A Posy for Lovers: OR THE Terrestrial Venus Unmasked. IN FOUR POEMS, VIZ 

I. The Tempest, or Enchanting Lady.  
II. The Luscious Penance, or the Fasting Lady.  
III. The Feigned Innocence, or the Jealous and Whining Lady.  
iv To an Old Gamesome Madam, who Twittingly Asked the Author, when he Designed to Settle in the World.    
Add quod insidia sacris a vatibus absunt,  
Et facit ad mores ars quoque nostra bonos.  
Nec nos ambitio, nec nos amor urget habendi:  
Contempto colitur lectus, & umbra foro.  Ovid. de Art. Amand. lib. 3. 
LONDON, Printed for Thomas Speed, at the Sign of the Three Crowns in Cornhill, near the Royal Exchange. 1694.   

To the Little Crooked, yet Sweet and Lovely Rosania.  
A Great Pretender to History tells us, That Ann Bulleyn had an Ill Shape, a Yellow Colour, a Gag Tooth, and a Lump under the Chin; but had withal a most Delicious Wit, a Graceful Mien, an Obliging Air, and Good Humour: Now, altho' this may seem but an indifferent Picture to gross and vulgar Discerners, yet it will pass for a Beauty in a true Platonical sense; since internal Comeliness supplies all other Defects. Accordingly the lesser Irregularities of your Frame can be no matter of Reproach, since your Intellectual Graces are so conspicuous to the World. Your Soul in her narrow Lodging (like an honest Dear Friend in a little homely Tenement) is unaccountably entertaining: And your Wit and Perfections may justly put Mankind to the blush, as they do me to a stand, when I consider my Insufficiency to describe them.  
I hope, Madam, You will never fail to bear witness before the World, that I have ever been a just (though not blind) Admirer of the good Ones, or (which I hope is all one) the greater part of your Sex: I hate the pointed and licentious Lampoons, that seem levelled at Womankind without any sort of distinction; and which look more like the Rudeness of Porters, than the just Raillery of a Gentleman: To rake into the Wounds, or expose the Frailties of Ladies, is barbarous and inhuman; and for a Man (because he is of a dull and earthy Complexion, or has been cast off by his Mistress for want of agreeable Merit) to rail at the Sex, or blast a Woman of Honour, is abusive and lamentable Cant, and deserves a greater Castigation than that of the Pen. I know, they that are studiously wicked, or vicious upon Principle, are commonly most severe upon the little Frailties of those, that are designedly virtuous, and generous in their Aims, but want a vicer Regulation of themselves: And how easy is it for any despicable Wretch (that has but an invincible Forehead) to snicker or shake the Head over the little Lapses or Misfortunes of their Betters; and with a solemn Nod, or decorous Management of Fact, to pity Persons of Worth and Reputation.  
My Design therefore, in the following Essays, is not in the least to fully the Glories of the Sex, (for why should the sweet Nightingales and innocent Turtles suffer with the obscene Birds?) but to make an agreeable and just Discrimination; and to contribute a little towards the Easiness of Humane Life, the Peace of Families, and generous Freedom and gaiety of Conversation. I do freely own, that Woman, while she glitters in her native Innocence and Charms, is the Fair side of Nature, and prettiest brightest Ornament of the Creation: She is more welcome than the Morn, more beauteous than the Spring, and more refreshing than the Light: And yet if she Degenerates into an Habitual Exercise of Black and Ill natured Passions, (for ashort Fit may be useful and becoming,) she presently falls from her Sovereignty and Graces, loses all her Charms, and the foulest Vizor a Poet can contrive will rather mend, than heighten her Deformity.  
The following Lectures were at first hastily composed, for the satisfaction of some private Friends; and are now Published at the earnest desire of some of your Admirers, who are Persons well affected to your Sex: Whether I have transgressed the Limits of true Decorum, I leave to you Impartially to determine. With all Submission and Gratitude I own your Endearing Favours and Charitable Smiles: And do here lay myself as well as the Hopeless Lausania at your Feet. I am,  
Dear Madam, Your Servant and Admirer, Musophilus.   

THE TEMPEST, OR, Enchanting Lady.  

BOLD are those Men, that with adventurous Toil  
Put forth to Sea, and leaving Native Soil,  
By Gusts and Waves around the Globe are whirled,  
Like flying Posts, or Carriers of the World;  
That with weak Oar advance and force their way  
Through th' unfrequented Deserts of the Sea,  
The Scaly Monsters of the Deep engage,  
And with frail Vessel tempt proud Neptune's Rage:  
Yet bolder they, and somewhat more than bold,  
That spend their days with an Imperious Scold;  
That for their bosom Friend loud Woman have,  
More Wild than Storms, more Ravenous than the Grave:  
For Graves are glutted, Storms are reconciled,  
Waves listen to a Peace, and soon grow mild;  
But Shrew, the Monster of the World, does ne'er  
Harken to Charms, to Reason lends no Ear,  
But drives to endless Horror, and Despair.   

Old Sodom's burning Piles, and Noah's Flood,  
Joined with all Aegypt's Plagues,  
Compared to this were the light Wrath of God;  
That only doomed the Wicked, spared the Good.   

But here the brightest Souls, that e'er did wear  
Mortality, the common Vengeance share;  
The Wise in this black Catalogue we find;  
Shrew's the Corruption of Fallen Womankind,  
The last and greatest Curse on Humane Race designed.  
O the hard Fate of Socrates and Job!  
How blessed was he, that lived alone in Tub?  
Happy he spent his silent flowing Days  
In Sacred Solitude, and Golden Ease:  
Free from Domestic Toil, and Bosom Strife,  
And that dire Comfort, called a clamorous Wife.   

If ever Mortal merited this Fate,  
'Twas Pedro, of all Men the scorn and hate:  
Pedro a Tiny Wight, but proudly blind,  
In his own thoughts the rarest of his kind,  
Placed all his Bliss in Honourable Gain,  
Title and Pelf supplied the want of Brain:  
IT Augment his Store, dull Comfort of his Life,  
The Fop at length would needs trump up a Wife;  
And, without Nature's call, his Thoughts did bend  
To Nuptial Banquets, and a Female Friend.  
His wiser Friends for Cloe did appear,  
Cloe the Kind, the Virtuous, and the Fair;  
But all persuasions on the Sot were spilt,  
For he had vowed to have a Woman gilt.  
The Fame of Rich Dorinda reached his Ear,  
All his Devotion was laid out on her;  
Fortune she had enough for Womankind,  
And this had struck th' Aspiring Lubber blind:  
True, at first view he gazed, as in a Fright,  
And shrank, as at some Vision of the Night,  
Her very Form did wound his tender Sight.  
But Gold, Almighty Gold, (that with its Charms  
Translates the Dowdy to the Hero's Arms;  
That Consecrates a Dunghill, Haggard Race,  
Gilds the Deformed, and smooths the Wrinkled Face)  
Soon brought the Miser to himself again;  
The Brightened Marmo soon appeared a Queen.  
In short, with Holy Words the Fiends were joined;  
Their Souls and Bodies decently entwined:  
And sure the World henceforth will be so Civil,  
To own a Carnal League 'twixt Witch, and Devil.   

Thus far her Tongue lay close in Ambuscade,  
And did not Pedro's Noddle yet invade;  
That Mystery was reserved for aftertimes,  
Women in days of Courtship shroud their Crimes:  
And wisely for a while their Faults conceal,  
Which days of Wedlock do too soon reveal.   

Scarce had the Moon her Second Round began,  
When first with Voice she Thunderstruck the Man:  
Whether inspired with Insolent Disgust,  
For want of Bridal Fuel to her Lust,  
Or sent by Heaven to plague the Niggard Clown  
For his Enormous Vices, is unknown;  
But sure no Mortal Wight below the Sphere,  
Did e'er so great a Storm of Vengeance bear.  
Her Mouth like Bay of Biscay seemed designed,  
When all things else were Calm, there blew a Wind:  
And all the Barristers of Billingsgate  
Seemed but dumb Orators when she did prate.  
As when Pandora's Box did open fly,  
Plagues and Infection gathered in the Sky;  
So from her Mouth expanded wide did rise  
Such Storms, as did the Neighbourhood surprise.  
No Bell-mans' Midnight Cry, when Sleep invades,  
Nor an Old Madam scolding at her Maids,  
Nor grunting Spouse which through the House does bound,  
 raised so fell, and terrible a sound.  
Th' illboding Owls, and Dogs that bark at Moon,  
And Cats that scream, when the Love-fit comes on,  
ne'er raised such grating Echoes to the Ear;  
'Twas Test enough to make a Quaker swear.   

In vain did Husband Pray and Sue for Peace,  
And offer all his Gold for one Days Ease:  
With Holy Words t'appease her he would try;  
In Holy Phrase she loudly would reply,  
And storm his Ears with hallowed Raillery.   

Sometimes She'd Hieroglyphically Preach,  
And with Strange, Antic, and Dumb-Figures teach;  
The House did then a silent Meeting seem;  
She'd turn up Whites, like Prophetess in Dream;  
Sat as becalmed, not moving Hand or Voice,  
Till blustering Spirit rising made a Noise:  
When raised, it grew again as troublesome,  
As the famed Germane Pipe, or Devil's Drum:  
So Men in Lapland, when Hag proves unkind,  
Wait many hours for a fair Gale of Wind.   

Of all those Ills, that e'er came winged from Hell,  
This Plague o'th' Tongue's the most incurable:  
A Magdalene in time may prove a Saint;  
But none e'er cured a Woman prone to cant:   

This was Dorinda's Case; and, when grown Old,  
She still appeared true Conscientious Scold:  
When half deprived of little ●ense and Wits,  
She Raved like Woman in Histerick Fits.  
She coughed out Choler; and railed on of Course;  
The Godly Bedlam grunted out a Curse:  
Mumped out her Scorn, and grumbled Holy Words;  
A Cutler's Shop stuck round with glittering Swords  
Was not so dangerous as her Empty Mouth;  
For Zeal and Grace supplied the want of Tooth;  
With Jaw disarmed, but edged with Godly Spite,  
She'd worse than the famed Turkey Granum bite:  
So long, so solemnly she'd scowl, and cant,  
Job's Wife compared to her, may seem a Saint,  
Who did but once, though with a Vengeance, rant:  
Like Pliny's Fish, she was profusely hung;  
You'd think she wore sharp Teeth within her Tongue.   

Thus loudly did She Reign to the last Day,  
And punish Pedro with her Tyrannous sway;  
Her Wakeful Engine could no silence keep;  
Others may Talk, She Scolded in her sleep,  
Hag-rid his Soul by Night, and all Day long,  
Blasted his Senses with her fiery Tongue:  
She lashed the timorous Slave without Remorse,  
Till the dull Creature groaned like Trojan Horse;  
Then left him bleeding, panting maimed, and tired,  
And as she lived in Storms, in Storms Expired.   

Anacreon sure was drunk, when Beauties Charms  
Were made, by him, Mysterious Woman's Arms;  
For certainly Horns, Talon, Beaks and Wings,  
With all th' Artillery of Teeth, and Stings;  
Those Weapons which to Birds, and Beasts belong  
Are harmless Toys compared to Woman's Tongue:   

If e'er my Fate, unknown to me, decreed  
That I must share the Joys o'th' Nuptial Bed;  
If e'er I must, for Love of Womankind,  
Freedom and Philosophic Ease resign;  
I only beg the venturous She may prove  
A Gentle, Sweet, Good-natured, Household Dove:  
Tho' She be Crooked, Squint Eyed, Poor, and Blind,  
She's welcome, if she's Pleasant, Calm, and Kind;  
I'll know no Ugliness but that o'th' Mind:  
I could without the least Convulsive pain,  
The shock of Honest Poverty sustain,  
If she but silent prove, I'll ne'er complain.  
I could methinks,  
For my Dear, tender Spouse, as yet unknown,  
Part with a mangled Limb, without a Groan:  
I could without the least reluctant fear  
The voice of Thunder and of Earthquakes bear,  
And face the grimmest Death without Despair.  
But to be doomed to loud Domestic Strife,  
To that Rank Blessing, called a clamorous Wife, (of Life;  
That with her cant and tears sow'rs the whole draught  
To fall a dull, unpitied Sacrifice,  
To a false Woman's Scorn, and dreadful Voice;  
Just Heavens forbear, as you are kind and good,  
'Tis too severe a Test for Flesh and Blood:  
'Tis Gibbet, Vultur, Wheel, and Rowling-Stone,  
All the Ten Persecutions crammed in one.  
'Tis such a signal, and Transcendent Curse,  
That nothing, but Damnation, can be worse.    

THE Luscious Penance: OR The Fasting Lady.  

LONG had Lausania, flushed with hot desire,  
Been the Pastime of many a Knight and 'Squire;  
Long had she in their presence wished and sighed,  
Looked eagerly, and been as oft denied:  
Next, with a moving Grace, she did relate  
Her handsome Fortune, Alamode Estate,  
Her beauteous Jewels, tempting Gold and Plate.  
These scorned to help her Importuning Wants,  
She seemed to List herself among the Saints;  
Many long hours distressed she would dwell  
In Lonely Closet, her Disconsolate Cell,  
(Well stored with Biscuits, Wine, and Godly Books)  
And thence peep forth with Comfortable Looks;  
Thus a long while she wantonly would pray,  
Fast sweetly, and indulge it every day.  
This done, to th' rame sleek Chaplain she complained,  
With begging look; but was by him disdained:  
He scorned to soil a Consecrated Hand.   

Unhappy state of poor afflicted Maids!  
When vigorous warmth, or gay desire invades!  
How did Lausania try with wearied Hands  
T' Enrich her Face, as Farmers do their Lands;  
And dung with Paint her wrinkled, shrivelled Brow,  
A Barren Soil, where Beauty ne'er must grow?  
Much better; had she drained the wanton Flood,  
Or with Infusions chilled her sulphurous Blood;  
She should have shunned all Hot provoking Meat,  
And laid aside cold Tea, and Chocolate;  
Fasted and prayed in earnest all day long,  
And cooled at once her Liver, and her Tongue;  
Happy she might have been had this been done;  
And out of her the Devil of Lust had gone.  
Now, thanks to her dear self, alone she's left,  
Of Consolation, as of Charms, bereft:  
The Finger-butt of Grooms; abhorred, and feared,  
Like Blazing Star, or Woman with a Beard.  
Her old Despair is now to Madness grown,  
She bites each Man she meets, raves up and down,  
The celebrated Scold of all the Town.  
And she, whose Talon 'twas to court and woe,  
Does all Mankind with Raillery pursue.  
The silliness of Man she does expose,  
And vows she'd sooner take a Dog for Spouse,  
Her amorous Shock, or darling Monkey choose.  
And sure a fit Match was never seen;  
A Puss with Top-knot wedded to La Chien.   

Blot of her Sex! All o'er deformed and foul!  
Her Body's a true Emblem of her Soul:  
Lansania! Thy Graces shall outshine  
The glorious Pranks of much famed Messalina:  
What she once acted, thou in though hast done;  
May all her Praise and Merit be thy own.  
Fair Rosamond, Jane Shore, and all the Fry  
Of such rare British Worthies yield to thee;  
Their Vice, were in a fair form Enshrined;  
But thou art blasted both in Shape and Mind.  
Thou art not fit for Nunnery; at best  
Art not a Bait for an Hot blooded Priest:  
He's cursed that with thee in a Church shall stand,  
And penance do with Woman in his Hand.  
Without a Blot I should not write thy Name,  
Nor without Scorn thy Pedigree proclaim:  
Thy Nose from Mother Shipton speaks thy Race,  
And stands like Palisado on thy Face;  
As if 'twere meant from thy Embrace to fright  
Mankind, If ever Incubus by Night  
On thy Foul Body should design a Rape,  
He ought t'assume some new Enormous Shape;  
Else with thy uglier Form, and equal Soul,  
Thou wilt o'er-match the poor Infernal Fool.  
The Northern Bear, that did a Maid compress,  
Had fled at sight of thy Tremendous Face;  
Pygmalion too had shunned thy loathed Embrace.  
Wast thou but landed on the Eastern Shore,  
Thy very Looks would all Arabia sour;  
And had the Pontic King but met thy Breath,  
Tho' Poyson-proof, he might have sucked in Death.   

Whenever Nymph, whom Thought could never slain,  
Shall be assaulted by some lustful Swain,  
Whom Thoughts of Hell or Gibbet ne'er could scar;  
O that thy monstrous Image but appear!  
The sight would dash his villainous Intent,  
And strike the insulting Lecher impotent.   

Hence, to some rude wild Indian Climate fly,  
Where Men to Devils do Allegiance pay,  
There some Respect perhaps may light on thee.  
Fly to some Barbarous Coast, to Africa's Sand;  
Thou hast no hopes in any Christian Land;  
Unless some Puny, Castoff, Tawdry Fool,  
The Sport of Womankind, and Nature's Tool,  
Grow desperate, and in sad pensive Case  
Wink hard, and boldly rush to thy Embrace.  
Like moody Saul, who, thrown from all his Bliss,  
Rend from all Hope, and sunk into Distress,  
At Endor Courted an Infernal Bitch,  
And made his last Appeal unto a Witch.   

Pardon ye Nymphs of a Superior Sphere,  
Whom shortly I'll accost with awful Fear:  
I love your Sex; and at your Shrines adore,  
And next to heavens, your Blessings I implore.  
I feel your glittering Charms, partake your Joys,  
And wish you Blest with pretty Girls and Boys.  
In all your Toils I bear a mournful part,  
And each sad Accent strikes my Tender Heart:  
When I hear a forsaken Virgin's Cries,  
My Mother's Softness comes into my Eyes;  
Alas! poor Soul, look how she pines and dies.  
When a Young Widow by the Grave does stand  
Of her Departed Dear; I catch her Hand,  
And willing am the fading Bloom to save;  
And fear lest she should drop into the Grave.  
At Dido's Fate I've often wept, and bled;  
Nor can I Patiented Grisle's Story read  
Without a Sigh; Nay I could never blame  
Th' uncommon Ardours of th' Ephesian Dame.  
Those Errors, which from generous Love proceed,  
To me but small Apology can need:  
While others Laugh or Rail, I beat my Breast;  
I cannot turn Misfortunes into Jest;  
But count 'em Spots of Humane Race, that dare  
Blaspheme the Glorious Frailties of the Fair.  
Yet if th' Incarnate Angels choose to fall;  
If their Love sours to Vanity and Gall,  
Their Pangs and Throws without concern I see;  
All such proud She's Lausanias' are to me.  
And may Lausania's blasted Pride and Scorn  
A lasting Terror prove to Nymphs unborn.  
O that she could beg Pardon and Relent:  
But that's too much to hope: If she Repent,  
Furies will put on Mourning, Hell was ne'er  
So cheated, since the Death of R— r.    

THE Feigned Innocence: OR The Jealous and Whining Lady.  
Horatio a Person of Honour, of a Free but Virtuous Temper, Marries Lucinda; a Lady of good Descent and Celebrated Beauty, but a little too Affected and Demure: After the satisfactory Enjoyment of a few Years in her much loved Conversation, be Deserts her Bed, and denies all Nuptial Communion with her, upon too apparent Evidence of her Dishonourable Conduct. After some Days of Absence, the now Distressed Lucinda sends him this Complaining Epistle.  

OFT have I in my Tender Nonage cried  
And with a bleeding Heart sat down and sighed,  
At the sad Story of Octavia's Fate,  
Deserted by her Antony the Great:  
Tho' he with sullen brow from her withdrew,  
And winged with Charms to Cleopatra flew,  
Urged by the Fates against Octavia's Will,  
Yet She, kind She, Loved and Enjoyed him still:  
(For Lovers live not where they sigh and move,  
But where their Passion's fixed, and where they Love.)  
Her Fortune changed by Cleopatra's Face,  
She bore th' Affliction with a moving Grace;  
Loved on with equal constant Strains, and ne'er  
Spoke his Dear Name without a Hymn or Tear:  
In all the Soldiers Toils she bore a part,  
Kept his Surviving Image in her Heart:  
Astrea could not hold the Scales more even;  
She'd ne'er recall a Love once Sealed in Heaven.  
Sometimes indeed she wrung her hands and cried,  
Her pretty Children weeping by her side;  
Into Complaints and Transports she would fly,  
Call the Fates Cruel, but not Antony:  
Her glowing Breast did with kind Wishes burn,  
And Love within still whispered he'd return.  
But Antony Perfidious and Unkind,  
With a Steeled Heart, and a False Perjured Mind,  
Slighted her generous Faith, her boding Fears,  
Her Melting Wishes, and endearing Prayers;  
And when from her cold Solitary home  
With longing Arms she was to Athens come  
To meet liar Lord, he forced her back to Rome.   

I little thought,  
When I at first to your Embrace did run,  
Too Fond alas! And Proud to be undone!  
That my Malignant Stars would thus combine;  
That poor Octavia's Fortune should be mine.  
I languishing and hoping Innocence  
Took all your Words for Oracle and Sense:  
When you first vowed I secretly complied,  
Tho' by fond custom urged I oft denied:  
My Passion was too strong to be concealed,  
Each treacherous Glance the Mystery revealed:  
Tho' my officious Tongue did act its part,  
My Looks still spoke the Language of my Heart:  
Somewhat I felt that did strange Heats inspire,  
My Blood was kindled, and my Soul took fire:  
I thrust you from me, flew from your Embrace;  
Yet wore Love's kinder Signal in my Face:  
I bid you go, and chid at your Delay,  
But as you went with Smiles I bid you stay:  
When e'er you spoke or looked my Heart was moved,  
And tho' I frowned and scorned, yet still I loved.  
I scarcely could the pleasing Shock sustain,  
You looked like Cupid grown up to a Man:  
You seemed all o'er Intelligence and Flame,  
Love was your Centre, your Circumference Fame.  
I praised (Ah! those soft Hours I can't forget)  
Your Form and Mien, but above all your Wit;  
When I was most displeased, I was most true,  
To every Object blind and deaf but you:  
When e'er I waked, or laid me down in Bed,  
Horatio's Lovely Image by me played:  
When I alone did walk, you close did stand,  
Methought I felt you snatch and kiss my Hand:  
And then such kind and pretty things you said,  
Would from a Deathbed raise a drooping Maid:  
Thus for a while my soft and yielding Breast  
Was with transporting Images possessed;  
My Virgin Fears with warm Affection strove,  
Till at last blushing I confessed my Love.  
But Oh! With what a sudden furious Joy  
You did your Lips, and innocent Arms employ!  
You melting spoke, then panting stood amazed,  
And without breach of Honour clasped, and gazed:  
You softly pressed me, and sweet Kisses joined,  
Our very Souls did meet, and were entwined:  
You vowed by all the Witnesses above,  
Nothing should e'er allay so pure a Love:  
In your kind loving Arms you held me fast,  
And said we ne'er should part while Life did last;  
That nothing but the unkind Destinies  
Should e'er divide our Arms, our Lips, and Eyes;  
Nothing but Death should tear us from our Joys.   

But Ah! how dim and like a Winter Sun,  
In a few Years is your Lucinda grown?  
How changed from her, whose charming Grace and Mien  
You once so much admired, and thought Divine?  
No Lustre streams from her forgotten Face;  
No sweet Endearments flow from her Embrace:  
No, Leonora now has all the Charms;  
And cold Lucinda's banished from your Arms:  
She's the new dazzling Object you adore,  
And pale Lucinda's Right must be no more.  
Now Sighs alone employ my fainting Breath;  
I no Companions have but Care and Death:  
In a dark Cell I pensive sit and moan,  
Since you, and all the Bribes of Life are gone:  
Or if I walk to th' Melancholy Groves,  
The former Scenes of our once envied Loves,  
Methink the Birds like silent Mourners gaze,  
Or with sad Notes falute me as I pass:  
Nothing from you arrives to ease my Grief,  
Not one kind Letter comes to my relief:  
The kindest Words cannot your Heart incline;  
Sure there's no Balm for any Wound like mine.  
Just Heaven! What have I merited or done,  
To be thus sentenced to be left alone?  
 I have been as  Penelope,  
Or any Grecian Dame was famed to be;  
Or as Lavina was before she went  
To the wanton Baths with innocent intent:  
If e'er I have profaned our Nuptial Bed  
With one Adulterous glance; if e'er I did  
Cherish one Wish obscene, or Thought untrue  
Since the first time I mingled Arms with you;  
May Midnight Wolves tear out my bleeding Heart,  
May I die piecemeal, or feel all the smart  
Grim Tyrants e'er designed; may I live on  
To a long dreadful space, yet loved by none:  
Then die a branded, unlamented Slave,  
Hissed through the World, and spurned into my Grave.   

Why will you then engulf yourself in ill?  
Why should you thus a Heartsick Woman kill?  
How can you thus with bleeding Honour rove,  
And wildly Revel in unlawful Love?  
Where this sad Change will end I can't foretell;  
But my poor Soul divines it can't be well:  
Since no Successful Fate, or Peaceful End  
The Dissolute Hero's Life did e'er attend:  
Though for a while grown obstinate in Sin,  
He may outface the Monitor within;  
Yet at the length dark and illboding Fears  
Haunt and torment him wheresoever he steers.  
Remembrance of past Crimes his Soul does fright  
By Day, and Hag-ride all his Dreams by Night;  
And how shall he heavens mighty Vengeance stem,  
Who cannot bear its Image in a Dream?  
Each Wind or Echo his sick Fancy wounds,  
And makes his Spirits shoot beyond all bounds:  
The noise of Thunder makes him start and rave;  
Seems a shrill Ghost to call him to his Grave;  
And all the Charms of Music, Friends, and Wine  
Cannot allay the storm he feels within:  
In his own Breast are placed in open View  
Tribunal, Witness, Judge and Sentence too:  
And thus, though late, he will confess with shame  
What 'tis to violate the Nuptial Flame;  
What 'tis to wrong a spotless Woman's Fame.   

Pardon this Passion of a Heart that bleeds;  
Pardon this freedom which from Love proceeds.  
My Soul already hastens to relent;  
Forgive me, and I'll teach thee to repent:  
I'll ne'er accuse thee more; No, first I'll lay  
The blame on Fate, or any thing but thee.  
But sure the Injuries to me are given,  
Are big enough to shake a Saint in Heaven:   

O my vast wrongs! Pity ye Powers above  
My injured Faith, and my neglected Love:  
Help my poor tottering Bark; Conduct me over,  
For pale Lucinda shortly is no more.  
To th' Golden Strand, and Everlasting Shore.   

Farewell my much abused, and much Loved Lord!  
Ah! that I live to speak the dreadful Word!  
The Blessings of this Life wait on you still,  
When I am lodged in Dust, or some cold Cell:  
I, like a plundered Traveller, stripped and bare,  
Exposed to horrid Damps, and blasting Air,  
Lie unregarded here without Relief,  
Feel nought but want, and nothing taste but grief:  
The Doleful Tale of Wretched Niobe,  
Was sure some Dream, or Prophesy of me;  
For I with Midnight fears am almost grown  
As stiff, as cold, and senseless as a Stone.   

Ah, that kind Heaven would in soft sounds impart  
And bear my Sorrows to your yielding heart;  
Or that I might but in your presence die;  
And there begin my Immortality:  
With willing Arms I'd hang upon your Knees;  
Breath out my Soul in a dear Rapturous Kiss:  
But sure the World will think my Wrongs but small,  
When one kind parting Kifs atones for all.   

Once more Dear Object of my Soul farewell:  
To thee who didst— To thee who dost excel,  
Once more, I bid adieu.  
Yet sure e'er long, even while time forwards rowls,  
Before the general Rendezvous of Souls,  
We shall again Embrace, again Appear  
All Love, and with a Form more bright and clear,  
Like Dying Martyrs Kind, and like an Angel Fair.    

TO AN Old Gamesome Madam, Who Twittingly Asked the AUTHOR When he Designed To Settle in the World.  

MAdam, I must not from my Reason fly  
With the Dull World's Opinions to comply;  
Nor can I think a Woman's Excellence  
Consists in Noise, fine Dress, and want of Sense:  
The Answer's near at hand; when I can tame  
Those Rising Passions which divide my Frame,  
And stem the Sallies of undue desire,  
Then shall I to true Settlement Aspire:  
For Settlement supposes Calm and Ease;  
Even Heaven consists in Temper, not in place.  
Angels are settled, while abroad they fly,  
And with swift Wings cut the soft yielding Sky:  
And, tho' corpse Vulgar Souls may count it strange,  
They rest at their Bright Home, when wide they range.  
But he's ne'er settled that feels bosom pains,  
Tho' tied at home by Matrimonial Chains:  
Nor can that Mortal a fixed State  find;  
That wears a Restless and Aspiring Mind:  
Else, Men in Bedlam may be said to have  
A Settled Blessed Condition while they Rave.   

Happy's that Man, whose Soul is not confined  
To Time or Place; who owns a freeborn mind:  
Who Blest with Friends, and Intellectual Peace,  
Is Nobly Active, and yet lives at Ease.  
That Loves, but does not Fear a Lady's Eye,  
Feels the sweet Wound, but bravely scorns to die.   

While labourers rest and Guardian Angels wake,  
Of Nature's Works he can a Prospect take:  
And while he treads the quiet, thoughtful round,  
Eternity alone his thoughts can bond:  
While others idle sit at home, abroad  
He can be Entertained, and well Employed;  
Unmoved be'll be, even while he seems to roam,  
And where he meets his Friend, he is at home.  
But Madam, can you talk of Settlement,  
Whom neither God, nor Man could e'er content?  
Of Wealth 've had, of Husbands too good Store;  
Thousands o'th' one, and of the other four;  
And yet you daily pray, and pine for more.  
Glutted with Humane kind, again you crave,  
Nor can you settled be, till lodged in Grave.  
Your gloating Eyes more wantonness reflect,  
Than any high-fed Concubine can act:   

Your wriggling Soul by working frets its way,  
Through Flesh and Blood, and does itself betray.  
Your restless Thoughts from Man to Man still roll;  
A B essed Symptom of a Settled Soul.   

When dreadful Fourscore Years are past and gone,  
When breath grows short, and the last hour draws on;  
'Tis wondrous pretty in Love's Toils t' Engage,  
And to be Married in a good Old Age:  
Wedlock which Youth Adorns, in you's a Sin:  
Yet you will on; as if you did design,  
By your Stolen, withered Matrimonial Face,  
To bring the Dear Loved Thing into Disgrace.  
For shame, Old Chronicle, no longer rove  
In the wild Mystic Maze of Lawless Love:  
Hence, and that Venerable Limber lay  
In some dark Vault unknown to Light and Day:  
There sigh the short Remains of Life away.   

There Mourn, confess, tell o'er the numerous Scroll,  
Ransack each secret Corner of your Soul.  
Shake, turn it outward, rub out every stain;  
Let your Repentance be o'th' Nobler strain.  
And when your Funeral Pomp, and Rites are paid,  
O'er Tomb let your Effigies be displayed,  
And do some good, at least when you are dead.  
Your Looks perhaps may to Devotion call;  
Like Picture of Old Time upon a Wall.   
FINIS.   

Books Printed for, and Sold by Thomas Speed, at the Three Crowns near the Royal Exchange in Cornhill, 1694.  

THE Loyal and Impartial Satirist: Containing Eight Miscellany Poems. Price 6 d.  
Thirty Six Sermons, viz. 10 Ad Aulam. 6 A Clerum. 6 Ad Magistratum. 8 Ad Populum. With a large Preface. By the Right Reverend Father in God, Robert Sanderson, late Lord Bishop of Lincoln. The Eighth Edition, corrected and amended. Whereunto is now added the Life of the Reverend and Learned Author. Written by Isaac Walton Folio. Price 15 s.  
A Sermon at the Funeral of the Reverend Mr. Thomas Grey, late Vicar of Dedham in Essex; preached in the Parish-Church of Dedham, Feb. 2. 1691. With a short Account of his Life. By Joseph powel. A.M. Rector of St. Mary on the Wall, in Colchester. Price 6 d.  
An Anatomy of Atheism: A Poem by a Person of Quality. Price Six pence.  
Conversation in Heaven: Being Devotions; consisting of Meditations and Prayers, on several considerable Subjects in Practical Divinity. Written for the Raising the Decayed Spirit of Piety. By Laurence Smith, LL. D. Fellow of St. John's College in Oxford, 12 more. Price Two Shillings.  
Lusus Amatotius: Sive Musaei Poema de Herone & Leandro, E Graec à in Latinam Linguam Tranllatum. Cui Aliae (tres scilicet) accedunt Nugae Poeticae. Authore C. B. è Coll. Di Jo. Bapt. Soc. 4 o Price 6 d.  
Tachygraphy: The most Exact and Compendious Method of Short and Swift Writing, that hath ever yet been published by any. Composed by Thomas Shelton, Author and Professor of the said Art. Approved by both the Universities, 8 o. Price 4 s.  
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