy Race,  
By form assisted, flew from thy embrace,  
And Rebel Light, obscured thy reverend dusky Face.   

6  
With form and Matter, time, and place, did join,  
Body, thy Foe, with thee did Leagues combine,  
To spoil thy peaceful Realm, and ruin all thy Line.   

7  
But Turn-Coat-Time, assists the Foe in vain,  
And bribed by thee, assists the short lived Reign,  
And to thy hungry Womb, drives back thy Slaves again.   

8  
Tho Mysteries are barred from Laich-Eyes,  
And the Divine alone, with Warrant pries,  
Into thy Bosom, where thy truth in private lies.   

9  
Yet this of thee, the wise may freely say,  
Thou from the Virtuous, nothing tak'st away,  
And to be part of thee, the Wicked wisely pray.   

10  
Great Negative, how vainly would the Wise,  
Inquire, define, distinguish, teach, devise,  
Didst thou not stand to point their dull Philosophies   

11  
Is, or is not, the two great ends of Fate,  
And true, or false, the Subject of debate,  
That perfect, or destroy, the vast designs of Fate.   

12  
When they have racked the Politicians Breast,  
Within thy Bosom, most securely rest,  
And when reduced to thee, are least unsafe, & best.   

13  
But Nothing, why does something still permit,  
That Sacred Monarches, should at Council sit,  
With Persons highly thought, at best, for Nothing fit.   

14  
Whilst weighty Something, modestly abstains,  
From Prince's Coffers, and from statesmen's Brains,  
And Nothing there, like stately Nothing reings.   

15  
Nothing who dwellest with Fools, in grave disguise,  
For whom they Reverend shapes, & forms devise.  
Lawn-sleeves, & Furs, & Gowns when they like thee look wise.   

16.  
French Truth, Dutch Prowess, British Policy,  
Hibernian Learning, Scotch Civility,  
Spaniard's dispatch, Danes Wit, are mainly seen in thee.   

17  
The great Man's gratitude, to his best Friend,  
King Promises, Whores Vows, towards thee they bend,  
Flow swiftly into thee, and in thee ever end.    

Upon his leaving his Mistress.  

'tIs not that I'm weary grown,  
Of being yours, and yours alone,  
But with what Face can I incline,  
To damn you to be only mine?  
You whom some kinder Power did fashion,  
By merit, and by inclination,  
The joy at least of one whole Nation.   

Let meaner Spirits of your Sex  
With humbler aims, their thoughts perplex,  
And boast, if by their Arts they can,  
Contrive to make one happy Man;  
Whilst moved by an impartial Sense,  
Favours like Nature you dispense,  
With Universal influence.   

See the kind Seed-receiving Earth,  
To every Grain affords a Birth;  
On her no Showers unwelcome fall,  
Her willing Womb, retains 'em all,  
And shall my Celia be confined?  
No, live up to thy mighty Mind,  
And be the Mistress of Mankind.    

Song.  

IN the Fields of Lincoln's Inn,  
Underneath a tattered Blanket,  
On a Flock-Bed, God be thanked,  
Feats of Active Love were seen.   

Phillis, who you know loves Swiving,  
As the Gods love pious Prayers;  
Lay most pensively contriving,  
How to Fuck with Pricks by pairs.   

Coridon's aspiring Tarse,  
Which to Cunt, had ne'er submitted;  
Wet with Amorous Kiss she fitted,  
To her less frequented Are—   

Strephon's, was a handful longer,  
Stiffly propped with eager Lust;  
None for Champion, was more stronger,  
This into her Cunt he thrust.   

Now for Civil Wars prepare,  
Raised by fierce intestine bustle.  
When these Hero's meeting justle,  
In the Bowels of the fair.   

They tilt, and thrust with horrid pother,  
Blood, and slaughter is decreed;  
Hurling Souls at one another,  
Wrapped in flakey Clotts of Seed.   

Nature had 'twixt C— t and Ace,  
Wisely placed firm separation;  
God knows else what desolation  
Had ensued from Warring Tarse.   

Though Fate, a dismal end did threaten,  
It proved no worse than was desired.  
The Nymph was sorely Ballock beaten,  
Both the Shepherds sound tired.    

Upon his drinking a Bowl.  

Wlean contrive me such a Cup,  
As Nestor used of old;  
Show all thy skill to trim it up,  
Damask it round with Gold.   

Make it so large, that filled with Sack,  
Up to the swelling brim;  
Vast Toasts, on the delicious Lake,  
Like Ships at Sea may swim.   

Engrave not Battle on his Cheek,  
With War, I've nought to do;  
I'm none of those that took Mastrich,  
Nor Yarmouth Leaguer knew.   

Let it no name of Planets tell,  
Fixed Stars, or Constellations;  
For I am no Sir Sydrophell,  
Nor none of his Relations.   

But carve thereon a spreading Vine,  
Then add Two lovely Boys;  
Their Limbs in Amorous folds intwine,  
The Type, of future joys.   

Cupid, and Bacchus, my Saints are,  
May drink, and Love, still reign,  
With Wine, I wash away my cares,  
And then to Cunt again.    

Song.  

AS Cloris full of harmless thoughts,  
Beneath a Willow lay;  
Kind Love a youthful Shepherd brought,  
To pass the time away.   

She blushed to be encountered so,  
And chid the Amorous Swain;  
But as she strove to rise and go,  
He pulled her down again.   

A sudden Passion seized her Heart,  
In spite of her disdain;  
She found a Pulse in every part,  
And Love in every Vain.   

Ah you (said she) what Charms are these,  
That conquer and surprise;  
Ah let me— for unless you please,  
I have no Power to rise.   

She fainting spoke, and trembling lay,  
For fear he should comply;  
Her lovely Eyes, her Heart betray,  
And gives her Tongue the lie.   

Thus she, whom Princes had denied,  
With all their Pomp and Train;  
Was in the lucky Minute tried,  
And yielded to the Swain.    

Song.  

QUoth the Duchess of Cl—, to Mrs. Kn—  
I'd fain have a Prick, but how to come by't;  
I desire you'll be secret, and give your advice,  
Though Cunt be not coy, Reputation is nice.   

To some Cellar, in Sodom, your Grace must retire,  
There Porters, with Black-pots, sit round a Coal-fire;  
There open your Case, and your Grace cannot fail,  
Of a dozen of Pricks, for a dozen of Ale.   

Is't so quoth the Duchess? Ah by God, quoth the Whore.  
Then give me the Key, that unlocks the Backdoor;  
For I had rather be fuckt by Porters, and Carmen,  
Then thus be abused by C—, and G—    

Song.  

I Rise at Eleven, I Dine obout Two,  
I get drunk before Seven, and the next thing I do;  
I send for my Whore, when for fear of a Clap,  
I Spend in her hand, and I Spew in her Lap:  
There we quarrel, and scold, till I fall asleep,  
When the Bitch, growing bold, to my Pocket does creep;  
Then slyly she leaves me, and to revenge th' affront,  
At once she bereaves me of Money and Cunt.  
If by chance than I wake, hotheaded, and drunk  
What a coil do I make for the loss of my Punk?  
I storm, and I roar, and I fall in a rage,  
And missing my Whore, I bugger my Page:  
Then cropsick, all Morning, I rail at my Men,  
And in Bed I lie Yawning, till Eleven again.    

Song.  

LOve a Woman! y'are an Ass,  
'Tis a most insipid Passion  
To choose out for your happiness!  
The idlest part of God's Creation.   

Let the Porter, and the Groom,  
Things designed for dirty Slaves,  
Drudge in fair Aurelia's Womb,  
To get supplies for Age, and Graves.   

Farewell Woman, I intent,  
Henceforth, every Night to sit,  
With my lewd well natured Friend,  
Drinking, to engender Wit.   

Then give me Health, Wealth, Mirth, and Wine,  
And if busy Love, intrenches,  
There's a sweet soft Page, of mine,  
Does the trick worth Forty Wenches.    

Song to Cloris.  

FAir Cloris in a Pig-Stye, lay,  
Her tender Herd, lay by her,  
She slept in murmuring gruntlings, they  
Complaining of the scorching Day,  
Her slumbers thus inspire.   

She dreamt, while she with careful pains,  
Her snow Arms employed,  
In Ivory Pails, to fill out Grains,  
One of her Love convicted Swains,  
Thus hasting to her cried.   

Fly Nymph! O fly! e'er 'tis too late,  
A dear loved life to save,  
Rescue your Bosom Pig, from Fate,  
Who now expires, hung in the Gate,  
That leads to yonder Cave.   

Myself had tried to set him free,  
Rather than brought the News,  
But I am so abhorred by thee,  
That even thy Darlings life from me,  
I know thou wouldst refuse.   

Struck with the News, as quick the flies,  
As blushes to her Face;  
Not the bright Lightning from the Skies,  
Nor Love, shot from her brighter Eyes,  
Move half so swift a pace.   

This Plot, it seems the lustful, Slave,  
Had laid against her Honour,  
Which not one God, took care to save,  
For he pursues her to the Cave,  
And throws himself upon her.   

Now pierced is her Virgin Zone,  
She feels the Foe within it,  
She hears a broken Amorous groan,  
The panting Lovers fainting moan,  
Just in the happy Minute.   

Frighted she wakes, and waking Friggs,  
Nature thus kindly eased,  
In dreams raised by her murmuring Pigs,  
And her own Thumb between her Legs,  
She innocent and pleased.    

Song.  

GIve me leave to rail at you,  
I ask nothing but my due;  
To call you false, and then to say,  
You shall not keep my Heart a day.  
But alas! against my will,  
I must be your Captive still.  
Ah! be kinder then, for I  
Cannot change, and would not die.   

Kindness has resistless charms,  
All besides, but weakly move,  
Fiercest Anger it disarms,  
And eclipse the Wings of flying love.  
Beauty, does the Heart invade,  
Kindness only can persuade;  
It guilds the Lovers, servile Chain,  
And makes the Slave, grow pleased again.    

The Answer.  

NOthing adds to your fond Fire,  
More than scorn, and cold disdain,  
I to cherish your desire,  
Kindness used, but 'twas in vain.   

You insulted on your Slave,  
Humble love you soon refused,  
Hope not then a power to have,  
When ingloriously you used.   

Think not Thirsis, I will e'er,  
By my love my Empire loose;  
You grow constant through despair,  
Love returned, you would abuse.  
Though you still possess my Heart,  
Scorn, and rigour, I must feign.  
Ah! forgive that only Art,  
Love has left, your love to gain.   

You that could my Heart subdue,  
To new Conquests ne'er pretend,  
Let your example make me true,  
And of a Conquered Foe, a Friend:  
Then if e'er I should complain,  
Of your Empire, or my Chain,  
Summon all your powerful Charms,  
And sell the Rebel, in your Arms.    

Song.  

PHilis, be gentler I advise,  
Make up for time misspent,  
When Beauty, on its Deathbed lies  
'Tis high time to repent.   

Snch is the Malice of your Fate,  
That makes you old so soon,  
Your pleasure ever comes too late,  
How early ere begun.   

Think what a wretched thing is she,  
Whose Stars, contrive in spite,  
The Morning of her love should be,  
Her faiding Beauty's Night.   

Then if to make your ruin more,  
You'll peevishly be coy,  
Dye with the scandal of a Whore,  
And never know the joy.    

Song.  

What cruel pains Corinna, takes,  
To force that harmless frown,  
When not a Charm her Face, forsakes;  
Love, cannot lose his own.   

So sweet a Face, so soft a Heart,  
Such Eyes, so very kind,  
Betray alas! the silly Art,  
Virtue had ill designed.   

Poor feeble Tyrant, who in vain,  
Would proudly take upon her,  
Against kind Nature, to maintain,  
Affected Rules of Honor.   

The scorn she bears, so helpless proves  
When I plead passion to her,  
That much she fears, but more she loves,  
Her Vassal should undo her.    

Woman's Honor.  

L Ove, bade me hope, and I obeyed,  
Philis continued still unkind,  
Then you may e'en despair he said  
In vain I strive to change her Mind.   

honour's got in, and keeps her Heart;  
Durst he but venture once abroad,  
In my own right I'd take your part,  
And show myself the mightier God,   

This huffing Honour domineers,  
In Breast alone, where he has place;  
But if true generous Love appears,  
The Hector dare not show his Face   

Let me still Languish and complain,  
Be most unhumanely denied,  
I have some pleasure in my pain,  
She can have none with all her Pride.   

I fall a Sacrifice to Love,  
She lives a Wretch for Honour's sake,  
Whose Tyrant does most cruel prove,  
The difference is not hard to make.   

Consider real Honour then,  
You'll find hers cannot be the same,  
'Tis Noble confidence in Men,  
In Women, mean mistrustful shame.    

Song.  

TO this moment a Rebel I throw down my Arms,  
Great Love, at first sight ●f Olinda's, bright charms,  
Made proud, and secure, by such ●orces as these,  
You may now play the Tyrant, as soon as you please.   

When Innocence Beauty, and Wit do conspire,  
To betray, and engage, and inflame my desire.  
Why should I decline, what I cannot avoid;  
And let pleasing hope, by base fear be destroyed.   

Her innocence cannot contrive to undo me,  
Her BeautiesBeauties inclined, or why should it pursue me?  
And Wit, has to pleasure, been ever a Friend,  
Then what room for despar, since delight is Love's end.   

There can be no danger in sweetness, and youth,  
Where Love, is secured by good nature and truth.  
On her Beauty I'll gaze, and of pleasure complain,  
While every kind look adds a Link to my Chain.   

'tis more to maintain, that in was to surprise,  
But haet Wit leads in triumph the Slave of her Eyes,  
I beheld, with the loss of my freedom before,  
But hearing, for ever must serve and adore.   

Too bright is my Goddess, her Temple too weak,  
Retire Divine Image, I feel my Heart break,  
Help Love! I dissolve in a Rapture of Charms,  
At the thought of those joys, I should meet in her Arms.    

Song.  

HOw happy Cloris (were they free)  
Might our enjoyments prove?  
But you with formal Jealousy,  
Are still tormenting Love.   

Let us (since Wit instructs us how)  
Raise Pleasure to the top,  
If Rival Bottle, you'll allow,  
I'll suffer Rival Fop.   

there's not a brisk insipid Spark,  
That flutters in the Town,  
But with your wanton Eyes you mark,  
The Coxcomb for your own.   

You never think it worth your care,  
How empty, nor how dull,  
The Heads of your admirers are,  
So that their Cod be full.   

All this you freely may confess,  
Yet we'll not disagree;  
For did you love your pleasure less,  
You were not fit for me.   

While I my passion to pursue,  
Am whole Nights taking in,  
The lusty Juice of Grapes, take you  
The lusty Juice of Men.    

Love and Life, a Song.  

ALL my past Life is mine no more,  
The flying hours are gone;  
Like transitory Dreams given o'er,  
Whose Images are kept in store,  
By Memory alone.   

What ever is to come, is not,  
How can it then be mine?  
The present Moment's all my Lot,  
And that as fast as it is got,  
Phillis, is wolly thine.   

Then talk not of inconstancy,  
False Hearts, and broken Vows,  
If I by Miracle can be,  
This livelong Minute true to thee,  
'Twas all that Heaven allows.    

The Fall, a Song.  

HOw blessed was the Created State,  
Of Man, and Woman, ere they fell,  
Compared to our unhappy Fate;  
We need not fear another Hell.   

Naked beneath cool Shades they lay,  
Enjoyment waited on desire.  
Each Member did their wills obey,  
Nor could a wish, set pleasure higher.   

But we poor Slaves, to hope and fear,  
Are never of our joys secure.  
They lessen still as they draw near.  
And none but dull delights endure.   

Then Cloris, while I duty pay,  
The Noble Tribute of my Heart.  
Be not you so severe to say,  
You love me for a frailer part.    

Song.  

While on those lovely looks I graze,  
To see a Wretch pursuing,  
In Raptures of a blessed amaze.  
This pleasing happy ruin.  
'tis not for pity, that I move,  
His Fate is too aspiring,  
Whose Heart, broke with a Load of love,  
Dies wishing, and admiring.   

But if this Murder you'd forgo,  
Your Slave from Death removing.  
Let me your Art of Charming know,  
Or learn you mine of Loving.  
But whether Life, or Death betid,  
In love, 'tis equal measure.  
The Victor lives with empty pride,  
The Vanquished dye with pleasure.    

Song.  

BY all Love's soft, yet mighty Powers.  
It is a thing unfit,  
That Men should Fuck in time of Flowers;  
Or when the Smock's beshit.   

Fair nasty Nymph, be clean and kind,  
And all my joys restore;  
By using Paper still behind,  
And Sponges for before,   

My spotless Flames can ne'er decay,  
If after every close,  
My smoking Prick escape the Fray,  
Without a Bloody Nose.   

If thou wouldst have me true, be kind,  
And take to cleanly sinning;  
None but fresh Lovers Pricks can rise,  
At Fillis in foul linen.    

Song.  

ROom, room, for a Blade of the Town,  
That takes delight in Roaring,  
And daily Rambles up and down,  
And at Night in the Street lies Snoring,  
That for the noble name of Spark,  
Dares his Companions rally;  
Commits an outrage in the dark,  
Then slinks into an Alley.  
To every Female that he meets,  
He swears he bears affection,  
Defies all Laws, Arrests, and Feats,  
By the help of a kind Protection.  
Then he intending further wrongs:  
By some resenting Cully,  
Is decently run through the Lungs,  
And there's an end of Bully.    

Song.  

AGainst the Charms our Ballocks have,  
How weak all humane skill is?  
Since they can make a Man a Slave,  
To such a Bitch as Phillis.   

Whom that I may describe throughout,  
Assist me Bawdy Powers,  
I'll write upon a double Clout,  
And dip my Pen in Flowrs,   

Her looks demurely impudent,  
Ungainly Beautiful,  
Her Modesty is insolent,  
Her Mirth is pert and dull.   

A Prostitute, to all the Town,  
And yet with no Man Friends,  
She rails, and scolds, when she lies down,  
And curses when she spends.   

Bawdy in thoughts, precise in words,  
Ill natured, and a Whore,  
Her Belly, is a Bag of T-rds,  
And her C—t, a common shore.    

Song.  

I Cannot change as others do  
Though you unjustly scorn  
Since that poor Swain that sighs for you  
For you alone was born.  
No Phillis, no, your Heart to move,  
A surer way I'll try  
And to revenge my slighted love  
Will still love on, will still love on, and die.   

When killed with grief Amyntas lies  
And you to mind shall call,  
The sighs that now unpitied rise  
The Tears that vainly fall;  
That welcome hour that ends this smart  
Will then begin your pain,  
For such a faithful tender Heart  
Can never break, can never break in vain.    

The Mock Song.  

I Swive as well as others do,  
I'm young, not yet deformed,  
My tender Heart, sincere, and true,  
Deserves not to be scorned.  
Why Phillis then, why will you swive,  
With Forty Lovers more?  
Can I (said she) with Nature strive,  
Alas I am, alas I am a Whore.   

Were all my Body larded o'er,  
With Darts of love, so thick,  
That you might find in every Poor,  
A well stuck standing Prick;  
Whilst yet my Eyes alone were free,  
My Heart, would never doubt,  
In Amorous Rage, and Ecstasy,  
To wish those Eyes, to wish those Eyes sucked out.    

Actus Primus Scena Prima.  Enter Tarsander and Swiveanthe. 

The Scene.  A Bedchamber. Tar. 
FOr standing Tarses we kind Nature thank,  
And yet adore those Cunts that make 'em lank;  
Unhappy Mortals! whose sublimest joy,  
Preys on itself, and does itself destroy.  Swi. 
Do not thy Tarse, Nature's best gift, despise,  
That C—t, that made it fall, will make it rise;  
Though it a while the Amorous Combat shun,  
And seems from mine, into thy Belly run;  
Yet 'twill return, more vigorous, and more fierce;  
Than flaming Drunkard, when he's died in Tierce,  
It but retires, as losing Gamesters do,  
Till they have raised a Stock to play a new.  Tar. 
What pleasure has a Gamester, if he knows,  
When e'er he plays, that he must always lose?  Swi. 
What Pego loses, 't were a pain to keep,  
We say not that our Nights are lost in sleep;  
What pleasures we in those soft Wars employ,  
We do not waste, but to the full enjoy.  [ex Tarsander, Enter Celia. Cel. 
Madam, methings those sleepy Eyes declare,  
Too lately you have eas d a Lovers care;  
I fear you have with interest repaid,  
Those eager thrusts, which at your Cunt he made.  Swi. 
With force united, my soft Heart he stormed,  
Like Age he doted, but like Youth performed.  
She that alone her Lover can withstand,  
Is more than Woman, or he less than Man.  [Exeunt.   

The first Letter from B. to Mr. E.  

DReaming last Night on Mrs Farley,  
My Prick was up this Morning early;  
And I was fain without my Gown,  
To rise i'th' cold, to get him down.  
Hard shift alas, but yet a sure,  
Although it be no pleasing cure.  
Of Old, the fair Egyptian Slattern,  
For Luxury, that had no Pattern,  
To fortify her Roman Swinger,  
Instead of Nutmegs, Mace and Ginger,  
Did spice his Bow'ls (as Story tells)  
With Warts of Rocks, and Spawn of Shells.  
It had been happy for her Grace,  
Had I been in the Rascal's place.  
I who do scorn that any Stone,  
Should raise my Pintle, but my own.  
Had laid her down on every Couch,  
And sparded her Pearl, and Diamond Brouch,  
Until her Hot-taild Majesty,  
Being happily reclaimed by me,  
From all her wild expensive ways,  
Had worn her Gems on Holy Days.  
But since her C— has long done itching,  
Let us discourse of Modern Bitching.   

I must entreat you by this Letter,  
To inquire for Whores, the more the better:  
Hunger makes any man a Glutton,  
If Roberts, Thomas, Mrs. Dutton.  
Or any other Bawd of note,  
Inform of a fresh Petticoat.  
Inquire, I pray, with Friendly care,  
Where their respective Lodgings are.  
Some do compare a Man t' a Bark,  
A pretty Metaphor, pray mark,  
And with a long and tedious story,  
Will all the Tackling lay before ye.  
The Sails are Hope, the Masts desire,  
Till they the gentlest Reader tyre.  
But howsoever they keep a pother,  
I'm sure the Pintle is the Rudder.  
The powerful Rudder, which of force,  
To Town, must shortly steer my Course;  
And if you do not there provide  
A Port, where I may safely ride.  
Landing in haste, in some foul Creek,  
'Tis ten to one, I spring a Leak.   

Next, I must make it my request,  
If you have any interest;  
Or can by any means discover,  
Some lamentable Rhyming Lover,  
Who shall in Numbers harsh and vile,  
His Mistress, Nymph, or Goddess stile.  
Send all his Labours down to me,  
By the first opportunity.   

Or any Knights of your round Table  
To other Scribblers formidable.  
Guilty themselves of the same Crime,  
Dress Nonsense up in ragged Rhyme,  
As once a Week, they seldom fail,  
Inspired with Love, and Grid-Iron Ale.   

Or any paultery Poetry,  
Tho from the University.  
Who when the K— and Q— were there,  
Did both their Wit and Learning spare;  
And have (I hope) endeavoured since,  
To make the World some recompense.  
Such damned Fustian, when you meet,  
Be not too rash, or indiscreet;  
Tho they can find no just excuses,  
To put 'em to their proper uses;  
Tho fatal Privy, or the Fire,  
Their Nobler Foe, at my desire.  
Restrain your natural profuseness,  
And spare'em, though you have a looseness.    

Mr. E— s Answer.  

AS crafty Harlots, use to shrink,  
From Lechers, dosed with sleep and drink  
When they intent to make up Pack,  
By silching Sheets, or Shirt from Back,  
So were you pleased to steal away  
From me, whilst on your Bed I lay:  
But long you had not been departed,  
When pinched with cold from thence I started;  
Where missing you, I stamped and stared,  
Like Bacon, when he waked and heard,  
His Brazen Head, in vain had spoke,  
And saw it lie in pieces broke,  
Sighing, I to my Chamber make,  
And every Limb, was stiff as Stake.  
Unless poor Pego, which did feel,  
Like slimey Skin of new stripped Eel,  
Or Pudding, that mischance had got;  
And spent itself half in the Pot.  
With care, I cleansed the sneaking Varlet,  
That late had been in Pool of Harlot.  
But neither Shirt, nor Water could,  
Remove the stench of Leach'rous Mud.  
The Queen of Love from Sea did spring,  
Whence the best C— 'tis still smell like Ling.  
But sure this damned notorious Bitch,  
Was made o'th' froth of Jane Shore's Ditch,  
Or else her C—t could never stink,  
Like Pump that's foul, or nasty Sink.   

When this was done, to Bed I went,  
And the whole Day, in sleep I spent;  
But the next Morning, fresh and gay,  
As Citizen, on Holy Day;  
I wandered in the spacious Town,  
Amongst the Bawds, of best renown!  
To Temple I a visit made,  
Temple! the Beauty of her Trade!  
The only Bawd that ever I,  
For want of Whore could occupy?  
She made me Friends with Mrs. Cuffley,  
Whom we indeed had used too roughly;  
For by a gentler way I found,  
The Whore, would Fuck under ten Pound.  
So resty Jades, which scorn to stir,  
Though oft provoked by Switches, and spur:  
By milder usage may be got,  
To fall into their wont Trot.   

But what success I further had,  
And what discoveries good, and bad,  
I made roving up, and down,  
I'll tell you when you come to Town.   

Further, I have obeyed your motion,  
Though much provoked by Pill, and Potion,  
And sent you down some paltry Rhymes,  
The greatest grievance of our times;  
When such as Nature, never made  
For Poets daily will invade  
Wits Empire, both the Stage, and Press,  
And which is worse, with good success.    

The Second Letter from B— to Mr. E—  

IF I can guests the Devil choke me,  
What horrid fury could provoke thee,  
To use thy railing, scurr'lous Wit,  
Against C—t, and Pr—k k, the source of it:  
For what but C—t, and Pr—k k, does raise  
Our thoughts to Songs, and Roundelays?  
Enables ns to Annagrams  
And other Amorous flim flams?  
Then we write Plays, and so proceed,  
To Bays, the Poets sacred Weed  
Hast no respect for God Priapus?  
That Ancient Story, shall not scape us.  
Priapus, was a Roman God,  
But in plain English, Pr—k k, and Cod,  
That pleas ' their Sisters, Wives, and Daughters,  
Guarded their Pippins, and Pomwaters,  
For at the Orchards utmost entry,  
This mighty Deity stood Sentry;  
Invested in a tattered Blanket,  
To scare the Magpyes, from their Banquet:  
But this may serve to show we trample,  
On Rule, and Method, by example.  
Of Modern Authors, who do snap at all,  
Will talk of Caesar, in the Capitol,  
Of Cimhius, Beams, and Sols, bright Ray,  
Known Foe, to Buttermilk, and Whey,  
Which softens Wax, and hardens Clay.  
All this without the least connexion,  
Which to say truth's enough to vex one;  
But farewel all Poetic dizziniss,  
And now to come unto the business.   

Tell the bright Nymph, how sad, and pensively  
ere since we used her so offensively,  
In dismal shades, with Arms a cross,  
I sit lamenting of my loss;  
To Echo, I her Name commend,  
Who has it now at her Tongue's end,  
And Parrot-like, repeats the same,  
For should you talk of Tamberlyn,  
Cussley! she cries at the same time,  
Though the last Accents do not Rhyme:  
Far more than Echo, e'er did yet,  
For Phillis, or bright Amoretta.   

With Penknife keen, of moderate size,  
As bright and piercing as her Eyes;  
A glittering Weapon, which would scorn,  
To pair a Nail, or cut a Corn;  
Upon the Trees, of smoothest Bark,  
I carve her Name, or else her mark,  
Which commonly's a bleeding Heart,  
A weeping Eye, or flaming Dart.   

Here on a Beech, like Amorous Sot,  
I sometimes carve a True-love's Knot;  
There a tall Oak, her name does bear,  
In a large spreading Character.  
I chose the fairest, and the best  
Of all the Grove, among the rest.  
I carved it on a Lofty Pine,  
Which who wept a pint of Turpentine;  
Such was the terror of her Name,  
By the report of evil Fame  
Who tired with immoderate flight,  
Had lodged upon its Boughs all Night.  
The wary Tree, who feared a Clap,  
And knew the virtue of his Sap,  
Dropped Balsom into every Wound,  
And in an hours time was sound.  
But you are unacquanted yet,  
With half the power of Amoretta,  
For the can drink, as well as swive,  
Her growing Empire, still must thrive,  
Our Hearts weak Forts, we must resign,  
When Beauty does its forces join  
With Man's strong Enemy, good Wine:  
This I was told by my Lord O B—,  
A Man whose word, I much rely on,  
He kept touch, and came down hither,  
When thou wert scared with the foul Wether:  
But if thou wouldst forgiven be,  
Say that a Cunt detained thee.  
Cunt! whose strong Charms, the World bewitches,  
The joy of Kings! the Beggar's Riches!  
The Courtiers, business, Statesman's leisure!  
The tired Tinkers, ease, and pleasure!  
Of which alas I've leave to prate,  
But oh the rigour of my Fate!  
For want of bouncing Bona Roba!  
Lasciva est nobis pagina vita proba.  
For that Rhyme, I was fain to fumble,  
When Pegasus, begins to stumble,  
'Tis time to rest, your very humble.    

Mr. E— s. Answer.  

SO soft, and Am'rously you write,  
Of Cunt, and Pr—k k, the Cunts' delight;  
That were I still in Lantern sweeting,  
Swallowing of Bolus, or a spitting,  
I should forget each injury,  
The Pocky Whores, have offered me,  
And only of my Fate complain,  
Because I must from C—t abstain.  
The powerful Cunt! Whose very name?  
Kindles in me an amorous flame!  
Begins to make my Pintle rise,  
And long again to fight Love's Prize!  
Forgetful of those many Scars,  
He was received in those Wars.  
This shows Love's chiefest Magic lies,  
In women's C— 'tis, not in their Eyes,  
There Cupid, does his Revels keep,  
There Lovers, all their sorrows steep,  
For having once but tasted that,  
Our miseries are quite forgot.  
This may suffice to let you know,  
That I to C— t, am not a Foe,  
Though you are pleased to think me so:  
'Tis strange his Zeal should be in suspicion.  
Who dies a Martyr, for's Religion.   

But now to give you an account  
Of Cussley, that Whore Paramount!  
Cuffley! whose Beauty warms the Age,  
And fills our Youth, with Love, and Rage,  
Who like fierce Wolves, pursue the Game,  
While secretly the Lech'rous Dame,  
With some choice Gallant, takes her flight,  
And in a Corner Fucks all Night.  
Then the next Morning, we all hunt,  
To find whose Fingers, smell of Cunt.  
With jealousy, and Envy moved,  
Against the Man that was beloved.  
Whilst you within some Neighbouring Grove,  
Indite the Story of your love,  
And with your Penknife, keen, and bright,  
On stately Trees, your passion write,  
So that each Nymph that passes through,  
Must envy her, and pity you;  
We at the Fleece, or at the Bear,  
With good Case-knife, well whet on Stair:  
A gentle Weapon, made to feed  
Mankind, and not to make 'em bleed;  
A thousand amorous fancies scrape,  
There's not a Pewter-dish, can scape,  
Without her name, or Arms, which are,  
The same that Love, himself, does bear.   

Here one to show you Love's no Glutton,  
I'th' midst of Supper, leaves his Mutton,  
And on a greasy Plate, with care,  
Carves the bright Image of the Fair.   

Another, though adrunken Sot,  
Neglects his Wine, and on the Pot,  
A band of naked Cupid's draws,  
With Pr—ks ks, no bigger than Wheat Straws.  
Then on a nasty Candlestick,  
One figures Loves Hieroglyphic,  
A Couchant Cunt, and Rampant Prick.  
And that the sight may more inflame,  
The lookers on, subscribe her name,  
Cuffley! her Sex's Pride, and shame.  
There's not a Man but does discover.  
By some such Action he's her Lover,  
But now 'tis time to give her over,  
And let your Lordship, know, you are  
The Mistress, that employs our care;  
Your absence makes us Melancholy,  
Nor drink, nor C—t, can make us jolly;  
Unless wa've you within our Arms,  
In whom there dwells diviner Charms!  
Then quit with speed the pensive Grove,  
And here in Town, pursue your love;  
Where at your coming, you shall find,  
Your Servants glad, your Mistress kind,  
And all things devoted to your Mind.   
With your very Humble Servant.   

On Mr. E— H— upon his B— P—  

COme on ye Critics! find one fault who dare,  
For read it backward, like a Witches Prayer.  
'Twill do as well; throw not away your jests,  
On solid Nonsense, that abides all Tests.  
Wit, like Tierce Claret, when't begins to pall,  
Neglected lies, and's of no use at all;  
But in its full perfection of decay,  
Turns Vinegar, and comes again in play.  
This Simile, shall stand in thy defence,  
Against such dull Rogues, as now and then write sense.  
He lies dear Ned, who says thy Brain, is barren,  
Where deep conceits, like Vermin, breed in Carrin;  
Thou hast a Brain, such as thou hast indeed,  
On what else, should thy Worm of Fancy feed?  
Yet in a Philbert, I have often known,  
Maggots, survive, when all the Kernell's gone.  
Thy Style's the same, what ever be the Theme,  
As some digestions, turn all Meat to Phlegm.  
Thy stumbling Foundered Jade, can Troth as high,  
As any other Pegasus, can fly.  
As skilful Dyvers, to the bottom fall,  
Sooner than those, that cannot swim at all;  
So in this way of writing, without thinking,  
Thou hast a strange Alacrity, in sinking.  
Thou writ'st below, even thy own natural parts,  
And with acquired dullness, and new Arts,  
Of studied Nonsense, tak'st kind Readers hearts,  
So the dull Eel, moves nimbler in the Mud,  
Than all the swift Finned Racers, of the Flood.  
Therefore dear Ned, at my advice forbear,  
Such loud complaints against Critics to prefer,  
Since thou art turned an Arrant Libeler:  
Thou sett'st thy Name, to what thyself does write,  
Did ever Libel, yet so sharply bite?    

On the same Author upon his B— P—  

AS when a Bully, draws his Sword,  
Though no Man gives him a cross word;  
And all persuasions are in vain,  
To make him put it up again;  
Each Man draws too and falls upon him,  
To take the wicked Weapon from him:  
Even so dear Ned, thy drsp'rate Pen,  
No less disturbs all witty Men:  
And makes 'em wonder what a Devil,  
Provokes thee to be so uncivil;  
When thou and all thy Friends must know 'em,  
Thou yet wilt dare to Print thy Poem.  
That poor Curs fate, and thine are one,  
Who has his Tail pegged in a Bone;  
About he runs, no body, ll own him.  
Men, Boys, and Dogs, are all upon him.  
And first the greater Wtts, were at thee,  
Now every little Fool, will pat thee.  
Fellows, that ne'er were heard, or read of,  
(If thou writ'st on) will write thy head off.  
Thus Mastiffs, only, have the knack,  
To cast the Bear, upon his Back;  
But when th' unwieldy Beast, is thrown,  
Mu●grills, will serve to keep him down.    

On the same Author upon his New Vt—  

THou damned Antipodes to common sense,  
Thou Foil to Fluence! prithee tell from whence,  
Does all this mighty Rock of dullness spring,  
Which in such Loads thou to the Stage dost bring?  
Is't all thy own? or hast thou from Snow-hill,  
Th' assurance of some Ballad making Quill?  
No, they fly higher yet; thy Plays are such,  
I'd swear they were translated vot of Dutch:  
And who the Devil, was e'er yetso drunk,  
To read the Volumes of Myn-Heer-Van Dunk?  
Fain would I know what Diet thou dost keep,  
If thou dost always, or dough never sleep?  
Sure Hasty Pudding, is thy chiefest Dish,  
With Lights, and Livers, and with stinking Fish.  
Ox-cheek Tripe, Garbage, thou dost treat thy Brain  
Which nobly pays this Tribute back again.  
With Dazy Roots, thy dwafish Muse is fed,  
A Giant's Body, with a Pigmies Head.  
Canst thou not find amongst thy numerous Race,  
One Friend, so kind, to tell thee that thy Play's;  
Laughed at by Box, Pit, Gallery, nay Stage,  
And grown the naus'ous grievance of this Age!  
Think on't a while, and thou wilt quickly find,  
Thy Body made for labour, not thy Mind.  
Nor other use of Paper, thou shouldst make,  
But carry Loads of Rhymes, upon thy Back;  
Carry vast Burdens till thy Shoulders shrink,  
But cursed be he, that gives thee Pen, and Ink,  
Those dangerous Weapons, should be keep from Fools,  
As Nurse from their Children, keep Edge-tools.  
For thy dull Muse, a Muckender were fit,  
To wipe the slav'rings of her Infant Wit:  
Which though 'tis late (if Justice could be found.  
Should like blind, new born Puppy's, yet be drowned)  
For were it not we must respect afford,  
To any Muse, that's Grand-chil, to a Lord;  
Thine, in the Ducking-stool, should take her Seat,  
Drenched like herself, in a great Chair of State,  
Where like a Muse, of Quality, she'll die,  
And thou thyself, shalt make her Elegy,  
In the same Strain, thou writ'st thy Comedy.    

The Disappointment.  

1.  
ONe Day the Amorous Lisander,  
By an impatient passion swayed,  
Surprised Fair Cloris, that loved Maid,  
Who could defend herself no longer;  
All things did with his love conspire,  
The guilded Planet of the Day,  
In his gay Chariot, drawn by Fire,  
Was now descending to the Sea,  
And left no light to guide the World,  
But what from Cloris brighter Eyes was hurled   

2.  
In a loan Ticket, made for love,  
Silent, as yielding Maids consent,  
She with a charming languishment,  
Permits his force; yet gently striven;  
Her hands, his Bosom, softly meet,  
But not to put him back designed,  
Rather to draw him on inclined,  
Whilst the lay trembling at her Feet;  
Resistance, 'tis too late to show,  
She wants the power to say— Ah! what d'ye do?   

3.  
Her bright Eyes sweet, and yet severe,  
Where Love, and shame, confusedly strive,  
Fresh vigour, to Lisander give;  
And whispering softly in his Ear,  
She cried— cease— cease— your vain desire,  
Or I'll call out what would you do?  
My dearer Honour, even to you,  
I cannot— must not give— retire,  
Or take that life, whose chiefest part,  
I gave you with the Conquest of my Heart.   

4  
But he, as much unused to fear,  
As he was capable of Love,  
The blessed Minutes to improve,  
Kisses her Lips, her Neck, her Hair!  
Each touch! her new desires Alarms!  
His burning trembling hand he pressed,  
Upon her melting Snowy Breast,  
While he lay panting in his Arms!  
All her ungarded Beauties lie,  
The spoils, and Trophies, of the Enemy,   

4  
And now without respect, or fear,  
He seeks the Object of his Vows.  
His love no modesty allows.  
By swift degrees, advancing where.  
His daring Hand that Altar seized,  
Where Gods of Love, do Sacrifice!  
That awful Thorn! that Paradise!  
Where Rage is tamed, and Anger pleased?  
That living Fountain, from whose Trills,  
The melted Soul, in liquid drops destils!   

6.  
Her Balmey Lips, encountering his,  
Their Bodies, as their Souls they joined,  
Where both in transports unconfined,  
Extend themselves upon the Moss!  
Cloris, half dead, and breathless lay,  
Her Eyes appeared like Humid light,  
Such as divides the Day, and Night,  
Or falling Stars, whose Fires decay;  
And now no signs of life she shows,  
But what in short-breathed sighs, returns and goes.   

7.  
He saw how at her length she lay,  
He saw her rising Bosom bare;  
Her loose thine Robes, through which appear,  
A shape designed, for love, and play  
Abandoned by her Pride, and shame:  
She does her softest sweets dispense,  
Off ring her Virgin, innocence,  
A Victim, to Loves sacred flame.  
Whilst th' o'er ravished Shepherd, lies,  
Unable to perform the Sacrifice.   

8  
Ready to taste a Thousand joys,  
The too transported hapless Swain,  
Found the vast pleasure, tur'd to rain:  
Pleasure! which too much love destroys!  
The willing Garment by he laid,  
And Heaven all open to his view.  
Mad to possess, himself he threw,  
On the defenceless lovely Maid!  
But oh! what enviours Gods conspire!  
To snach his power, yet leave him the desire!   

9  
Nature's support, without whose Aid,  
She can no humane being give;  
Itself now wants the Art to live;  
Faintness, its slackened Nerves Invade,  
In vain th' enraged Youth assayed,  
To call his fleeting Vigour back;  
No motion, 'twill from motion take,  
Excess of love, his love betrayed,  
In vain he toils, in vain commands.  
Th' Insensible, fell weeping in his Hands.   

10.  
In this so Amorous cruel strife,  
Where Love, and Fate, were too severe.  
The poor Lisander, in despair,  
Renounced his Reason, with his life.  
Now all the brisk, and Active fire,  
That should the nobler part in flame,  
And left no spark for new desire;  
Not all her naked Charms could move,  
Our calm that Rage, that had debauched his love.   

11.  
Cloris, returning from the Trance,  
Which love and soft desire, had bred,  
Her timorous hand, she gently laid,  
Or guided by design, or chance  
Upon that Fabulous Priapus,  
That Potent God (as Poets feign)  
But never did young Shepherdess,  
(Gathering of Fern, upon the Plain)  
More nimbly draw her Fingers back,  
Finding beneath the Verdant Leaves a Snake;   

12.  
Then Cloris, her fair hand withdrew,  
Finding that God, of her defiers,  
Lisa●m'd of all his powerful Fires;  
And cold as Flowers bathed in the Morning Dew;  
Who can the Nymphs confusion guests?  
The blood forsook the kinder place,  
And strewed with blushes all her Face,  
Which both disdain, and shame express;  
And from Lisander's, Arms she fled,  
Leaving him fainting, on the gloomy Bed.   

13.  
Like Lightning, through the Grove, she hies,  
Or Daphne, from the Delphic God,;  
No print upon the Grassy Rcad,  
She leaves, t'instruct pursuing Eyes;  
The Wind, that wantoned in her Hair,  
And with her ruffled Garments played,  
Discovered in the flying Maid;  
All that the Gods e'er made of Fair.  
So Venus, when her Love, was slain,  
With fear, and hast, flew o'er the Fatal Plain,   

14.  
The Nymphs resentments, none but I,  
Can well imagine, and Condole;  
But none can guests Lisander's, Soul,  
But those who swayed his Distiny:  
His silent griefs, swell up to Storms,  
And not one God, his fury spares,  
He cursed his Birth, his Fate, his Stars,  
But more the Sheherdesses' Charms;  
Whose soft bewitching influence,  
Had damned him to the Hell, of Impotence.    

On a Giniper Tree now cut down to make Busks.  

Whilst happy I triumphant stood,  
The pride and glory of the Wood,  
My Aromatic Boughs, and Fruit,  
Did with all other Trees dispute;  
Had right by Nature, to excel,  
In pleasing both the Taste, and smell.  
But to the touch, I must confess,  
Bore an unwilling fullenness:  
My Wealth, like bashful Vergins, I,  
Yielding with some reluctancy;  
For which my value should be more,  
Not giving easily my store.  
My Verdant Branches, all the year,  
Did an Eternal Beauty were,  
Did ever young, and gay appear,  
Nor needed any Tribute pay,  
For Bounties from the God of Day.  
Nor do I hold Supremacy,  
In all the Wood, o'er ev're Tree,  
But even those to of my own Race,  
That grew not in this happy place;  
But that in which I glory most,  
And do myself with reason boast,  
Beneath my snade the other Day,  
Young Philocles, and Cloris, lay  
Upon my Root, he placed her Head,  
And where I grew, he made her Bed;  
There trembling Limbs, did gently press,  
The kind suporting, yielding Moss;  
ne'er half so blest, as now to bear,  
A Swain, so young, a Nymph, so fair.  
My grateful Shade, I kindly lent  
And every aiding Bough I bent,  
So low, as sometimes had the Bliss,  
To rob the Shepherd of a Kiss.  
Whilst he in pleasures far above!  
The sense of that degree of love!  
Permitted every stealth I made,  
Uujealous of his Rival shade.  
I saw 'em kindle to desire!  
Whilst with soft sighs, they blew the Fire!  
Saw the approaches of their joy,  
He growing more fierce, and she less coy!  
Saw how they mingled melting Rays!  
Exchanging love a Thousand ways!  
Kind was the force on every side.  
Her new desires, she could not siide,  
Nor would the Shepherd be denied!  
Impatient, he waits no consent,  
But what she gave by languishment.  
The blessed Minute he pursued,  
Whilst Love, her fere, and shame subdued  
And now transported in his Arms,  
Yieelds to to the Conqueror, all her Charms!  
His panting Breast, to hers now joined,  
They feast on Raptures, unconfined!  
Vast and luxuriant, such as prove,  
The immortality of love!  
For who but a Divinity!  
Could mingle Souls to that degree,  
And melt 'em into Ecstasy!  
Where like the Pooenix both expire,  
Whilst from the Ashes of their Fire,  
Sprung up a New, and soft desire,  
Like Charmers, Thrice they did invoke  
The God, and Thrice new vigour took  
And had the Nymph, been half so kind,  
As was the Shepherd, well inclined;  
The Mystery had not ended there;  
But Cloris, reassumed her fear,  
And chid the Swain, for having pressed,  
What she (alas) could not resist:  
Whilst he, in whom Loves sacred flame,  
Before, and after was the same,  
Humbly implores she would forget  
That fault, which he would yet repeat,  
From active joys with shame they hast,  
To a reflection on the past;  
A Thousand times the Covert blses,  
That did secure their happiness;  
Their gratitude, to every Tree  
They pay, most to happy me!  
The Shepherdess, my Bark carrest,  
Whilst he my Root (Love's Pillow) kissed,  
And did with sights their Fate deplore,  
Since I must shelter 'em no more.  
And if before, my joys were such,  
In having seen, and herd so much;  
My griefs, must be as great, and high,  
When all abandoned I must lie,  
Doomed to a silent Destiny:  
No more the Amorous strife to hear,  
The Shepherds, Vous, the Virgin's fear;  
No more a joyful looker on,  
Whilst Loves soft Battl's lost and won.   

With grief I boued my murmuring Head,  
And all my Crystal Dew, I shed,  
Which did in Cloris pity move;  
Cloris whose Soul is made of love.  
She cut me down, and did translate,  
My being to a happier State:  
No Martyr, for Religion died,  
With half that unconsid'ring pride;  
My Top was, on the Alter laid,  
Where Love, his softest Offerings paid,  
And was as fragrant Incense burned;  
My Body, into Busks, was turned.  
Where I still guard the sacred Store,  
And of Love's Temple, keep the Door.    

On the Death of Mr. Grnehill The Famous Painter.  

What doleful cries are these that fright my sense,  
Sad, as the groans of dying innocence!  
The kill Accents, now more near approach,  
And the infectious sound,  
Spreads, and enlarges all around,  
And does all Hearts, with grief, and wonder touch!  
The famous Grnehill's dead! even he,  
That could to us give immortality,  
Is to th' Eternal, silent Groves, withdrawn,  
Those sullen Groves, of Everlasting Dawn;  
Youthful as Flowers scarce blown, whose opening  
Leaves,  
A wondrous and a fragrant Prospect gives,  
Of what its Elder Beauties would display,  
When it should slorish up to ripening May!  
Witty! as Poets, warmed with Love, and Wine,  
Yet still spared Heaven and his Friend;  
For Both to him, were sacred, and divine,  
Nor could he this, no more than that offend.  
Fixed as a Martyr, where he Friendship paid,  
And generous as a God  
Distributing his Bounties all abroad,  
And soft, and gentle, as a Lovesick Maid.   

Great Master, of the Noble Mystery,  
That ever happy knowledge did inspire;  
Sacred as that of Poetry!  
And which, the wondering World, does equally admire!  
Great Nature's works we do contemn,  
When on his glorious Births, we meditate,  
The Face, and Eyes, more Darts received from him,  
Then all the Charms she can create:  
The difference is, his Beauties do beget,  
In the Enamered Soul, a virtuous heat,  
Whilst Nature's grosser pieces move,  
In the course Road, of common love.  
So bold, yet soft, his touches were.  
So round each part, so sweet, and fair,  
That as his Pencil moved Men thought it pressed,  
The lively imitated Breast,  
Which yields like Clouds, where little Angels rest!  
The Limbs all easy, as his temper was,  
Strong at his Mind and Manly too;  
Large as his Soul, his fancy was, and new;  
And from himself he coppy'd every grace,  
For he had all that could adorn a Face,  
All that could either Sex, subdue.   

Each excellence he had, that Youth has in its pride,  
And all experienced Age, can teach;  
At once the vigorous Fire of this,  
And every Virtue, which that can express,  
In all the height that both could reach!  
And yet (alas) in this perfection died!  
Dropped like a Blossom, with a Northern blast,  
When all the scattered Leaves, abroad are cast,  
As quick! as If his Fate, had been in haste!  
So have I seen an unfixt Star,  
Outshine the rest of all the numerous Train  
(As bright as that which guides the Mariner)  
Dart swiftly from its darkened Sphere,  
And ne'er shall light the World again!  
Oh why should so much knowledge die!  
Or with his last kind Breath,  
Why could he not to some one Friend, bequeath  
The mighty Legacy  
But 'twas a knowledge given to him alone,  
That his Eternised name might be,  
Admired to all Posterity,  
By all to whom his grateful name was known!  
Come all ye softer Beauties, come!  
Bring Wreaths of Flowers, to deck his Tomb,  
Mixed with the dismal Cypress, and the Yew,  
For he still gave your Charms their due;  
And from the injuries of Age, and Time,  
Scured the sweetness of your prime,  
And best knew how t' adore that sweetness too!  
Bring all your mournful Tributes here,  
And let your Eyes, a silent sorrow wear,  
Till every Virgin, for a while become,  
Sad as his Fate, and like his Pictures dumb.    

To all curious Critics and Admirers of Meeter.  

HAve you seen the raging Stormy Main  
Toss a Ship up, then cast her down again?  
Sometimes she seems to touch the very Skies.  
And then again upon the Sand she lies.  
Or have you seen a Bull, when he is jealous,  
How he does tear the ground, and Rores and Bellows?  
Or have you seen the pretty Turtle Dove,  
When she laments the absence of her love!  
Or have you seen the Fairies, when they sing,  
And dance with mirth together in a Ring?  
Or have you seen our Gallants, keep a pother,  
With Fair and Grace, and Grace, and Fair Anstrudder?  
Or have you seen the Daughter of Apollo,  
Power down their rhyming Liquors in a hollow Cane?  
In spongy Brain, congealing into Verse;  
If you have seen all this, then kiss mine A— se.    

satire.  

A. What Timon does old Age begin t' approach  
That thus thou droop'st under a night's debauch?  
Hast thou lost deep to needy Rogues on Tick  
Who ne'er could pay, and must be paid next Week?  
Tim. Neither alas, but a dull dining Sot;  
Seized me i'th' Mall, who just my name had got;  
He runs upon me, cries dear Rogue I'm thine,  
With me some Wits, of thy acquaintance dine.  
I tell him I'm engaged but as a Whore,  
With mdesty enslaves her Spark, the more.  
The longer I denied, the more he pressed,  
At last I e'en consent to be his Guest.  
He takes me in his Coach, and as we go;  
Pulls out a Libil, of a Sheet, or two;  
Insipid, as, The praise of pious Queens,  
Or S—, unassisted former Scenes;  
Which he admired, and praised at every Line,  
At last it was so sharp, it must be mine.  
I vowed I was no more a Wit, than he,  
Unpractised, and unblessed in Poetry:  
A Song to Phillis, I perhaps might make,  
But never Rhymed, but for my Pintles sake:  
I envied no Man's fortune, nor his fame,  
Nor ever thought of a revenge so tame.  
He knew my Style, he swore, and 'twas in vain,  
Thus to deny the Issue of my Brain.  
Choked with his flattery, I no answer make,  
But silent leave him to his dear mistake.  
Of a well meaning Fool, I'm most afraid,  
Who sillily repeats, what was well said.  
But this was not the worst, when he came home,  
He asked are Sidley, Buchurst, Savil, come?  
No, but there were above Halfwit and Huff,  
Kickum, and Dingboy. Oh 'tis well enough,  
They're all brave Fellows cries mine Host, let's Dine,  
I long to have my Belly full of Wine,  
They'll write, and fight I dare assure you,  
They're Men, Tam Marte quam Mercurio.  
I saw my error, but 'twas now too late,  
No means, nor hopes, appears of a retreat.  
Well we salute, and each Man takes his Seat.  
Boy (says my Sot) is my Wife ready yet!  
A Wife good Gods! a Fop and Bullies too!  
For one poor Meal, what must I undergo?  
In comes my Lady straight, she had been Fair.  
Fit to give love, and to prevent despair,  
But Age Beauties incurable Disease,  
Had left her more desire, than power to please.  
As Cocks, will strike, although their Spurs be gone.  
She with her old bleer Eyes to smite begun:  
Though nothing else, she (in despite of time)  
Preserved the affectation of her prime;  
How ever you begun, she brought in love,  
And hardly from that Subject would remove.  
We chanced to speak of the French Kings, success;  
My Lady wondered much how Heaven could bless,  
A Man, that loved Two Women at one time;  
But more how he to them excused his Crime.  
She asked Huff, if Loves flame he never felt?  
He answered bluntly— do you think I'm gelt?  
She at his plainness smiled, then turned to me,  
Love in young Minds, proceeds even Poetry.  
You to that passion can no Stranger be,  
But Wits are given to inconstancy.  
She had run on I think till now, but Meat  
Came up, and suddenly she took her seat.  
I thought the Dinner would make some amends,  
When my good Host cries out, y'are all my Friends,  
Our own plain Fare, and the best Terse the Bull  
Affords, I'll give you and your Bellies full:  
As for French Kickshaws, Cellery, and Champoon  
Ragous' and Fricasses, in troth we've none.  
Here's a good Dinner towards thought I, when straight  
Up comes a piece of Beef, full Horsmans' weight;  
Hard as the Arse of M—, under which,  
The Coachman sweats, as wridden by a Witch.  
A Dish of Carrots, each of 'em as long,  
As Tool, that too fair Countess, did belong;  
Which her small Pillow, could not so well hide,  
But Visiters, his flaming Head espied.  
Pig, Goose, and Capon, followed in the Rear,  
With all that Country Bumpkins, call good Cheer:  
Served up with Sauces all of Eighty, Eight,  
When our tough Youth, wrestled, and threw the Weight.  
And now the Bottle, briskly flies about,  
Instead of Ice, wrapped in a wet Clout.  
A Brimmer follows the third bit we eat,  
Small Bear, becomes our drink, and Wine, our Meat  
The Table was so large, that in less space,  
A Man might save, six old Italians place:  
Each Man had as much room, as Porter B—,  
Or Harris, had, in Cullens, Bushel C— t.  
And now the Wine began to work, mine Host  
Had been a Colonel we must hear him boast  
Not of Towns won, but an Estate he lost  
For the King's Service, which indeed he spent  
Whoring, and Drinking, but with good intent  
He talked much of a Plot, and Money lent  
In Cromwell's time. My Lady she  
Complained our love was course, our Poetry,  
Unfit for modest Ears, small Whores, and players.  
Were of our Hare-brained Youth, the only cares;  
Who were too wild for any virtuous League,  
Too rotten to consummate the Intrigue.  
Falkland, she praised, and Sucklings, easy Pen,  
And seemed to taste their former parts again.  
Mine Host, drinks to the best in Christendom,  
And decently my Lady, quits the Room.  
Left to ourselves, of several things we prate,  
Some regulate the Stage, and soem the State,  
Halfwit, cries up my Lord of O—,  
Ah how well Mustapha, and Zanger die!  
His sense so little forced, that by one Line,  
You may the other easily divine.  
And which is worse, if any worse can be,  
He never said one word of it to me.  
There's fine Poetry! you'd swear 'twere Prose,  
So little on the Sense, the Rhymes impose.  
Damn me (says Dingboy) in my mind Gods-swounds  
E—, writes Airy Songs, and soft Lampoons,  
The best of any Man; as for your Nouns,  
Grammar, and Rules of Art, he knows 'em not,  
Yet writ two talking Plays, without one Plot.  
H—, was for S—, and Morocco, praised,  
Said rumbling words, like Drums, his courage raised.  
Whose broad-built-bulks, the boisterous Billows, bear,  
Zaphee and Sally, Mugadore, Oran,  
The famed Arzile, Alcazer, Tituan.  
Was ever braver Language writ by Man?  
Kickum for Crown declared, said in Romance,  
He had out done the very Wits, of France.  
Witness Pandion, and his Charles the Eight;  
Where a young Monarch, careless of his Fate,  
Though Foreign Troops, and Rebels, shock his State,  
Complains another sight afflicts him more.  
(Videl.) The Queen's Galleys rowing from the Shore,  
Fitting their Oars and Tackling to be gone  
Whilst sporting Waves smiled on the rising Sun.  
Waves smiling on the Sun! I am sure that's new,  
And 't was well thought on, give the Devil his due.  
Mine Host, who had said nothing in an hour.  
Rose up, and praised the Indian Emperor.  
As if our old World, modestly withdrew,  
And here in private had brought forth a New.  
There are two Lines! who but he durst presume  
To make the old World, a new withdrawing Room,  
Where of another World she's brought to Bed!  
What a brave Midwife is a Laureates head!  
But pox of all these Scribblers, what d'ye think.  
Will Souches this year any Champoon drink?  
Will Turene fight him? without doubt says Huff,  
If they two meet, their meeting will be rough.  
Damn me (says Dingboy) the French, Cowards are,  
They pay, but the English, S●ots, and Swiss make War:  
In gaudy Troops, at a review they shine,  
But dare not with the Germans, Battle join;  
What now appears like courage, is not so,  
'tis a short pride, which from success does grow;  
On their first blow, they'll shrink into those fears,  
They showed at Cressy, Agincourt, Poytiers;  
Their loss was infamous, Honour so stained,  
Is by a Nation not to be regained.  
What they were then I know not, now theyare brave,  
He that denies it-lyes and is a Slave,  
(Says Huff and frowned) says Dingboy, that do I,  
And at that word, at tother's Head let fly  
A greasy Plate, when suddenly they all,  
Together by the Ears in Parties fall.  
Halfwit, with Dingboy joins, Kickum with Huff,  
Their Swords were safe, and so we let 'em cuff  
Till they mine Host, and I, had all enough.  
Their rage once over, they begin to treat,  
And six fresh Bottles, must the peace complete.  
I ran down stairs, with a Vow never more  
To drink Bear Glass, and hear the Hector's roar.    

A Session of the Poets.  

SInce the Sons of the Muses, grew mum'rous, and loud,  
For th'appeasing so factious, and clamorous a Crowd;  
Apollo, thought fit in so weighty a cause,  
IT Establish a Government, Leader, and Laws.  
The hopes of the Bays, at this summoning call,  
Had drawn 'em together, the Devil and all;  
All thronging and listening, they gaped for the Blessing,  
No Presbyter Sermon, had more crowding, and pressing.   

In the Head of the Gang I— D—, appeared,  
That Ancient grave Wit, so long loved, and feared,  
But Apollo, had heard a Story'ith ' Town,  
Of his quitting the Muses, to wear the black Gown,  
And so gave him leave now his Poetries done,  
To let him turn Priest, now R—, is turned Nun.   

This Reverend Author was no sooner set by,  
But Apollo, had got gentle George in his Eye,  
And frankly confessed, of all Men that writ,  
there's none had more sancy, sense Judgement, and Wit.  
But ' th' crying Sin, idleness, he was so hardened,  
That his long seven years silence, was not to be pardoned   

Brawny W—, was the next Man showed his Fa1ce,  
But Apollo, e'en thought him too good for the Place;  
No Gentleman Writer, that office should bear  
'Twas a Trader in Wit, the Laurel should wear.  
As none but a Citt, e'er makes a Lord Major.   

Next into the Crowd, Tom S—, does wallow,  
And Swears by his Guts, his Paunch, and his Tallow,  
'Tis he that alone best pleases the Age,  
Himself, and his Wife have supported the Stage.  
Apollo, well pleased with so bonny a Lad,  
T' oblige him, he told him she should be huge glad,  
Had he half so much Wit, as he fancied he had.  
How ever to please so Jovial a Wit,  
And to keep him in humour, Apollo, thought fit,  
To bid him drink on, and keep his Old Trick,  
Of railing at Poets, and showing his Prick.   

N— L—, step in next, in hopes of a Prize,  
Apollo, remembered he had hit once in Thrice;  
By the Rubies in's Face, he could not deny,  
But he had as much Wit, as Wine could supply;  
Confessed that indeed he had a Musical Note,  
But sometimes strained so hard, that he rattled i'th' Throat;  
Yet owning he had Sense, t'encourage him for't,  
He made him his Ovid in Augustus' Court.   

Poet S—, his Trial, was the next came about,  
He brought him an Ibrahim, with the Preface torn out;  
And humbly desired, he might give no offence;  
God damn, cries S.— he cannot write sense,  
And Ballocks crued Newport, I hate that dull Rogue;   

Apollo, considering he was not in vogue,  
Would not trust his dear Bays, with so modest a Fool,  
And bid the great Boy, should be sent back to School,   

Tom O—, came next Tom S—, dear Zany;  
And swears for Heroics, he writes best of any;  
Don C—, his Pockets so amply had fined,  
That his Mange was quite cur d, and his Lice were all killed.  
But Apollo, had seen his Face on the Stage,  
And prudently did not think fit to engage,  
The scum of a Playhouse, for the Prop of an Age.   

In the numerous Herd, that encompassed him round  
Little starched Jonny C— at his Elbow he found,  
His Crevat-string, new Ironed, he gently did stretch,  
His Lily white hand out, the Laurel to reach;  
Alleging that he had most right to the Bays,  
For writing Romances, and shiting of Plays.  
Apollo, rose up, and gravely confessed,  
Of all Men that writ, his Talent was best:  
For since pain, and dishonour, Man's life only damn,  
The greatest felicity, Mankind can claim,  
Is to want sense of smart, & be past sense of shame:  
And to perfect his Bliss, in Poetical Rapture,  
He bid him be dull to the end of the Chapter.   

The Poetress Afra, next showed her sweet face,  
And swore by her Poetry, and her black Ace,  
The Laurel, by a double right was her own,  
For the Plays she had writ, and the Conquests she had won:  
Apollo, acknowledged 'twas hard to deny her,  
Yet to deal frankly, and ingeniously be her,  
He told her were Conquests, and Charms her pretence,  
She ought to have pleaded a Dozen years since.  
Anababaluthu put in for a share,  
And little Tom Essences Author, was there.  
Nor could D—, forbear for the Laurel to stickle,  
Protesting he had had the Honour to tickle,  
The Ears of the Town, with his dear Madam Fickle.   

With other pretenders, whose namesled rehearse,  
But that they're too long to stand in my Verse.   

Apollo, quite cired with their tedious Harangue,  
Finds at last Tom B—, face in the gang,  
And since Poets, with the kind players, may hang,  
By his own light, he solemnly swore,  
That in search of a Laureate, he'd look out no more.  
A general murmur run quite through the Hall,  
To think that the Bays, to an Actor should fall,  
But Apollo, to quiet, and pacify all;  
E'en told 'em to put his desert to the Test,  
That he had made Plays, as well as the best;  
And was the greatest wonder, the Age ever bore,  
For of all the Play-Scriblers, that e'er writ before,  
His wit, had most worth, and most modesty in't,  
For he had writ Plays, yet ne'er came in print.    

satire.  
Aude aliquid brevibus Gyaris aut carcere dignum  
Sivis esse aliquis— indem sat.  
Supposed to be spoken by a Court Hector.  

Pindaric,  
Now curses on ye all, ye virtuous Fools.  
Who think to fetter free born Souls,  
And tie 'em up to dull Morality, and Rules,  
The Stagyrite, be damned, and all the Crew,  
Of learned Idiots, who his steps pursue;  
And those more silly Proselytes, whom his fond Precepts drew!  
Oh had his Ethics, been with their wild Author drowned  
Or a like fate, with those lost Writings found,  
Which that grand Plagiary, doomed to Fire,  
And made by unjust Flames expire,  
They ne'er had then seduced Mortality,  
ne'er lasted to debauch the World, with their lewd Pedantry.  
But damned and more (if Hell can do`t) be that  
Thrice cursed name,  
Who e`re the rudiments of Law design`d;  
Who e`re did the First Model of Religion, frame,  
And by that double Vassalage enthralled Mankind;  
By nought before, but their own power, or will confined:  
Now quite abridged of all their Primitive liberty.  
And Slaves, to each capricious Monarches, Tyranny.  
More happy Bruits! who the great Rule of sense observe,  
And ne'er from their First Charter swerve.  
Happy whose lives are merely to enjoy,  
And feel no stings of Sin, which may their Bliss annoy;  
Still unconcerned, at Epithets of ill, or good,  
Distinctions unadult'rate Nature, never understood.   

2  
Hence! hated Virtue, from our goodly Isle!  
No more our joys beguile!  
No more, with thy loathed presence plague our happy State;  
Thou Enemy to all, that's brisk, or gay, or brave, or great!  
Begun! with all thy pious meager Train,  
To some unfruitful, unfrequented Land,  
And there an Empire gain,  
And there extend thy rigour command:  
There where illib'ral Nature's nigradice,  
Has set a Tax on Vice!  
Where the lean barren Region, does enhance,  
The worth of dear intemperance!  
And for each pleasurable Sin, exacts Excise!  
We (thanks to Heaven) more cheaply can offend,  
And want to tempting Luxuries.  
No good convenient Sinning opportunities,  
Which Nature's bounty could bestow, or heavens kindness lend!  
Go follow that nice Goddess, to the Skies!  
Who heretofore disgusted at increasing Vice,  
Disliked the World, and thought it to profane,  
And timely hence retired, and kindly ne'er returned, again,  
Hence! to those Airy Mansions rove,  
Converse with Saints, and holy Folks above!  
Those may thy presence woe,  
Whose lazy ease, offords 'em nothing else to do.  
Where haughty scornful I,  
And my great Friends, will ne'er vouch safe thee Company.  
Thou art now a hard unpracticable good,  
Too difficult for Flesh, and Blood,  
Where all Soul like them, perhaps I'd learn to practise thee.   

3  
Virtue! thou solemn grave impertinence,  
Abhorred by all the Men of Wit, and Sense!  
Thou dam'd Fatigue! that clogg'st life's Journey here,  
Tho thou no weight of Wealth, or profit bear!  
Thou puling, fond Green-sicknes of the Minds,  
That makes up prove to our own selves unkind;  
Whereby we Coals, and Dirt, for Diet, choose,  
And pleasures better Food refuse.  
Cursed Jilt! that lead'st deluded Mortals on,  
Till they too late perceive themselves undone,  
Chowsed by a Dowry, in Reversion!  
The greatest Votary, thou e'er couldst boast,  
Pity so brave a Soul, was in thy service lost,  
What wonders he in wickedness had done!  
Whom thy weak power, could so inspire alone!  
Though long with fond Amours he courted thee,  
Yet dying did recant his vain Idolatry;  
At length (though late) he did repent with shame:  
Forced to confess thee nothing but an empty name.  
So was that Lecher, gulled, whose haugty love,  
Designed a Rape, on the Queen Regent of the Gods above.  
When he a Goddess, thought he had in chase,  
He found a gaudy Vapour in the place,  
And with thin Air, beguiled his starved embrace;  
Idly he spent his Vigour! spent his blood,  
And tie d himself, t'oblige an unperforming Cloud.   

4  
If Humane kind to thee ere Worship paid,  
Then were by ignorance misled;  
That only them devout, and thee a Goddess made:  
Known haply in the World's rude, untaught, Infancy,  
Before it had out-grown its Childish innocence;  
Before it had arrived at sense,  
Or reached the Manhood, and discretion of Debauchery:  
Known in those Ancient Godly duller times,  
When crafty Pagans, had engrossed all Crimes:  
When Christian Fools, were obstinately good,  
Nor yet their Gospel freedom understood.  
Tame easy Fops, who could so prodigally bleed,  
To be thought Saints, and die a Calendar with red  
No prudent Heathea, e'er seduced could be,  
To suffer Martyrdom for thee,  
Only that Arrant Ass, whom the false Oracle cal'ld wise:  
(No wonder if the Devil uttered Lies)  
That sniveling Puritan, who spite of all the Mode.  
Would be unfashionably good;  
And exercised his whining gifts, to rail at Vice,  
Him all the Wits, of Athens damned.  
And justly with Lampoones, defamed.  
But when the mad Fanatic, could not filenced be,  
From broaching dangerous Divinity,  
The wise Republic, made him for prevension die,  
And kindly sent him to the Gods, and better Company.   

5  
Let fumbling Age, be grave, and wise,  
And Virtues poor contemned Idea prize,  
Who never knew, now are past the sweets of Vice;  
Whilst we whose Active Pulses beat,  
With lusty youth and vigorous heat,  
Can all their Birds, and Morals too despise?  
Whilst my plump Veins, are filled with lust and  
Blood,  
Let not one thought of her intrude,  
Or dare approach my Breast;  
But know 'tis all possessed,  
By a more welcome Guest;  
And know, I have not yet the leisure to be good.  
If ever unkind Destiny,  
Shall force long life on me;  
If e'er I must the curse of Dotage bear,  
Perhaps I'll dedicate those Dregs of time, to her,  
And come with Crutches, her most humble Votary.  
When Sprightly Vice, retreats from hence,  
And quits the ruins of decayed sense,  
She'll serve to Usher in a fair pretence,  
And varnish with her Name, a well dissembled Impotence!  
When Ptisick, Rheums, Catarrhs, and Palsies, seize,  
And all the Bill of Maladies,  
Which Haven to punish overliving Mortals sends;  
Then let her enter, with th' numerous infirmitis,  
Herself the greatest plague, which wrinkles, and grey Hairs, attends.   

6  
Tell me ye Venerable Sots who court her most,  
What small advantage can she boast,  
Which her great Rival, has not in a greater store engrossed?  
Her quiet, calm, and peace of Mind,  
In Wine, and Company, we better find,  
Find it with pleasure, to combined!  
In mighty Wine, where we our Senses steep:  
And lull our cares, and Consciences asleep!  
But why do I, that wild Chimaera name?  
Conscience! that giddy Airy Dream;  
Which does from Brain-sick-heads, or ill digesting  
Stomaches, steam.  
Conscience! the vain fantastic fear,  
Of punishments, we know not when, or where:  
Project of crafty Statesmen, to support weak Law,  
Whereby they slavish Spirits awe,  
And dastard Souls, to forced obedience draw.  
Grand Wheadle! which our Gownd-Impostors use,  
The poor unthinking Rabble, to abuse:  
Scare-Crew, to fright from the forbidden fruit of  
Vice,  
Their own beloved Paradise!  
Let those vile Canters, wickedness decry,  
Whose Mercenary Tongues take pay  
For what they say;  
And yet commend in practice, what their words deny.  
While we discerning Heads, who farther pry,  
Their Holy Cheats defy,  
And scorn their frauds, and scorn their sanctify'd  
Cajollery.  
None but dull unbred Fools, discredit Vice,  
Who act their wickedness, with an ill grace;  
Such their profession scandalise,  
And justly forfeir all their praise,  
All that esteem, that credit, and applause.  
Which we by our wise Manage, from a Sin can raise.  
A true, and brave transgressor ought,  
To Sin with the same height of Spirit, Caesar fought.  
Mean-souled, Offenders, now no Honour gain,  
Only Debauchees of the Noble strain;  
Vice, well improved, yields Bliss, and Fame beside,  
And some for Sinning have been Deified!  
Thus the lewd Gods, of old, did move,  
By these brave Methods, to the Seats above!  
Even Jove himself, the sovereign Deity,  
Father, and King, of all th'immortal Progeny,  
Ascended to that high degree,  
By Crimes above the reach of weak Mortality:  
He Heaven, one large Seraglio, made,  
Each Goddess, turned a glorious Punk, o'th' Trade,  
And all that sacred place,  
Was filled with Bastard Gods, of his own Race!  
Almighty Letch'ry got his first repute,  
And everlasting Whoring, was his chiefest Attribute.   

8  
How gallant was that Wretch, whose happy guilt,  
A fame upon the ruins of a Temple built?  
Let Fools, (saith he) impiety allege,  
And urge the no great fault of Sacrilege?  
I'll set the sacred Pile, on flame,  
And in its Ashes, write my lasting name!  
My Name! which thus shall be,  
Deathless, as its own Deity!  
Thus the vain glorious Carian, I'll out do,  
And Egypt's, proudest Monarches too!  
Those lavish Prodigals, who idly did consume,  
Their lives, and Treasures to erect a Tomb,  
And only great, by being buried would become.  
At cheaper rates than they, I'll buy renown,  
And my loud Fame, shall all their silent glories drown!  
So spoke the daring Hector, so did Prophecy,  
And so it proved— in vain did envious Fate,  
By fruitless Methods try:  
To raise his well built Same, and Memory  
Amongst Posterity:  
The Beautifeu, can now immortal write,  
While the inglorious Founder, is forgotten quite.   

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

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

11  
Tell me ye great Triumvirate, what shall I do,  
To be Illustrious as you?  
Let your example move me with a generous Fire!  
Let'em into my daring thoughts inspire!  
Some what completely wicked, some vast Giant  
Crime,  
Unthought, unknown, unpatterned, by all past and present time!  
'Tis done, 'tis done, me thinks I feel the powerful Charms!  
And a new heat of Sin, my Spirits warms!  
I travel with a glorious Mischief, for whose Birth  
My Souls too narrow, and weak Fate too feeble, yet to bring it forth!  
Let the unpitied Vulgar, tamely go,  
And stock for company, the wide Plantations below  
Such their Vile Souls, for viler Barter sell,  
Scarce worth the damning, or their room in Hell  
We are its Grandees, and expect as high perferment there,  
For our good service, as on Earth we share.  
In them, sin is but a mere privative of good,  
The frailty and defect, of Flesh, and Blood;  
In us 'tis a perfection, who profess  
A studied, and Elaborate wickedness:  
we're the great Royal Society of Vice.  
Whose Talents, are to make discoveries,  
And advance Sin, like other Arts and Sciences.  
'Tis I, the bold Columbus, only I,  
Who must new Worlds, in Vice descry,  
And fix the Pillars, of unpassable Iniquity.   

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

An Apology to the foregoing satire by way of Epilogue.  

MY part is done, and you'll I hope excuse,  
The extravagance, of a repenting Muse;  
Pardon what e'er she has too boldly said,  
She only acted here in Masquerade;  
And the slight Arguments, she did produce,  
Were not to flatter Vice, but to traduce:  
So we Buffoons, in Princely dress expose,  
Not to be gay, but more ridiculous,  
When she a Hector, for her Subject had,  
She thought she must be Termagant, and mad;  
That made her speak like a lewd Punk, o'th' Town,  
Who by converse with Bullys, wicked grown,  
Has learned the Mode, to cry all Virtue down:  
But now the Vizor's off, she changes Scene,  
And turns a modest, civil Girl, again.  
Our Poet, has a different taste of Wit,  
Nor will to th' common Vogue, himself submit.  
Let some admire the Fops, whose Talents lie,  
Inventing dull insipid Blasphemy;  
He swears he cannot with those terms dispense,  
Nor will be damned, for the repute of sense.  
Wit's name, was never to profaneness due,  
For than you see, he could be witty too:  
He could Lampoon the State, and Libel Kings,  
Put that he's Loyal, and knows better things,  
Than Fame, whose guilty Birth from Treason springs.  
He likes not wit, which can no Licence claim,  
To which the Author, dares not set his Name:  
Wit, should be open, court each Readers Eye,  
Not lurk in sly, unprinted privacy.  
But Criminal Writers, like dull Birds of Night,  
For weakness, or for shame, avoid the light:  
May such a Jury, for the Audience have,  
And from the Bench, not Pit, their doom receive:  
May they the Tower, for their due merits share,  
And a Just Wreath of Hemp, not Laurel wear.  
He could be Bawdy too, and nick the times,  
In what they dearly love, damned Piacket Rhymes  
Such as our Nobles write—  
Whose nauseous Poetry, can reach no higher,  
Than what the Codpiece, or its God inspire:  
So lewd they spend at Quill, you'd justly think,  
They wrote with something nastier than Ink.  
But he still thought that little wit, or none,  
Which a just modesty, must never own,  
And a mere Reader, with a blush atone.  
If Ribaldry, deserve the praise of wit,  
He must resign to each Illit'rare Cit,  
And Prentices, and Carmen; challenge it:  
Even they too, can be smart, and witty there,  
For all Men, on that Subject, Poets are.  
Henceforth he says, if ever more he find,  
Himself to the base itch of Verse, inclined,  
If e'er he's given up so far to write,  
He never means to make his end delight;  
Should he do so, he must despair success,  
For he's not now debauched enough to please,  
And must be damned for want of wickedness.  
He'll therefore use his gift another way,  
And next the ugliness of Vice display:  
Though against Virtue once he drew his Pen,  
He'll ne'er for aught, but her defence again.  
Had he a Genius, and Poetic Rage,  
Great as the Vices, of this guilty Age;  
Were he all Gaul, and armed with store of spite,  
'Twere worth his pains to undertake to write:  
To noble satire, he'd direct his aim,  
And by't Mankind, and Poetry, reclaim:  
He'd shoot his Quills, just like a Procupine,  
At Vice, and made 'em stab in every Line;  
The World, should learn to blush—  
And dread the vengeance of his angry Wit,  
Which more than their own Conscience should fright;  
And all should think him heavens, just plague designed,  
To visit for the Sins of lewd Mankind.    

Upon the Author of a Play called Sodom.  

TEll me abandoned Miscreant, prithee tell,  
What damned Power invoked and sent from Hell;  
(If Hell, were bad enough) did thee inspire,  
To write, what Fiends ashamed would blushing hear?  
Hast thou of late embraced some Succubus?  
And used the lewd Familiar, for a Muse?  
Or didst thy Soul, by Inch'oth ' Candle sell,  
To gain the glorious Name of Pimp, to Hell?  
If so; go, and its vowed Allegiance swear,  
Without Press-Money, be its Voluntiere:  
May he who envies thee, deserve thy fate,  
Deserve both heavens, and Mankind's, scorn, and hate.   

Disgrace to Libels! Foil to very shame,  
Whom 'tis a scandal to vouchsafe to damn.  
What foul descriptions foul enough for thee,  
Sunk quite below the reach of infamy?  
Thou covetest to be lewd, but want'st the might,  
And art all over Devil, but in Wit.  
Weak feeble Strainer, at mere ribaldry,  
Whose Muse, is impotent to that degree,  
'Thad need like Age, be whipped to Lechery.  
Vile Sot! who clapped with Poetry art sick,  
And void'st Corruption, like a Shankered Prick.  
Like Ulcers, thy impostumed Addle Brains,  
Drop out in Matter, which thy Paper stains:  
Whence nauseous Rhymes, by filthy Births proceed,  
As Maggots, in some T-rd, engendering breed.  
Thy Muse has got the Flowers, and they ascend,  
As in some Greensick Girl, at upper end.  
Sure Nature made, or meant at least t'have done't,  
Thy Tongue a Clytoris, thy Mouth a C— t:  
How well a Dildoe, would that place become,  
To gag it up, and make't for ever dumb?  
At least it should be syringed—  
Or wear some stinking Merkin, for a Beard,  
That all from its base converse, might be scared.  
As they a Door shut up, and marked beware,  
That tells infection, and the Plague is there.  
Thou morefield's Author, sit for Bawds to quote,  
(If Bawds themselves, with Honour safe may do't)  
When Suburb Apprentice, comes to hire delight,  
And wants incentives to dull Appetite,  
Their Punk, perhaps, may they brave works rehearse,  
Frigging the senseless thing, with Hand, and Verse.  
Which after shall (preferred to Dressing Box)  
Hold Turpentine, and Medicines for the Pox.  
Or (If I may ordain a Fate more fit)  
For such foul, nasty, Excrements of Wit,  
May they condemned to th'public Jakes, be lent,  
For me I'd fear the Piles, in vengeance sent  
Should I with them profane my Fundament)  
Therefore bugger wiping Porters, when they shit,  
And so thy Book itself, turn Sodomite.    

A Call to the Guard by a Drum.  

RAt too, rat too, rat too, rat tat too, rat tat too.  
With your Noses all scabbed, and your Eyes black and blue.  
All ye hungry poor Sinners, that Foot Soldiers are,  
Though with very small Coin yet with very much cure,  
From your Quarters in Garrets, make haste to repair,  
To the Guard to the Guard.  
From your sorry Straw-beds, & your bonny which Fleas,  
From your Dreams of small drink, and your very small ease,  
From your plenty of stink, and no plenty of room,  
From your Walls daubed with Phlegm sticking on 'em like Gum.  
And Ceiling hung with cobwebs, to staunch a cut Thumb, To the Guard, etc.  
From your cracked Earthen Piss-pots, where no Piss can stay,  
From Roofs bewrit with snuffs in letters the wrong way,  
From one old broken Stool, with one unbroken Leg,  
One Box with ne'er a Lid, to keep ne'er a Rag,  
And Windows that of Storms more than yourselves can brag,  
To the Guard, etc.  
With rusty Pike, and Gun, and the other rusty Tool,  
With heads extremely hot, and with Hearts wondrous cool;  
With Stomaches meaning none (but Cooks and Sutler's) hurt;  
With two old tottered Shoes, that disgrace the Town dirt  
With Forty shreds of Breeches, & not one shred of Shirt.  
To the Guard, etc.  
See they come, see they come, see they come, see they come  
With Alarms in their Pates, to the call of a Drum;  
Some lodging with Bawds (whom the modest call Bitch's)  
With their Bones dried to Kexes, and Legs shrunk to  
Switches;  
With the Plague in the Purse, & the Pox, in the Breeches.  
To the Guard, etc.  
Some from snoriug, and farting, and spewing on Benches,  
Some from damned fulsome Ale, and more damned fulsome Wenches;  
Some from Put, and Size Ace, and Old Sim, this way stalk,  
Each Man's reeling's his Gate, and his Hyccop, his talk;  
With two new Cheeks of red, from ten old Rows of Chalk,  
To the Guard, etc.  
Here come others from scuffling, & damning mine Host,  
With their Tongues at last tamed, but with Faces that boast,  
Of some Scars, by the Jordan, or Warlike Quart Port,  
For their building of Sconces, and Volleys of Shot,  
Which they charged to the Mouth, but discharged ne'er a Groat.  
To the Guard, etc.  
They for Valour in black too! the Chaplain does come!  
From his Preaching o'er Pots, now to pray o'er a Drum.  
All ye Whoreing, and Swearing, old Red Coats draw near,  
Like to Saints, in red Letters, listen, and give ear,  
And be Godly a while ho, and then as you were.  
To the Guard, etc.  
After some canting Terms, to your Arms and the like,  
Such as poising your Muskits, or Porting your Pike;  
To the Right, to the Left, or else Face about,  
After rattling your Sticks, and your shaking a Clout,  
Hast your Infantry Troops, that mount the Guard on Foot.  
To the Guard, etc.  
Captain Hector, first marches, but not he of Troy,  
But a Trifle made up of a Man, and a Boy.  
See Man scant of Arms, in a Scraf does abound,  
Which presages some swaggering, but no blood nor wound,  
Like a Rainbow, that shows the World shan't be drowned,  
To the Guard, etc.  
As the Tinker, wears Rags, whilst the Dog bears the Budget,  
So the Man stalks with staff, whilst the Footboy does trudge it,  
With the Tool he should work with (that's Half-pike you'll say)  
But what CaptainsCaptains so strong his own Arms to convey,  
When he marches o'er loaden with Ten other men's pay.  
To the Guard, etc.  
In his march (if you mark) he's attended at least,  
With stinks Sixteen deep, and about five a Breast  
Made of Ale, and Mundung as, snuff, Rags, and Brown Crust for,  
While he wants Twenty Tailors, to make up the Cluster,  
Which declares that his journey's not new to the Muster,  
But to the Guard, etc.  
Some with Musket, and Belly, uncharged march away,  
With Pipes, black as their Mouths are, and short as their pay,  
Whilst their Coats made of holes, show like Bonelace about 'em,  
And their Bandeliers hang like to Bobbins without 'em,  
And whilst Horsemen, do cloth 'em, those Foot-scrubs do clout 'em.  
For the Guard, etc.  
Some with that tied one one side, and Wit tied on neither,  
Wear grey Coats, and grey Cattle, see their Wenches run hither,  
For to peep through Red Lettuce, and dark Cellar doors,  
To behold'm wear Pikes rusty, just like their Whores,  
As slender as their Meals, and as long as their Scores.  
To the Guard, etc.  
Some with Tweedle, Weedle, weed (whilst we beat dub a dub)  
Keep the base Scotish noise, and as base Scotish scrub;  
Then with the Body contracted, a Rag, open spread,  
Comes a thing, with Red Colours and Nose full as Red,  
Like an Ensign, to the King, and to the Kings Head.  
Towards the Guard, etc.  
Two Commanders, come last, the Lieutenant perhaps,  
Full of Low Country, Story, and Low Country Claps,  
To be next him the other takes care not to fail,  
(Powder Monkey by name) that vents stink by whole sale;  
For where should the Fart be, but just with the Tail.  
Of the Guard, etc.  
And now hay for the King, Boys, & hey for the Court,  
Which is guarded by these, as the Tower is by Dirt;  
These Whitehall must admit, and such other unhouse ye  
Each day lets in the drunk, whilst it lets out the drowsey  
And no place in the World, shifts so oft to be Lousy.  
Thank the Guard, etc.  
Some to Scotland-yard sneak, and the Sutler's Wise kisses,  
But despairing of drink, till some Country man pisses,  
And pays too (for no place in the Court must be given.)  
To the Can Office then, all a Foot Soldiers Heaven,  
Where he finds a foul Fox, soon, and cures Sir Stephen.  
On the Guard, etc.  
Some at Shite-house public (where a Rag always goes)  
At once emty their Guts, and diminish their clothes  
Though their Mouths are poor Pimps (Whore and Bacon being all  
Their chief Food (yet their Bums we true Courtiers, may call,  
For what they eat in the Suburbs, they shit at Whitehall.  
For the Guard, etc.  
Such a like pack of Cards, to the Park, making entry,  
Here, and there, deal an Ace, which the Jews call a Sentry,  
Which in bad Houses of Board's, stand to tell what a Clock 'tis,  
Where they keep up tame Red Coats, as men keep up tame Foxes,  
Or Apothecaries lay up their Dogs T-ds, in Boxes.  
Oh the Guard, etc.  
Some of these are planted (though it has been their lucks  
Of't to steal Country Geese) now to watch the Ks. Ducks;  
While some others are set, in the side that has Wood in,  
To stand Pimps to black Masques, that are of thither footing,  
Just as Huswives, set Cuckolds, to tend their black Pudding.  
Oh the Guard, etc.  
Whilst another true Trojan, to some passage runs,  
As to keep in the Debtor, so to keep out the Duns;  
Or a Apprentice, or his Mistress; with Oaths to confound,  
Till he hies him from the Park, as from forbidden ground,  
'Cause his credit is whole, and his Wench may be sound.  
And quits the Guard, etc.  
Now it's Night, and the Patrole in Alehouse drowned,  
For nought else, but the Pot, and their Brains walk the round;  
Whilst like Hell, the Commanders, Guard Chambers, does (show,  
There's such damning their selves, and all else of the Crew;  
For though these cheat their Men, they give the Devil, his due.  
On the Guard, etc.  
Whilst a Main, after main, at old Hazard they throw,  
And their Quarrels grow high, as their Money grows low;  
Straight thy threaten hard (using bad Faces for frowns)  
To revenge on the Flesh, the default of the Bones,  
But the blood's in their Hose, and in Oaths all their Wounds.  
Like the Guard, etc.  
In the Morning they fight, just as much as they pray,  
For some one to the King, does the tidings convey  
For preventiug of Murder; Oh 'tis a wise way!  
Though not one of 'em knows (as a Thousand dare say)  
What belongs to a dead Man, unless in his pay.  
For the Guard, etc.  
With their skins, they march home, no more hurt than their Drums,  
But for scratching of Faces, or biting of Thumbs;  
And now hay for fat Alewives, and Tradesmen, grow lean,  
For the Captain, grown Bankrupt, recruits him again,  
With sending out Tickets, and turning out Men.  
From the Guard, etc.  
Straight the poor Rogue's Cashiered, with a Care, and a curse,  
Fall from wounding no Men, now to cut every Purse  
And what then? Man's a Worm; these we Glow-worm's may name.  
For as they're dark of Body, have Tails all a flame,  
So though these lived in Oaths, yet they die with a Psalm.  
Farewell Guard, etc.    

Ephelia to Bajazet.  

HOw far are they deceived who hope in vain,  
A lasting Lease of joys from Love t'obtain?  
All the dear sweets, or promise or expect,  
After enjoyment, turns we cold neglect.  
Could love, a constant happiness have known,  
The mighty wonder, had in me been shown,  
Our Passions are so favoured by Fate,  
As if she meant 'em an Eternal Date;  
So kind he looked, such tender words he spoke,  
'Twas past belief such Vows should e'er be broke.  
Fixed on my Eyes, how often would he say,  
He could with pleasure gaze an Age away!  
When thoughts too great for words had made him mute,  
In kisses, he would till my hand his Suit.  
So great his passions was, so far above,  
The common Gallantryes, that pass for love,  
At worst I thought if he unkind should prove,  
His ebbing passion, would be kinder far,  
Than the First transports of all others are.  
Nor was my love, or fondness less than his,  
In him I centred all my hopes of Bliss!  
For him my duty to my Friends forgot,  
For him I lost, alas! what lost I not?  
Fame, all the valuable things of life,  
To meet his love, by a less name than Wife  
How happy was I then, how dearly blest,  
When this great Man lay panting on my Breast,  
Looking such things, as ne'er can be expressed!  
Thousand fresh looks he gave me every hour,  
Whilst greedily I did his looks devour!  
Till quite o'ercome with Charms, I trembling lay,  
At every look he gave, melted away!  
I was so highly happy in his love,  
Methoughts I pitied them that dwelled above!  
Think than thou greatest, loveliest, falsest Man,  
How you have vowed, how I have loved, and then,  
My faithless dear, be cruel if you can!  
How I have loved, I cannot, need not tell,  
No every act, has shown, I loved to well.  
Since first I saw you, I ne'er had a thought,  
Was not entirely yours, to you I brought,  
My Virgin, Innocence, and freely made,  
My love, an Off'ing, to your noble Bed:  
Since when, y'ave been the Star, by which I steered  
And nothing else but you, I loved, or feared.  
Your smiles, I only live by, and I must.  
When e'er you frown, be shattered into Dust.  
Oh! can the coldness that you show me now,  
Suit with the generous heart you once did show?  
I cannot live on pity, or respect,  
A thought so mean, would my whole love infect;  
Less than your love, I scorn Sir to expect.  
Let me not live in dull indiff'rency,  
But give me rage enough to make me die!  
For if from you, I needs must meet my Fate,  
Before your pity, I would choose your hate.    

A very Heroical Epistle in Answer to Ephelia.  
Madam,  

IF your deceived, it is not by my Cheat,  
For all disguises, are below the great.  
What Man, or Woman, upon Earth can say,  
I ever used 'em well above a Day?  
How is it then, that I inconstant am?  
He changes not, who always is the same.  
In my dear self, I centre every thing,  
My Servants, Friends, My Mrs. and my King,  
Nay Heaven, and Earth, to that one point I bring.  
We'll mannered, honest, generous, and stout,  
Names by dull Fools, to plague Mankind found out;  
Should I regard, I must myself constrain,  
And 'tis my Maxim, to avoid all pain.  
You fond look for what none e'er could find,  
Deceive yourself, and then call me unkind,  
And by false Reasons, would my falsehood prove,  
For 'tis as natural to change, as love:  
You may as justly at the Sun, repine,  
Because alike it does not always shine,  
No glorious thing, was ever made to stay,  
My blazing Star, but visits and away.  
As fatal to it shines, as those ' i'th' Skies,  
'Tis never seen, but some great Lady dies.  
The boasted favour, you so precious hold,  
To me's no more than changing of my Gold  
What e'er you gave, I paid you back in Bliss,  
Then where's the Obligation pray of this?  
If heretofore you found grace in my Eyes,  
Be thankful for it, and let that suffice,  
But Woman, Beggar-like, still haunt the Door,  
Where they've received a Charity before.  
Oh happy Sultan! whom we barbarous call,  
How much refined art thou above us all:  
Who envys not the joys of thy Serail?  
Thee like some God the trembling Crowd adore,  
Each Man's thy Slave, and Woman kind, thy Whore.  
Methinks I see thee underneath the Shade,  
Of Golden Ganopy, supinely laid,  
Thy crowding Slaves, all silent as the Night,  
But at thy nod, all active, as the light!  
Secure in solid Sloth, thou there dost reign,  
And feelest the joys of Love, without the pain.  
Each Female, courts thee with a wishing Eye,  
While thou with auful pride, walkest careless by;  
Till thy kind Pledge, as last, marks out the Dame,  
Thou fancy'st most, to quench thy present flame.  
Then from the Bed, submissive she retires.  
And thankful for the grace, no more requires.  
No loud reproach, nor fond unwelcome sound,  
Of women's Tongues, thy sacred Ear does wound;  
If any do, a nimble Mute, straight ties  
The True-loves-knot, and stops her foolish cries.  
Thou fearest no injured Kinsman's threatening Blade,  
Nor Midnight Ambushes, by Rivals laid;  
While here with aching Hearts, our joys we taste,  
Disturbed by Swords, like Democles his Feast.    

On Poet Ninnie.  

Crushed by that just contempt his Follies bring,  
On his crazed Head, the Vermin fain would sting.  
But never satire, did so softly bite,  
Or gentle George himself more gently write.  
Born to no other, but thy own disgrace,  
Thou art a thing so wretched, and so base,  
Thou canst not even offend, but with thy Face.  
And dost at once a sad example prove,  
Of harmless malice, and of hopeless love.  
All pride! and ugliness! oh how we loath,  
A nauseous Creature, so composed of both!  
How oft have we thy Cap'ring Person seen,  
With dismal look, and Melancholy Meene,  
The just reverse of Nokes, when he would be,  
Some mighty Hero, and makes love like thee!  
Thou art below being laughed at, out of spite,  
Men gaze upon thee, as a hideous sight,  
And cry, there goes the Melancholy Knight.  
There are some modest Fools, we daily see,  
Modest, and dull, why they are Wits, to thee!  
For of all Folly, sure the very top,  
Is a conceited Ninny and a Fop.  
With Face of Farce, joined to a Head Romancy,  
there's no such Coxcomb as your Fool of fancy:  
But 'tis too much on so despised a Theme.  
No Man would dabble, in a dirty Stream:  
The worst that I could write, would be no more,  
Than what thy very Friends, have said before.    

My Lord All-Pride.  

BUrsting with Pride, the loathed Impostume swells,  
Pr-k him, he sheds his Venom straight, and smells;  
But 'tis so lewd a Scribbler, that he writes,  
with as much forth to Nature, as he fights,  
Hardened in shame, 'tis such a baffled Fop,  
That every Scool-boy whips him like a Top:  
And with his Arm, and Head, his Brains so weak,  
That his starved fancy, is compelled to take,  
Among the Excrements of others wit,  
To make a stinking Meal of what they shit.  
So Swine, for nasty Meat, to Dunghill run,  
And toss their gruntlinst Snouts up when they've done:  
Again his Stars, the Coxcomb ever strives.  
And to be something they forbid, contrives.  
With a Red Nose, Splay Foot, and Goggle Eye,  
A Plough Man's, looby Meene, Face all a wry,  
With stinking Breath, and every loathsome mark,  
The Punchianello, sets up for a Spark,  
With equal self conceit too, he bears Arms,  
But with that vile success, his part performs,  
That the Burlesques his Trade, and what is best  
In others, turns like Harlequin, in jest.   

So have I seen at Smithfields wondrous Fair,  
When all his Brother Monsters, flourish there;  
A Lubbard Elephant, divert the Town,  
With making Legs, and shooting off a Gun.  
Go where he will, he never fiends a Eriend,  
Shame, and derision, all his steps attend;  
Alike abroad, at home, i'th' Camp, and Court,  
This Knight, o'th' Burning Pestle, make us sport.    

Captain Ramble.  

WHilst Duns were knocking at my Door,  
I lay in Bed with wreeking Whore,  
With Back so weak, and Pr—k k foe sore yo'ud wonder.  
I raised my do, and laid her Gown,  
I pinned her Whisk, and dropped a Crown,  
She pist, and then I drove her down  
Like Thunder.  
From Chamber than I went to Dinner,  
And drank small Beer, like mournful Sinner,  
But still I thought the Devil in her  
Clytoris.  
I sat at Muscots', in the dark,  
And heard a Tradesman, and a Spark,  
A Scrivener and a Lawyer's Clerk,  
Tell Stories.  
From thence I went with muffled Face,  
To the Duke's House, and took a place,  
In which I spewed, may't please his Grace  
Or Highness.  
Had I been hanged, I could not choose,  
But laugh at Whores, who dropped from Stews,  
Seeing that Mrs Margaret Hews,  
So fine is.  
When Play was done, I called a Link,  
Hearing some paltry pieces chink  
Within my Breeches, how ' die think  
I employed 'em?  
Why Sir, I went to Mrs. Speerings,  
Where some were Cursing, others Swearing,  
Never a Barrel better Herring,  
Per fidem.  
Seave'ns the Main, 'tis Eight God damn me,  
'Tis Six, (said I) as God shall save me;  
And being true, they could not blame me  
So saying.  
Save me (quoth one) what Shamaroone,  
Is this has begged an Afternoon,  
Of's Mother, to go up, and down,  
A playing?  
Now this to me, was worse than killing,  
Mistake me not for I am willing;  
And able both, to drop a Shilling,  
Or Two Sir.  
Well said my Lad, (Quoth Bully Hack)  
With Whiskers stern, and Cordibeck,  
Pinned up behind his scabby Neck  
To show Sir.  
With Mangy Fist, he grasped the Box,  
Giving the Table bloody knocks,  
Calling upon the Plague, and Pox,  
To assist him.  
Ten Shillings from me, he did snach,  
He'd like to have made a quick dispatch,  
Nor would Times Register, my Watch,  
Have missed him.  
As luck would have it in came Will,  
Perceiving things went very ill,  
Quoth he, thou'dst better go and swill,  
Canary.  
We stee'rd our Course to Dragon Green,  
Which in Fleetstreet to be seen,  
Where we drank Wine, not foul but clean  
Contrary.  
Our Host Eclipsed Thomas Hammon,  
Presented slice of Bacon Gammon,  
Which made us swallow Sack, as Salmon  
Does Water.  
Being over warm with the last debauch,  
I grew as drunk as any Roach,  
When hot Backed Wardens did opproach,  
Or later.  
But see the damned confounded fate,  
Attends on drinking Wine so late,  
I drew my Sword on honest Kate  
I'th' Kitchin.  
Which Hammonds Wife could not endure,  
I told her though she looked demure,  
That she came lately I was sure,  
From Bitching  
We broke our Glasses out of hand,  
As many Oaths, we did command,  
As Hastings, Savin, Southerland,  
Or Ogle.  
Then I cried up Sir Harry Fain,  
And swore by God I would mantain,  
Episcopacy, was too plain,  
A juggle.  
And having now discharged the House,  
We did reserve a gentle sauce,  
With which we drank another Rouse,  
At the Bar.  
And now good Christians, all attend,  
To drunkenness, pray put an end,  
I do advise you as a Friend,  
And Neighbor.  
For lo the mortal, here behold,  
Who cautious was in days of old,  
Is now become, rash, sturdy, bold,  
And free Sir,  
For having 'scaped the Tavern so,  
There never was a greater Foe,  
Encountered yet by Pompey, no  
Nor Caesar.  
A Constable, both stern, and dread,  
Who is from Mustard, Brooms, and Thread,  
Preferred to be the Brainless head  
O'th' People.  
A Gown, he'd on with Age made grey,  
A Hat too, which as Folks do say,  
Is Sir-nameed to this very Day,  
A Steeple.  
His Staff, which knew as well as he,  
The business of Authority,  
Stood bolt upright at sight of me;  
Most true 'tis.  
The Lousy Curs, that hither come.  
To keep the King's peace, safe at home,  
Yet cannot keep the Vermin from  
Their Cutis.  
Stand, stand, says one, and come before,  
You lie, said I, like a Sun, of a Where,  
I can't, nor will not stand, that's more  
De mutter?  
You watchful Knaves, I'll tell you what,  
Your Officer, i'th' May-Pole-Hat,  
I'll make as drunk as any Rat.  
Or Otter.  
The Constable began to swell,  
Although he liked the motion well,  
Quoth he my Friends, this I must tell  
You clearly.  
The Pestilence yond can't forget,  
Nor th' dispute with the Dutch, nor yet  
The dreadful Fire, that made us get  
Up early.  
From which (quoth he) I this infer,  
To have a Body's Conscience clear  
Excelleth any costly Cheer,  
Or Banquet.  
Besides (and faith I think he wept)  
Were it not better you had kept,  
Within your Chamber, and have slept,  
In Blanket.  
But I'll advise you by, and by,  
— A pox of all advice said I,  
Your Janissaries look as dry,  
As Vulkan.  
We came not here to talk of Sin,  
— Come— here's a Shilling fetch it in.  
Our business now is to begin,  
A full Can,  
At last I made the Watchmen drunk,  
Examined here, and there, a Punk,  
And then away to Bed I slunk,  
To hide it.  
Now these my wishes are to you,  
Who will those dangers not Eschew,  
That ye may all go home, and spew,  
As I did.    

On Rome's Pardon.  

IF Rome can pardon Sins, as Romans hold,  
And if those Pardons, can be bought and sold,  
It were no Sin, t'adore, and worship Gold.   

If they can purchase Pardons with a Sum,  
For Sins they may commit in time to come,  
And for Sins past, 'tis verywell for Rome.   

At this rate they are happy'st that have most;  
They'll purchase Heaven at their own proper cost,  
Alas! the Poor! all that are so are lost.   

Whence came this knack, or when did it begin?  
What Author have they, or who brought it in?  
Did Christ, ere keep a Cusiom-house for Sin?   

Some subtle Devil, without more ado,  
Did certainly this sly invention brew,  
To gull'em of their Souls, and Money too.   
FINIS.