POEMS WRITTEN On several Occasions, BY N. TATE.  
The Second Edition enlarged.  
LONDON, Printed for B. took at the Ship in St. Paul's Churchyard. 1684.   

TO Her HIGHNESS THE Princess AND, etc.  
Madam,  
I Know not how to Own the humble Opinion I have of these Poems at the same time that I present them to your Highness.  
Were it possible for me to write what could have any proportion of Merit to your Highness' Favour, I should bring my Offering with much more Cheerfulness. Goodness in Princes naturally occasions trouble to Themselves and such as are near to them: His Royal Highness had been pleased to receive favourably an honest endeavour of my Muse, which was my greatest Encouragement to this Address. But so raging was that Season of Faction; that no Son of Loyalty could want Indignation enough to constitute a Poet. That ever the Hearts of Men could conceive such Injustice and Ingratitude towards a Prince that had so highly obliged the Nation, can only have belief with the Age in which it was transacted.  
But Heaven has once more descended in Miracles, to establish the Royal Family; and in them Prosperity to the Nations. The Storm is spent, the People's Sight restored, Sedition for ever disarmed of Pretences. Bankrupt Prodigals are no longer made Guardians of Property, nor Atheists of Religion.  
Whither then should the Muses now betake themselves with the Songs of Peace, but to the fair Branches of the Royal Stem? whose Praises and Persections can they more justly celebrate than those that so eminently adorn your Highness. To what cause can they more assign our new established Happiness, than to a Reward from Providence for that most illustrious progress of all Virtues in your Highness, from your very Infancy. And as a further Illustration of your being constituted by Heaven for a general Blessing; We triumph in your Nuptials with a most auspicious Prince, who (besides his personal Conduct and Valour) has strengthened our Monarchy with a most powerful Alliance. Your Blooming Beauties were justly made the Prize of his early Fame.  
All Hearts therefore are employed in Addresses to Heaven for Your Felicity, and impatient for the Royal Blessing You promise.  
If I had a Talon of Panegyric, I should decline it in addressing to Your Highness, of whom the ablest Wit cannot express so much as the plainest Heart conceives. Your Highness' most charming Condescension, the heavenly Sweetness of Your Temper, Your unaffected and habitual Piety, Your Generosity and Charity are eternally their own Registers, transcending all Rhetoric, much more what can be expressed by,  
Madam, The meanest of Your Highness' Servants N. TATE.   

THE CONTENTS.  

ON his Royal Highness's deliverance from Shipwreck in the Gloucester the sixth of May, 1682. Page 1.  
Indisposed Page 2  
On a diseased old Man who wept at thought of leaving the World Page 8  
To Mr. Flatman, on his Poem's Page 11  
On the present corrupted state of Poetry Page 16  
The Search Page 21  
The Prospect Page 26  
The Request Page 27  
The Instalment Page 28  
The Penance Page 30  
Laura's Walk Page 31  
The Vsuprers Page 32  
The Amusement Page 34  
The Amourist Page 37  
The Surprisal Page 38  
The Unconfined Page 39  
Dialogue, Alexis and Laura Page 40  
The Restitution Page 43  
The Escape Page 44  
The Politicians Page 45  
The Vow-breaker Page 46  
The Year Page 47  
The Discovery Page 50  
The Parting Page 53  
On a Miser that hoarded his Treasure in Iron Chests, and buried it Page 55  
The Vision, written in a dangerous fit of sickness Page 56  
Ode to Mr. Flatman Page 64  
The Banquet Page 65  
The Match Page 66  
The Disconsolate Page 67  
Sliding on Skates in hard Frost Page 69  
Strephon's Complaint on quitting his Retirement Page 70  
The Gold-hater Page 74  
The Mistake Page 75  
Disappointment Page 76  
Martial, Epigr. ex. de Issâ Catellâ Publii Page 77  
The Confinement Page 79  
Snow fallen in Autumn, dissolved by the Sun Page 80  
Melancholy Page 81  
On a grave Sir, retiring to write, in order to undeceive the world Page 84  
On a Bawd that sat for her Picture Page 85  
Advice to a friend intending to publish his Poem's Page 87  
The Ignorant Page 88  
The Beldame's Song Page 89  
The Inconstant, a Paraphrase on the fifteenth Epod of Horace Page 90  
On the Ape and the Fox, one of the Centum Fabulae Page 92  
The Round Page 94  
The Mole-content Page 95  
The Dream Page 96  
Amor Sepulchralis Page 98  
The three first Verses of the Psalm paraphrased Page 99  
The Midnight Thought Page 101  
The Counter-Purn Page 103  
The Voyagers Page 104  
On sight of some Martyr's Sepulchers Page 106  
Of Vice and Virtue Ibid.  
To a desponding Friend Page 107  
Dissuasion of a Friend leaving his Retirement Ibid.  
Recovering from a Fit of sickness Page 109  
The Challenge Page 111  
The Cure. Dialogue between Clajus and Coridon Page 113  
The Hurricane Page 119  
The grateful Shepherd Page 120  
On the Assembling a new Parliament the sixth of March, 1682. Page 120  
The Despair Page 125  
Medea to Jason, one of Ovid's Epistles Page 127  
Upon the Marquis of Worcester defending his Seat of Ragland Castle, the last Garrison that held out for the late King Page 139  
Catullus Epigr. the second, de passere mortuo Lesbiae Page 141  
After beating his Mistress, Ovid, Eleg. the seventh, Book the third Page 142  
Propert. Lib. 1. Eleg. 4. Page 145  
To the concealed Author of Absalon and Achitophel Page 148  
On the Medal Page 150  
To Mr. Creech on his Translation of Lucretius Page 152  
The Battle of the B—ds in the Theatre-Royal Decemb. 3. 1680. Page 153  
Horace, Ode 5. Lib. 1. Page 155  
To the Translator of Father Simon's Critical History Page 157  
The Charge Page 158  
Prologue to the enchanted Lovers Page 159  
Epilogue Page 161  
Epilogue, etc. Page 162  
Prologue to the History of King Lear revived, with Alterations Page 164  
Epilogue Page 165  
To Mr. L. Maidwell on his new Grammar Page 167  
An attempt on the Ode of Assumption by Mr. Crashaw Page 169  
The three first Chapters of Job Page 177  
The Charnel House Page 183  
To the memory of Sir Richard Rainsford Lord Chief Justice Page 184  
Procris from the Metamorphosis of Ovid, Lib. 7. Page 189  
The second Eclogue of Virgil Page 198  
The third Eclogue of Virgil Page 203  
Catullus Epigr. 17 Page 212  
From Petronius Arb. on the Roman Luxury Page 214  
On Mr. Gibbons his incomparable Carved Works Page 215  
On the Translation of Eutropius by young Gentlemen Educated by Mr. L. Maidwell Page 217  
The first Elegy of Tibullus Page 221    

These Mistakes are to be corrected, being destructive to the Sense.  
PAge 5. l. 2. for speak read speaks. for Fames r. Fame. p. 27. read the fourth Line before the third p. 57 l. 1. for ther. no p. 81. for Honour r. Hwnour. Ibid. l. 2. for these r. those. p. 116. leave out the fifth line. p. 110. for redressed r. distressed. p. 115. l. 1. for excellent r. excellence. p. 125. l. 6. for remperd r. tempered. p. 136. l. 12. for from r. for. p. 144. l. 5. for Crow r. Crowd. p. 147. for Eye r. Eyes. p. 148. l. 6 for seems r. teems. p. 168. l. 6. for shor r. short. p. 169. l. 9 for Fire r. Fires. p. 170. l. 12. for Waters r. Wister's. p. 171. l. 7. for on r. ours. p. 172. l. 1. for moortal r. mortal. p. 173. l. 16. for the r. thee. p. 174. l. 2. for fac r. face.   

POEMS, etc.  

On His Royal Highness' Deliverance from Shipwreck in the Gloucester, the Sixth of May, 1682.  Jamque Dies (ni fallor) adest quem semper deerbum, Semper honoratum, sic Dir voluistis, habebo. 

NO Art, no Change of pencils can display  
The various Fate of this important Day:  
Nor knows the Muse what Numbers to employ  
Sufficient for its Grief and for its Joy.  
Consulting Heaven determined to restore  
Our Royal Hero to the longing Shore;  
Which fixed Decree no Chance could countermand,  
Nor Wind, nor Wave, nor more destructive Sand;  
Nor all the crying Gild and impious Rage  
Of a most Factious and ingrateful Age;  
Which yet in part the Blessing did destroy;  
Nor could our Crimes admit the perfect Joy:  
For in our Triumphs at his wished Return,  
His Followers most dismal Wreck we mourn.  
In vain the Muse would labour to express  
That fatal Hour's unspeakable Distress:  
Besides, if any Words such Grief could fit,  
At best 'twere impious Art and cruel Wit:  
'Twere Sin to bring the mournful Scene in view,  
And wound our pious! Hero's Heart anew.  
Too much the Pangs that then did rend his Breast,  
By his most Savage Foes must be confessed.  
Such Agony that Minute seized his Mind,  
He thought the Care that saved his Life, unkind.  
Ye mighty Spirits, You that then expired  
With Hearts for any brave Adventure fired,  
Let not your Ghosts repine that you did yield  
To such tame Fate without a Foe in Field;  
Without a Price for such Heroic Breath,  
And Standards seized to signalise your Death;  
Without the Trophies of the Soldier's Toil,  
Whole Groves of Ensigns gained, and Hills of Spoll,  
Let no such Thought your rising Joys suppress,  
Or make the happy Fields delight you less:  
Such Honours were to former Worthies known,  
And every Age has Spoils and Trophies shown;  
But this new silent Method of your Fate,  
Renown yet un-recorded does create:  
While you from thence unequalled Glory claim,  
And stand unrivalled in the Roll of Fame.  
Then let Applause, so vast, so just as This,  
Reach to your World of Joy, and raise your Bliss.  
Rest pleased, that e'er you perished, you could see  
Your Royal Master from the Danger free;  
That you his Safety hailed with latest Breath,  
And had his Tears to consecrate your Death.  
Next, for the scattered Remnant, scarce secured  
From that sad Lot their noble Mates endured,  
While labouring Heaven no Miracles did spare,  
To second their indulgent Master's Care.  
Let Angels sing the Goodness he expressed,  
Condoled their Susserings, and their Wants redressed,  
While such Supplies his Bounty did convey,  
As almost healed the Ruins of the day.  
Such Virtue did Aeneas Breast employ,  
Once more preserving the Remains of Troy;  
His scattered Troop collecting on the Shore,  
Saved now from Floods as from the Flames before.  
O for a Maro of this Age, to raise  
With equal Verse, our equal Hero's Praise!  
Nor shall succeeding Times the Work disclaim,  
That speak Great James his Sufferings and his Fames.  
How do I curse the Muse my Youth withdrew,  
From gainful Science to the chiming Crew;  
Yet when on his loved Name she lends her Aid,  
I bless my Lot, and think my Grief's repaid.  
Soon as you please, ye Powers, my Frame confound,  
Blend me with Brother Infects in the Ground;  
Dissolve a Wretch, the Times and Fortune's Slave,  
O'represt with Wrongs, and stretching for the Grave:  
For ever shroud me in the peaceful Clay,  
No more the Scorn of Fools, and Villains Prey.  
Forgetting and forgotten by Mankind,  
Given all to Fate, no Atom left behind.  
But Oh! whatever Songs of mine are graced  
With James his Deeds, let their Remembrance last:  
To them, kind Heaven, immortal Ages give,  
Let me be lost; but let those Numbers live.    

Indisposed.  

I.  
WHat tho' the restless Sun  
Already has his Race begun?  
Already summoned to their pleasant Toil,  
The peaceful tilers of the Soil;  
What Comfort in his Lustre can I find,  
If yet no cheerful Glimpse begin  
A glorious Morn within,  
But Mists and Darkness still oppress my Mind?   

II.  
What Entertainment can it be,  
To hear the tuneful Birds from every Tree,  
With grateful Songs the rising day salute,  
Unless my Fancy with the Music suit?  
If in my Thoughts I find no Harmony,  
I shall (Alas!) as soon rejoice,  
To hear the Raven's doleful Volce;  
Or be diverted with the Bell,  
That Rings my dearest Friends untimely Knell.   

III.  
Whilst in my Breast the Weather's Fair,  
I ne'er inquire the Temper of the Air:  
So Reason o'er my Appetites bear sway,  
I'm unconcerned what Planet Rules the Day.  
If hushed and silent all my Passions lie,  
The loudest Storms that rend the Sky,  
Invite Repose, and make my Sleep more sound:  
The Tempest in my Breast  
Alone can break my Rest;  
From Hurricanes abroad less harm is found  
Than from the smallest Winds lodged Vnderground.    

On a Diseased Old Man, who Wept at thought of leaving the World.  

I.  
SHame on thy Beard! That thou canst Bug-bears dread!  
Fear Death whom thou so oft I hast seen,  
So oft his Guest at Funerals hast been;  
Thyself, I mean thy Better Half, already Dead!  
The Tears were just, which at thy Birth did flow,  
For then Alas! thou cam'st t'engage  
The Miseries of Life, but now,  
Thou art allowed to quit the Tragic Stage;  
Now to be careful to prolong the Scene,  
And act thy Troubles over again,  
Is Folly, not to be forgiven, even in thy doting Age.   

II.  
Full Fourscore Years (bless us! a dreadful space)  
The World has used thee ill,  
Abused thee to thy Face;  
And Dotard, canst thou still  
Solicit her Embrace?  
In vain thou covetest to enjoy  
The haughty Dame, when Age and Pains  
Have shrunk thy Nerves, and chilled thy Veins,  
Who to thy flourishing Years, was so reserved and coy.   

III.  
Can Cramps, Catarrhs, and Palsies be  
Such charming Company?  
What Pleasures can the Grave deprive  
Thy Senses of? What Inconvenience give?  
From which thou art exempted while alive?  
At worst thou canst but have  
Cold Lodging in the Grave;  
Nor liest thou warmer now, tho' covered over  
In Furr, till thy faint Limbs can bear no more:  
Thou sleepest each Night in so much Cerecloth bound,  
Thou'dst need no more to lodge thee under-gruond.   

iv  
Go, lay thy senseless Hopes of Health aside;  
No longer Potions take,  
No more Incisions make:  
Let thy dull Flesh no more be scarifyed:  
Resign, resign thy tainted Breath;  
Consult with no Physician more, but Death:  
When all thy Surgeon's Instruments prove vain,  
His neverfailing Dart  
Will bleed thee gently at thy Heart,  
And let out Life, the Source of all thy Pain!  
Let then thy Funeral Pile be made,  
With Rosemary and Cypress graced,  
Aloft on it thy Carcase placed;  
Beside thee too thy Crutches laid:  
Those Utensils will thus oblige thee more,  
Fomenting the kind Flame, then when they bore  
Thy crazy and decrepit Limbs before!    

TO Mr. FLATMAN, On his Excellent POEMS.  

STrange Magic of thy Wit and Style,  
Which to their Griefs Mankind can reconcile!  
While thy Philander's tuneful Voice we hear,  
Condoling our disastrous State,  
Touched with a sense of our hard Fate,  
We sigh perhaps, or drop a Tear;  
But he the mournful Song so sweetly sings,  
That more of Pleasure than Regret it brings,  
With such becoming Grief  
So sweetly sad, the Trojan Chief  
Troy's Conslagration did relate,  
That even the sufferers in the Fire drew near,  
And with a greedy Ear  
Devoured the story of their own subverted state.   

II.  
Kind Heaven (as to her Darling Son) to thee  
A double Portion did impart,  
A Gift of Painting, and of Po●sie:  
Nor second to the Best in either Art.  
Thy happy pencils more than Pictures give;  
Thy Drafts are more than Representative:  
For, if we'll credit our own Eyes, they Live!  
Ah! worthy Friend, couldst thou maintain the State  
Of what with so much Ease thou dost create,  
We might reflect on Death with Scorn!  
But Pictures like th'Originals decay!  
Of Colours those conflst, and these of Clay;  
Alike composed of Dust, to Dust alike return!   

III.  
Yet 'tis our Happiness to see  
Oblivion, Death, and adverse Destiny,  
Encountered, vanquished, and disarmed by thee.  
For if thy Pencils fail,  
Change thy Artillery,  
And thou art then secure of Victory;  
Employ thy Quill, and thou shalt still prevail.  
The grand Destroyer Time itself will spare,  
The meanest things that bear  
Th' Impression of thy Pen:  
Thou ne'er so course and Cheap the Metal were,  
Stamped with thy Verse, he knows they're sacred then.  
He knows them by that Character to be  
Predestinate, and set apart for Immortality.   

iv  
If Native Lustre in thy Themes appear,  
Improved by thee, it shines more clear:  
Or if thy Subject's void of native Light,  
Thy Fancy need but dart a Beam  
To gild the darkest Theme,  
And make the rude Mass beautiful and bright.  
Thou vary'st oft thy Strains, but still  
Success attends each Strain:  
Thy Verse is always lofty as the Hill,  
Or pleasant as the Plain.  
How well thy Muse the Pastoral improves!  
Whose Nymphs and Swains are in their Loves,  
As innocent, and yet as kind as Doves.  
But most, she moves our wonder and delight,  
When she performs her lose Pindaric Flight;  
Oft to their utmost reach she will extend  
Her towering Wings to soar on high,  
Then by at just degrees descend,  
And oft with wanton Play hangs hovering in the Sky.   

V  
Whilst Sense of Duty to my artless Muse,  
Th' ambition would infuse  
To mingle with those Nymphs that Homage pay,  
And wait on thine in her triumphant way:  
Defect of Merit checks her forward Pride,  
And makes her dread t'approach thy Chariot side;  
She knows what rude indecency  
It were, at best, if not profane,  
T'appear at this Solemnity  
Unwreathed, among the Lawrelled Train.  
But this She will presume to do,  
At distance to attend the Show,  
The scattered Bays to gather, and with those  
A Vulgar Coronet compose;  
A needful Ornament to hid  
Her Nakedness, and not for Pride:  
Such was the artless, hasty Dress  
The first offending Pair did frame  
Of plaited Leaves, not to express  
Their Pride, but merely to conceal their Shame.    

ON THE Present Corrupted State OF POETRY.  

I.  
Writ thy own Elegy, Apostate Art,  
Thou Angel once of Light;  
But, since thy Fall, a Fiend of Night,  
Mankind (alas too prone.) contriving to pervert.  
At first, to th' Altar's Service thou wert bound,  
With Innocence instead of Laurel Crowned;  
Anthems and Hallelujahs didst resound:  
But now forgetful of thy bright Descent,  
Thy prostituted Pains foment,  
And feed the Vices of the Age,  
Flattering in Court, and Rev'lling on the Stage.  
That Poesy, that did at first inspire  
Devotion and Seraphic Fire,  
For Hell her Talon now employs,  
The very Bawd to sensual Joys,  
Sustaining with forced Heat Love's languishing desire.   

II.  
The wisest and most Potent Kings of Old  
Embraced the Faculty; nor did disdain  
To leave their Royal Names enroled  
Among th' inspired Train:  
They thought Success in Arms of less Renown,  
And prized the Poet's Wreath above th' Imperial Crown.  
But then the celebrated Nine,  
Pious as Sibyls, chaste as Vestals were,  
The Graces were not more divine;  
But now deformed, and bloated they appear:  
Nyctimene sustained no Change so foul,  
A beauteous Nymph transformed into a glaring Owl.   

III.  
In happy Ages passed, when Justice reigned  
The Muses too their Dignity maintained,  
Then Poetry embalmed some worthy Name,  
And gave Deservers only Fame.  
But now she's grown a mercenary Trade,  
heavens Sacred Gift the Price of Gold is made;  
For Lucre, with Encomiums she'll pursue  
The worst of Men, and praise their very Vices too,  
While Lust, Extortion, Sacrilege go free,  
She arms her satire, Virtue, against thee,  
And turns on Heaven its own Artillery.   

iv  
Who has the largest Share in her Applause,  
But some aspiring Prince that drowns the Field  
With humane Blood, who boasts of Thousands killed,  
And ne'er consults the Justice of his Cause?  
If to destroy can challenge Fame,  
Famines and Plagues the largest Trophies claim;  
But these the Muses smallest Errors are,  
And cannot with their blacker Crimes compare:  
Long since they were immodest grown, and vain;  
But are (Oh! Heay'n) at last become profane!  
Atheism and Blasphemy have dared to preach,  
Religion of Imposture to impeach;  
Those Sacred Truths which they themselves to the rude World did teach.  
Nor has heavens just Revenge regardless viewed  
But with a signal Rage's their Crimes pursued.  
A constant Curse of Poverty attends  
The wretched Man, whom any Muse befriends.  
All who in this deluding Art engage,  
Set out with Pleasure, weary reach their Stage;  
Frolic in Youth, dissatisfied in Age!  
Thus (near learned Cam's fair Current Pensive (laid)  
Th' Ill-treated Cowley did his Muse upbraid:  
Ah! who'd credit that Surveys  
The Love and Dalliance of their youthful Days,  
That e'er this peaceful Bard, and gentle Muse,  
Could quarrel thus, and mutually accuse?  
So, whilst some seeming Happy Pair  
(Who Hymen's Fetters wear)  
In Public fond as Turtles are,  
Th' Vnwed with Envy their Caresses view;  
But Ah! What would they do,  
If (as they see their open Loves) their private Strife  
They knew?    

The Search.  

I.  
COnfess ingenuously, O Man,  
The Upshot of thy Toil and Pain,  
The Product of thy Brain;  
Since first thy busy Race began,  
Canst thou produce one Evidence,  
To prove thy boasted Reason, Thought or Sense?  
Yes— Gradually each Age has been Refin'd,  
By never-ceasing Labours of mankind;  
The Labours of their Hand, and of their Mind;  
Even wily Nature, with her varied Shapes,  
But rarely from their Search escapes;  
Long she resists, but strictly pressed,  
Resigns at last the Secrets of her Breast.  
Bold Mortals rob with Ease  
Her richest Coffers, be they laid  
In deep Recesses of profoundest Seas,  
Or to the Caverns of the Earth conveyed;  
Rather than live contemned and Poor,  
They'll plunge and dive for Gems that sleep  
On Beds of Rock beneath the Deep,  
And Travel Vnderground for Golden-Oar.   

II.  
Enough!— if we'll lay claim,  
From these Performances, to Fame,  
Where will the Volume of our Praises end?  
For, thousand Instances beside  
Will vindicate our Pride,  
And still the Triumphs of our Wit extend.  
Such are the Conquests which we daily gain  
On Learning's Undiscovered Parts:  
Our active Fancies still create new Arts;  
Create new Arts, and what is more,  
Even from the Dead restore  
Arts, that in Ages past have buried lain.  
I grant all this, yet justly still suspect  
Our Glory's Weight will fail,  
And Vanity be found the heavier Scale:  
Impartially if we reflect,  
We shall perceive there's wanting yet  
The Richest Crown our Triumphs to complete;  
In vain we boast Discoveries,  
Whilst we return without the noblest Prize;  
The Art of Happiness still undiscovered lies.   

III.  
Oh Happiness! (if Happiness be aught  
Beside a wild Chimaera in the Thought)  
To what close Nook art thou consigned?  
What distant Continent, or Isle,  
That thou canst still beguile  
The restless Search of all Mankind!  
Even in this Vale of Misery,  
Some Rivulets of Bliss we taste;  
But Rivulets half dry,  
And tainted with the Soil through which they passed.  
Ah! that some friendly Seraph would convey,  
Or point me out the way  
To those glad Lands, where Happiness flows pure;  
Where I might drink secure  
At Pleasure's Fountainhead;  
No Surfeit would I dread;  
But quaff the Cordial Flood,  
Till mingling with my Blood,  
And circ'ling through each Part,  
It should like Balsom ease my Smart;  
Like Nectar, cherish my dejected Heart!   

iv  
In various ways deluded Mortals toil,  
All busied i'th' Discovery of Content;  
Content the Game we all-pursue;  
But hunt it still on a cold Scent;  
The wary Prey ne'er comes in view,  
But skulks aloof and leaves us at a Foil:  
Yet where's the disappointed Man will say,  
He now despairs of being blest?  
For tho' at present unpossest  
Of his dear Hope, he's yet in a fair way;  
That now his Project wants but carrying on  
As 'tis begun,  
And then the mighty Task is done:  
Done, sayest thou, credulous Man?  
Yes! So the Babel Builders heretofore,  
Raising to Heaven their proud Tower, lacked no more  
Than carrying on the Work as they began.  
But, grant thy Years of Drudgery were passed,  
'Tis odds thou art imposed upon at last:  
Thou, like the Syrian Husbandman of Old,  
Believest thyself to hold  
The beauteous Rachel fast in thy Embrace;  
And tho' the pleasing Error last a Night,  
Be sure the next returning Light  
Shall fright thee with an unexpected Face,  
And show thee Blear-eyed Leah in thy Rachell's place.    

The Prospect.  

FRom a tall Precipice on the Seaside,  
A Reverend Hermit viewed the spreading Tide:  
The Flood though curled with a becoming Wave,  
No Sign of any rising Tempest gave.  
A goodly Ship was coasting by the Place,  
Like a proud Courser foaming in her Pace:  
With flattering Courtship the lascivious Gails  
Her Streamers furl, and wanton in her Sails.  
The Waves divide to give the Pageant way;  
Then closing, with raised Heads the Pomp survey.  
Whilst the grave Man this Spectacle intends,  
Pleased with the Scene a sudden Storm descends,  
That in one Instant rifles all the Boat,  
Whose scattered Streamers on the Billows float.  
Reflects at large on this disastrous Sight,  
Then, to his Cell returned, the Anchorite  
Of earthly Greatness weighs th' uncertain State,  
Which, in its fairest Bloom, and proudest Height,  
Stands most exposed to Storms of sudden Fate.    

The Request.  

SO may you Spring, and so heavens choicest Dew,  
In Nightly-Show'rs distil, fair Plants, on you;  
As You on Me your rankest Venom shed,  
Whilst at Your Feet I make my grassy Bed.  
And Thou, O Goddess, (whose obliging Womb  
Affords the Living Food, the Dead a Tomb)  
Permit me, e'er I die, to dig my Grave;  
'Tis all my starved Ambition has to crave.  
I rob Thee not; for, tho' my delving Spade  
Dislodge thy Mould, there's yet no Trespass made:  
For I the petty Damage shall repay,  
Filling the vacant Ground with my own Clay.    

The Instalment.  

I.  
LOng have I languished in the Fire  
Of an unquenchable Desire;  
And will it not suffice Thee, Love,  
That I thy silent Martyr am,  
Unless thy Worship I improve,  
Converting others to thy Flame?  
If I the Practise not neglect,  
Thou canst no more from Me expect;  
Not gifted for a Teacher in the Sect.   

II.  
My Gifts of Nature are too small;  
I own it, and pretend no Call:  
Beside, I've found at last the Cheat;  
The Flame that does thy Priests inspire,  
(Pretended for Seraphic Heat)  
Is mere Enthusiastic Fire.  
When Heaven inspires, the Mind no Trouble knows;  
But Love's wild Ecstasies (like those  
Of Pagan Priests) torment and discompose.   

III.  
And 'tis no more than their Desert,  
That these Impostors thus should smart;  
By whose false Wiles we are betrayed  
To Love's cursed Tyranny and Rage:  
For they, when once his Captives made,  
Straight fall to singing in their Cage:  
Mean while from far the wondering Flock repairs,  
And listening to their Charming Airs,  
Insensibly are caught in equal Snares.    

The Penance.  

NYmph Fanaret the Gentlest Maid  
That ever happy Swain obeyed,  
(For what Offence I cannot say)  
A Day and Night, and half a Day,  
Banished her Shepherd from her Sight:  
His Fault for certain was not slight;  
Or sure this tender Judge had ne'er  
Imposed a Penance so severe.  
And lest she should anon revoke  
What in her warmer Rage she spoke,  
She bond the Sentence with an Oath,  
Protested by her Faith and Troth,  
Nought should compound for his Offence,  
But the full Time of Abstinence.  
Yet when his Penance Glass were run,  
His Hours of Castigation done,  
Should he defer one Minutes space  
To come, and be restored to Grace,  
With sparkling threatening Eyes she swore,  
That Failing would incense her more  
Than all his Trespasses before.    

Laura's Walk.  

I.  
THE Sun far sunk in his Descent,  
Laid now his Tyrant Rays aside,  
When Laura to the Garden went,  
To triumph over Nature's Pride.   

II.  
The Rosebuds blushed with deeper Dye,  
Envying Lilies paler grew;  
The Violets drooped with Fear to spy  
On Laura's Veins a richer Blue.   

III.  
She stooped and gathered as she went,  
But whilst she slaughtered sweetly Smiled;  
As Angels tho' for Ruin sent,  
Appear with Looks serene and mild.   

iv  
But now grown weary with her Toil,  
A Garland for her Brow she frames:  
Thus with proud Trophies made o'th' spoil,  
Her Conquest o'er the Spring proclaims.    

The Usurpers.  

I.  
USurping Passions held a long Contest  
For the supreme Dominion of my Breast;  
But whilst in mutual Broils the Tyrants raged  
Whoever by the Battle gained,  
I still the certain loss sustained;  
For they ne'er failed as oft as they engaged,  
To waste the Province where the War was waged.   

II.  
Whilst such wild Havoc in my Breast was made,  
Reason first came to tender me his Aid;  
And sure with that most potent Prince allied,  
Had I but played the Man i'th' Fight,  
My Passions had been put to flight.  
But I not only to assist denied;  
But treacherously fell to th' Enemy's side.   

III.  
Then from the Powers of Love redress I craved;  
But was by that Alliance worse enslaved:  
For though Loves Forces quickly did degrade  
These proud Usurpers of my Breast,  
Yet was I not hereby redressed,  
For Love himself proved false, when Victor made,  
And seized the Province which he came to aid.   

iv  
But heavier now the Bondage I sustain,  
Then during my tumultuous Passions Reign.  
'Twere now no small Presumption to implore  
Indulgent Fates to set me free,  
As in my Native Liberty.  
Those Hopes are vanished, let them but restore  
My former Tyrants, I demand no more.    

The Amusement.  Strephon. 
WHy weeps my Sylvia, prithee why?  Sylvia. 
To think my Strephon once must die;  
To think withal poor Sylvia may  
When He's removed be doomed to stay.  Streph. 
Nymph, You're too lavish of your Tears,  
To waste them on Fantastic Fears.  Sylu. 
No, for when I this Life resign,  
(If Fate prolong the Date of thine)  
The Tears you'll give my Funeral,  
Will pay me Interest, Stock and all.  Streph. 
Mot so, for should this setting Light  
Ne'er rise again in Sylvia's sight,  
Without a Tear in mine I'd view  
Her Dying Eyes.  Sylu. 
'Tis false.  Streph. 
'Tis true.  Sylu. 
Not weep, false Shepherd? Swear.  Streph. 
I Swear  
I would not give thy Hearse a Tear.  Sylu. 
Break swelling Heart! perfidious Man!  
Can you be serious? Swear again,  
Yes, Swear by Ceres and by Pan.  Streph. 
Let then great Pan and Ceres hear,  
And punish if I falsely swear.  Sylu. 
Gods! Can ye hear this and forgive?  
You may; for I have heard and live!  Streph. 
Rage's not, rash Nymph, for I've decreed  
When Sylvia Dies—  Sylu. 
Speak, what?  Streph. 
To bleed.  
I'll drain the Life-blood from my Heart;  
But no cheap Tear shall dare to start.  Sylu. 
Kind Shepherd, could you Life despise,  
And bleed at Sylvia's Obsequies?  Streph. 
To Ceres I appeal, for she  
Knows this has long been my Decree.  Sylu. 
Since than you could your Vow fulfil,  
Swear, Swear once more you never will.   

The Amorist.  

SEe where enamoured Thirsis lies,  
And cannot cease to gaze  
On his Larissa's sparkling Eyes;  
But takes delight to see those Comets blaze,  
Whose Lustre still is fatal to the Swain,  
O'er whom they Reign,  
For by their Influence the poor Shepherd Dies,  
Or (more to be lamented) lives in Pain.    

The Surprisal.  

IN the strait Passage of a Grove,  
Whom should I chance to meet but Love?  
I seized the Elf, and said, at last,  
I've caught thee, and I'll hold thee fast:  
Now by thy Mother's Doves and Sparrows,  
I'll rob thee of thy Bow and Arrows:  
I'll chain thee up, and chp thy Wings,  
Or strangle thee in thine own Strings,  
Unless thou instantly relate  
The Reason of my Celia's Hate.  
Then thus the Boy replied,— Fond Swain  
Vex not yourself and me in vain;  
That Celia answers not your Flame,  
Neither of us are to blame.  
Returns of Love can only be  
From Beauty of a less Degree;  
But Celia, so divinely graced,  
To be adored, and not embraced.    

The Unconfined. SONG.  

BElieve me, Nymph, you strive in vain  
My Passion to confine:  
'Tis Noble, and must needs repine,  
To wear the servile Chain.  
Your Beauty's Power, if you would see,  
Bid Mountains to remove;  
Your Charms may there successful be,  
But never fix my Love.    

DIALOGUE, Alexis and Laura.  Laura. 
Alexis—  Alex. 
Dearest.  Laura. 
Take a Kiss.  Alex. 
What means this unexpected Bliss?  
A Bliss which I so oft in vain  
Have craved, and now unasked obtain!  Laur. 
When to my Swain reserved I seemed,  
I loved him, kissed him, less esteemed!  Alex. 
Dear Nymph, your female Arts forbear,  
With one already in the Snare.  
'Tis, Laura, an unjust Design  
To treat so plain a Soul as mine  
With Oracles; such mystic Sense  
Religion fitly may dispense;  
But these dark Riddles mar Love's Joy,  
As Clouds Gems in their worth destroy.  Laur. 
Then take it on your Peril, Swain,  
(Since you compel me to be plain)  
The Kiss I gave you was in lieu  
Of all Love-debts from Laura due.  Alex. 
What Crimes can I have wrought to force  
This sudden, and severe Divorce?  Laur. 
Recall, false Shepherd, what to day  
I heard you to Dorinda say.  
You said she did Noons Light outshine,  
That Beauty's Queen was less Divine;  
You vowed respect to her Commands,  
And (Heaven forgive you) kissed her Hands.  Alex. 
You wrong me, Nymph, by Pan you do;  
That Courtship was Respect to you.  
Dorinda's Beauties well are known  
To bear such Likeness to your own,  
That when I made my late Address,  
'Twas in that gentle Shepherdess  
The sweetness of those Charms to taste,  
Which so divinely Laura graced.  Laur. 
Weak Nymphs with Men contend in vain,  
Who Thus their Errors can maintain.  Chorus. 
Wise Nature's Care is here expressed,  
That neither Sex should be oppressed;  
Who, when to Nymphs she did commit  
Commanding Charms, gave Shepherd's Wit,  
With Arts and Cunning to allay,  
And temper Beauty's powerful Sway.   

The Restitution.  

HEr keen Disdain pierced deep my Breast,  
And with a sudden Breach dismissed  
The dearest Drops my Heart contained:  
I ventured to her, and complained,  
To ease my Smart and still my Fears;  
She wept, and bathed my wound with Tears.  
Blood will have Blood (they say) and be  
Repaid in Kind: 'Tis false in me.  
For Sylvia wound me yet more deep,  
If after you vouchsafe to weep;  
'Twill more than recompense my Wrongs, and▪,  
Bleeding to Death, shall Sylvia's Debtor die.    

The Escape.  

ON a Streams Bank I saw her stand,  
A pliant Angle in her Hand.  
I marked how she disguised the Hook,  
And cast her Bait into the Brook.  
The Sport succeeded to her Wish;  
For strait she hung a master-Fish;  
But Ah! too eager on her Prey,  
Refused to give the Captive Play,  
Till tired, himself he would resign;  
Who checked too rashly, broke the Line.  
Away he shoots; but while he thus regains  
His Liberty, the bearded Steel remains,  
And galls his tender Gills with restless Pains.   

II.  
Like this poor Fish with me it fared;  
When first by her bright Charms ensnared:  
For so I gorged the Bait she cast,  
While with the same impatient haste,  
She fiercely came to seize her Prey,  
That with hard struggling broke away.  
But to what purpose am I free,  
Living in painful Liberty?  
In vain I boast that I survive the Dart,  
Whose Venomed Pile lies festering in my Heart,  
And (though it kill not) galls with restless smart.    

The Politicians.  

HOw grossly do the Learned and Wise  
Mistake in Love's State-Policies!  
Who seeing Me and Celia jar,  
Expect forthwith an open War:  
So little does their Wisdom guests,  
What makes a Lover's Happiness,  
That Anger fans the Fire, and Strife,  
The Blessing of the Lover's Life.  
So Turtles, to increase the Bliss,  
Coo and murmur while they kiss.  
Love like Lightning shines more fair  
In Storms than in serener Air.  
Let, Celia, None our Judges be;  
But such as love to our Degree;  
Whose wedded Passion holds the same,  
As when we burnt in Virgin Flame.  
Sometimes like parting Streams we stray,  
And seem to take a sundry way;  
But meet ere long, and so united move,  
Till we are lost in a full Sea of love.    

The Vow-Breaker.  

CLose by a Mossy Fountain's Side,  
A spacious Marble Basin stands;  
Passing that way, Ardelia there I spied;  
Oft-times and oft she washed and dried her Hands.  
Bless me! I could not choose but smile  
At her fantastic Toil;  
For from her Arms the Waters purer fell,  
Than when she took them from the Well!  
So Vapours raised from Earth, renew,  
And take in Air a fairer hue;  
The Evening Mist descends in Morning Dew.   

II.  
Ah! I'm undone; the Fear was just  
That checked me when I gave my Heart  
To this fair Nymph, who stormed at my distrust,  
And swore from the dear Pledge she'd never part.  
A while she lodged it in her Breast,  
Where, like a Turtle in its Nest,  
It slept, till she (would you believe she could)  
Imbrued her Hands in its warm Blood?  
Then washing here, designed to slain  
The harmless Fount; but strove in vain;  
Her Hands the Conscious Dye retain.   

III.  
Henceforth let none your Beauty prize,  
But such as can be false as you;  
You who admit no Hearts your Votaries,  
Save what you make (like mine) your Victims too;  
'Tis evident what you design,  
You'd be in earnest thought divine.  
Then, Goddess, know your Rites amiss proceed,  
Your Victims burn before they bleed;  
But you these Impositions lay,  
To try how tamely we'll obey,  
E'er you erect your Arbitrary Sway.    

The Tear.  

HOld, Julia, save that precious Tear,  
That even adorns thine Eye;  
The Meteor sparkles in that Sphere;  
But fallen to Earth it will die;  
Yet in its Orb it cannot stay;  
For see the Sunbeams come in swarms to prey,  
And sip the rich delicious Juice away.   

II.  
Into this Viol let it fall—  
See Julia, how it sparkles through!  
Well may those Eyes prevail on all,  
Whose Tears have killing Glances too.  
If solid as a Gem it were,  
No Gem could vie with this transparent Tear;  
The Eye that wept it only could compare.   

III.  
It shall be so, I will convert  
This Tear to a Gem, 'tis possible:  
For laid near Julia's frozen Heart,  
'Twill to a Diamond congeal.   

These Tears of Julia's can fore-bode no Ill,;  
The Frost is breaking when such drops distil.    

The Discovery.  

WHen first Love's Votary I became,  
(Charmed with the Lustre of his Flame)  
My Youth his Godlike Form admired,  
And fond thought his Priests inspired.  
'Mongst them I proudly sought a Place,  
And was by Chance allowed the Grace;  
But once admitted to his Shrine,  
That Love whom I esteemed Divine,  
More terrible than Moloch stood,  
His Altars stained with Humane Blood.  
The wounded Lover lives in Pain,  
Lies neither curable nor slain,  
Till his keen Sword sheathed in his Heart,  
Complete the Slaughter of the Dart.  
Others to quench their Calenture,  
Have ta'en a speedy Course and sure;  
Whilst from some Precipice's Brow,  
They plunged into the Floods below.  
To Deserts others have retired,  
And pensive there in Caves expired:  
What Place, or Age, or Sex is free  
From this Usurper's Tyranny?  
The populous City he frequents,  
And pitches in the Camp his Tents.  
In Courts and Palaces he Reigns,  
And proudest Monarches wear his Chains.  
Yet he that thus the Sceptre awes,  
Disdains not to impose his Laws  
On Cottages, and there destroys  
The Nymphs and Shepherds native Joys.  
Their purer Air methinks should be,  
From Love's severe Contagion free;  
But all their Meads and Gardens bear  
No Herb t' assuage this Fever there!  
Far from his Flock Alexis weeps,  
Neglects to feed, and rarely sleeps;  
His once sure Charm for every Grief,  
The Pipe affords him no Relief;  
Gasping at Sylvia's Feet he lies,  
Whilst she for scornful Strephon dies.  
How wretched is the Lover's State,  
Pressed on all sides with some hard Fate?  
His Hopes alike it will destroy,  
Not to succeed, or to enjoy.  
For if he lawlessly embrace,  
He's then unhappy, as he's base;  
And he that honourably loves,  
Less wretched, but not happy proves!  
To him that waits his Nuptial Day,  
The Hours pass lazily away;  
False Dreams of Bliss his Thoughts employ,  
Impatient therefore to enjoy,  
Rashly he bargains for a Wife,  
And with her weds the Cares of Life;  
But wrought to Expectations Height,  
His fancied Blisses vanish straight:  
For leapt into the Marriagebed,  
With Briars and Thorns he finds it spread,  
Reputes too late, and envies the unwed.    

The Parting.  

HEre do I fix my Foot, and farewel Love!  
I will no further move.  
When first in Error's misty Night  
I lost myself, and roved about;  
This Ignis-fatuus found me out;  
Before me rolled with wanton Play,  
And seemed to bring me on my Way.  
Rashly I followed the seducing Fire  
Through briny Floods of Tears,  
'Mongst thorny Jealousies and Fears,  
O'er Precipices of Despair,  
And where no Passage did appear,  
Oft have I forced a Path; but now I tyre.  
What Glimpse was that which struck my Eye  
From that far-kindling Sky?  
Welcome bright Harbinger of Day;  
By thee I know the Sun is on his way.  
What Desart's this?— Alas! I fear I'm strayed,  
And after all my Toil and Fright  
In this tempestuous Night,  
By my officious Guide betrayed.  
Oh! when shall I arrive at the Abode  
Of happy Souls (since they that soon strive  
To reach that Stage are late e'er they arrive)  
I, who am cumbered with so vast a Load  
Of vain Desires, and have Alas!  
So many weary Steps to pass  
E'er I retrieve my Strays, and get into the Road.    

On an Old Miser that Hoarded His Treasure in a Steel Chest, and buried it.  

CAnst thou in Dungeon smother up that Pelf  
That's dearer to thee than thy self?  
Th' ill-treated Prisoner is debarred the Sight  
Of its own cheerful Parent light.  
In such strict Ward thy Gold thou dost retain,  
As Pagans did their Idols chain;  
Lest some audacious Foe by Force should seize,  
Or charm away their Deities.  
In vain from others Reach thou dost confine  
What is no less reserved form Thine!  
So Merchants, rather than resign their Goods  
To Pirates, sink them in the Floods.  
Dull Miser, know, no part of all thy Gains  
Falls to thy share, beside the Pains.  
Dull wretched Ass, to starve beneath a Pack  
Of Provender that breaks thy back.  
Think not thou dost like Nature to Inter  
Thy Gold, 'cause 'twas Interred by Her;  
The Cell which Nature gave it was a Womb,  
To breed the Oar; but thine it's Tomb.    

The Vision.  
Written in a dangerous Fit of Sickness.  

Dissolved in Slumber by complaining Streams,  
My Fancy laboured with important Dreams:  
Methought I was with Fury born away  
Through dismal Vaults, whose Caverns did convey  
To Death's sad Courts; the Brazen Gates I passed,  
Which on my Entrance were again made fast.  
The dreadful Cell with Horror I surveyed,  
For deadman's Bones in Heaps were round me laid,  
And Skulls of largest size the Pavement made.  
The Sun to this dark Mansion darts the Ray,  
But glimmering Lamps make all the feeble Day.  
By their faint Light I searched the Cave around,  
And in each Nook amazing Objects found.  
Small Tablets hung by Threads on either Hand,  
By each a Glass that measured Time with Sand:  
In bloody Letters they the Name explained  
The Number of whose Years the Glass contained.  
Grim Fate stood by to watch the latest Grain,  
And cut the slender Thread of Life in twain.  
Then down the Tablet dropped to Streams below,  
That with swift Passage into Lethe flow.  
While thus through secret Destiny I pried,  
My own Name on the sudden I descried:  
But Oh! the Pangs and Agonies that rend  
My panting Breast to find my Glass near spent!  
The Tragic Scene gins (Forgive me Fate,  
That I reveal the Secrets of thy State.)  
Straight was I summoned to receive my Doom;  
For Death with horrid Grace approached the Room,  
Arrayed Majestic in a mourning Robe,  
A Dart his Sceptre, and a Skull his Globe.  
He sat, th' Attendants on his Person stood,  
All armed for Slaughter, and distained with Blood.  
Diseases next were placed, a numerous Train,  
Producing each a Volume of his slain.  
No sooner were my scattered Thoughts restored,  
But I with mental Prayers heavens Aid implored;  
Then thus with hollow Voice the Tyrant spoke—  
In vain, fond Youth, Heaven Secure you invoke;  
Stand to the Bar, and hear th' Indictment read:  
For e'er thou diest, thou art allowed to plead:  
Thy Charge is deep; but for thyself reply.  
Oh, I am guilty, and deserve to Dye!  
My Years in Vanity's Pursuit I spent,  
Too oft transgressed, too rarely did repent:  
Some Vices (Heaven assisting) I suppressed,  
And lasting War proclaimed with all the rest;  
But in the Combat oft drew back and fled,  
By Passions oft surprised, and Captive led.  
But are this Courts Proceed so severe,  
That Youth can challenge no Indulgence here?  
For if my Life to riper Years had moved,  
Perhaps my Skill and Courage had improved.  
Mortal thy Doom already is decreed,  
(The Judge replied) and Sentence must proceed.  
This Court's Records with Instances abound  
Of younger Brows than thine with Conquest crowned;  
Approach, ye Ministers of Fate, and bear  
Th' Offender hence to Regious of Despair;  
In Liquid Flames of Sulphur let him roll,  
In sharpest Torments of a Hell-wreckt Soul.  
Thus let him howl Eternity away,  
Ever in Flames, yet never more see Day.  
Confusion now my tortured Bosom filled;  
Cold Sweat from all my lifeless Joints distilled.  
A Guard of Daemons at the Tyrant's Call,  
With hideous Yell rushed into the Hall,  
Monstrous of Shape, of Size prodigious tall.  
In this Distress behold a Heavenly Ray,  
Around me did his cheerful Light display.  
The Lamps grew pale, and shrunk into their Case,  
The frighted Daemons vanished from the Place;  
The haughty Tyrant's Self confused appeared;  
A rattling Noise amongst the Bones was heard,  
As summoned to the Universal Doom,  
They justled with each other in their Tomb.  
Not daring yet to hope Relief, I spied  
My Guardian Angel smiling by my Side:  
A silent Joy through all my Vitals run;  
Whilst thus in charming Language he began,  
Rejoice my Charge, for from heavens Court I come  
With gracious Orders to revoke thy Doom.  
Thy Sun is set, thy Life-glass almost run,  
Thy virtue's Race imperfectly begun.  
Yet in Compassion to thy sickly pace,  
My Wing shall bear thee to the distant Place.  
To Heaven and him my humblest Thanks I paid,  
And begged to be to those glad Seats conveyed;  
But first admit the Lot of all Mankind,  
And leave (said he) that Load of Earth behind;  
Pris'ner's absolved, less gladly quit their Chain  
Than I this Flesh that did my Soul detain.  
But when herself unmantled, she surveyed  
Leprous and foul by Sin's Contagion made;  
She blushed, and sought to cover her Disgrace,  
Retreating back to her forsaken Case.  
The Guardian Spirit her fond Attempt withstood,  
And strait with Hyssop dipped in Sacred Blood,  
Baptised her; and behold, whilst I enquired,  
The Ceremonie's Drift, I grew inspired  
With mental Joys, and now descried no more  
Those Blemishes that stained my Soul before:  
Thought of New Worlds my mind had so engrossed,  
That all Reflection on the Old it lost:  
That Body too (which once I fond thought  
Could never be from my Remembrance wrought)  
Had now quite 'scapt my Memory, till I spied  
The pale and lifeless Engine by my Side,  
Bless me (said I) what ghastly thing lies there?  
Was this the Mansion where so many a Year  
I lingered 'twixt successive Hope and Fear?  
Was this the thing I took such Care t' improve,  
Taught it to cringe, and in just measures move?  
The thing that lately did in Business sweat,  
That talked so much of being Rich and Great!  
That sought with Verse to make its Love renowned,  
And hoped e'er long to see its Passion Crowned;  
Behold where the designing Engine lies,  
Prey to those Infects it did once despise.  
Suppose that Body now lay covered over  
In Perfumes brought from Ormus Spicy Shore;  
What courteous Female would vouchsafe the Grace  
To curl those Locks, or kiss that ghastly Face?  
Why is the Corpse so long detained from Ground;  
'Tis more than Time those Hands and Feet were bound.  
Haste, let the Funeral Peal be rung aloud,  
In Winding-Sheets th' offensive Carcase shroud  
And in some Nook the useless Lumber crowd.  
Insulting thus I spoke, and more had said;  
But was by my Assistant-Angel stayed;  
My Charge, said he, (these gloomy shades withdrawn)  
Behold of Everlasting Day the Dawn:  
At Entrance to th' Elysian Land (a Grace  
Conferred on Souls when they arrive the Place)  
The happy Throng are met to welcome thee  
To their fair World of Immortality.  
He said, and strait his threatening Wandup-heaved,  
The Neighbouring Walls obeyed the Stroke, and cleaved;  
With such a Powerful Blow the Hebrew Guide  
Prevailed, and forced his Passage through the Tide;  
The Waters there congealed, and stood in Walls,  
The Building here like breaking Water falls:  
But now the parting Seen brought Heaven in view,  
When (Fatal Chance!) my charming Dream withdrew.  
The grateful Slumber from my Temples fell;  
I viewed the Grove around, and thought it Hell;  
Aloud I called my Guide, obligingly  
The Echoing Rocks a while kept up the Cry;  
But the false Vision fled without Reply.    

ODE.  
To my Ingenious Friend, Mr. Flatman.  

AS when the famed Artisicer of Grece,  
With wondrous Art, but ill Success  
Contrived his own, and captived Son's Escape,  
By Wings which he by inspired Craft did shape:  
He taught the Youth how safely he might glide,  
And keep a Mean betwixt the Sun and Tide:  
So you (Learned Friend) with equal Art  
To me the Wings of Poesy impart;  
Before me through the spacious Sphere  
A steady wondrous Course you steer,  
Eat all Extremes, while I unfortunate,  
Like Icarus die, but with less glorious Fate!  
He soaring fell, I flag below,  
Where with damp Wings disabled to pursue,  
I yield myself for lost, and plunging down  
In deep Oblivion drown.    

The Banquet.  

DIspatch, and to the Myrtle-Grove convey  
What e'er with Nature's  suits,  
The Dayrie's store with Salads, Roots and Fruits;  
I mean to play the Epicure to day!  
Let nought be wanting to complete  
Our Bloodless Treat;  
But bloodless let it be; for 'tis decreed  
The Grape alone for this Repast shall bleed.  
But Love be first expelled the Company,  
With unmixed Wine our Mirth as pure and free,  
From Thoughts of any scornful little She.  
Come Sirs, a whetting Glass, and do not spare,  
By Jove delicious Fare!  
Speak Friends, was ever Monarch's Table stored  
Like this our Rural Board,  
Where, with the Blessings of the Field, is sent  
The Diet of the Gods, Content.    

The Match.  

BY what wild Frenzy was I led,  
That with a Muse I must needs wed?  
Whose dower consists of empty Fame,  
The short Possession of a Name!  
Yet with that Trouble and Debate  
The owner holds this poor Estate;  
Where after long Expense and Toil  
He starves on the ungrateful Soil.  
The Fields and Groves which Poets feign  
The curious Fancy entertain,  
But yields no timely Grain or Fruit,  
The craving Stomach to recruit.  
With thirsty Tongue the Rhymer sings  
Of Nectar and Celestial Springs.  
And such I fear the Fairy Ground  
Of our Elysium will be found.  
A mere Fool's Paradise, and fit  
For such as will be Men of Wit.    

The Disconsolate.  

MY labouring Soul no longer can sustain;  
But sinks beneath th' increasing Pain:  
I wish, contrive, attempt and rage in vain!  
Down by these falling Springs I'll lay  
My weary Limbs, and sigh my troubled Soul away!  
To these loan Fields my Griefs I will impart,  
Oh my distracted Head! Oh my afflicted Heart!  
But stay, why should I mournfully recite  
My Grievances, to fright  
The feathered Poets of these Streams?  
To interrupt their Mirth and Peace,  
Whilst Philomela her long-loved Song shall cease,  
And from my Sorrows learn more Tragic Themes!  
No! No! I will conceal my weighty Ills,  
Seal up my Lips, nor lose them even to pray;  
But all my Plaints in Mental Prayers convey,  
That shall to Heaven as silent rise, as Dew from thence distils.   

II.  
Dream I? Or is't a real Prodigy?  
Behold a Breach in that unclouded Sky:  
The Azure Curtains are drawn wide,  
And to my wondering Eyes disclose  
Elysian Lands, where happy Souls reside:  
See where the Spring of Pleasure flows,  
On whose fair Banks the Blessed take soft Repose:  
Free from Thought of Misery  
They sing, and smile, and rove,  
And feast on Joys in every Grove;  
Their Paradise has not Forbidden Tree.    

Sliding on Skates in a hard Frost.  

HOw well these frozen Floods now represent  
Those Crystal Waters of the Firmament!  
Tho' Hurricanes should rage's, they could not now  
So much as curl the solid Water's Brow;  
Proud Fleets, whose stubborn Cables scarce withstood  
The Fury of the late tempestuous Flood,  
In watery Ligaments are now restrained,  
More fast than when in binding Ooze detained.  
But though their Service does at present fail,  
Ourselves without the aid of Tide or Gale,  
On Keels of polished Steel securely sail:  
From every Creek to every Point we rove,  
And in our lawless Passage swifter move  
Than Fish beneath us, or than Fowl above.    

Strephon 's Complaint on quitting his Retirement.  

I.  
BVsiness!— Oh stay till I recover Breath,  
The dreadful Word puts all my Sense to slight;  
Business to me sounds terrible as Death;  
As Death to Lovers on their Bridal Night.  
Free as Air, but more Serene  
The Course of my past Life has been;  
But I, uncustomed to the Yoke, must now  
In stubborn Harness Toil at the dull Blow.   

II.  
Then farewell Happiness, sweet Peace, farewell!  
You come not where poor Strephon must reside,  
For you, like Haleyons on calm Waters dwell;  
But Business is a rough and troubled Tide:  
Few Suns have past since I was blest,  
Of Godlike Liberty possessed;  
But now Employment's Slave without Repose,  
And Ghost-like hurried where my Daemon goes.   

III.  
But Business to Preferment will direct,  
And 'tis even necessary to be Great.  
Ah! have I then no more than this t' expect?  
My stinted Hopes will starve on such thin Meat.  
Impertinents! Content I crave,  
And wildly you of Greatness rave!  
If Life's at best a tedious rugged Road,  
What must it be with State's encumbring Load?   

iv  
Condemned to Town, Noise and Impertinence,  
Where Mode and Ceremony I must view!  
Yet were the Sight all, Strepkon could dispense;  
But he must there be Ceremonious too.  
I fear my Rural Soul's too plain,  
To learn the Town's dissembling Strain;  
For whilst I practise the sly Courtier's Art,  
I shall forget myself, and speak my Heart.   

V  
When first the dismal Tidings I received,  
That I must bid my peaceful Shades adieu;  
Scarce was I by my Fellow-Swains believed,  
Till streaming Tears proved my sad Story true.  
Then pensive they my Doom resent,  
As 'twere to Death or Banishment;  
But Oh my Panalthaea's tender moan  
Surpassed her Sex's Kindness, and her own.   

VI  
Thus spoke she, with a forced Frown on her Brow,  
Will you be gone? False Strephon, will you go?  
Then go thy way; go, for I hate thee now!  
But tell me, are you serious, Swain, or no?  
This is some jealous Trick, to prove  
The Truth of my too tender Love:  
But whilst of mine this feigned Suspect is shown,  
You would suggest that 've renounced your own.   

VII.  
Thy Love, chaste Nymph, deep in my Breast I laid,  
When first the precious Pledge I did receive;  
Nor have I thence the sacred Store conveyed;  
Here! break the Cabinet, and you'll believe!  
You'll see with what a bleeding Heart,  
From these dear Shades, and thee I part;  
But cruel Fate— then on her Virgin Breast  
I leaned my drooping Head, and wept the rest.   

VIII.  
Oh Floods and Groves, beneath whose sacred Shade  
I sat as happy as first Mortals were;  
For when Distractions did my Breast invade,  
Some skilful Shepherd's Song redressed my Care.  
But 'bove the Flights of other Swains,  
I prized my Astragon's soft Strains:  
For (Turtle-like) my pensive Astragon  
Is sweetly sad, and charming in his Moan.    

The Gold-hater.  

WEll, I perceive the Antipathy  
Is mutual now 'twixt Gold and Me;  
For that flies me as fast as I  
The false pernicious Metal fly.  
So wild a Prey why should I trace,  
That yields no Pleasure in the Chase?  
A Prey that must with Toil be sought,  
And which I prise not when 'tis caught.  
Gold I contemn when rude in Oar;  
But in a Crown despise it more.  
No Crown can any Temples fit  
So well, but 'twill uneasy sit.  
By an Eternal Law of Fate,  
Vexations still attend on State;  
Insep'rable by Humane Art,  
A Crowned Head, and an aching Heart.    

The Mistake.  

DUll Mortals with the same preposterous Breath  
We bless Love's Darts, and curse the Shafts of Death.  
The Author of out Ills, a God we style;  
But the Redresser of those Wrongs revile.  
Yet gentle Death, (though rudely treated) still  
Persists in generous Charity to kill,  
And cure th' ingrateful even against their Will!  
Ah, should be once in just Resentment give  
Our Wishes, and permit us ever live;  
What should we do when Soul and Body jar,  
And loathe each other like an ill-wed Pair?  
But friendly Death absolves us from this Curse,  
And when the Parties clash, makes a Divorce.    

Disappointed.  

I.  
FRom Clime to Clime with restless Toil we Roam,  
But sadly still our old Griefs we retain,  
And with us bear beyond the spacious Main  
The same unquiet selves we brought from Home!  
Can Nature's plenteous Board  
Spread wide from Pole to Pole,  
Sufficient Treats afford,  
To satisfy our craving Soul?  
Produce what Wealth the Sea contains,  
Or sleeps in Indian Veins,  
Th' insatiate Mind will gorge the Store,  
And call for more.   

II.  
The Food of Angels of immortal kind,  
Can only feast the Hunger of the Mind.  
To those bright Seats let me aspire,  
Where solid Joys remain,  
So firm they can sustain,  
And stand the full Career of chaste Desire.  
Th'Enjoyments we pursue  
So hotly here below,  
Are charming Daphne's in the Chase,  
And (Daphne-like) transforming, fool us in th' Embrace!    

Lib. 1. Epigr. CX.  
De Issa Catellâ Publii.  

Issa much to be preferred  
To Catullus amorous Bird;  
Chaster thou than Stella's Dove,  
Yet fond as Girls when first they love.  
Issa worth both Indies Treasure,  
Issa Publius' Life and Pleasure.  
Issa mourns if he complain,  
Issa shares his Health and Pain.  
All Night on his warm Neck she lies,  
Not stirs till He's disposed to rise:  
Unless constrained by Nature's call,  
And then the cleanly Animal;  
Still wakes him with her gentle Moan,  
Entreating to be handed down.  
But passing other Virtues by,  
Such is Issa's Modesty,  
She ne'er could love, tho' daily wooed  
By Shocks of Quality and Blood.  
But mindful of her Mortal State  
(Form nor virtue's free from Fate)  
To countermand the rigid Law,  
Publius did her Picture draw,  
Where Art with Nature so does strive,  
You'd swear they're Pictures both, or both alive.    

The Confinement.  

OFt have I for m'd Ideas of Content;  
But by Experience knew not what it meant.  
At length I strove to Counterplot my Stars,  
And free my Soul by some kind Charm from Cares.  
Beneath a Jessimine Shade my Lute I strung,  
Where with diverting Airs I played and sung;  
The grateful sounds composed my Cares to sleep,  
And o'er me now they seemed no Watch to keep.  
Thrice blest (said I) this long expected Hour,  
That frees me from my cruel Goaler's Power.  
I fled, but soon was by the waking Guard  
Pursued, o'ertane, and laid again in Ward.  
Since which Escape more hardly I am used,  
A prisoner's common Courtesies refused;  
Pressed with more Chains, with stricter Guard detained,  
From Sleep, the vilest Slave's Relief, restrained.    

On Snow fallen in Autumn, and dissolved by the Sun.  

I.  
NAture now stripped of all her Summer Dress,  
And modestly supposing it were unfit  
For each rude Eye to view her Nakedness,  
Around her bare Limbs wraps this snowy Sheet.   

II.  
The wanton Sun the slender Shroud removes,  
T'embrace the naked Dame, whose fertile Womb  
Admits the lusty Paramour's warm Loves,  
And is made big with the fair Spring to come.    

Melancholy.  

I.  
MAlignant Honour, Poison to my Blood!  
Bane of these Spirits that were wont to glide  
And sport within the Circling Tide;  
As Fish expire in an infected Flood.  
When all th' Horizon of my Soul is clear,  
And I suspect no Change of Wether near,  
Straight like a sudden Storm I find  
Thy black Fumes gathering in my Mind,  
Transforming all to Egyptian Darkness there;  
Darkness where nothing comes in sight  
But Flashes more amazing than the Night,  
And fiery Spectres through the troubled Air.   

II.  
Sleep that in other Maladies brings Ease,  
Feeds and enrages this Disease;  
For when my weary Lids I close,  
And slumber, 'tis without Repose.  
This Fury still into my Dreams will creep,  
To hag my timorous Fancy while I sleep;  
Through Charnel Houses than I'm led,  
Those gloomy Mansions of the dead,  
Where pensive Ghosts by their loved Relics stay,  
And curse the Breaking Day.  
Sometimes by cruel Foes pursued and ta'en;  
Oft Shipwreckt on the Main,  
Beneath the Floods I seem to dive;  
In Sarras Desert oft engage  
Some Savage Monster's Rage.  
Or (Typhon-like) beneath a Mountain's Weight I strive!   

III.  
Might I the Book of Fate peruse,  
To read the Lot for me designed,  
I should perhaps auspicious find  
Those Planets I accuse;  
But whilst for Information I  
Consult the false Astrology  
Of Melancholy Fear,  
Dark and overcast my future Days appear:  
All possible Misfortunes while I dread,  
I draw all possible Misfortunes on my Head;  
Who seeks for Happiness with nicest Care  
Must watch its Seasons, and frequent its Haunt.  
Delight is a rich tender Plant  
That springs not in all Soils, and all the Year:  
'Tis like the Manna that in plenty lay,  
If early sought, around  
Each Hebrews Tent; but if till Heat of Day  
Their Search they did delay,  
Th' Ambrosial Food was not where to be found.    

On a Grave Sir, retiring to Write in Order to undeceive the World.  

SUrely of all well-meaning Fools thy Fate  
Is most deplorably unfortunate.  
Hadst thou Domitian-like in catching Flies  
Employed thy Privacy, thou hadst been wise;  
For what should hinder thee, but thou mayst catch  
As fast as he, and be the Emp'rour's Match?  
But whilst thy solitary Hours are spent  
In scribbling tedious Systems, to prevent  
The Worlds Mistakes, its Follies to reform,  
Thou may'st as well pretend to lay a Storm.  
Go, cut the Caspian Lake a Road to th' Ocean;  
Contrive an Engine with perpetual Motion:  
Make Politicians of the Wappin-Rout,  
Jilts constant, Brokers honest, Bawds devout;  
But prithee never fond thus devise  
To make this Hare-brained World grow stayed and wise.  
In Youth, or Prime, when likeliest to improve,  
No Precepts this besotted World could move;  
And wilt thou at these Years begin to School  
(Dull Moralist!) the crazy doting Fool?  
Go, dreaming Stoic, once again retire;  
And since the Name of Wise thou dost aspire,  
To show thy Judgement, set thy Works on Fire.    

On a deformed Old Bawd, designing to have her Picture drawn.  

I.  
THy Picture drawn, foul Beldame, Thine!  
What Frenzy haunts thy mind,  
And drives Thee on this vile Design,  
T' affront all Womankind?   

II.  
For whilst thy swarthy cankered Face  
Posterity shall view,  
They'll loathe the fairest of the Race,  
For sharing Sex with you.   

III.  
To some forlorn Churchyard repair,  
And Haggard thou shalt see  
The siercest Goblin will not dare  
To stand the Sight of thee.   

iv  
Those Ghosts that strike with Pannick-Fear  
The Breasts of stoutest Braves,  
At thy Approach will disappear,  
And Burrough in their Graves.   

V  
Fix thy Essigies on the Shield  
Of some bold Knight in Arms,  
'twill aid him more to win the Field,  
Than all his Lady's Charms.    

Advice to a Friend, publishing his Poems.  

FOrbear, my Friend, this rash Design t' engage  
An ignorant ill-natured Age;  
In vain your laboured Numbers shall excel,  
Where Clinch and Dogril serve as well:  
For were the Poet's Business but to please,  
There were no Task of greater Ease.  
Where Midas is the Judge, let none admire  
Pans' Pipe preferred to Plaebus' Lyre.  
The gaudy Painting takes the vulgar Sight,  
Whilst artful Pieces less delight.  
In vain is Nature represented well,  
Where, not the Workmanship, but Colours sell.  
Even so, if popular you mean to be,  
I'faith spare your Pains, and write extempore.    

The Ignorant.  

AN Ignorant I am,  
And Glory in the Name.  
I know not what of yore  
The hot-brained wrangling Heroes did,  
Nor what the dreaming Sages said:  
I cannot run a List of Old Rome's Triumphs over.  
'Twas Knowledge first to Ruin led us on;  
For with this mortal Itch possessed  
The happy Pair transgressed.  
Needs must they know; they knew, and were undone!  
Then plodding Mortal cease  
To boast your dear bought Faculties:  
For since with Knowledge Sorrow must increase,  
Let such as on those Terms can Science prise,  
Improve in Science; but for me,  
So I may ignorant and happy be,  
I'll ne'er repine, or look with envious Eyes,  
On the unhappy learned, and miserable wise.    

The Beldame's Song.  

APpear, my Kib welkin, dear Spirit appear  
In the Shape  
Of an Ape,  
A Fire-spitting Dragon, or Clump footed Bear.  
Madge has whoopt me twice from her Ivy-bound Oak,  
And twice have I heard the dull Night-raven croak.  
Let me stride thee, my Welkin, and post it away  
E'er the Moon  
Reach her Noon:  
For the Night is the Wayward Sister's Day.  
Through the Air let us take our fantastical Round,  
And sip of the Dew  
While 'tis new,  
E'er the Honeydrops fall to the Ground.  
But when we are mounted, and in our Career,  
Make neither Halt nor Stay;  
And to none give the way,  
Tho Hecat herself should be rounding the Air.  
For once I'll encounter,  
And try to dismount her,  
Pitch her Heels over Head,  
To some Quag-mire below, and reign Queen in her stead.  
Bustle, bustle, my Kib, and be sure e'er we part,  
Thou shalt suck at the Dug that is next to my Heart.    

The Inconstant.  
A Paraphrase on the XV. Epod of Horace.  

PRecisely I remember all, 'twas Night,  
Calm Sky, and the Full Moon shone bright,  
When first you swore that bleating Flocks should feed  
With Wolves, no other Keeper's need;  
That boisterous Winds hushed in Eternal Sleep,  
Should cease to revel on the Deep;  
You vowed, that these, and Prodigies more strange  
Should falle'er your sixth Heart could change.  
Yet (Woman-like) to your new Favourite now,  
Unswear as oft as you did vow!  
Ah! if I could (and sure if half a Man,  
Or somewhat less than half, I can)  
Could I in just Resentment quit your Chain,  
And with more Caution choose again;  
Nymph, you'd repent my Wrongs, when flying Fame  
Should publish to your Grief and Shame,  
How your wronged Swain had found a Nymph more true  
And equal in her Charms to you.  
But treacherous Rival, you that reap my Toils,  
And pride yourself in my stolen Spoils,  
The Time shall come (and to increase your Fear,  
Know, Wretch, that fatal Time is near)  
When you shall perish by th' Inconstancy,  
Of her that first learned perjured Faith from thee;  
Whilst from the safe Shore your sad Wreek I see.    

Of the Ape and the Fox.  
A Paraphrase on one of the Centum Fabulae.  

TO his four footed Subjects through the Nation,  
The King of Bruits thus issues Proclamation,  
Being well informed we have incurred Disgrace  
By harbouring in our Realm a scandalous Race,  
A Sect that have no Tails; these Presents are  
Te'njoyn such Miscreants, All and singular,  
Straight to departed our Land, or on demur,  
The Penalties of Treason to incur.  
Sly Reynard straight sifts out this State-Design,  
Turns Goods and Chattels, All to ready Coyn.  
The unprojecting Neighbourhood Admire,  
And Flock, th' Occasion of his March t'Enquire.  
Where 'mongst the Rest the ceremoneous Ape  
Accosts him with Grimmace and formal Scrape.  
Bon jour Monsieur! You pass for a prime Wit;  
But in this Project give small Proof of it.  
We of the Curtail'd-Tribe by strict Command  
Of our great Cham prepare to quit the Land;  
But why Sir should you Budge, Whose Posterns bear  
A Swashing Train well furrd to guard your Rear?  
Had Nature lent me but an Inch of Dock,  
A Tuft to shade, or Scutt to grace my Nock,  
I should Presume I had no Obligation,  
From the late Act to take this Peregrination.  
Then thus the Fox— 've spoke an Oracle,!  
Doubtless your Gravity reads Machiavelli.  
I must Confess I've no pretence to rail,  
Or Curse my stars for stinting me in Tail;  
But grant my Train might with a Commet's measure,  
Suppose withal that 'twere his Highness' Pleasure  
To say I've None? which if he once Assert,  
Near doubt but he has Sycophants will swear't;  
Thus charged, should I attempt my own Defence,  
(To give his Lawless Tyranny Pretence)  
'Tis Odds but I am Dockt upon the Spott,  
And then for want of Tail poor Reynard goes to Pot.    

The Round.  

HOw Vain a thing is Man whom Toys Delight,  
And shadows Fright!  
Variety of Impertinence  
Might give our Dotage some Pretence;  
But to a Circle bound,  
We Toil in a dull Round:  
We sit, move, Eat and Drink,  
We Dress, Undress, Discourse and Think,  
By the same Passions hurried on,  
Imposing or Imposed upon:  
We pass the time in Sport or Toil,  
We Blow the Seas or Safer Soil:  
Thus all that we Project and Do,  
We did it many a year ago.  
We Travel still a beaten way,  
And yet how eager rise we to pursue  
Th'affairs of each returning day,  
As if its Entertainments were all new.    

The Malcontent.  

MOngst winding Rocks (his swelling griefs to lay)  
The disappointed Thirsts took his way.  
In whose Wild Cliffs a natural Uaut he found  
With Moss and Ivy Cheaply decked around.  
He rushed into the Solitary Nook,  
Where into these Pathetic Sounds he broke.  
Oh when will Nature take the life she gave.  
And Lodge me free from Troubles in the Grave!  
Sleep there alone deserves the Name of Rest,  
No frightful Dreams the sleep of Death molest.  
Whilst shrouded in this marble Cell I Lie,  
What can be more Commodious than to Die?  
Each Object Here wears such a mournful Face,  
That Dying seems the Business of the Place!  
Here from the wrangling World I will Retire,  
And as I Lived Unknown, Unknown Expire.  
Then let that hanging Rock that shades my Head  
Sink down, and shut this Vault when I am Dead:  
Rude as it is, this Marble Cell would save  
Th' expensive Rites that formal Burials crave,  
Itself my Coffin, Monument and Grave.    

The Dream.  

BEneath the Syc'more Shade,  
Amintas plied his Tuneful Reed,  
(His Amarillis beside him laid)  
The listening Ewes forgot to Feed.  
The sporting Lambs gave over their Play,  
And to their Master's Song attentive lay:  
The Song as soft, and Innocent as They.  
Mean while soft Slumbers did surprise,  
The Nymph's more gentle Eyes.  
Till with a Sigh and sudden start  
She work and Cried— Heaven save my Swain!  
Are you not hurt— I will provide a Dart,  
And if the Bruit approach again,  
I'll drench it in the Savage Monster's Heart.  
What means (Amintas smiling said) This Rage?  
I dreamt (said she) a ruthful Bear  
Had broke into our Fold, and slaughtered there;  
And while you ran t' Engage  
(Ah! why were you so Rash?) th' unequal Foe,  
The Ravenous Monster Seized on you!  
At which myself between I threw,  
And scarcely yet believe the Dream Untrue!    

Amor Sepulchralis.  

IN a Large stately Cave (of old the Court  
Of Rural Gods, as neighbouring Swains report)  
Interred the dear Remains of Damon lay,  
Converted now into their Native Clay.  
Each wishing Nymph the living Swain approved,  
The Shepherd fair Emmoria only Loved.  
Their mutual Passion's Kindling Flame was more  
Than ere inspired Consenting Hearts before;  
But was with time Improved to that Degree,  
'Twas now no longer Love, but Ecstasy.  
Endearments such as Fate could not divorce,  
Nor Death itself restrain their Intercourse.  
The Nymph to living Swains did still prefer  
Her Damon's Dust, and even that Dust Loved Her.  
At Damon's Tomb the  Emmoria kept  
Perpetual Watch, and o'er his Ashes wept;  
(Fit emblem of her grief) a sprig of Yew  
She planted there, the Branch took Root and grew.  
The Sun to this close Cell, no Beam could guide.  
No Rain or Dew the thirsting Leaves Supplied;  
Say then, from whence the Growth and Verdure came,  
The Ashes still retained their Master's Flame.  
Whose Amorous Warmth the absent Sun Supplies,  
And never-ceasing Showrs Emmoria's Eyes.  
This Heat and Moisture kept the Plant alive,  
And Tempering still each other, made it Thrive.    

The three First Verses of the 46th Psalm Paraphased.  

I.  
OUr Strength, is the Omnipotent;  
We cannot therefore condescend to Fear.  
Tho danger in its gastliest shape appear;  
Tho Mountains from their marble Roots were rend,  
And Headlong to the Ocean hurled,  
Their violent Career might shake the World;  
But our fixed Feet should keep their Ground,  
Our Heads should overlook the Floods where Hills lay drowned.   

II.  
What though the Sea whose most capacious Womb  
Gave the subverted Hills a Tomb?  
What tho' its raging Waters roar,  
And swell in Mountains vast as those  
Which their unfathomed Depths had gorged before?  
This most impertinently angry Main,  
With its own Rocks fierce Combat may maintain,  
But can no more our Passions discompose,  
Than when some shallow Fountain we survey,  
Contesting with each Pibble for its Way.    

The Midnight Thought.  

NOw that the twinkling Stars essay  
A faint Resemblance of the Day,  
Shown fairer now for being set  
In Night (like Diamonds in Jet)  
Let me (reposed within this Grove)  
The solemn Season once improve.  
Restless, Alss! from Sun to Sun,  
A Round of Business I have run:  
Whilst others slept, projecting lay,  
My Night as thoughtful as my Day;  
Yet thought not once to what Account  
All those Think did amount!  
How long since I did meditate  
Of Life, of Death, and future State?  
Approaching Fate his Pace will keep,  
Let Mortals watch, or let them sleep.  
What Sound is that?— a Passing Bell!  
Then to Eternity farewell!  
Poor Soul, whose Doom one Hour shall show  
Eternal Bliss, or endless Woe!  
If Virtue's Laws thou hast despised,  
How would that Virtue now be prized!  
Or say, thou didst in our lose Age  
On her forsaken Side engage;  
Wouldst thou the dear Remembrance now  
For the World's Monarchy forgo?  
What other Medicine canst thou sinned  
T' assuage the Fever in thy Mind?  
Now, wakened Conscience, speaks at large,  
And envious Fiends enhance the Charge!  
Let the bold Atheist now draw near,  
And try thy drooping Heart to cheer:  
His briskest Wine and Wit to thee  
Will now alike inspiid be.  
In Death's Arrest the Hector's Sword  
As little Service can afford;  
Who hopes for Rescue here, will fail,  
And the grim Sergeant Takes not Bail.    

The Counter-Turn.  

BEhold that Pile of Skulls; but chief there  
That Mossy Skull survey;  
Observe if the Sage Front does now display  
Plots, Projects, and Nocturnal Care.  
Methinks it should; for once it did belong  
To one whose Policy could shake a State,  
And trusted he could baffle Fate.  
Who would have sought that Head-piece in this Through?  
He promised once that Skull a Crown.  
In lowest Earth he founded the Design,  
With Heaven the towering Roof did join;  
Till with a sudden Storm of Fate o'erthrown,  
The Fabric fell on the Contriver's Head,  
And crushed th' aspiring Politician dead.    

The Voyagers.  

WHilst stemming Life's uncertain Tide  
Tossed on the Waves of Doubts and Fears,  
If to frail Reason's Conduct we confide  
We strive in vain  
The happy Port to gain;  
For, oft as clouded Reason disappears  
We cannot fail to rove afar,  
Mistaking each false Meteor for our Star.  
How dismal are the Perils we engage,  
When (grown t'a Hurricane)  
Our boisterous Passions rouse the sleeping Main?  
But Ah! how few have perished by the Rage  
Of Storms, if numbered with the daily Throng,  
Whom Siren pleasures as they sail along  
Seduce to that dead Shore,  
Where they themselves saw others wrecked before.    

The Choice.  

GRant me, indulgent Heaven, a rural Seat,  
Rather contemptible than great;  
Where though I taste Life's Sweets, still I may be  
Athirst for Immortality.  
I would have Business, but exempt from Strife;  
A private, but an active Life.  
A Conscience bold, and punctual to his Charge;  
My Stock of Health, or Patience large.  
Some Books I'd have, and some Acquaintance too;  
But very good, and very few.  
Then (if one Mortal two such Grants may crave)  
From silent Life I'd steal into my Grave.    

On Sight of some Martyr's Sepulchers.  

HEre lies Dust confusedly hurled;  
But Dust that once shall judge the World!  
Blessed Saints, when Foes mistaken Rage  
Released your Spirits from their Cage,  
But can no more our Passions discompose,  
Th' ambitious Fire strove to convey  
Your Souls on their triumphant way;  
But winged with Glory they aspired,  
And left the Flames behind them tired.    

Of Vice and Virtue.  

LEt Vice no more in her full Train take pride,  
Who follow Virtue choose a suffering Side.  
She's exiled now, and 'tis not strange to see  
Mean Souls desert afflicted Majesty:  
But when just Heaven (and sure that time draws on)  
Restores this Empress to her Starry Throne,  
With Crowns she will enrich her Loyal Few,  
Whilst Shame and Vengeance crush the Rebel Crew.    

To a Desponding Friend.  

REpine not, pensive Friend, to meet  
A Thorn and Sting in every Sweet;  
Think it not yours, or my hard Fate,  
But the fixed Lot of Humane State.  
Since then this Portion is assigned  
By the Great Patron of Mankind,  
(Though ne'er so darkly understood)  
We should presume the Method Good.  
Heaven does its rendrest Care express,  
Conducting through a Wilderness,  
Lest Sluggards we should take our Stand,  
And stop short of the promised Land.    

Dissuasion of an Aged Friend from leaving his Retirement.  

IN Life's unactive Wane your Shades forsake,  
And into th' World a Sally make!  
Deluded Friend, what Surfeit have you ta'en  
Of Bliss, that now you long for Pain?  
The Favourites of this hard World are few,  
And they have their Disasters too.  
What therefore must your Entertainment be  
That have professed Hostility?  
You have not learned to slatter and caress  
The Great for faithless Promises:  
When disappointed, thankful to appear,  
And say, How much obliged you are!  
For Lucre you must practise every Wile;  
Defraud, and do it with a Smile.  
Worldlings with many Vices must be fraught,  
Which you, my Friend, were never taught.  
Well, you may roam, but soon return distressed,  
Wounded and maimed to your Old Nest.    

Recovering from a Fit of Sickness.  

I.  
WHen late the Fev'rish Malady  
With intermitted Rage,  
And certain Symptoms did presage  
My sudden Health, or Dissolution nigh:  
False World (said I) that stealest my real Joys,  
And shufflest in their stead thy changeling Toys:  
Begun, I'll not be bribed at any rate,  
To sell my coming Fate,  
And now resume that toilsome Task to live.  
I prise not Greatness, and I know  
(Were I thy Favourite, as I am thy Foe)  
What I affect thou never canst bestow.  
I'd have Content; but that was never thine to give.  
Remove that Taper from my Sight,  
The useless and offensive Light  
Presents no grateful Object to my View:  
Even those fair Eyes that Planets once appeared,  
Whose Influence above the Stars I feared,  
To my dim Sight have lost their Lustre too.   

II.  
Thus musing as I lay, to my Bed side  
(Attired in all his Mourning Pride)  
The King of Terrors came:  
Awful his Looks, but not deformed and grim;  
(He's not such Goblin as we fancy him)  
Scarce we ourselves so civilised and tame!  
Unknown the Doom assigned me in this Change,  
Tho justly I might fear heavens worst Revenge;  
Yet with my present Griefs redressed,  
With curious Thoughts of unknown Worlds possessed,  
Inflamed with Thirst of Liberty,  
Long loved, but ne'er enjoyed by me,  
I sued for Leave the fatal Gulf to pass:  
My vital Sand is almost run,  
And Death (said I) will strike anon;  
Then to dull Life I bid a long Farewell;  
And stretched for flight— But as the last Grains fell,  
Death failed my flattered Hopes, and turned the Glass.    

The Challenge.  

YE Sages that pretend  
In Science to transcend  
The dull illiterate Crowd;  
You that of Ignorance impeach,  
(E'er your Pretences be allowed)  
Define that Prudence which you teach:  
I fear 'tis much above your learned Reach.  
Prudence has no sixth Being; but depends  
On Person, Time and Chance,  
And every petty Circumstance.  
Actions directed to the selfsame Ends,  
May prudent one, the other faulty be:  
For what would prove discreet in thee  
Perhaps were wild Extravagance in me.  
The Aunts are wise, that from their Summer Hoard  
Supply their Winter Board;  
And doubtless full as wise as they  
The Grasshoppers that play,  
And revel all their Harvest Days away:  
For 'twere in them a senseless Drudgery  
To toil for a Supply  
In Winter's Dearth, that must e'er Winter die.    

The Cure. A DIALOGUE, Claius and Coridon.  Claius. 
COme Coridon, sit by me, gentle Swain;  
Thy Cheek is pale, speak Shepherd, where's thy Pain?  Cor. 
Say, Claius, Priest of our Great Pan (for you  
The utmost Bounds of Humane Science know)  
Is Physics Power to Bodies Use confined?  
Have you no Medicine for a troubled Mind?  Claius. 
Yes, For as Balsams raging Pains appease,  
Sage Counsels to distempered Souls give Ease,  
Even Love is no incurable Disease.  
Ha' Swain! What meant that sudden Blush and Start?  
Have I guest right, and touched the tender Part?  Cor. 
I would conceal't, but have not learned to feign—  
You guest, and while you named it, waked my Pain.  Claius. 
Then to the Cure we'll take the safest Course,  
And trace the Malady to its first Source.  Cor. 
When from severer Business I withdrew,  
Twixt Love and me a fatal Friendship grew.  
With my Heart's Blood our Covenant we Sealed  
A solemn Contract ne'er to be repealed.  
Then all Delights young Sorcerers enjoy,  
A while did my deluded Soul employ.  
Love fed my waking Thoughts with glorious Themes,  
And blest my slumbers with transporting Dreams.  
When at an awful distance I surveyed  
My Nymph, transported, to myself I said,  
Ah charming Fair! O excellent Divine!  
Whilst Love in Whispers answered— Swain she's thine.  Claius. 
Why therefore, Shepherd, are you not possessed?  Cor. 
Force not sh' unwilling Secret from my Breast;  
Let it suffice that on a Barren Soil  
I've lost of many Years th' Expense and Toil.  Claius. 
Does the false Nymph—  
The Wages you so dearly earned, refuse?  Cor. 
Myself I cannot, will not her accuse.  
But my Relief must from your Counsels rise:  
Examine not, good Claius, but advise:  
Bring your best Art (for 'twill your best require)  
T'unspell my Soul from Love's tormenting Fire.  Claius. 
Call Reason to your Aid, you'll put to flight  
The Foe not to be quelled by other Might.  
Of happiest Love's Delights sum up th' account,  
And learn to what the Total will amount:  
Then in the Balance Love's Vexations weigh,  
How certain these, and how uncertain they.  
Such sordid Joys, and of delight so nice,  
That Female Coyness only gives them Price.  
There are that from large Dow'rs derive their Flame,  
And these in full Career pursue their Game:  
They wreck their Wits the Golden Prize to gain;  
But dream not how that Gold is wrought into a Chain.  Cor. 
When late the false Suggestions I obeyed,  
'Twas in pursuit of Happiness I strayed.  Claius. 
Mistake not Swain, I would not quench your Flame,  
But fly your Passion at a nobler Game.  
Wave sensual Joys; and with a Flame refined  
Court those Diviner Pleasures of the Mind.  
To sacred Virtue next make your Address;  
Confess 've no Regard of Happiness;  
Or live henceforth of virtue's Service proud,  
The brightest Beauty, and the best endowed.  
She'll guard your Youth from Passions baneful Rage,  
With peaceful Thoughts divert the Pains of Age.  
But then in largest Streams her Blessings flow,  
When Love, grown Bankrupt, can no more bestow.  
When rigorous Death shall check your circling Blood,  
And Life expire within the frozen Flood,  
Your mourning Nymph, at large may tell her Grief,  
But to your restless Soul give no Relief:  
'Twill lurk a pensive Ghost in Caves all day,  
And to its Relics Midnight Visits pay.  
But pious Souls by Death are Gainers made,  
By Virtue to th' Elysian Seats conveyed;  
There Mirth, and Peace, and softest Transports reign,  
Delights refined from all Allays of Pain.  
If Love can bless beyond these Heights, return  
To drag his Chain, and in his Fever burn:  
Take leave of Godlike Immortality,  
Chide my officious Zeal to set you free,  
And court the Frowns of some imperious she.  Cor. 
Destroy not thus your generous Courtesies  
By this unfriendly, and unjust Surmise;  
Heaven sends me Freedom, and to sell the Pledge,  
Must brand me with the foulest Sacrilege.  
'Gainst Love and Beauty I'll maintain the Fort,  
And six a Guard of Virtues in my Heart.  Claius. 
If Beauty's Force too rashly you despise,  
'Tis odds, but you are ruined by Surprise.  
Would you live free from Female Tyranny?  
Ne'er parley with the tempting Sex, but fly.  
Their very Tears are Fuel to Desire,  
And with their Sighs they'll fan th'expiring Fire.  
Their Mirth, and Grief, their Kindness and Disdain  
Are fatal all, and work poor Shepherd's Pain!  
Nature and Art conspire to arm the fair;  
For in the charming, all things charming are;  
Their Glances Darts, and every Curl a Snare.   

The Hurricane.  

WHat cheer my Mates? Lus● ho!— We toll in vain!  
That Northern Mist forebodes a Hurricane.  
See how th'expecting Ocean raves,  
The Billows roar before the Fray.  
Untimely Night devours the Day;  
I'th' dead Eclipse we nought descry,  
But Lightnings wild Caprices in the Sky,  
And Scaly Monsters sparkling through the Waves;  
Ply, each a Hand, and furl your Sails.  
Port, hard, a'port— The Tackle fails.  
Sound ho!— Five Fathom and the most.  
A dangerous Shelf! sh'as struck, and we are lost.  
Speak in the Hold— she leaks amain— give over;  
The crazy Boat can work no more.  
She draws apace, and we approach no Shore.  
A Ring, my Mates, let's join a Ring, and so  
Beneath the Deep embracing go.  
Now to new Worlds we steer, and quickly shall arrive:  
Our Spirits shall mount, as fast as our dull Corpses dive.    

The Grateful Shepherd.  

WHilst by his grazing Flock a gentle Swain,  
His vacant Hours to entertain,  
Perused a Volume, where each Tragic Page  
Discoursed of some Intrigue of State,  
Of Rebel Insolence and Rage,  
And some unhappy Monarch's Fate:  
The Youth in these transported Sounds broke forth,  
What Virtue of my Ancestors  
So much obliged you, most indulgent Powers,  
That in these silent Shades you gave me Birth?  
You might have made me Fortune's Sport,  
Doomed me to some corrupted Court,  
Where I this rural Bliss had never known;  
My Cottage might have been a Throne,  
My Crook a Sceptre, and my Wreath a Crown:  
Some Tyrant-Prince I might have been,  
(By your Indulgence now a peaceful Swain)  
My Chloris some proud cruel Queen,  
The tenderest Nymph of our Arcadian Plain.    

On the Assembling of a New Parliament the 6th. of March, 1682.  

BReak, Sacred Morn, on our expecting Isle,  
And make our Albion's sullen Genius smile,  
His brightest Glories let the Sun display;  
He risen not with a more important Day  
Since Charles returned on his triumphant Way.  
A joyful Bridegroom then our Eyes he drew,  
And now seems wedded to his Realms anew.  
Methinks our Fears already are o'erblown,  
And on our Enemies' Coast the Terror thrown.  
You ancient Bards that Britain's Glory wrote,  
As warmly as our British Heroes fought,  
Be still assisting to your country's Fame,  
And in my daring Song revive your Flame.  
Now I behold the bright Assembly placed,  
And with our Monarch's Sacred Presence graced;  
Transported with a Vision so sublime,  
My Thoughts review the Infant-Pride of Time:  
I think how at the new Creation sat  
Th'Eternal Monarch in his heavens fresh State;  
The Stars yet wondering at each others Fires,  
And all the Sons of Glory ranked in Quires.  
As various Streams from distant Regions fall,  
And in the Deep their Gen'ral Council call,  
Conveying thence Supplies to every Source,  
And fail not to maintain the rolling Course;  
Our Senate thus from every Quarter met,  
And with our Peers in awful Council set,  
Dispense their Influence to each Province round,  
And in our Isle no Barren Spot is found.  
Justice as plenteous as our Thames shall flow;  
In Peace the Sailer steer, and Peasant plow.  
Our Public Safe from Foreign Wrongs shall be,  
And private Rights from Home-Oppressors free.  
Proceed, brave Worthies then, to your Debates,  
Not to decree alone our private Fates;  
But to judge Kingdoms, and dispose of States.  
From you their Rise, or Downfall they assume,  
Expecting from our Capitol their Doom:  
You from their Peace and War, as you approve,  
They join in Leagues, or to fierce Battle move.  
And though the Pride of France has swelled so high,  
A warlike Empire's Forces to defy,  
To crush united States confederate Power,  
And silence the loud Belgian Lion's Roar;  
Yet let their Troops in silent Triumph come  
From conquered Fields, and steal their Trophies home,  
Take care their Canon at just distance roar;  
Nor with too near a Volley rouse our Shore,  
Lest our disdaining Islanders advance,  
With Courage taught long since to conquer France;  
Seizing at once their Spoils of many a year,  
And cheaply win what they oft bought too dear.  
Their late Success but juster Fears affords;  
For they are now grown worthy of our Swords:  
However it must be confessed, the  Powers  
Can ne'er engage on equal Terms with ours:  
In Nature we have Odds; they dread, we scorn;  
The English o'er the French are Conquerors born.  
The Terror still of our Third Edward's Name,  
Rebukes their Pride, and checks their towering Fame.  
Nor can the Tide of many rolling Years  
Wash the stained Fields of Cressey and Poitiers.  
A conscious Terror strikes their Bosoms still,  
When they behold that famous satal Hill,  
Where Edward with his Host Spectator stood,  
And left the Prince to make the Conquest good.  
The Eagle thus from her fledged Young withdraws,  
Each Bird a Match for Troops of Kites and Daws.  
Nor has the black Remembrance left their Breast,  
When our Fifth Harry to their Paris pressed;  
While France wept Blood for their hot Dauphin's Jest.  
Such was the Virtue of our Ancestors,  
And such on due Resentment shall be ours:  
Our rempered Valour just Pretence requires,  
As Flints are struck before they show their Fires.    

The Despair.  

I.  
Retired from any Mortal's Sight  
The pensive Damon lay;  
He blessed the discontented Night,  
And cursed the smiling Day.   

II.  
The tender Sharers of his Pain,  
His Flocks forbore to graze;  
But sadly fixed around the Swain,  
Like silent Mourners gaze.   

III.  
He heard the Music of the Wood,  
And with a Sigh replied;  
He saw the Fish sport in the Flood,  
And wept a deeper Tide.   

iv  
In vain the Summer's Bloom came on;  
For still the drooping Swain  
Like Autumn Winds was heard to groan,  
Out-weeped the Winter's Rain.   

V  
Some Ease, said he, some Respite give.  
Why, cruel Pow'is, Ah! why  
Am I too much distressed to live,  
And yet forbidden to die?   

VI  
Such Accents from the Shepherd flew,  
Whilst on the Ground he lay;  
At last so deep a Sigh he drew,  
As boar his Life away.    

MEDEA TO JASON.  
THE ARGUMENT.  
Jason arrives with his Companions at Colchos, where the Golden Fleece was kept, which before he can obtain, he is to undertake several Adventures; first, to yoke the Wild Bulls, then to sow the Serpent's Teeth, from whence should instantly rise an Army, with which he must encounter; and lastly, to make his Passage by the Dragon that never slept. In order to this, he solicits Medea Daughter to the King, and skilful in Charms, by whose Assistance (on Promise of love) he gains the Prize; then flies with her: The King pursues them: Medea kills her little Brother, scatters his Limbs; and whilst the King stays to gather them up, escapes with her Lover into Thessaly, where she restores decrepit Aeson to his Youth. On the same Promise persuades Pelias his Daughters to let out their Father's blood; but deceitfully leaves them guilty of Parricide. For this and other Crimes Jason casts her off, marries Creusa, Daughter to Creon, King of Corinth, on which the enraged Medea, according to the various Transports of her Passion, writes this complaining, soothing, and menacing Epistle.  

YEt I found leisure, though a Queen, to free  
By Magic Artsthy Grecian Friends and thee;  
The Fates should then have finished with my Reign,  
The Life that since was one continued Pain.  
Who would have dreamt the Youth of distant Greece,  
Should e'er have sailed to seize the Phrygian Fleece!  
That th' Argo should in view of Colchos ride!  
A Grecian Army stem the Phasian Tide!  
Why were those Snares, thy Locks, so tempting made!  
A Tongue so false, so powerful to persuade!  
No doubt but he that had so rashly sought  
Our Shore, with the fierce Bulls unspelled had fought,  
And fond too th' Arms-bearing Seed had sown,  
Till by the Crop the tiler were o'erthrown.  
How many Frands had then expired with Thee!  
As many kill griefs removed from me!  
'Tis some Relief when ill returns are made,  
With Favours done, th' Ingrateful to upbraid;  
This Triumph will afford some little Ease,  
False Jason leaves me this—  
When first your doubtful Vessel reached our Port,  
And you had Entrance to my Father's Court:  
There was I then, what now your new Bride's here,  
My Royal Father might with here's compare.  
With Princely Pomp was your arrival graced,  
The meanest Greek on Tyrian Beds we placed.  
Then first I gazed my Liberty away!  
And date my Ruin from that fatal day!  
Fate pushed me on, and with your Charms combined;  
I viewed your sparkling Eyes till I was blind.  
You soon perceived, for who could ever hid  
A flame that by its own Light is deseryed?  
But now thy Task's proposed, and thou must tame  
The Bulls with brazen Hoofs, and Breath of Flame.  
With these the fatal Field thou art to Blow,  
From whence a sudden Host of Foes must grow.  
Those dangers past, still to the golden Prey  
The baleful fiery Dragon guards the way.  
Thus spoke the King; your Knights start from the Feast,  
And even your cheeks a pale despair confessed.  
Where then was your adored Creusa's dower?  
And where her Fathers Creon's boasted Power?  
Sad wentest thou forth; my pitying Eyes pursue,  
I sighed, and after sent a soft Adieu!  
In restless Tears I spent that tedious night,  
Presenting still thy dangers to my sight;  
The Savage Bulls and the more Savage Host,  
But the dire Serpent did affright me most!  
Thus tossed with Fear and Love, (Fear swelled the Flame)  
My Sister early to my Apartment came;  
Sad and dejected she surprised me There,  
With Eyes distilling and dishevelled Hair,  
On your behalf she sought me, nor could crave  
My Aid for you, so freely as I gave!  
A Grove there is, and awful gloomy shade,  
Too close for even the Sun himself t'invade;  
These Woods with great Diana's Fane we graced,  
I'th' midst the Goddess on high Tripods placed.  
There (if that place you can remember yet,  
Who have forgotton Me) 'twas there we met.  
Then thus in soft deluding sounds you said—  
" Take pity on our sufferings, Royal Maid!  
" Rest pleased, Thou hast the Power to kill; but give  
" Proofs of Diviner might, and make us Live!  
" By our distresses (which thy Art alone,  
" Has Power to secure,) By th' allseeing Sun,  
" By the  Deity that Governs Here,  
" And what e'er else you Sacred hold or Dear,  
" Take pity on our Youth, and bind us still  
" Eternal servants to Medea's Will!  
" And if a Stranger's Form can touch your Mind,  
" (If such blessed Fate was e'er for me designed!)  
" This Flesh to Dust dissolve, this Spirit to Air,  
" When I think any but Medea Fair  
" Be Conscious Juno, witness to my Vow,  
" And this dread Goddess at whose Shrine we Bow.  
Your Charming Tongue stopped here, and left the rest,  
To be by yet more powerful Tears expressed.  
I yield— and by my Art instruct you now,  
To yoke the brass-hooft Bulls, and make them Blow,  
Then with a daring Hand you sow the Field,  
That for an Harvest does an Army yield;  
Even I looked Pale, that gave the powerful Charms,  
To see the wondrous Crop of shining Arms!  
Till th' Earthborn Brothers in fierce battle joined,  
Their sudden Lives more suddenly resigned:  
The Serpent next, a yet more dangerous Toil,  
With seely Bosom Ploughs the yielding Soil,  
O'reshades the Field with vast expanded wings,  
And brandishes in Air his threatening Stings!  
Where was Creusa at this needful Hour?  
Where then were her famed Charms and matchless dower?  
Medea, that Medea that is now  
Despised, thought Poor, held guilty too by you,  
'Twas she that Charmed the wakeful Dragon's sight,  
Gave you the Fleece, and then secured your Flight:  
To merit you what could I more have done?  
My Father I betray, my Country shun,  
And all the Hazards of an Exile run!  
Tho, whilst I yield me thus a Robbers prize,  
My tender Mother in my Absence dies,  
And at her Feet my breathless Sister lies.  
Why left I not my Brother too?— cold fear  
Arrests my Hand, and I must finish here!  
This Hand that tore the Infant in our Flight,  
What then it dared to Act, dreads now to Write.  
To the rough Seas undaunted I repair,  
For after Gild, what can a Woman Fear?  
Why scaped our Crimes those Seas? we should have died;  
For falsehood Thou, and I for Parricide.  
The justling Isles should there have dashed our Bones,  
And hung us piece-meal on the ragged stones;  
Or Scylla gorged us in her ravenous Den,  
Wronged Scylla thus should use ingrateful Men!  
Charybdis too should in our Fate have shared,  
Nor ought of our sad wreck her whirl-pool spared.  
Yet safe we reach your Shore; the Phrygian Fleece  
Is made an Oss'ring to the Gods of Greece.  
The Pelian Daughters pious bloody Deed  
I pass, that rashly made their Father bleed:  
Your Safety 'twas that drew me to this Fraud,  
The Gild that others blame, you should applaud!  
But 'stead of Thanks, your Court I am forbid;  
Yourself forbade me, faithless Jason did!  
With none but my two Infants I depart,  
And Jason's Form, that ne'er forsakes my Heart;  
At length thy reveling Nuptial Songs surprise  
My wounded Ear, thy Nuptial Torch my Eyes.  
The Rabble shout, the Clamour nearer drew,  
And as it came more near, more dreadful grew:  
My Servants weep in Corners, and refuse  
Th' ingrateful Task of such  News.  
I yet forbear t' inquire, though still my Breast  
The dreadful Apprehensions did suggest.  
My youngest Boy now from the Window spied  
The coming Pomp, and jocund thus he cried,  
" Look, Mother, look! see where my Father rides,  
" With shining Reins his Golden Chariot guides.  
At this my pale forsaken Breast I tore,  
Nor spared the Face whose Beauties charm no more.  
Alas! what did I spare; Scarce could I spare  
My Honour, scarcely thee, could scarce forbear  
To force my Passage to thy Chariot now,  
And tear the Garland from thy perjured Brow.  
Offended Father, now thy Griefs discharge;  
My Brother's Blood is now revenged at large.  
The Man (for whom I sled and injured thee,  
Whose Love sole Comfort of my Flight could be)  
Th' ingrateful Man has now forsaken me.  
I tamed the Bulls, and could the Serpent bind;  
But for  Love no spell can find:  
The Dragon's baleful Fires my Arts suppressed;  
But not the Flames that tage within my Breast.  
In Love my powerfullest Herbs are useless made,  
In vain is Hecat summoned to my Aid:  
I sigh the Day, the Night in Watches spend,  
No Slumbers on my careful Brows descend:  
With Poppies Juice in vain my Eyes I steep,  
And try the Charm that made the Dragon sleep.  
I only reap no Profit for my Charms!  
They saved, but saved thee from my Rival's Arms.  
There, 'cause you know the Theme will grateful be  
Perhaps you're so unjust t' exclaim on me!  
To tax my manners, rally on my Face,  
And make th' Adultress sport with my Disgrace.  
Laugh on ●roud Dame; but know thy Fate is nigh,  
When thou shalt yet more wretched be than I!  
When wronged Medca unrevenged sits still,  
〈…〉 forgot to kill.  
If Prayers the slinty Jason's Breast can move,  
My just Complaint will sure successful prove.  
Stretched at thy Feet a suppliant Princess see;  
Such was thy Posture when she pitied thee.  
And though a Wife's discarded Title fail,  
My Infants still are thine, let them prevail.  
So much they're thine, so much thy Likeness bear,  
Each Look I cast is followed by a Tear.  
Now by the Gods, by all our past Delights,  
By those dear Pledges of our amorous Nights,  
Restore me to thy Love I claim my due;  
Be to my Merit, and thy Promise true.  
I ask thee not what I performed for thee,  
To set me from fierce Bulls and Serpents free;  
I only crave thy Love, thy Love restore,  
For which I've done so much, and suffered more.  
Dost Thou demand a dower?— 'twas paid that day  
When thou didst bear the Golden Fleece away:  
Thy Life's my dower, and thy dear Follower's health,  
The Youth of Greece; weigh these with Creen's wealth.  
To Me thou ow'st that thou art Creon's Heir,  
That now thou liv'st to call Creusa, Fair!  
've wronged me All, and on you All— but hold,  
I form Revenge too mighty to be told!  
My thoughts are now to th'utmost Ruin bend!  
Perhaps I shall the fatal Rage repent,  
But on— for I (what e'er the mischief be)  
Shall less Repent than that I trusted Thee!  
The God alone that Rages in my Breast,  
Can see the dark revenge my thoughts suggest;  
I only know 'twill soon effected be,  
And when it comes, be Vast and Worthy Me.    

Upon the Marquis of Worcester's defending his Seat of Ragland Castle; the last Garrison that held out for the King.  

WHen civil Discord through the Realm had reigned,  
And English Swords with English Blood were stained;  
When out of Zeal, Religion was expelled,  
And men for Conscience 'gainst their Prince rebelled;  
The best of Princes— when the Power Divine  
(On purposes too deep for Reason's Line)  
Gave Rebel Arms Success, and seemed to bring  
Distress at once upon our Saint and King:  
Not Jesse's Son seemed better formed to reign;  
Nor were his Worthies of a nobler Strain.  
But what Relief can boldest Valour lend,  
Where Heroes not with Foes, but Fate contend?  
The Age's Crimes for no less Curse did call;  
And 'tis decreed the Royal Cause must fall:  
Of Conquest thus by Destiny bereft,  
Our blasted War has yet one Garland left,  
Alone the Foes united Strength to fight,  
And strike the last famed Blow for Royal Right.  
This Honour to the Noble Worcester fell,  
Who, always brave, himself does now excel,  
His Friends, his Troops, his House, his Citadel.  
Here, though reduced to last extremes, he lies,  
His cheerful Canon still the Foe defies;  
The more distressed, the more his Virtue shines,  
His Courage rising as his Strength declines;  
Oft from unequal Force he guards his Walls,  
Oft in fierce Sallies on the Leaguer falls:  
Thus while expired the other Members lie,  
Worester stus last, the Heart of Loyalty.    

Catullus. Epigr. II.  
De passere mortuo Lesbiae.  

WEep, Venus, weep, bid all the Race  
Of laughing Loves weep now apace;  
Let Mortal's Sorrow be as deep;  
Bid the nobler Mortals weep:  
All that have the Soul or Sense  
For Fate of such a Consequence.  
Never was such Cause to moan,  
Lesbia's Sparrow's dead and gone.  
The Darling she was wont to prise  
Above the Conquests of her Eyes.  
That educated Bird, I mean  
He that was so slick and clean;  
Whose Wit and Judgement did excel;  
For he my Lesbian knew as well  
As she her own dear Mother knew,  
And to her Arms as fond flew.  
No more Alas, shall he do so!  
But wanders through the Shades below,  
His Everlasting Residence;  
For never Soul escaped from thence.  
You have him Fates, and we allow  
Your Groves the Seats of Pleasure now,  
My Lesbia's Bird has made them so.  
But ours, as if their Soul were fled,  
Are withered all since he is dead.  
Clouds of Tears overcast the Skies;  
I mean the Heaven of Lesbia's Eyes.    

After beating his Mistress.  
Ovid. El. Lib.  

CHains, Straw and Darkness! There's no Remedy,  
But Bedlam for a Wretch so mad as I!  
Perish these Hands, so ill could Beauty treat,  
And on a trembling Mistress Blows repeat.  
Distracted Ajax once with Sword and Shield,  
For Foes, drove bleating Flocks about the Field.  
Such was my Rage when I her Tresses tore;  
Nor seemed she then less charming than before.  
Disorder called fresh Beauties to her Face,  
Fair as Diana, panting from the Chase.  
With such an Air wronged Ariadne lay,  
When Winds bore Theseus' Sails and Vows away.  
Speak, you that were Spectators of the Deed,  
What Eye forbore to weep, what Heart to bleed!  
You called me Madman, cursed the Savage Brute,  
All but the injured Nymph, and she was mute.  
Whose Silence yet more sharply did upbraid,  
Her Tears beyond all Speech my Gild displayed.  
Strange Recompense for Love, such Savage Wrong,  
Why was I to my own Destruction strong?  
Tydides' only with my Rage can vie;  
He m●de one Goddess bleed, another I;  
But he much better may his Crime defend,  
That Goddess was his Foe; but mine my Friend.  
Go, Conqueror, triumphant Arches raise,  
Make Altars flame, and bind your Brow with Bays;  
While thus the waiting Crow your Fact proclaim,  
He fought a Woman, and he overcame:  
And that your Pomp may yet appear the more,  
The wounded Beauty led in Chains before.  
Whose Cheeks should only prints of Kisses bear,  
Her Necks the Marks of raging Pleasure wear.  
The least sharp word (her Tenderness is such)  
Had been enough, an angry Look too much:  
What then were Blows, and what to see that Hair  
All torn, that Goddesses with Pride might wear?  
Amazed she stood, nor any Breath retained;  
And but the Statue of herself remained.  
Yet still each panting Limb confessed her Fear,  
Such Tremble as in Poplar Leaves appear;  
Such as when Zephyrs blow in Reeds we find,  
Or Floods fanned lightly with a Southern Wind.  
Her Eyes were fixed, while yet her Tears did flow,  
more fair than Pearl, more free than melting Snow.  
That Mirror showed me my foul Trespass first;  
The Stars and Fates; but most myself I cursed;  
For Sacrilege like mine, what Recompense?  
Thrice at her Feet I fell for my Offence,  
While she, Alas, as oft drew back for fear,  
And durst not trust my cruel Hands so near.    

Propert. Lib. 1. Eleg. 4.  

CHarming and soft as Ariadne's Sleep,  
When faithless Theseus cut the falser Deep;  
Was that which late my Cynthia did o'ercome,  
When I with Troops of Links came reeling home,  
Half laid, half sitting, and the more to charm,  
Her Head supported on her yielding Arm;  
My Soul even then her wont Power confessed,  
In spite of Bacchus raging in my Breast.  
For without Noise I crept to her Bedside,  
Though by my staggering Feet but ill supplied.  
I gazed, but dared no nearer to intrude;  
Nor Wine itself had Power to make me rude;  
For still the sleeping Beauty I forbore;  
Fixed like a Midnight Miser by his Store:  
The Wretch so fain would seize, but wants the Power;  
Yet what his Hands forbear, his Eyes devour.  
I took the genial Garland from my Head,  
And wantonly on Cinthia's Temples spread.  
Sometimes her Tresses with more Gems I graceed,  
A starting Curl sometimes in Order placed:  
Her half-shut Hands with downy Peaches filled,  
While Showers of Jassmine on her Brow distilled.  
Heaped all Delights the fragrant Season bore,  
And Sleep was never treated so before.  
Rose-Leaves and Blossoms on her Breast I threw,  
Removed as fast with every Breath she drew.  
But Oh, what Fears ofttimes I did sustain,  
(Ye Powers of Love bear Witness to my Pain)  
When in more deep Repose she lost her Breath,  
To see a Sleep so much resembling Death.  
What Terrors oft my tender Breast did rend,  
Lest with some frightful Dream she might contend.  
At last the clouded Moon her Beams denied,  
That were by Cinthia's waking Eye supplied.  
Soon as she spied me, with a Sighand Tear,  
She cried, what makes this lewd Companion here?  
To this late Hour, where have thy rambles led;  
Where hast thou roared, and drank the Stars to Bed?  
But know, perfidious Man, the Powers above  
Have large Revenge in store for injured Love.  
By dear Experience may'st thou know my Pain,  
Expecting all the tedious Night in vain!  
Sometimes with Books I cheat the Hours away,  
With Music next— but when you longer stay,  
I know that Night's on new Intrigues employed,  
Too long a time for Beauty once enjoyed.  
'Tis thus the weary Minutes I engage,  
Tossed with divided Thoughts of Love and Rage;  
Till Sleep, that gives to other Ills Relief,  
Renewsand doubles in sad Dreams my Grief.    

To the Concealed Author of ABSALON and ACHITOPHEL.  

HAil, heaven-born Muse, Hail every sacred Page,  
The Glory of our Isle, and of our Age.  
Th'inspiring Sun to Albion draws more nigh;  
The North at last seems with a Work to vie  
With Homer's Flame, and Virgil's Majesty.  
While Pindus' lofty Heights our Poet sought,  
His ravished Mind with vast Ideas fraught,  
Our Language failed beneath his rising Thought.  
This checks not his Attempt, for Maro's Mines  
He drains of all their Store t'enrich his Lines,  
Through each of which the Mantuan Genius shines.  
Once Rocks obeyed the Powerful Hebrew Guide,  
Their flinty Breast dissolving to a Tide:  
Thus on our stubborn Language he prevails,  
And makes the Helicon in which he sails.  
The Dialect as well as Sense invents,  
And with his Poem a new Speech presents.  
Hail then, thou matchless Bard, thou great Unknown,  
That give your Country Fame, yet eat your own,  
In vain; for every where your Praise you'll find,  
And not to meet it you must shun Mankind.  
Your Loyal Theme each Loyal Reader draws,  
And even the Faction give your Verse Applause,  
Whose  strikes to ground their Idol Cause.  
The Cause for whose dear sake they drank a Flood  
Of Civil Gore, nor spared the Royal Blood.  
The Cause whose Growth to crush our Prelates wrote  
In vain, almost in vain our Heroes fought;  
Yet by one stab of your keen satire dies;  
Before your Ark their shattered Dagon lies.   

Oh, if unworthy we appear to know  
The Sire to whom this wondrous Birth we own,  
Denied our ready Homage to express,  
And can at best but thankful be by guess;  
This Hope remains,— may David's God-like-Mind  
The unknown Author of these Numbers find;  
And having found, shower equal Favours down  
On Wit so vast as could oblige a Crown.    

On the Meddal.  

ONce more our Poet sallies to engage  
The threatening Hydra-Faction of the Age:  
Once more prepares his dreadful Pen to wield;  
While every Muse attends him to the Field.  
By Art and Nature for this Task designed,  
Yet modestly the Fight he long declined;  
Forbore the Torrent of his Verse to pour,  
Nor loosed his satire till the needful Hour.  
His sovereign's Right by Patience half betrayed,  
Waked his avenging Genius to its Aid:  
Blessed Muse, whose Wit with such a Cause was Crowned,  
And blest the Cause that such a Champion found!  
But like a Prince, by Subjects forced t' engage,  
Secure of Conquest, he rebates his Rage:  
His Fury not without Distinction sheds,  
Hurls Mortal Bolts but on devoted Heads.  
To less offending Members gentle found,  
Spares them, or else pours Balm into the Wound.  
This generous Grace th'ingrateful Tribe abuse,  
And trespass on the Mercy of his Muse.  
Their wretched dog'ril Rhimers forth they bring,  
To snarl and bark against the Poet's King.  
A Crew that scandalise the Nation more,  
Than all their Treason-canting Priests before.  
On these he scarce vouchsafed a scornful Smile;  
But on their Powerful Patrons turns his Style;  
A Style so keen as from the Faction draws  
The vital Poison, stabs at Heart their Cause.  
Take then, Great Bard, what Tribute we can raise,  
Accept our Thanks for you transcend our Praise.    

To my ingenious Friend Mr. Creech, on his Translation of Lucretius.  

'tWas bold for youth Lucretian heights to storm,  
But Youth alone had Vigour to perform;  
The stately Fabric stood by all admired,  
While none to Copy the vast Frame aspired.  
All owned some Sacred Power the Work did guide,  
Aids which our Author to the World denied;  
What to attempt had drawn a gen'ral Blame,  
Performed so well must Challenge greater fame:  
Lucretius Englished!— 'tis so rich a Prize,  
We gaze upon't and scarce believe our Eyes!  
We read and see the Roman Genius shine,  
Without Alley in each bright Page of thine,  
Then pauzing with fresh Doubt, again repair;  
Again we find the Learned Lucretius there.  
Thy Pains oblige us on a double score,  
True to thy Author, to Religion more,  
While learnedly his Errors thou dost note;  
And for his Poison bring an Antidote,  
From Epicurus Walks thus weeding vice,  
No more the Garden but a Paradise.    

The Battle of the B—d's in the Theatre Royal, December the 3d 1680.  

GIve o'er ye Tilters of the Pit, give over,  
Frighten the Boxes and yourselves no more:  
Two Amazons of Scandalous renown,  
Have with dire Combat made this Field their own.  
Their fray on no slight Grounds (like yours) was made,  
But for precedence in their famous Trade;  
Both for the public break their Midnight sleep,  
And open Courts for lated Mortals keep.  
Zeal for the Public did their rage excite,  
But who can speak the Horror of the fight!  
The Oaths, the Banns, the Sweat, the Dust, the Blood  
Is not to be expressed, nor understood.  
Strong Sarsenet Scarf with Hood of Gause more slight,  
Promiscuously lay scattered in the fight:  
Necklace and Pendants perished in the fray,  
And reverend Point that did the Art display,  
Of Ages past had now its fatal Day.  
Our upper region ravished at the sight,  
With din of clattering Sticks applaud the fight;  
Nay even our Squires o'th' Pit like Trojans true,  
Made a fair Ring, and stood Spectators too:  
Some side Box Nymphs ('tis true) made Protestation.  
This War would prove the ruin of the Nation:  
Which to prevent Bellona interposed,  
And with a partial Hand the Battle closed.  
S—nce the vanquished, S—nce quits her Ground,  
The Conquering Str— rd is with Myrtle ●rown'd,  
And Drury-lane all loyal Wh—es resound.    

Hor. Ode 5th. lib. 3.  
Quis multâ gracilis te Puer in Rosâ.  

SAy, perjured Maid,  
What tender Youth with Perfumes on his Head,  
And Roses for his Bed,  
Alike by Nature's Sweets and thine betrayed;  
What unexperienced Youth does now employ  
Sighs, Tears and Oaths to reap the fatal Joy?  
To what new Lover dost thou now unfold  
Those Amber Locks? For thy Undress can charm,  
Thy lose dishevelled Tresses warm,  
Beyond the Glances shot from Gems and Gold.  
Ah! thoughtless Wretch, how oft shall he in vain  
Curse perjured Faith, and to the Gods complain?  
Those Gods by whom the fair Deceiver swore;  
When he shall hear the Tempest fall,  
The Billows waking at the Thunder's Call,  
Who ne'er saw Wave, nor heard a Storm before!  
How oft shall he bewail his Error past,  
Who thought the smiling Calm would always last,  
That he alone, and always he  
Of Phillis Heart shall owner be,  
And fix of Woman's Love th'inconstant Sea?  
So cursed are all that see thy Smiles,  
And view thy Beauty e'er they know thy Wiles!  
Thrice wretched they for whom remains this Fate;  
But me Experience dear and late,  
Has with a strange Escape sent back,  
Resolved for Sea no more;  
And hanging on the Rocks of this false Shore,  
(That none hereafter the like Error make)  
My Garments drenched, and dropping with the Wreck.    

To the Translator of Father Simon 's Critical History.  

AS Esdras once did into Order draw,  
And to the new-freed Tribes revive the Law,  
So you, from Chains of Darkness which they wore,  
The Captive Oracles again restore.  
Hail, Inspired Father, who couldst force thy way  
Through Night's dark Empire to the Realm of Day.  
Yourself creates the Sun that gives you Light,  
And forms the History by which you writ.  
One Age dissolves (such force your Judgement bears)  
The settled Cloud of many thousand Years.  
This works first Fame was thine who did create,  
The second his that could so well translate.  
From whose joined Beams a perfect Light we draw  
The Vrim and the Thummim of the Law.    

The Charge.  
SONG.  

I.  
TEll my Strephon that I die;  
Let Echoes to each other tell,  
Till the mournful Accent fly  
To Strephon's Ear, and all is well.   

II.  
But gently break the fatal Truth,  
Sweeten every sadder Sound;  
For Strephon's such a tender Youth,  
The gentlest Words too deep will wound.   

III.  
The gentlest Words will wound too deep  
The dear relenting Swain,  
Then let my Griefs in Silence sleep,  
And never more complain.   

iv  
Fountains Echoes all be dumb;  
For should I cost my Swain a Tear,  
I shall repent me in the Tomb,  
And grieve to buy my Rest so dear.    

PROLOGUE.  
To the Enchanted Lovers.  

've met us in defiance of the Wether;  
How has our Magic conjured you together!  
The Play is new— there doubtless lay the Charm,  
That drew to our forsaken Hive this Swarm.  
What more to soothe your Humour could we do,  
Than when the Play is new, an d Poet too.  
He, though an early Trespasser in Rhyme,  
Ne'er climbed the Stage before; and judged this time  
For his Adventure safest when the Road  
Was clear, the Pirate Wits dispersed abroad.  
He hoped while you tothth' Country were withdrawn,  
T'have found an easy Jury of the Town;  
But is surprised to see an awful Pit,  
Met to arrraign him by the Laws of Wit;  
Laws ne'er performed by mortal Writer yet.  
Witches and Spells the former Age believed,  
And as authentic on the Stage received;  
Our Poet fears they'll hardly pass with you,  
Who no charms but in Beauty will allow.  
Yet since such Lovers Knaves and Fools have been,  
Shown on the Stage, as elsewhere ne'er were seen;  
Why should his Hags forced Characters appear?  
'Cause your nice Reason doubts if Witches are.  
He with a trembling Hand their jargons wrote;  
The Entertainment of his Midnight Thought:  
Mean while his Fancy, like a tender Bride,  
With th'Exercise lay pleased and terrified:  
With Ease his Belldam's Tempests raise and lay;  
But could contrive no Spell to save the Play.    

EPILOGUE.  

WHat no Attendance in this World? make way.  
Where are our noisy empty Hectors? they  
That hear no Scene, and yet damn all the Play,  
Run down by Masque, to their old shift they flee,  
And rail at us for want of Repartee.  
Well, Gentlemen, however you doom too Night,  
Methinks this Company's a blessed Sight,  
And shows the Realms Disorder coming Right.  
With us as with the Public it does pass,  
The Theatre's the Nations Weatherglass;  
Where, like the Quicksilver our Audience still,  
As the State goes is found to ebb or fill.  
Shall I inform you one thing, Gallants?— We  
In our Vocation with the Saints agree:  
For as their Holders-forth their Flock enchant,  
So we our Audience Charm with Noise and Rant.  
'Tis thus we please, and I dare take my Oath,  
That Decency and Sense would break us both.    

EPILOGUE.  

NOw we expect to hear our raw Blades say,  
Damn me, I see no Sense in this dull Play:  
Tho much of it our abler Judges know  
Was famous Sense 'bove forty Years ago.  
Sometimes we fail to please for want of Wit  
I'th' Play; but most for want of it in the Pit.  
For many ruin'd Poet's Work 'twould save,  
Had you but half the Sense you think you have.  
Poets on you Forefathers shamm'd dull Plays,  
And shrewdly you revenge it in our Days.  
In troth we far by it as your Tradesmen do:  
For while they raise Estates by cheating you,  
Into Acquaintance with their Wives you fall,  
And get 'em graceless Sons to spend it all.  
'Tis plain they're yours, 'cause all our Arts miscarry:  
For, just like you, they'll damn before they'll marry.  
Of honest Terms I now almost despair,  
Unless retrieved by some rich Yeoman's Heir,  
In Grannam's Ribbons, and his own strait Hair.  
What Comforts such a Lover would afford!  
Jointure! dear Jointure, Oh, the Heavenly Word;  
But— e'er of you, my Sparks, my Leave I take,  
For your Unkindness past, these Prayers I make,  
So very constant may your Misses be,  
Till you grow cloyed for want of Jealousy;  
Into such Dullness may your Poet's tire,  
Till they shall write such Plays as you admire,  
May you, instead of Whoring, Gaming, Drinking,  
Be damned to your Aversion,— Books and thinking;  
And for a last wish— what I'm sure you'll call  
The Curse of Curses— Marriage take ye all.    

The PROLOGUE.  
To the History of King Lear, revived, with Alterations.  

SInce by Mistakes your best Delights are made,  
(For your own Wives can please in Masquerade)  
'Twere worth our while t' have drawn you in to day  
By a new Name to our old honest Play.  
But he that did this Evening Treat prepare,  
Resolved beforehand frankly to declare  
Your Entertainment should be most Old Fare.  
Yet hopes, since in rich Shakespear's Soil it grew,  
'Twill relish still with Palates that are true;  
And his Ambition is to please a few.  
If then this Heap of Flowers shall chance to wear  
Fresh Beauty in the Order they now bear,  
Even this is Shakespear's Praise— each Rustic knows,  
With various Flowers a Garland to compose;  
That strung by his course Hand may fairer show;  
But 'twas a Power Divine first made 'em grow.  
Why should these Scenes lie hid, in which we find  
What may at once delight and teach the Mind?  
Morals were always proper for the Stage,  
But are even necessary in this Age.  
Poet's must take the Churches teaching Trade,  
Since Priests their Province of Intrigue invade;  
But we the worst in this Exchange have got,  
In vain our Poets preach, while Churchmen plot.    

EPILOGUE.  

INconstancy, the reigning Sin o'th' Age,  
Will scarce endure true Lovers on the Stage:  
You hardly even in Plays with such dispense,  
And Poets kill 'em in their own Defence.  
Yet one bald Proof I was resolved to give,  
That I could three Hours Constancy outlive.  
You sear, perhaps, while on the Stage we're made  
Such Saints, we shall indeed take up the Trade;  
Sometimes we threaten— but our Virtue may  
For Truth, I fear, with your Pit-Valour weigh.  
Where (not to statter either) I much doubt,  
When we are off the Stage, and you are out,  
We are not quite so coy, nor you so stout.  
We talk of Nunneries— but to be sincere,  
Whoever hopes to see us Cloistered there,  
May hope to meet our Critics at Tangier.  
Well— since ye are for blust'ring in the Pit,  
This Play's Reviver humbly does admit  
Your absolute Power to damn his part of it.  
But still so many Master-Torches shine  
Of that great Hand that first laid this Design,  
That in great Shakespear's Right he's bold to say,  
The Play your Judgement damns, not you the Play.    

To Mr. L. Maidwell, on his New Grammar.  

THus early for that Homage we make way,  
Which late Posterity shall better pay.  
To form a Verse as perfect as our Theme,  
The Air of Pindus and Pirene's Stream  
Assist too feebly; our Recourse must be  
For just Expression to thy Book and thee.  
From thy own Stores thy Tribute we must raise;  
For who best learns thy Precepts, best can praise.  
How heavily till now our Youth were bred;  
With painful Progress to the Muses led;  
Through Clouds of Terms to Science did proceed,  
Nor learned their Grammar's Use till past the need.  
Who sped the best, but late arrived the Coast,  
The greater part on Rocks of Error lost.  
So ignorant the Pilot still appeared;  
So false the Card itself by which they steered:  
Till thou in generous Pity didst impart  
To weeping Youth this perfect Scheme of Art;  
Whose ready Method doubly eased their way,  
More short the Journey, and more bright the Day.  
Thy Art, like Moses, on the Mount appears,  
Shows at one View the Search of many years.  
So short and clear all thy Instructions lie,  
They teach the Mind, not load the Memory.  
Thy Tree performs for Boys more Wonders now,  
Than for the Hero Virgil's Golden Bough:  
With this bright Charm each cheerful Youth invades  
The Muse's World through darkest Authors Shades.  
What Progress then in Learning must be made,  
When half the Building's in the Basis laid?    

An Attempt on the Ode of Assumption, By Mr. Crashaw.  

I.  
Hark, she is called, the parting Hour is come,  
Poor World, take thy Farewell;  
Heaven must on Earth no longer dwell;  
Take Leave poor world; for Heaven must now go home;  
heavens Bride must home, than all the Stars more bright  
Whose Lamps for her Arrival deck the Sky;  
See where her Chariot mounts, whilst in her Flight  
She gives the Crystal Sphere more glorious Light,  
And wakes into broad Fire, the sleeping Galaxy.   

II.  
Hark she is called the dear Immortal Dove!  
Sighs to his Silver-Mate, rise up my Love;  
Arise my fair, my spotless one,  
The stormy Winter's past, the Rain is gone;  
The Spring is come, the Flowers appear,  
No Sweets but thou are wanting here.  
Then come away my Love;  
The Pomp, the Court of Heaven are come,  
With all the Starry Host to wait thee home:  
There's not one Guardian Seraph left above.  
The Glories of the Spring appear,  
Or quickly would if thou wert here:  
The Spring is come, or if it stay,  
'Tis only to keep Time withthy Delay.  
The Rain is gone, except so much as we  
Retain in Tears to weep the want of thee.  
The gloomy Water's past;  
Or if he make less Haste,  
His Answer is, that she is slow;  
If Summer come not, how can Winter go?  
Come my Love, make haste away;  
The shrill Winds chide, the Waters weep thy stay,  
The Fountain's murmur, and each lofty Tree  
Bends low his Leasy Top to look for thee.   

III.  
She's called again, and she will now away  
Heaven will not, and she cannot stay.  
Go then, rise glorious on the Golden Wings  
Of heavens bright Youth, while each thy triumph sings,  
Whose Numbers yet a Flight more lofty take,  
Than what their own immortal Pinions make.  
And though our Notes are far less sweet and strong,  
Yet our best Harmony we'll send  
Her rising Glories to attend;  
And strive at least to reach her with our Song.  
In heavens own Anthem we will bear our parts,  
Hail, Holy, happy Queen of humble Hearts,  
Maria, Men and Angels sing,  
Maria, Mother of th' Eternal King:  
Live, Queen of Heaven, the Cherub's sacred Mirth,  
Restorer, and Protectress of the Earth;  
Live, thou that gav'st Eternity a Birth.  
Thus far our Numbers which with Grief we see,  
Short of our own Desires, much more of thee.  
And now our Mortal Airs have done their best,  
Divinest Angels come and sing the rest.    

The Three First Chapters of Job.  

The First Chapter.  

THe Land of Uz by Nature much was blest;  
But more, that Righteous Job her Soil possessed.  
None worshipped Heaven with such Religious Care,  
Nor of its Blessings held so large a Share.  
seven Princely Sons, three beauteous Daughters graced  
The Patriarch's Court, his Field increased more fast.  
His Flocks and Herds in thousands he could see;  
The plenteous East knew none so rich as he.  
The Sons to weekly Treats each other call,  
And in their Course appoint the Festival:  
As oft did Job his pious Prayers renew,  
And Sacrifices to their Number slew,  
Lest in the warmth, said he, of Mirth and Wine,  
The Youth forget, or curse the Power Divine.  
Such was his Practice— Now approached the Day,  
When all Jehovah's Sons in solemn way  
Appeared before him. Satan too was there:  
For what will not industrious Malice dare?  
From whence (said God?) From ranging far and wide  
Thine Earth for Prey, the sullen Fiend replied.  
And hast thou (said th' Almighty) hast thou found  
In all the Search of that thy spacious Round,  
A Saintlike Job, my Servant, scarce in Thought  
Transgressing?— And does Job serve God for nought?  
The Fiend returns— Are not thine Arms his Fence?  
Stands not his House hedged round with Providence?  
What wants thy Servant Man can happy call?  
Well may he yield thee Praise, who giv'st him all,  
Peace, Plenty, Power, what can he cover more?  
My own black Tribe could bless on such a Score.  
But check those vast Rewards that makes him just,  
Consume his Substance, lay his Pomp in Dust,  
Afflict his Person, load him with Disgrace,  
Thy Saint that hour shall curse thee to thy Face.  
Prove then his Truth (said God) this very hour  
All but his Life we leave within thy Power.  
Hell's Agent smiled: the Genial Day was set  
Once more, when Job's glad Sons and Daughters met,  
While to the Reverend Sire, a Messenger,  
Breathless with Haste, and half expired with Fear,  
These Tidings brought— While we the Blow did ply,  
Our Oxen yorked, the Asses grazing by,  
Sabean Troops upon the  fell,  
And of thy Servants I survive to tell.  
Imperfectly was this Relation told,  
When heavier News a second does unfold:  
Thy Flocks and Servants Fire from Heaven has slain,  
And I alone to tell their Fate remain.  
While yet he spoke a third was heard to say,  
The Camels are become the Chaldees Prey;  
On us thy Servants in three Bands they fell,  
And I am scarce escaped with Breath to tell.  
Nor had he finished, when the Fourth expressed  
The Loss that like a Sea devoured the rest:  
This day (said he) thy Sons and Daughters met,  
With numerous Trains about the Banquet set;  
Thy Beds first Pledge, the Eldest was their Host;  
But Ah, too dear the Entertainment cost!  
For lo! a Whirlwind from the Desert blew,  
That at one Blast the Palace overthrew:  
Beneath the Pile thy Offspring all lie slain,  
And of thy Servants I alone remain.  
At this the Saint his Garment rend around,  
And falling prostrate, worshipped on the Ground.  
Thus bare, (said he) thus naked was I born,  
And naked thus I shall to Earth return.  
Heaven gives, and Heaven with Justice may recall,  
So Heaven be praised whate'er to man befall.  
In such Distress thus patiented he remained;  
Nor fond once of Providence complained.    

The Second Chapter.  

THe solemn Time was now returned, once more,  
When with the rest stood Satan, as before:  
From whence, said God? From ranging far and wide  
The spacious Globe, the sullen Fiend replied.  
And hast thou (said th' Almighty) hast thou found  
A Saint like Job in all thy spacious Round?  
Who still our Laws and Service does attend,  
Nor all his causeless Griefs have made offend.  
To this th' Accuser— slight is yet his Pain;  
Nor would my Tribe for such Distress complain:  
But touch his Flesh with thy afflicting Rod,  
And to his Face the Saint shall curse his God.  
Try (said th' Almighty) wreck thy Vengeance here,  
Afflict his Body; but his Life forbear.  
Hell's Factor strikes him now with Boils all over;  
His ulcered Flesh but one continued Sore.  
The patiented Saint in Ashes still remains,  
And with a Potsheard scrapes his swelling Blanes.  
Retain'st thou still thy found Integrity?  
His Wife exclaims, give over, curse Heaven and die.  
Forbear (said he) such impious Blasphemies;  
What blacker Gild could Belial's self advise?  
Ingrateful! shall we from the Power Divine  
Receive Life's Sweets, and at its Griefs repine?  
From both our Duties Tribute let him raise,  
For these our Patience, and for those our Praise.  
Thus far the utmost Rage of Hell was vain;  
For still his Virtue triumphed o'er his Pain.  
This wondrous Change filled every Breath of Fame,  
And to his Friends in distant Regions came;  
Who, Thunderstruck, by joint Consent repair  
To comfort, or at least his Trouble share:  
Far off a mournful Spectacle they view,  
Three Friends; but none his Old Acquaintance knew.  
At last, when Job appeared through Griefs disguise,  
Each rent his Garment, and the Air with Cries;  
With Dust they strewed their Heads, and seated round,  
Seven Suns beheld them weeping on the Ground;  
All speechless; for they feared to urge the Grief  
They saw too mighty to admit Relief.    

The Third Chapter  
paraphrased.  

I.  
LEt the Day perish; let it perish quite,  
That brought a wretch like me to light:  
Infernal Vapours blast the Morn,  
In which 'twas said, behold a Manchild born.  
The Night that did me first to Life betray;  
The Night that ushered in that fatal Day;  
Infernal Horrors overtake that Night!  
Let dismal Shades the Day overgrow,  
More black than Darkness let it prove;  
Let Hell confound it from below,  
And let not God relieve it from above.  
Deepest Sables shroud the Earth,  
And Death possess the Day that gave me Birth.  
Amongst his Brethren let not that appear,  
Nor have a place within the circ'ling Year.  
The Night that for the wretched Birth made way,  
The Night that ushered in the fatal Day;  
All solitary let it be;  
No Sound of Joy be heard therein;  
Let Mourners curse it, all that mourn like me;  
From its own Darkness let it ne'er be free,  
But ever wait the Dawn that never shall begin.   

II.  
Because it did assist the labouring Womb,  
And to these Sorrows me betrayed:  
Why was I not from Birth to Death conveyed?  
And why was not my Cradle made my Tomb?  
Why did the careful Midwife close,  
And mould this Head for such a Mass of Woes!  
Why did the Knees prevent my Mother's Throws?  
And when their Offices did cease,  
When want of Food had soon restored my Peace,  
Why did the Breast afford Relief,  
And foster up the Drudge and Slave of Grief?  
Who else had lain at Rest, and found  
In common Earth my Sleep of Death as sound,  
As Kings and Princes that in Wealth abound.  
Who in the very Tomb a Palace have,  
And lay whole Empires out upon a Grave.  
In equal Quiet I had lain,  
With things unborn, and things retired,  
With Babes by Death restored to Rest again;  
Or such as on their way to Life expired,  
Conveyed to Bliss before they tasted Pain.  
O Grave! O Mansion of the Dead!  
Wondrous things of thee are said!  
The wicked cease from troubling there,  
And there the weary are at Rest.  
Prisoners, of Liberty possessed;  
And Slaves th' Oppressor's Voice no longer hear.  
Life's Tyrant there Distinctions took away,  
And Servants mingle with their Master's Clay.   

III.  
Why is the better Soul detained in Bands  
Of hateful Flesh; why forced to live?  
Why should the Sun to him his Lustre give,  
Who at Defiance with all Comfort stands?  
What does the Son of Ruin here,  
Among the cheerful Race of Men?  
A Wretch that ne'er must taste of Joy again.  
Why should he see the Changes of the Year,  
Who in all Nature's Blessings has no Share,  
Abandoned and devoted to Despair.  
He calls for Death his weary Lids to fold,  
And courts the Terror of Mankind:  
He searches for him, digs more deep to find  
A Grave, than Misers do for Gold.  
Why does his rising Day the Beams renew  
On him that has no Comfort to pursue?  
Why is he forced to look abroad again,  
And meet the World where he has nought to do?  
Cut off from all the cheerful ways of Men.  
With blackest Terrors hedged around,  
Whose Doom is past, his Ruin sealed,  
With Sentence ne'er to be repealed;  
Whom God has left, and last Destruction found.  
My Sighing comes before I seed,  
And Deluges of Tears succeed:  
My roaring overcomes the Main,  
And Seas are hushed when I complain.  
The Trouble which I feared, without Control  
Has seized upon me the long-dreadful Ill;  
The Thought whereof my Blood so oft did i'll,  
And shot with Midnight-Trembling through my Soul.  
'tis come— Yet Heaven bear Witness what I bore,  
How far removed from Happiness before.  
Among the Sons of Sorrow I was Chief;  
But former Woes were Pleasure to this Grief:  
Then urge me, Friends, with vain Advice no more,  
Despairing and defying all Relief.     

The Charnell-House.  

THis Treasury of Death Survey,  
Where Poor and Rich like Tribute pay.  
See what Acquaintance thou canst spy  
Amongst those Skulls, I prithee try:  
Man of Science, prithee show  
Thy darling Friend, or deadly Foe.  
Mankind by thee alive are read,  
And knowst thou nothing of the Dead?    

To the Memory of Sir Richard Raynsford, Lord Chief Justice.  
Qui Consulta Patrum, qui Leges, Juraque servat,  
Quo magnae multaeque secantur Judice lights.  
Hor.  

WHen Princes have to Fate resigned their Sway,  
And a low Grave received the Royal Clay,  
Then even a Second Death they seem to have,  
More buried in Oblivion than the Grave;  
The Charm of some diviner Poet's Flame  
From Darkness has redeemed their sullied Name,  
And sixth 'em shining in the Roll of Fame.  
Not thus, Learned Raynsford, do we write of thee,  
As we could add to thy bright Memory:  
For while thy wondrous Virtues we rehearse,  
We praise not thee; but thou adorn'st our Verse.  
The Muses from their barren Mountains come  
To stock themselves with Laurel at thy Tomb;  
Which, like a sacred Shrine they sinned prepared,  
Where Fame and Honour keep eternal Ward.  
Even I, the meanest of the Tribe inspired,  
(Yet with th' Ambition of the proudest fired)  
Designed some Work that should immortal be,  
Took the true Path, and chose to write of thee.  
Before the Thirst of Wealth and Power began,  
When Man ruled Brutes, and not his Brother Man,  
E'er Laws were formed (for who could wrong pretend,  
When th'Infant-world yet knew not to offend)  
The Angels of Mankind hae little Odds;  
Earth seemed a Heaven, and Men a Race of Gods:  
That Mortals once could such Perfection own,  
In Raynsford's equal Piety was shown;  
Who, in an Age most vicious and accursed,  
Did practice all the Virtues of the first.  
Sill with a peaceful Air his Countenance shined,  
The Emblem of his more pacific Mind;  
That never did the least Contest maintain,  
But of the Graces striving which should reign.  
Even Nature too her signal Care expressed,  
Brought all her rightest Gifts t' adorn his Breast.  
She gave, and gave till she could give no more;  
Yet still his Industry increased the store.  
Beside th'Endowments Bounteous Heaven inspired,  
All Ornament of Science he acquired.  
The Truth from specious Falsehood could divide;  
Had all the Gownmens' Skill, without their Pride.  
He knew whate'er the ablest Doctors know,  
Yet scorned not the most Ignorant and Low:  
Weakness in others never did despise,  
Yet was himself the wonder of the Wise.  
And though no Conquest is so hard to gain,  
As when stiff Disputants Tongue-wars maintain;  
Yet when he reasoned Sophistry stood mute,  
and 'twas a Lecture, rather than Dispute.  
Historians from his clearer Sight supplied  
Their darker Books, they ours, and he their Guide.  
Remotest Ages he kept still in view,  
To present Causes past Examples drew,  
And all things, but his own Perfections knew.  
But most regard to Truth's Divine he bore,  
Where both his Faith and Skill so high did soar,  
Few Churchmen knew so much; none practised more.  
The Law, that did a boundless Ocean seem,  
Was coasted all, and fathomed all by him:  
A dadg'rous Sea, till he like Neptune risen  
The wrangling Winds and Waters to compose:  
Then banished Justice did to th' Courts repair,  
And seemed enthroned while Raynsford filled the Chair.  
Large Fees made then the Cause no heavier weigh,  
The Widows smiled, and Orphans blest the Day.  
Math awful Mien he judged not austere;  
Even those he sentenced thought him not severe;  
For still he pitied where he could not spare.  
With such a mildness fate the Hebrew Guide,  
The trav'ling Nations Causes to decide,  
While Angels from above admired to see  
On Earth such Wisdom and Integrity:  
But that bright Oracle at last expired,  
And ours (too great a Bliss to last) retired.    

Prhoris. From the Metamorph. of Ovid. Lib. 7  
Phocus in in terius spatium pulchrosque recessus  
Cecropidas ducit, etc.  

TO th' inmost Cours the Grecian Youths were led  
And placed by Phocus on a Tyrian Bed;  
Who straight observed Aeolides to hold  
A Dart of unknown Wood; but armed with Gold.  
None better loves (said he) the Hunts-man's Sport,  
Or does more often to the Woods resort;  
Yet I that Jav'lins' stem with wonder view;  
Too smooth for Box, too smooth a Grain for Yew.  
I cannot guests the Tree; but never Art  
Did form, or Eyes behold so fair a Dart!  
The Guest than interrupts him— 'twould produce  
Sill greater wonder, if you knew the Use.  
It never fails to strike the Game, and then  
Comes bloody back into your hand again.  
Then Phocus each particular desires,  
And th' Author of the wondrous Gift inquires.  
To which the Owner thus with weeping Eyes,  
And Sorrow for his Wife's sad Fate, replies,  
This Weapon here (O Prince!) can you believe  
This Dart the Cause for which so much I grieve;  
And shall continue to grieve on, till Fate  
Afford such wretched Life yet longer Date.  
Would I this fatal Gift had ne'er enjoyed,  
This fatal Gift my tender Wife destroyed.  
Procris her Name, allied in Charms and Blood;  
To fair Orythia courted by a God.  
Her Father sealed my Hopes with Rites Divine,  
But firmer Love before had made her mine.  
Men called me blest, and blessed I was indeed.  
The second Month our Nuptials did succeed,  
When (as upon Hymettus' dewy Head,  
For Mountain-Stags, my Net betimes I spread)  
Aurora spied, and ravished me away,  
With reverence to the Goddess, I must say  
Against my will, for Procris had my Heart,  
Nor would her Image from my Thoughts departed.  
At last in Rage she cried, Ingrateful Boy  
Go to your Procris, take your fatal Joy,  
And so dismissed me, Muling as I went  
What those Expressions of the Goddess meant.  
A Thousand jealous Fears posess me now,  
Lest Procris had profaned her Nuptial Vow!  
Her Youth and Charms did to my Fancy Paint.  
A loud Adultress; but her Life a Saint.  
Yet I was absent long, the Goddess too  
Taught me how far a Woman could be true.  
Aurora's Treatment much Suspicion bred,  
Besides, who truly Love even shadows dread.  
I strait Impatient for the Trial grew,  
What Courship backed with riched Gifts could do.  
Aurora's Envy aided my Design,  
And lent me Features far unlike to mine.  
In this Disguise to my own House I came,  
But all was chaste, no conscious sign of Blame.  
With thousaud Arts I scarce Admittance found,  
And then beheld her weeping on the Ground  
For her lost Husband, hardly I retained  
My purpose, scarce the wished Embrace reftaind.  
How charming was her Grief! Then Phocus guess  
What kill Beauties waited on her Dress.  
Her constant Answer when my suit pressed.  
" Forbear, my Lords dear Image guards this Breast.  
" Wherere he is, whatever cause detains,  
" Who ere has his, my Heart unmoved remains.  
What greater Proofs of Truth than these could be?  
Yet I persist and urge my destiny.  
At length she found when my own Form returned,  
Her Jealous Lover there whose loss she mourned.  
Enraged with my suspicion swift as Wind  
She fled at once from me and all Mankind;  
And so became, her purpose to retain,  
A Nymph and Huntress in Diana's Train.  
Forsaken thus I found my Flames increase,  
I owned my Folly and I sued for Peace.  
It was a fault; but not of Gild to move  
Such Punishment, a fault of too much Love.  
Thus I retrieved her to my longing Arms,  
And many happy Days posest her Charms.  
But with herself she kindly did confer  
What Gifts the Goddess had bestowed on her;  
The fleetest Greyhound, with this lovely Dart,  
And I of both have wonders to impart.  
Near Thebes a savage Beast of Race unknown,  
Laid waste the Field, and bore the Vineyards down,  
The swains fled from him, and with one consent  
Our Grecian Youth to chase the Monster went;  
More swift than Lightning he the Toils surpassed,  
And in his Course Spears men and Trees o'ercast.  
We slipped our Dogs, and last my Lelaps too,  
When none of all the Mortal Race would do:  
He long before was struggling from Hands,  
And ere we could unloose him broke his Bands.  
That Minute where he was we could not find,  
And only saw the Dust, he left behind.  
I climbed a neighbouring Hill to view the Chase,  
While in the Plain they held an equal Race;  
The Savage now seems caught, and now by force  
To quit himself, nor holds the same straight course,  
But running counter, from the Foe withdraws  
And with short turning cheats his gaping Jaws.  
Which he retrieves, and still so closely pressed  
You'd swear at every stretch he were possessed,  
Yet for the gripe his fangs in vain prepare,  
The Game shoots from him and he chaps the Air.  
To cast my Javelin than I took my stand;  
But as the Thongs were fitting to my Hand,  
While to the Valley I orelooked the Wood,  
Before my Eyes two Marble Statues stood.  
That, as pursued, appearing at full stretch,  
This Barking after and at point to catch.  
Some God their course did with this Wonder grace  
That neither might be conquered in the Chase.  
A sudden silence here his Tongue suppressed,  
He here stops short and fain would wave the rest;  
The eager Prince than urged him to impart  
The Fortune that attended on the Dart.  
First then (said he) past Joys let me relate,  
For Bliss was the foundation of my Fate.  
No Language can those happy Hours express  
Did from our Nuptials Me and Procris bless:  
The kindest Pair! what more could Heaven confer?  
For She was all to Me and I to Her.  
Had Jove made Love, great Jove had been despised,  
And I my Procris more than Venus prized:  
Thus while no other Joy we did aspire,  
We grew at last one Soul and one Desire.  
Forth to the Woods I went at break of Day  
(The constant practice of my Youth) for Prey:  
Nor yet for Servant, Horse or Dog did call,  
I found this single Dart to serve for All:  
With Slaughter tired, I sought the cooler shade  
And Winds that from the Mountains pierced the  
Come gentle Air, (so was I wont to say) Glade.  
Come gentle Air, sweet Aura come away.  
This always was the Burden of my Song,  
Come 'swage my Flames, sweet Aura come along.  
Thou always art most welcome to my Breast;  
I faint, approach thou dearest kindest Guest!  
These Blandishments and more than these I said,  
(By Fate to unsuspected Ruin led)  
Thou art my Joy, for thy dear sake I love  
Each Desert Hill and solitary Grove;  
When (faint with Labour) I refreshment need,  
For Cordials on thy fragrant Breath I feed.  
At last a wand'ring Swain in hearing came,  
And cheated with the sound of Aura's Name;  
He thought I had some Assignation made,  
And to my Procris Ear the news conveyed.  
Great Love is soon with suspicion fir'd,  
She swooned and with the Tale almost expired.  
Ah! wretched Heart (she cried) ah! faithless Man;  
And then to Curse th'imagined Nymph began;  
Yet oft she doubts, oft hopes she is deceived.  
And chides herself that ever she believed  
Her Lord to such Injustice could proceed,  
Till she herself were witness of the Deed.  
Next Morn I to the Woods again repair,  
And weary with the Chase invoke the Air;  
Approach dear Aura and my Bosom cheer.  
At which a mournful Sound did strike my Far;  
Yet I proceeded till the Thicket by  
With rustling Noise and Motion drew my Eye,  
I thought some Beast of prey was sheltered there,  
And to the Covert threw my certain Spear.  
From whence a tender Sigh my Soul did wound,  
Ah me! it cried, and did like Procris, sound.  
Proc●●s was there, too well the Voice I knew  
And to the Place with headlong Horror flew.  
Where I beheld her gasping on the Ground,  
In vain attempting from the deadly Wound  
To draw the Dart, her Love's dear fatal Gift!  
My guilty Arms had searce the strength to lift  
The beautcous Load, my Silks and Hair I tore  
(If possible) to staunch the pressing Blood;  
For pity begged her keep her slitting Breath,  
And not to leave me guilty of her Death:  
While I entreat she fainted fast away,  
And these few words had only strength to say,  
" By all the ●●cred Bonds of plighted Love  
" By all your reverence to the Powers above,  
" By all that made me Charming once appear,  
" By all the Truth for which you held me dear,  
" And last by Love, the cause through which I bleed,  
" Let AURA never to my Bed succeed.  
I than perceived the Error of our Fate,  
And told it her, but found and told too late!  
I felt her lower to my Bosom fall;  
And while her Eyes had any sight at all  
On Mine she fixed them; in her pangs still pressed  
My Hand, and Sighed her Soul into my Breast.  
Yet, being undeceived, resigned her Breath  
Methought more cheerfully, and smiled in Death.    

VIRGIL.  
The Second Eclogue.  

A Hopeless Flame did Corydon destroy:  
The fair Alexis was his Masters Joy.  
No respite from his Grief the Shepherd knew,  
But daily came where shady Beaches grew.  
Where stretched on Earth alone he did complain  
And in these Accents told the Hills his Pain.  
(Cruel Alexis! hast thou no Remorse?  
Must I expire? and have my Songs no force?  
'Tis now high Noon, when Herds to Coverts run  
The very Lizzards hid, that love the Sun.  
The Reapers home to Dinner now repair  
While busy Thestylis provides the Fare.  
Yet through the raging Heat I search for Thee,  
Heat only known to Grasshoppers and Me!  
Oh was it not much better to sustain,  
The angry Days of Amaryllis Reign,  
Or still be subject to Menalchas sway?  
Though He more black than Night and Thou more fair than day  
O lovely Boy presume not on thy Form,  
The fairest Flowers are subject to a storm:  
Thou both disdainest my Person and my Flame,  
Without so much as ask who I am!  
How rich in Heisers all as white as Snow,  
Or Cream with which they make my dairies slow:  
A thousand Ewes within my Pastures breed,  
And all the year upon new Milk I feed.  
Besides, the famed Amphion's Songs I sing  
That into Theban Walls the Stones did bring  
Nor am I so Deformed! the other Day  
When all the dreadful storm was blown away,  
As on the Rocks above the Sea I stood,  
I viewed my Picture in the smiling Food,  
And if I look as handsome all the year  
To Vie with Daphnis Self I would not fear.  
Ah wouldst thou once in Cottages delight,  
And love like me to wound the Stag in slight!  
Where freshest Mallows grow our Kids to drive,  
And in our Songs with Pan himself to strive!  
From Pan the Reed's first use the Shepherd knew,  
'Tis Pan Preserves the Sheep and Shepherd too.  
Disdain not then the tuneful Reed to ply  
Nor scorn the pastime of a Deity.  
What was that Task Amyntas would not do  
For half the noble Skill I offer you;  
A Pipe with Quills of various size I have  
The Legacy Damoetas dying gave,  
And said, Possess thou this by Right 'tis Thine,  
Amyntas then stood by and did Repine;  
Beside two Kids that I from Danger bore  
With streaks of lovely white ennamelled o'er,  
Who drain the bagging Udder twice a Day,  
And both at home for thy Acceptance stay.  
Oft Thestylis for them has pined and She,  
Shall have them since thou scornest my Gifts and Me.  
Draw near thou lovely Boy, approach and take  
The richest Presents that the Spring can make,  
See how each Nymph with Lilies waits on Thee  
Fair Nais, scarce thyself so fair as she,  
With Poppies, Dassadills, and violets joined,  
A Garland for thy softer Brow has twined,  
Myself with downy Peaches will appear,  
And Chestnuts, Amaryllis dainty Cheer:  
I'll crop my Laurel too, and Myrtle Tree  
Together bound because their sweets agree.  
Unbred and Rustic art thou Corydon,  
Nor will Alexis with thy Gifts be won:  
Nor canst thou hope, if Gifts his mind could sway,  
That rich jolas' would to Thee give way.  
Ah me! while I fond wretch indulge these Dreams,  
Winds blast my Flowers, and Boars defile my streams  
Whom fliest thou? Gods themselves have had abode  
In Woods, and Paris equal to a God.  
Let Pallas in the towers she built, reside,  
To me a Grove's worth all the world beside:  
Lions chase Wolves, those Wolves a Kid in prime,  
That very Kid seeks Heaths of flowering Time,  
While Corydon pursues with equal Flame  
Alexis Thee: each has his several Game.  
See how the Ox unyoked brings home the Blow,  
The Shades increasing as the Sun goes low.  
Blessed Fields relieved by Night's approach so soon;  
Love has no Night! 'tis always raging Noon!  
Ah Corydon what frenzy fills thy Breast!  
Thy Vineyard lies half pruned and half undressed;  
Luxurious Sprouts shut out the ripening Ray,  
The Branches shorn, not yet removed away;  
Recall thy Senses, and to work with speed,  
Of many Utensils thou standest in need.  
Fall to thy Vintage; quit the peevish Boy;  
Time, or some new desire shall this destroy.    

THE Third ECLOGUE OF VIRGIL CALLED,  Palemon, Menalchas, and Damaetas. Men. 
ARe these Damaetas, Melibaeus Sheep?  Dam. 
No, Egon's, Egon gave them me to keep.  Men. 
Ah! wretched Flock! while in Neara's Arms  
He lies, nor from his sight dare trust her Charms,  
So oft this Hireling milks you, that the Dams,  
Are pined for want of Feed, for suck the Lambs,  Dam. 
With such an Impudence thou dost reprove,  
As if we knew not who profaned the Grove;  
Your Posture did the leering Goats inflame,  
But much more lewd the Nymphs that smiled at such a Game.  Men. 
So Myco's new Enclosure on the Heath  
They saw me break and bleed his Vines to death.  Dam. 
As sure as at the foot of yond aged Oak,  
The gentle Daphins Bow and Darts you broke;  
How did your Gall ferment and swell to find,  
The Prize to that deserving Boy assigned;  
And had not present mischief eased your spleen,  
You had expired, and Prey for Vultures been.  Men. 
What will the Master when the Slave's so bold?  
Thou Varlet did not I myself behold,  
While Damon's Goat you trapped upon the plain;  
Lysisea opened loud, but barked in vain,  
Till I cried out aware Thiefs, wake Tyt'rus, wake,  
You than slunk off, and sculkt behind the Brake.  Dam. 
Where hast thou sculkt, that yet thou dost not know  
That Goat was to my noble Conquest due?  
We sung for him, and Damon's self will say  
I won the Prize, though he not dared to pay.  Men. 
Thou sing with him, who ne'er hadst seasoned Quill?  
Or wax-joynd ' Reed, nor knowst one Note of skill,  
But, stroling, in the high-way-Hedges shade,  
Some wretched strain more lewdly thou hast played,  
Not worth the straw whereof thy Pipe was made.  Dam. 
Then try with me, since thou contemnest my Muse,  
This Heifer, lest my challenge you refuse,  
I'll stake; She comes to Milking twice a day  
Yet suckles Twins; what dares Menalchas lay?  Men. 
How shall I make a venture from my flock,  
Whose Parents are so jealous of their stock;  
So strict an eye o'er all my charge they keep,  
One daily counts my Kids, and both my sheep.  
Yet of more Price a Wager shall be laid,  
Since an example you will needs be made;  
This Bowl of seasoned Beach, a work refined;  
Which for his Masterpiece Alcimedon designed;  
Where Grapes with Ivy wreathed so lively show,  
The Clusters seem to melt, the Leaves to grow.  
Two signs within, Conon, and He whose Art,  
Described the Spheres, the Seasons set apart  
To Sow and Reap: no boasting Nymph can say  
Sh'as laid Lip to't; 'tis fresh and new as Day.  Dam. 
I have two Bowls engraved by the same hand,  
Where tuneful Orpheus draws the Woods along,  
Yourself would swear you heard his Lute & Song  
These, yet untouched like sacred Relics stand:  
But both not to be mentioned on a Day,  
With that fair Milcher which I meant to lay.  Men. 
Thou shalt not 'scape; that Shepherd judge our fray  
Who e'er he be, that next shall pass this way;  
Palaemon comes; I'll take sufficient care  
No Slave henceforth shall Master-Shepherds dare.  Dam. 
Begin, I'll answer you; I scorn to budge  
For any Swain alive, nor will our Judge  
Where so much lies at stake his best attendance grudge.  Pal. 
Then since these Trees so sweet an Arbour yield,  
And such convenient Seats this grassy Field,  
Begin Damaetas, than Menalchas you  
Shall sing your Round, as Vying Muses do.  Dam. 
All live by Jove, to Jove first Praise belongs;  
The God that rules the World inspires my Songs.  Men. 
Me Phoebus loves, his Darlings live with me,  
The blushing Hyacinth and Laurel Tree.  Dam. 
Me Galatea when asleep sh'as found  
With Apples pelts, then skimming o'er the ground  
Hides in the Grove, yet wishes to be sound.  Men. 
So fond of late has my Amyntas proved,  
That Delia by her Nymphs is loss beloved,  Dam. 
Ten Wildings, but the fairest of the store  
I sent my Boy, anon I'll send ten more.  Men. 
What Songs of Love were uttered by my Fair,  
Bear them to Heaven ye Winds, and let the Gods have share.  Dam. 
To grace my Birthday let fair Phillis come;  
More fair jolas' to my Harvest home:  Men. 
As Rain to Plants, to Kids the sprouting Tree,  
Sallow to Ewes, Amyntas is to me.  Dam. 
My Songs are plain, yet sound in Pollio's Ear:  
An Offering Muses for your Patron rear.  Men. 
Pollio himself can sweetest strains command:  
This Bulchin shall be his, that spurns the Sand,  Dam. 
Where'er your Pollio his loud Walks designs,  
Let Honey flow, and Brambles change to Vines.  Men. 
Hate Bavius or else love Maevius Notes,  
The same may Foxes yoke, and milk He-Goats.  Dam. 
Fly Boys! no longer gather in these Bowers,  
The Snake lies hid among the smiling Flowers.  Men. 
Come back my Sheep; the stream-worn Banks begin  
To sink, my Ram already is fallen in.  Dam. 
Hast Tyt'rus, to the Pinfold bring my Flock,  
'Tis time to steep their Fleeces in the Brook.  Mem. 
Now milk your Goats, for when the Dog-star's high  
Your Labour will be lost; all than go dry,  Dam. 
How lean my Bulls, and yet how fat my Plain?  
This wicked Love destroys both Herd and Swain.  Men. 
A small Disease to what my Flocks endure,  
It must be Witchcraft makes my Lambs so poor.  Dam. 
Speak, and next Phoebus' Th●e I will adore,  
Where Heaven three els lies open and no more?  Men. 
Say in what Lands the Names of Kings are shown  
On springing Flowers, and Phillis be your own.  Pal. 
Who can decide 'twixt Swains of equal skill?  
You both deserve the Prize, and all that prove  
As you have done the Sweets and Ills of Love;  
Boys, let your Sluices down, the Meads have drunk their fill.   

TO His Friend that absconded Catullus, Epigr. 56.  Oramus si fortè non molestum est, demoustres ubi sint tuae tenebrae, te Campo quaesivimus minore, te in Circo, etc. 

NOw if thou hast one dram of Grace,  
Save a Friend's Life, and show thy Face.  
From me before thou ne'er wast hid,  
I saw thee though the Sun ne'er did.  
Come forth I say thou skulking Elf,  
Save a Friends Lise, and show thyself.  
For thee I've searched, and searched again  
Park, Tavern, Play house, but in vain;  
All these thou long hast jest i'th' lurch,  
I might as well have searched a Church.  
Distracted now I scour the street,  
And seize all Females that I meet;  
Where's my Friend aloud I cry,  
Naughty Creatures, speak or die,  
One, making bare her snowy Breasts,  
Cried— Seek no further, here he rests.  
I'm tired with this Herculean Work,  
'Tis worse than tugging for the Turk.  
Y'are in Intrigue you'll say— be't so!  
With Quality— That may be too;  
Come tell your Conquest then say I.  
That's Pleasure— tother's Drudgery.  
Mischief take Thee graceless Elf,  
Where canst thou thus conceal thyself?  
I think (I'll swear) should I turn Witch,  
To ride upon a liquered Switches,  
Mount Lightning, and out sly the Wind,  
This Sculker I shall never find.    

From Petronius Arb.  
On the Roman Luxury.  That which is in our Power is of no value with us, the Mind loves to be soothed with farther expeclation, and is pleased with the Delay, etc. 

WHat I desire I would not soon obtain,  
That Conquest pleases which was hard to gain.  
Fowls relish best from Colchis distant Fields,  
And those that Africa's Southern Desert yields:  
Through equal Danger sought in either Land,  
Here, Hills of freezing Snow, and there, of burning Sand.  
The Goose that turned the Fate of Rome away,  
Because He's cheap is held a Vulgar Prey,  
The painted shining Drake as much we slight  
Thomas plumed by conscious Nature to invite,  
And cheat the Taste to pleasure through the Sight.  
The Mullet's scorned, our Father's choicest Fare,  
And we are only for the Indian Scare.  
Yet even of this we do repent our Cost  
Unless a Ship or two in taking it were lost.  
Our very Rose must yield to foreign Weeds,  
A jilting Mistress the chaste Wife succeeds.    

To Mr. Gibbons on his incomparable Carved Works.  

WIth silent wonder oft have I behold  
Thy Artful Works by Nature scarce excelled,  
Inhabitants of Air, of Sea and Land,  
And all the fair Creation of thy Hand;  
Those Figures that when touched, are lifeless Wood,  
To sight, are Fishes sporting in a Flood.  
For Banquets some on garnished Tables set,  
Some newly caught and flouncing in the Net.  
Another Scene does Paradise present,  
Where all the feathered Sons of Joy frequent;  
Here singing Birds on dancing Boughs we find,  
Whose tender Leaves seem russled with the Wind.  
Oft from an Oaks firm Trunk with vast design  
Thou carv'st the curling Tendrels of the Vine,  
Where the resemblance to the life is such,  
The Clusters seem to bleed without a touch.  
Nor is the Conquest on the Marble less,  
The hardest Rocks thy softest Forms express.  
In thee Deucalion's Miracle is shown  
While Humane-Race starts up from lifeless stone.  
But stay— 
* The Marble Statue of his Majesty, erected in the Royal Exchange.  What Godlike Figure do I view?  
Dare thy bold hand attempt th' Immortals too?  
'Tis Cesar's Form with such Majestic grace.  
As strikes a Sacred reverence through the Place.  
What Muse great Artist can perform for thee  
That Right, which thou hast done to Majesty?  
From Europe thou long since the Palm hast won,  
But in this Piece thou hast thyself outdone.    

On the Translation OF EUTROPIUS, By Young Gentlemen, Educated by Mr. L. Maidwell.  

AUspicious Youths, our Ages Hope and Pride,  
Exalted minds, and worthy such a Guide:  
To whose rich Skill this wondrous Growth you own,  
Most happy, if your happiness you know.  
Who close entrenched Vutropius could o'ercome,  
And plunder the Records of ancient Rome.  
Unlike my Fate, by Pedants led astray,  
Who at my setting out mistook the way.  
With Terms confounded (such their Methods were)  
Those Rules my Cloud, that should have been my Star:  
Yet groping forwards through the Classicks went,  
Nor wholly of my Labours may repent:  
Strong holds, and hard to take, but in the set,  
No Volume so obscure, no Author met  
So difficult, as William Lally, yet.  
Without Geography led blindfold on,  
And ignorant when each exploit was done;  
Of wondrous Men, and wondrous Actions read,  
But all the while with Fairy Banquet's said.  
All huddled without knowing when, or where,  
Eutopian Fields, and Battles in the Air.  
But you, where e'er your Author's Scene is laid,  
Beyond your knowledge never are tonveyed.  
Great your Advantage, therefore use it well,  
You sail, if you but mod'rately excel;  
Who for your doubts have such an Oracle.  
Consult your Guide, whose Judgement more refined,  
Unties those Knots, Dutch Comments leave behind:  
By which your Authors more obscure become;  
The Fogs of Holland cloud the Wit of Rome.  
While these the vehicle of words essay,  
The subtle Spirit flies unseen away,  
He'll show you where their secret Treasures lie;  
Sublime their sense, and fix their Mercury.  
Let this success, brave Youth, your minds inflame,  
Eutropius conquered, calls for nobler Game:  
Launch boldly next on Tully's flowing Seas,  
And grasp the Thunder of Demosthenes.  
To noblest Sciences devote your time,  
And rarely, very rarely, sport with Rhyme.  
See how your Teacher does the practice fly,  
His Genius, and the waiting World deny,  
Whilst every Muse in vain stands sighing by.  
Even my poor strains some small Applause have found,  
Yet were they with the foremost Laurels crowned,  
With Wit and Sense I'd hold eternal War.  
To be a thriving Blockhead of the Bar.  
Once more all hail to Thee industrious Friend;  
Behold what Blessings on thy Toil attend!  
What Pains thy Methods cost that thus excel,  
Thy Midnight Lamp and Thou can only tell.  
Yet for some longer space thy Tillage ply,  
Thy own Repose and pressing Friends deny,  
Till like Lycurgus' Laws thy Rules succeed,  
And for long Ages leave a noble Breed.    

The First ELEGY OF TIBULLUS: Divitias alius fulvo sibi congerat Auro, etc.  

FOR heaps of careful Gold let others toil,  
And blow whole Provinces of envied Soil;  
Whom neighbouring Foes on constant Watch must keep,  
And Martial Trumpets fright their Midnight sleep:  
While I secure in Poverty Retire;  
With just enough to keep a constant Fire:  
Let but my Vineyard hit, I do not care  
How small of other fruits and Grain my share;  
'Gainst me let Pan and Ceres both combine,  
So honest Bacchus still secures my Wine.  
Myself turned Rustic 'midst the Vines will stand,  
And with the blushing Clusters load my Hand.  
Nor shall I scorn to use the Hedgers Bill,  
Or with the Goad make resty Oxen till.  
Or in my Arms bring home a Kid or Lamb,  
Strayed or forsaken by the heedless Dam.  
Yet while my tural Task so close I ply,  
None more Observant of the Gods than I.  
To Thee great Faunus early Rites I yield,  
With large Lustrations purge my little Field.  
What e'er my Plants on new made Rivers bear,  
The rural God is sure to have his share.  
Wreaths framed for Ceres of such early Corn,  
As on her Temple Gates with Pride are worn.  
Nor does Priapus Self, though coarse and plain,  
Stand always armed for my Defence in vain.  
You Lar who once guarded my large Field,  
And to the small remains Protection yield,  
What ●●● a Villager brought poor and low  
For Obligations such as yours bestow?  
Once Hecatombs came from my Herds unseen,  
Now take a Lamb, you leave my Sheep-cot thin!  
That tender Lamb shall make your Altar smoke,  
The mighty Victim of a little Flock:  
Then Nymphs and Swains from neighbouring Farms shall come  
And lend their Voices to my Harvest home.  
Draw near, ye Gods, nor scorn what my poor Board,  
In homely earthen Vessels can afford,  
Such as first Swains of easy clay did frame,  
 yet so deep as Gold the Delver came.  
My slender Fold ye Wolves and Thiefs forbear,  
Rob fatter Flocks whose stock can better spare.  
Ye Gods, I ask not my Forefathers store,  
Nor even that Wealth myself possessed before;  
I do not care how small the Glebe I till,  
While I may stretch and take my Rest at will.  
With what Delight my constant Nymph and I  
Lie listening to the storms that rend the Sky.  
And when o'er teeming Clouds a Deluge-pour,  
To have our Sleep assisted by the Shower;  
Be this my Lot, and Riches let him gain,  
Who in all change of Seasons ploughs the Main.  
Let me retire and shun the Dog-Star's Heat,  
In shade of Trees by Crystal Fountains set.  
Earth hid thy Gold, and Seas your Jewels keep,  
 any gentle Nymph for my departure weep.  
In fights by Land and Sea let Heroes toll  
And crowd their spacious Courts with foreign spoil,  
While I keep home to guard my Mistress Charms,  
And strive for Conquest only in her Arms.  
Fame I contemn while Delia is my Prize,  
And all the Censure of the World despise.  
For Delia's sake I'd stoop to hold the Blow,  
Or keep a Flock upon the Mountains Brow.  
Oh with my tender Arms about her spread,  
How gladly could I make the Earth my Bed!  
How restless must your Tyrian Carpets prove  
Without endearing joys of mutual Love?  
No spell can such a wretches Sleep redeem,  
Not even the Music of a falling stream.  
How stupid was the Man that left thy Charms,  
Thy World of Beauty for a Name in Arms.  
Let him with all his wished success be Crowned,  
And fix his Banners on far-conquered Ground;  
Let him return with Hills of Trophies won  
And in triumphant Gold eclipse the Sun;  
Let me that while of Delia live possessed,  
And lean my dying Head on Delia's Breast.  
If I have any Foe, to him I yield  
The guilt and plunder of the bloody Field;  
Let him pursue the murdering Trade, for Gold,  
Which, Age forbids to use or Death to hold.  
While I, retired, enjoy my little Store,  
Secure from wanting, and despising more.   
FINIS.