POEMS ON Several Occasions. WITH A PASTORAL.  
To which is Added, A DISCOURSE OF LIFE.  
By JOHN TUTCHIN.  
LONDON, Printed by J. L. for Jonathan Greenwood, in the Black Raven in the Poultry, near the Old Jury. MDCLXXXV.   

THE PREFACE.  
GOOD Poetry needs no Apology, and Bad deserves no Commendation. I would not have the Reader think, I make Mine come under the latter Denomination, merely out of Formality, because I would be so complaisant, as to let Others commend it for me: But, I'll assure you, I do it only to let the World know, I am not so unnatural a Parent, as to venture my Issue in the World, without a Word in its behalf. Of all Writers, Poets are most Happy; for while Others are puzzling their Brains, to find a Reason for their Scribbling; the Question was never put to a Poet, Why he Wrote? There are some Je ne scay quoys in the World, we can give no Reason for: 'Tis as Natural for a Poet to write Verse, as 'tis for a Tory to talk Nonsense, or for an Old Sinner to Die impenitent. The greatest Reason that obliged me to Print these Trifles, was this: I had been so Unfortunate, as to let them go out of my Hands; and had no other way to procure them, but by promising to Print them. If they advantage the Bookseller, I have my Desire. I am sensible enough of my own Failings; and I could heartily beg a Pardon for each Fault; but in so doing, I should discover my own Errors; which, perhaps, every one will not find. If I am somewhat Unfashionable in my Writing, I cannot help it: I never intended to humour a Pedantic Age; nor to turn Bombast, to please Fop's and Fools. I never thought our Language so poor, that it needed to be set off with Words coined in the French or Italian Mould; nor did I ever think of Flying, but I thought on Icarus; and how soon your soaring Wits dwindles to Nonsense. I would make This of Mr. Waller my Maxim:  
Tho' Poets may of Inspiration boast,  
Their Rage, ill governed, in the Clouds is lost:  
But who proportioned Wonders can disclose,  
At once his Judgement, and his Fancy shows.  
I must confess, I never took that for Wit, which was (to use a Newborn word) Unby-any-Fancy-fathomable.  
As for the First Part: The most liable to Censure in it, is the Translations; wherein I have taken a large Scope; but yet, I think, I have not injured the Sense of the Author. Whoever pretends to express the Conceit of a Latin Poet, in a Litteral way, must have a more compendious Brain than I. Neither do I want a sufficient Modern Authority, for this Paraphrastical way of Writing. I had Translated the Best of Horace, his Art of Poetry; but finding it so excellently performed by the Earl of Roscommon, I was unwilling my Weakness should be a Foil to his Wit; and therefore committed it to the Flames, to save Others the Labour.  
As for the Second Part, the Pastoral: I shall only say this, That I meant it for a Piece of Dramatic; but I Writ it before I knew any such thing, as an Art in Poetry.  
Now, the main Question will be, Why I could not have chosen more serious Subjects to have Treated on? But let those ask Youth, Why it is Wanton? As the Spring, Why it produces Buds and Flowers? Ask Rivers, Why they flow? And Fountains, Why they don't withhold their Springs? I could, at this Time, have Published a Poem, that might have got me more Praise, both as to the Regular Parts of the Poem, and the Gravity of the Subject: But it was not my intent to Publish any, especially such as These; but they were merely ex'orted. Neither shall I think they do, in the least, detract from Virtue; since I have Read the Poems of Beza, Heinsius, our own Donne, etc. But, at worst, it may pass for a Pardonable (if not Commendable) Extravagance, in one of my Years. I wish, all the Wild Oats sown by the Youth of this Age, did produce no worse an Harvest, than This. Poetry, tho' it be an useless Study, it is an innocent Recreation; and the Advantages that arise from it, are best known to them that exercise it. But those that cry down Poetry, in the general, forget that Part of the Sacred Writings were delivered in Verse: And it's well known, what Use Divines have made of the Heathen Poets, in their Writings. If they Read 
(a) De Verlt. Rel.  Grotius, 
(b) De Verit. Rel.  Du Plessis, 
(c) Gnom. Hom.  Duport, 
(d) De Causa Dei.  Burthogge, and many more I could mention, they'd find the Ancient Writings of the Poets not so inconsiderable. They all seemed to be Inspired by a Divine Spirit, and to have some faint Glimmerings of the Eternal Mind diffused on their Souls; as One of them says: Est Deus in nobis, sunt nos commercia Coeli.  
Nay, Plato goes farther; he calls them, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, The Sons of the Gods. I must confess, the Abuse of Poetry has been very great in these latter Ages; and since Mr. Cowley, there has been none that has endeavoured to Rectify it. But if ever I exercise my Hand again this way, it shall be on some Graver Subject. I hope, here are no Expressions can offend the Tenderest Reader; if there be, I declare I meant nothing less. But the Reader has this one sure Antidote; If he lets it alone, 'twill do him no Harm.  
naturalists tell us, That the Spider can suck Poison out of the sweetest Flower: And so a depraved Inclination may do out of the best Sense. Poetry is not altogether a Picture of the Poet's Mind and Inclination; but a Picture of the Thing they represent: Tho' it may be, like bitter Drinks, disgustful to the Palate; yet it is good for the Health of the Whole: And tho' it may be airy in the Expression, it ought be good and solid in the Moral.  
John Tutchim.   

Miscellanies.  
The FIRST PART.  

A satire AGAINST VICE.  

NOW blessings on ye all, ye Virtuous Souls!  
Who boundless Mankind brought to Laws and Rules.  
Eternally may hallowed Incense burn,  
In Sacred flames, around your pious Urn:  
Your rational Laws gave Piety its rise;  
And your dread hand first struck the Monster Vice.  
We (thanks to heaven and you) can plainly see  
The modern cheat of grave Iniquity.  
But blessed (and more if heaven can do't) be you,  
Who naked Virtue boldly did pursue:  
When Swords, and direful Spears before you lay,  
You greatly trod in the Imperial Way:  
And grizly Death triumphantly did meet;  
Faggots your Grave, and Flames your Winding-sheet.  
To make your ratio'nal Tenants true and good,  
You bravely sealed 'em with your dying blood.   

Vice, thou first born of Hell! and blacker far,  
Than the black Fiends, damned Pluto's Subjects are:  
Supinely thou hadst slept in thy dark Cell,  
Where mighty Sinners in oblivion dwell;  
And ne'er untimely had this monstrous Birth,  
Had not some Devil brought thee up to Earth:  
Soon thou hadst been deposed from thy Reign,  
And ne'er hadst seen the lightsome world again;  
Had not some Earthly Fiends adored thy rise,  
And settleed on its Throne the Monarch Vice.  
Now though the sceptre's in thy impious hand,  
And like a potent Prince thou dost command;  
Amongst the Fools thy Empire's bound does spread,  
And amongst the solid Wise, near showest thy head:  
To the lewd Stews thou hast thy great resort,  
And meanly sneakest to the lascivious Court:  
Pimps, Bawds, Buffoons, and all the numerous throng  
Of wanton Lechers guard thee all along:  
Lewd noisome Courtesans support thy reign,  
And fill the crowd of thy inglorious train.  
Tell me, ye Lordly Sots; who Vice adore,  
You, who a Patent have to Lust and Whore;  
Who mighty Sins, and great Estates bring forth;  
Rare pompous things to agrandize your worth:  
Tell me, wherein your mighty pleasure lies;  
The sweet delicious good of charming Vice;  
That makes you thus the Strumpet Vice adore,  
And make each Sot your Pimp, & Bawd your Whore?  
Factors for Hell, of the right stamp and kind,  
The younger brood of the Infernal Fiend,  
For Vice's traffic all alike designed.  
Sinners of all degrees come rolling on;  
From Earls, and Dukes, even down to Fop Sr. John.  
Sinners of little Wit, and great Estates,  
Of mighty bulks, your first and second Rates:  
On whose lewd stock such numerous branches grow,  
And from whose, loins such goodly thousands flow;  
Would make one think, to reassume his reign,  
The Malmesbury Devil's come again.  
He, the bold Hector of the Gods, could Write,  
Rail, and explode the Powers above in spite.  
The Atheists Monarch, and the Courtier's tool,  
The Scholar's Laughingstock, and Heavens Fool.  
Always unwilling, still unfit to die;  
The very dregs of damned Philosophy.  
Irrational Brute! in whose gross Brain we see  
Nonsense digested in Epitome.  
Couldst contradictions join, and couldst persuade  
Th' immortal Gods are unimmortal made?  
Armed with thy Pen, with direful brow wast seen,  
Just like some God-defying Maximin.  
Out from thy Mouth a threatening Bullet flies;  
And Godlike Curses scale th' impartial Skies.  
The echo of thy breath the Woods repeat,  
It's violent storm makes the strong Tides retreat,  
And puffs the very Gods from off their seat.  
As if thou Sins Columbus meantest too be,  
Thou view'dst the Orb of large Iniquity.  
And having viewed each Creek, thy fatal breath  
Thou didst resign to Chance, that made thy Earth.  
And thus our mighty Atheist lived, thus fell  
The goodliest Brand that ever burnt in Hell.  
Ah! Had I Wit but equal to my Spite,  
With what a learned malice would I write?  
Not one of Lust's lewd Company should be  
From my more generous rage and passion free.  
No, not those Kingly Sots, those Virtue's Rods,  
Who for their sinning have been counted Gods.  
Here, Bawdy Cupid, I would have thee know,  
I scorn thy Quiver, and contemn thy Bow!  
Thou the great God of Lust! whose Empire spreads  
Where Courts & Stews erect their ominous heads.  
Grand Fiend! who art invoked for mighty aid;  
And for thy fatal help with Sins art paid:  
False as thy Children, Whores, whose every Prayer  
And plighted Oaths, like thine, dissolve in Air.  
Cruel as Tyrants, when to Empire brought,  
Puffed up with Blood, with direful Vengeance fraught.  
Who slew the mighty Turnus, I can tell;  
And by whose hand great Agamemnon fell;  
Why weeping Phillis slew Demophoon's Bride,  
And in the Waves the loved Leander died;  
Why sad Oenone through the shady Groves  
Laments for Paris, her unhappy Loves;  
Why mournful Philomela does tell her tales  
For absent Tereus through the hollow Vales.  
'Tis you, God Cupid, and your Mother's Doves,  
Do make the Scenes of all our Tragic Loves.  
Thou stain'dst with Mortal Blood, thyself to please,  
The Marriagebed of the Danaides.  
Old Polyphemus had the Stone from you,  
With which the Wretch his Rival Atis slew.  
You made the poison and the fatal strife,  
Which took away fair Sophonisba's life.  
'Tis you invent what bloody Lovers act,  
And laugh at Mischief and a cruel Fact:  
Nay, your own Priests, the gladsome Bards, you wrong,  
And give 'em Tears for Mirth, and Groans for Song.  
Thou exiled Ovid didst to Scythia send,  
The best of Bards, the Muse's dearest Friend;  
By thy disdain he'd lost his Poet's Name;  
But from his hand some mournful Letters came:  
Came, but unbound, ungilt, of colours bare;  
The genuine offspring of a wanderer.  
Though at thy hand one Bard did mercy find,  
Thou mad'st him wretched ere Castara kind.  
One of his Gloriana does complain;  
And Daniel woes his Delia but in vain:  
Nay, greatest Cowley did his Love survive,  
And all his life without his Mistress live.  
If ever pity from thy bowels came,  
It was to crown some base adulterate flame.  
Each wand'ring Leecher does thy shrine adore,  
Enjoys his Mistress and ten thousand more.  
Thou thy descent hadst never from above;  
Thou art the God of Lust, and not of Love.  
If ever mortal shall thy Godhead own  
Cursed be the hand rebuilds thy bankrupt Throne;  
Plague, Pestilence, and Fire, and what is worse,  
Thy own dear Pox attend him with a Curse.  
And you, fond Maids, if e'er again you dare  
On's Altar lay a bawdy Hymn or Prayer;  
Heaven blast your Beauty and your native Pride,  
Till you're abhorred, and he undeifyed.  
May you with Curses be in triumph born;  
The universal hiss of public scorn.  
May all your glances unsuccessful prove,  
And force Men's Envy when you would their Love.  
Hence, hated Vice, from our once happy Land,  
ere thy ignoble tribe did here command:  
Here no triumphal honours shall be paid;  
Altars to Vice, and Sacred Unction made.  
The grand Imposture here will ne'er prevail:  
With thy polluted breath swell full thy Sail;  
Steer thy lewd Ship to some damned people's coast,  
Whom God has cursed, and have their reason lost:  
There thou may'st temples build & bear the sway;  
And with auspicious pride may'st rule the day:  
There may'st impose thy rigorous commands;  
Have converts numerous as Arabian Sands:  
There uncontrolled thou may'st in safety dwell,  
Blessed with th' influence of powerful Hell.  
Much happier we, thy Empire disavow,  
Abjure thy Precepts, and contemn thy Law:  
Let gaudy Prowess, for grave Sloth be seen;  
Let Virtue strut, where creeping Vice has been:  
Let no fantastic fool obstruct its way,  
Or with vile Clouds obscure its ardent ray;  
But in imperial guise let it march on,  
And view around the British Horizon:  
Then to our fair Augusta bend its way,  
And there in sweet repose its blessing lay:  
Our fair Augusta, once the Nations pride,  
To whom new honours brought each flowing Tide;  
Now, by its people's crimes, a Desert made,  
And though a well built Town, a very shade.  
Once more, damned lewdness, I invoke thy name!  
Show me some mystic Art to spread thy shame;  
No more a peaceful name I e'er can use,  
'Tis spite and madness shall inspire my Muse.  
Damned be your Plays, and all Stage-Fops that write!  
Immortal satire is my whole delight:  
Let all your Stygian Votaries adore,  
And find new Paint for this Lethaean Whore;  
I'll of her crimes a just resentment get,  
And plague, and scourge her with the force of Wit.    

A satire AGAINST WHORING.  

SLaves to Debauchery and Lustful Rage,  
That drain the Streets, and prostitute the Stage,  
Begot in heat of Lust on Hackney Whores,  
Souls wrapped in Excrements of common Shores.  
Standing for patterns, 'fore the Limners Eye,  
To draw the Lustful God Priapus by.  
Pox take ye all! This Curse I doubts too late,  
It long has been, 'tis like, your Whoring Fate;  
Then all the Courses ever Sodom knew,  
Or pocky Jilts, light on your Race and You;  
Inflamed by Lust, may you with Passion move,  
And have the Pox returned instead of Love;  
May you with stinking Breathes pass unadored,  
And Breath a fulsome Clap at every Word;  
May Dreams disturb by Night, & Whores by Day,  
And ravenous Shankers eat your flesh away;  
May Sores without, and fervent Heat within,  
Consume and waste away your loathsome Skin;  
May you be so Debauched, so vilely Lewd,  
Till grown so great, Lust cannot be renewed;  
Till one sad Ache expels another Pain,  
And Claps in circles meet with Claps again;  
Till Stone, and Gout, and Stranguries contend,  
Which to Old-Nick your lustful Soul shall send;  
Halting may you in Life's dull Journey go,  
Condemned to Stews above, and Hell below;  
May bawling Bawds about your Dwellings roam,  
And all your Spurious Issue haunt your home;  
Having spent all your Wealth in Lechery,  
May you unpitied on a Dunghill die;  
May all these Curses, and Ten thousand more  
Than all the angry Gods have in their store,  
Light on you; then may Darted Vengeance come,  
With hoarded Bolts of Wrath to raise your Tomb.  
Gods! why o'er Nature did you take such Care,  
In making Women tightly Fair?  
Why build you dazzling Altars like the Skies,  
And do provide no better Votaries  
Than Men? Lascivious Men! whose lustful frown  
Spoils all that's fair, and pulls what's Sacred down;  
Will all enjoy, and Married be to none,  
Though Nature dictates only to use one.  
In broken Language Beasts by pairs do prate;  
The cooing Dove bills but his single Mate;  
But Man, unbounded Man! Attempts all ill,  
His Lust is grown as Boundless as his Will;  
That Name called Husband is of Terror full,  
The State Uneasy, Melancholy, Dull;  
The Kennel, Kitchen, Oyster, rampant Whore,  
Before a Wife, 's the Creature they Adore.  
What Sot would wander, that has by his side  
The Powerful Charms of a Smiling Bride?  
Cool as the coldest Night, and Chaster far  
Than Anchorets, or Vestal Virgins are;  
Whose equal Love, does equal Heat Inspire,  
Prompted by Kindness, not a base Desire;  
In whose Embraces gladly pass away  
Whole tedious years in but one Halcyon day.  
Fate Favours him, that makes him spend his Life,  
Doomed to those Golden Chains, to please a Wife.    

To the Memory of Mr. JOHN OLDHAM.  

WHen some great Prince, or greater Poet dies,  
He spends his tears in vain, who vainly cries.  
All, soon or late, Life's glimmering Lamp bequeath  
Unto the Fatal Puff of gloomy Death:  
Mark you bold Mortal now, that threats the Skies,  
How soon he's Born, and how soon he Dies!  
Whilst we of Life and endless pleasures prate,  
Death whets his Scythe, and hastes the Sands of Fate:  
But sure our Oldham should his stroke survive,  
And to th' ungrateful Age his blessings give:  
Much better Fate fresh Laurels would bestow,  
And kindly took him from his toils below.  
Scarce can the greatest Cowley get from me  
A praise, when thy immortal Verse I see;  
Crithaw and Cowley both did live in thee.  
Let the dull Fools admire the golden Ore,  
And 'midst their pompous boasts be always Poor:  
I in thy praise immortal Notes will prove,  
Such as I whilom wrote in Mirth and Love.  
Ah! would to God I had the Pen that wrote  
Of all the toils the famed Achilles sought;  
Of all the valiant Acts that e'er were done,  
By brave King Priam, or King Priam's Son;  
The kindest Verse that Princes Courts adorn,  
Or Godlike Poets sing beneath the Morn:  
Each charming Note did with true praise agree;  
My much loved Oldham, should be kept for thee.  
Phillis laments thy fall, and weeps, thee gone,  
And sadly in her Alcove sits alone:  
She vows, no more the wont Song shall please,  
Now you, blessed Man, your joyful Notes do cease:  
She hates the giddy Crowd, the noisy Town,  
And on some baleful Grotto sits her down;  
Bites her red Lips, and tears her aubourn Hair;  
She courts wild Frenzy, and, as mad, Despair:  
Let Deserts be my home, in Caves my Bed;  
Let the sad Yew, she cries, adorn my Head:  
Ye wieldy Satyrs my companions be,  
And in the shady Groves come mourn with me.  
But how shall I, blessed Soul! my grief express,  
Whose mournful accents are confined to Verse.  
Should I, like Niobe, a Stone become,  
Cold as thy Grave, and senseless as thy Tomb;  
From hence no praise could to thy worth arise,  
For Fools in Monuments outdo the Wise:  
Then take what Nature gave me, lasting Verse,  
The solid glory of a Shepherd's Hearse.  
True real Wit did Cowley's Statue rear,  
More the good Muses than the Monarch's care;  
'Tis stupid Mavius must the Laurel wear.  
How well would Laurels have adorn thy Head,  
Whose Grave is now with mournful Cypress spread:  
Much happier Soul! from Life's dull business free;  
Free from the nauseous world we daily see;  
What are the Joys of which our Cullies boast?  
And what the toilsome pleasure thou hast lost?  
What amongst us busy Mortals couldst thou find,  
But Seas of Sins to drown an honest mind?  
To see of Bawds and Pimps a numerous herd;  
To see vast Coxcombs, and great Rogues preferred,  
Would a worse Fatigue be than tedious Death;  
This Air is too polluted for thy Breath.    

TO THE Memory of the Right Honourable THE EARL of ROCHESTER.  

CEase, Poets, cease, you are undone;  
The Muse's dearest darling Son  
Is to the blessed Elysium gone.  
If Poets have in Heaven abode,  
There he'll commence a happy God:  
For sure no Earthly Star could shine,  
With such a lustre, so Divine.  
Oh! Had I trembling at thy Death,  
Stood to suck in thy parting Breath,  
That charming Philtre, which could prove  
The source of Poetry and Love.  
Ah! who shall Paint thy Passion right?  
That lasting Torch of endless Light.  
What manly force thy temper swayed?  
Yet gentle as a Lovesick Maid.  
Unhappy I, by self-conceit,  
By Fool's applause, and Vulgar Cheat,  
Thy Fancy strive ' to imitate.  
Let me, Ah let me! but presume,  
From thy gay Wings to pluck one Plume;  
How would I brustle then, and spread  
My Feathers on the Muse's Bed?  
But how dare I approach thy Shrine,  
That's Sacred all, and all Divine:  
Yet let my lesser Fire burn,  
And be attendant at thy Urn;  
When Orpheus, all lament and cry,  
And senseless Stones, why should not I?  
Under you Beech but another's Day,  
Young Philocles and Cloris lay  
To hear thy Pipe, and hear thy Lays,  
That shorter made the tedious Days.  
But now as much they grieve and moan;  
The Lord Adonis dead and gone.  
Loved Silver Thames, so famed in Song,  
With groaning streams does glide along:  
Dropping like Tears, its Waters fall,  
As if it wept thy Funeral.  
When I the fair Corinna see,  
I grieve, I sigh, to think on thee;  
But more I grieve when I peruse  
The Bawdy flashes of thy Muse.  
This to the Publishers was due,  
Not Licenced and Allowed by you:  
But the lewd wretches took the pain  
To act the Bawdy Lectures o'er again.    

ODE.  

I.  
Heard by the Scenes of Cruel Fate  
The neighbouring Groves o're-spreadin● boughs,  
The discontented Calia fate  
Bewailing her unhappy Joys:  
Ah faithless Swain, she cried, have I  
So Loved you then!  
Melting my Soul in Ecstasy,  
A Passion I ne'er thought could die.  
Ah faithless Man!   

II.  
How vain then are the sweets of Love?  
How weak the pleasure it allows?  
Since disregarded are above,  
False Oaths and broken vows.  
A thousand times he swore by Jove  
He'd Love me still:  
He called upon the Powers above,  
And all the Deities of Love,  
To prove his skill.   

III.  
Then gently thus he says, my Dear,  
Thou that excell'st the Paphian Queen,  
ere I untrue can prove, the Year  
In lasting Frosts shall still be seen,  
Yet he's untrue, while Caelia dies  
By base despair:  
With moans she rends the yielding Skies,  
Mixing her undistinguished sighs  
With common Air.   

IV.  
Ah think, Ingrate! upon the Plain,  
The pleasure we, once happy, had;  
When thou were't styled, the Lovely Swain,  
And I was called the Beauteous Maid  
When after Death you shall repair,  
The Shades to see,  
Amongst the Troops of all the Fair,  
And Lovers Ghosts, you'll find none there  
That loved like me.    

THE Tory Catch.  

I.  
A Friend of mine, and I did follow  
A Cart and Six, with Brandy fraught;  
We sat us down, and up did swallow  
Each a Gallon at a draught:  
The sober Sot can't drink with us,  
May kiss coy Wine with Tantalus.   

II.  
With Music fit for Serenading,  
We did ramble to and fro;  
Then to Drink and Masquerading,  
Till we cannot stand nor go:  
One Leg by Bacchus was quite lamed,  
Tother Venus' had defamed.   

III.  
At the Tavern we did whisk it,  
And full Pipes did empty drain:  
We eat Pint-Pots instead of Biscuit,  
And pissed 'em melted out again:  
We beat the Vintner, kissed his Wife,  
And killed three Drawers in the strife.   

IV.  
In the Street we found some Bullies,  
And to make our valour known,  
We called 'em Fops, and silly Cullies,  
And knocked the foremost of 'em down:  
And with praise to end the Fray,  
We, like good Soldiers, ran away.   

V.  
To the Playhouse we descended,  
For to get a grain of Wit,  
Our own with Wine was so defended.  
We sat spewing in the Pit,  
Amongst Drunken Lords and Whoring Ladies,  
To see such sights whose only Trade is.    

HYPERMNESTRA TO LINUS.  
The ARGUMENET.  
Danaus', King of Argos, had by several Wives Fifty Daughters; his Brother Aegyptus as many Sons. Danaus' refusing to Marry his Daughters to his Brother's Sons, was at last compelled by an Army. In revenge, he commands his Daughters each to Murder her Husband on the Wedding Night, All obeyed but Hypermnestra, who assisted her Husband Linus to escape, for which being afterwards Imprisoned, and put in Irons, she writes this Epistle.  

THOSE words I would have spoke, your hasty flight  
Would not allow, here trembling, lo!  
I write;  
I thank the Fates, that do the time afford  
To use my Pen before I use my Sword:  
To make the Tragedy well understood,  
I'll write the Epilogue in wreaking Blood,  
That when my Fame a bloody Wife survives;  
Preserved by me my much loved Linus lives.  
The dead of Night that favoured your Escape,  
Showed me pale Fear in its most ugly shape.  
Why are the Destinies so cruel grown?  
But newly Married must we part so soon?  
Why from Embraces do we make such haste?  
This the first Kiss, and must it be the last?  
Scarce were you gone, but in my Father came;  
His Eyes spoke Terror, and my Sister's shame;  
Turning his raging Eyes about, he spied  
The Sword unsheathed, and bloodless by my side.  
Does Linus live? he said, why is not he  
Silent in Death as all his Brethren be?  
He vowed that I was to my Sires disgrace,  
And swore that I should die in Linus place.  
'Tis true, my Sisters have their Husbands slain,  
And only I the guiltless Wife remain:  
Let my dread Sisters in their fury rave,  
And make the Marriage Bed a dismal Grave;  
Who can with unrelenting Eyes desire,  
To see their Husbands by their sides expire,  
And make the Marriage Torch a Funeral Fire.  
Can I more fierce than Wolves or Tigers prove,  
In that soft Bed, which was designed for Love?  
Can my weak Hands lift up the pointed Steel,  
Against that Breast? Can I a Husband kill?  
Whilst he, poor innocent, does sleep so fast,  
Must wake no more, but slumber out his last?  
Let fatal Lovers their keen Poniards take,  
And on themselves their bloody Vengeance wreak:  
Yet fame shan't say, with unrelenting Steel,  
Sad Hypermnestra did her Husband kill.  
How my cold Limbs with trembling Terror shook,  
When in my Hand the Fatal Sword I took?  
I held it o'er thy Breast, aimed at thy Heart;  
But mine, alas! did only feel the smart.  
My trembling Hand made me the Body miss,  
And for a deadly Wound I gave a Kiss.  
Must fatal deeds appease the angry Skies?  
A Husbands Blood's too dear a Sacrifice.  
Good natured Man! he meant no Death for me;  
Shall I both Cruel and Unconstant be?  
Had I been nursed in some wild Desert place,  
Sprung of a Lion or a Tiger's Race;  
So that in all my Life I ne'er did see  
The gentle Rules of soft Humanity,  
I from the Marriage Bed might bear away  
The guilt of those that do their Husbands slay:  
But you, kind Heavens! have given me a Soul,  
That Malice can't deceive, nor Fraud control;  
Fixed as your Bolts, it never shall remove,  
From Rules of Honour, and from Laws of Love.  
Though the keen Sword present unto my sight,  
The coming Terrors of Eternal Night;  
I still will live my Linus dearest Wife,  
And thank the Fate that rids me of my Life.   

And now, my Dearest, if you chance to hear  
These sadder Groans the raging Storms bear:  
If once this Letter be so blest to come  
To your Abode, your melancholy Home;  
Kiss the lamenting Paper, and then make  
Some mournful Obsequies for your Wife's sake.    

CORINNA TO PHILOCLES.  
The ARGUMENT.  
Philocles, a Swain of Sicily, falling in Love with the beauteous Corinna, a Nymph of the Plain (after Mutual Vows of Constancy) gets her with Child, and then flies into Scythia; whereupon she writes him the following Letter.  

TO thee, Dear Philocles, to thee I send,  
The much abused Corinna's faithless Friend.  
Scythia, a Sanctuary sure allows  
For broken Oaths, and unregarded Vows.  
Ah, perjured Youth! to leave those dearest Arms,  
He once confessed were mere Circean Charms!  
Cast at my Feet he oft would panting lie.  
While growing Love did turn to Ecstasy:  
Pensive he looked, he groaned, he breathed forth sighs;  
Sad was his Heart, and languishing his Eyes.  
Grown Drunk with gazing, he would reeling stand,  
And, drowned in Raptures, kiss my charming Hand:  
Then all in Passions, by the Gods he swore,  
I was his Saint, and me he would adore.  
Before our Friends he unseen looks would take,  
And undiscerned assignations make:  
Duty to them would make him words refrain,  
But's Eye made Love in a fur nobler strain.  
His Eyes grown languid, did soft Vows impart:  
(The Eye's the natural Index of the Heart)  
Yet after Vows and Tears he Faithless proves;  
The just result of our too conscious Loves.  
When to the silent Groves Corinna hies,  
Those guilty Scenes of our once dearest joys;  
Here I can find no sweets, nor wont ease,  
But sadly mourn my absent Philocles.  
Down to the spreading Beech I go, whose boughs  
Have oft bore witness of our mutual Vows:  
There see our names upon the paler Rind,  
In Amorous Characters together joined:  
By annual growth, the Names now distant show;  
Ah! must the Lovers be at distance too?  
Relentless Fate! in vain do Mortals grieve,  
And chide at Destiny they can't retrieve.  
Who could have thought our joys so fresh and green,  
So big with Love, had ever Mortal been?  
Uninterrupted sweets ran rolling by,  
In boundless days, like vast Eternity.  
No hours big with Fate our rest annoys,  
Nor sudden change our unadulterate joys.  
Indulgent Nature strove with care to please  
The loved Corinna and her Philocles:  
Whilst he the lovely Swain did sit and sing,  
Beneath the pleasures of the blooming Spring.  
The neighbouring Swains lay silent on the Plain;  
And Philomela did chant her Lays in vain:  
Down goes his Pipe, and qualms of Love come on:  
(Then Mixing Vows and Kisses all in one)  
Ah! tender Nymph, he said, was beauty given;  
(Beauty the chiefest Gift of bounteous Heaven)  
To die like yielding flowers before the Sun,  
And give no scent before its race be run?  
Ah! lovely Mistress of my kindest fires,  
Who in my active Soul begettest desires;  
Bless with a smile my melancholy hours,  
And I Eternally am styled yours.  
Ah! cruel fair One, smile! and smiling say,  
My anxious days you will with Love repay.  
And here I smiling said, (for who cold hold,  
When ravished looks the Heart's loved message told)  
" Know, Philocles, your Love I've always seen,  
" And ere this time it had rewarded been.  
" With gazing Eyes I oft your form did view;  
" When you were sick I sympathised with you:  
" But Lovesick Maids will any thing endure;  
" Refuse the Physic, though they love the Cure.  
" But now I find, in vain I long have striven;  
" Excuse me, if I blushing say, I Love.  
" Take no advantage o'er my weak replies;  
" In silence cherish a poor Virgin's sighs.  
Then here he swore, by all the Powers Divine,  
He would be always True, be always Mine.  
But, Ah! says he, How weak the Joy does prove,  
If we still rest on that slight Thing, called Love?  
Sighs are but Airy Blasts, that move the Heart,  
And drive the winged downy Cupid's Dart.  
Kisses are empty Prologues to the Play,  
And, like the Morning Dew, soon melt away.  
Ah! 'tis Enjoyment must our Souls inspire,  
And prove the Vigour of our Youthful Fire.  
Tell me, sweet Maid, How blessed Venus sped  
With all the Pleasures of the Genial Bed,  
When she Adonis drew unto her Breast,  
And, with stolen Joys, the Youthful Lover blest?  
This was a better Act, and pleased her more,  
Than, o'er rude Hills, to see him chase the Boar.  
If Languid Looks were all Love's Mystery,  
The Dead, in Tombs, might court as well as we.  
Yield, Beauteous Virgin, ere the Time comes on,  
When nought but the Desire shall fresh remain;  
Ere fumbling Age shall soberer things persuade,  
And you be called that hated thing, Old Maid.  
Yield, yield, I say.— But here I stopped his Speech,  
And, with alluring Words, did him beseech,  
Never again that impious Passion name,  
So vilely great, and so adulterous flame,  
The just procurer of our future shame.  
Thus the Almighty Gods will angry be,  
And who can brook a thundering Deity?  
Oh! Mention not the Gods, he says, for they  
In amorous sports do pass whole years away.  
No Mortal here on Earth, or God above,  
Is such a Lecher as Almighty Jove.  
Great rampant Whores, Punks lewd and overgrown,  
And sprawling Bastards do surround his Throne.  
Out from unlawful Beds the Heavenly Race  
Did spring, and ever since have loved the place.  
We never yet have wicked Lovers been;  
None but the guilty should lament for Sin.  
How many sweets we lose, and dear delights,  
While the dull Priest performs the Nuptial Rites:  
And silly Children grieve their Parent's mind,  
And fret themselves when Nuptial knots they bind.  
Happy Macareus, who didst gladly prove,  
The pleasing joy of an incestuous Love;  
To toy with Canace would slily creep,  
When storms had rocked his Windy Sire asleep.  
For this she never sighed, though she did mourn  
His tedious absence, and his wished return:  
But e'er I leave my Mistress and my Dear,  
The Gods shall come and shall inhabit here.  
Come down, ye Gods, from Heavenly Seats come down!  
The perjured Swain is from his Mistress gone,  
And left a Teeming wretch to sigh alone.  
Think, loved Apostate, how this tender Child,  
And his sad Mother you have thus beguiled.  
Methinks his Infant voice does screeching cry,  
In my loathed Womb, his and my Misery:  
My Childbed Throes come on, yet I take care  
Of seeing thee, my Faithless Wanderer.  
When drowsy Night comes on, all Creatures fly  
To sweet repose, yet restless still am I  
One Night the drowsy God came to my Bed,  
And with soft slumber did my Temples spread:  
Senseless I lay, as if I had been dead.  
Just as sick Lovers use, a pleasing Dream  
Came softly on, and for its lovely Theme,  
Before mine Eyes thy faithless Image came.  
Feeble with Love; my utmost force I tried,  
To lay the airy Phantom by my side:  
But struggling hard, a parting Kiss it drew,  
And from my Arms my empty Lover flew.  
But when I waked, the Sun had decked my Bed,  
And with the Night my sleepy Vision fled.  
Good Gods! I cried, is this the bliss we prove?  
This, this the promised Joy of Cupid's Love?  
Then grown distracted, in my rage I tore  
The golden Locks of my once lovely Hair:  
Whilst in my dismal Breast fear meets with fears,  
I wash my Lily Hands in briny Tears:  
You may believe't, my Eyes are watery still;  
And, while I write, upon my Paper spill  
Their liquid Juice: A Juice well known to me,  
Yet such as Lovers never care to see.  
Why do I weep, when woe is past relief;  
But there's a certain pleasure found in grief.  
▪ 'tis vain to speak to Woods and Rocks, 'tis vain  
To cry to thee who 'rt harder, perjured Swain:  
Yet read these Lines, read 'em as sent by me;  
The only Legacy I leave to thee.  
When unconfined at Liberty you room,  
Think on the wretched Nymph you've left at home▪  
And when to windy Mountains you repair,  
Waft one kind sigh to poor Corinna here.  
Whilst thou dost Scythia's Frost and Snow discover,  
(The fittest Climate for so cold a Lover)  
Think how in scorching Love at home I burn,  
And all the Night thy much loathed absence mourn.  
Thy tattered Flocks lie moaning o'er the Plains;  
A prey to greedy Wolves, and Pirate Swains:  
Thy lowing Herds, by thee once loved so well,  
In hoarser moans their Master's absence tell:  
Scorched by the Summer's heat, while these expire,  
I die, I die, by no less scorching fire.  
If to this Country▪ you shall chance to come,  
And view again your melancholy home,  
Here you'll behold your dear Corinna's Tomb.  
Than to my Tomb one tender sigh commit,  
Unless your Heart be grown as hard as it.  
Then write upon my Tomb, my Ghost t'appease,  
Here lies Corinna, killed by Philocles.    

CLEOPATRA TO ANTHONY.  
The ARGUMENT.  
Anthony having lost most of his Men and Arms, is like to be overcome by Caesar: Ventidius promises his Parthian Army, consisting of Twelve Legions. The Soldiers refuse to fight, because, they say, they only fight for Cleopatra; who was the Cause of Anthony's losing so many Battles. Anthony, drawn by the Importunity of Ventidius, and the Necessity of repairing his Honour on One side; and obliged to stay by the Charms and Soothing of Cleopatra on the Other, is doubtful whether he shall submit to Love or Honour: Resolves, at last, to regain his former Trophies; and gives out, he is going to fight Caesar. Cleopatra hearing this ill News, sends him the following Letter.  

AND will you go, my Soldier, to the Wars?  
Leave harmless Combats, Love's tumultuous Jars?  
Can you in Winter-nights' more safely rest  
On Beds of Steel, than Cleopatra's Breast?  
A greater Bliss, my Mars, it cannot be,  
To Fight with Caesar, than to Toy with Me.  
But why should I my Counsel thus afford  
(My Discontented, and my Angry Lord)  
To You? Yet sure, in Justice, you should view  
Your dearest Mistress, bid one kind Adieu.  
Did you but know the Fears that vex my Mind,  
You would, my Lord, you would, you would be kind.  
Pensive I lie, depressed by Ominous Fate;  
And all the Ills on the Unhappy wait.  
I know Venridius frowns, and says, That I  
Am the Contriver of your Destiny.  
I counselled you to fight at Sea; you did:  
I from the Fight a frightful Woman fled.  
Oh! had I been a Man, a Heart like Yours,  
I never then had fled from Caesar's Powers,  
I grant all this; yet challenge you to tell,  
Did you e'er know a Woman love so well?  
To me, when Young, my Nurse would often say,  
Thy tender Limbs are made for Love and Play▪  
Noble Ambition does attend the Fair;  
And handsome Ladies still presumptuous are:  
But my Presumption, surely, none can blame;  
Or term my Loving an Ambitious Flame.  
No Magic Spells, or Philtre's do I prove,  
By which Medea got her Jason's Love.  
Our softest Joys no Hydra Serpents yield;  
You, with rough Bulls, ne'er plough the Flinty Field.  
'Tis to my Eyes my fatal Conquest's due;  
'Twere they persuaded, and they charmed you.  
Yours fixed on Mine for ever seemed to Live;  
Then you were kind, and easy to forgive.  
I value not your Wealth, nor your Disdain;  
Only return the Love I gave, again.  
The Rabble say, I with your Foes accord;  
Betray your Country, and betray my Lord:  
Witness, ye Gods! how I have kept my Vows;  
My plighted Oaths, and all my Faith allows!  
Witness ye Scenes of Joy, that we have seen,  
That I am True, and still have Constant been!  
True to your Bed; Why then should perjured Fate  
Persuade you, I am false unto the State?  
And what with Politics should Women do?  
They to Love's Onacles should pay their due,  
And to their Lords be Constant still, and True.  
Fie, Anthony! Are these your Vows? You swore  
By your dead Sire, whose Image than you bore,  
You swore, you did, that I should bear the sway;  
Your Heart was mine, and Me you would obey,  
Ventidius flatters you with Hopes of Fame;  
And says, From War you'll raise a lasting Name:  
Bids you take noble War for rusty Peace,  
And Fields of Honour for Inglorious Ease:  
Feel Juno's Rage, and Jove's important Ire;  
His bluest Thunder, and his palest Fire.  
But yet, How light does Fame and Honour prove,  
Put in the Balance with immortal Love?  
Love, at whose Altars mighty Monarches fall;  
And tender Love ought to bear sway in all.  
Let Soldiers Fight, and Tyrant's Kings subdue,  
And greatly strutt amongst the Martial Crew:  
In Conquered Fields their Monuments may raise,  
And write in Bloody Letters all their Praise:  
heavens grant us Peace, and crown with Mirth our Days.  
Can you a greater Fame or Conquest win,  
Than that already you have got, a Queen:  
And were I not a Queen, I could despise  
Your gaudy Shows, and Roman Gallantries.  
I to my Native Splendour could repeat;  
For Pageant Pomp does still attend the Great.  
'Tis Love that makes me act the Things I do;  
Makes me demean myself, to look on You.  
I (when in Egypt) had a Thousand Eyes  
Were constant Slaves; for You I all despise.  
When I upon the Silver- Cydnos Rowed,  
You on the Shoar, How solemnly you bowed?  
I marked your Motion to the Neighbouring Grove:  
It seemed distracted, all confused with Love.  
With longing Eyes upon the Shoar you stand,  
And press, among the Crowd, to see me land.  
I entertained your Passion, Loved you too;  
And, Heaven knows, advanced more than my due:  
I cherished all your Love 'twixt Hope and Fear;  
For Cleopatra then was Caesar's Dear:  
Yet leaving him, to your Embraces run;  
And fond sought the way to be undone.  
Now you'll leave me amidst my Envious Foes;  
Yourself to Dangers, and to Death expose:  
Your plighted Oaths, and Faith you bear away;  
If Love won't do, than I command you, stay.    

Translations OUT OF HORACE.  

BOOK II. ODE 14.  Eheu, fugaces, Posthume, Posthume, Labuntur anni, etc. 

I.  
AH Posthumus! How quick our years  
Do slide away!  
The winged hours for none will stay,  
Virtue, that always pillars rears,  
Eternal Monuments of Fame,  
Leaving behind a lasting Name,  
To her best Friend it can no time allow,  
Or keep deep Furrows from his aged brow.   

II.  
Shouldst thou a thousand Bribes, as Offerings bring,  
To the I●fer●al King  
'Twould move no pity in his hardhed Breast;  
'Twould give thy weary Soul no rest.  
He the bold Stygian water awes:  
He gives to Geryon and to Titius Laws.  
Ah sooty Lake thy waves, alas.  
We all or soon or late must pass.   

III.  
All the bold Mortals, that do sport  
On Earth's round Globe,  
From the base Rabble to the Court;  
From Plush and ErminsIto the homely Robe,  
Must all descend to Charon's Boat, and be  
Wasted by him to vast Eternity.   

IV.  
In vain we Martial fury shun;  
In vain from swelling Waves we run;  
In vain we fear the ominous time;  
Of sickly Autumn's prime.  
Down to the gloomy shore we soon must go;  
Through Pitchy Waves must row,  
To dread Cacytus, that amazing shore,  
Where Danaus' wicked race does roar,  
And Sisyphus does roll his Stone  
In endless grief, alone.   

V.  
Thou soon thy pleasant Lands no more, shalt view;  
To thy dear smiling Wife shalt bid a long adieu.  
Nought of thy shady Groves with thee shall go,  
But the sad Cypress, that does mourning show.  
Thy nobler Heir with joy shall spend  
All thou didst save, and Feast his Friend;  
And wash the Stones with better Wine  
Than that which makes the Bishop's ruby Noses shine.    

BOOK II. ODE 4.  Ne sit ancillae tibi amor pudori, Xanthia Phoreu, etc. 

I.  
TO love a Serving-Maid no Sin can be:  
Servants to us in Love are free.  
The rough Achilles fell in Love  
With the white Skinned Briseis, and did prove  
Her humble Servant, once her lofty Lord.  
The Son of Telamonius, so famed in War,  
His Female Slave adored.  
A Girl fair  
Was all the great Atrides did esteem,  
Of all the Wealth and Victories got by him.   

II.  
How canst thou tell but that fair Phillis may  
Be born of as noble clay  
As that which makes those Pageants we call Kingst  
Thou knowst not but she springs  
From a great Regal Line;  
And weeps because the Gods have cast her down:  
Believe me, Phocus, she deserves a Crown.  
She needs must be Divine;  
She, who no breach of Oaths did ever know,  
Who for an honest fame could wealth for-go,  
Must needs of some high Parentage be born.  
ay, whom Age doth seize  
With its incurable Disease:  
I, who all wanton wishes scorn,  
Admire her Face, her Arms, and every Limb,  
And think it worth my just esteem.    

BOOK II. ODE 16.  Otium Divos rogat in patenti Prensus Aegeo, etc. 

I.  
WHen the poor Mariner can nought espy  
But Sea and Sky,  
Caught in the large Aegean Waves,  
The dismal Clouds chase away the Day;  
The waning Moon no Light does give,  
The guiding Lamps of Heaven are gone away;  
Then the poor Merchant prays the Gods to live,  
Peace, cry the Thracians, lame with War,  
The Medes as quiet as their Quivers are,  
Would be. But Peace, alas! is sold  
Not for rich gems, nor Purple, nor for Gold.   

II.  
'Tis not, Oh Grosphus! treasures great  
Can make perplexing care retreat;  
'Tis not the Spears, with Horses joined,  
Remove the tumults of the Mind;  
Or drive the busy thoughts from off one's Bed.  
His Mite a Million is, who lives so well,  
As no base Fear molests his sleep:  
No great Ambition does disturb his Head,  
Whose Board with homely Dainties doth excel,  
Above a King's desire;  
Set off with one old Salt, that once did grace his Sire.   

III.  
Why for Eternal Pleasures do we strive,  
In a decaying mortal life?  
Why must our station be removed  
From that dear Country once we loved?  
Why do we seek another Air,  
And leave our Native Land?  
The change of Climates does not change our care:  
Who awes a Nation can't himself command.  
Care, from the sturdy Ships won't keep adoof,  
Though they were all of Canon proof:  
The Card, the Compass, Helm and all the Art  
That Neptune's briny Subjects know,  
Perplexes the poor Seaman's Heart:  
Sometimes he dreads the Rock, and then the Seas,  
And knows not where to go.  
Fear trips it faster than frighted Hind,  
Flies with more haste than the rough Easter Wind,  
To rob a Mind of Ease.   

IV.  
He that at present has a joyful Mind,  
ne'er thinks on what's to come:  
He scorns to think on things that are not made,  
Without a Being are in Chaos laid.  
What pleasure can he find  
To dream of future care, or think of future ease?  
He keeps his pleasant home,  
And mixes his sad thoughts with those that please.  
None that the Gods have blest we happy call;  
For whom they happy made, was never blest in all.  
How soon the great Achilles did to Death  
Yield his departing Breath?  
How soon Death took him hence,  
Who had Millions slew?  
Soon did old Tithon bid his House adieu:  
His snowy Hairs could not their wearer save,  
From the inexorable Grave:  
What is denied to thee, to me may fall by chance.   

V.  
Thou tell'st thy hundred Flocks of bleating Sheep,  
Art pleased when thy Sicilian Heisers low:  
No Music is so good,  
As Neighing Mares, that rattle through the Wood:  
Thou in bright Tissues, in deep red dost go;  
When the good natured Gods have given me,  
A Soul of Verse, a Poet's name,  
That's writ on the chief Pinnacle of Fame;  
A Heart from all perplexing Passions free:  
Free from the Cowards cold, and Madmans' Heat▪  
But scorns the Vulgar, and contems the great.    

BOOK III. ODE 9  Donec gratus eram tibi Nec quis quam, etc. 

A DIALOGUE BETWIXT HORACE and LYDIA.  

HORACE.  
WHen I alone my Mistress did enjoy,  
When She was kindly free, not vilely coy,  
When no smooth Lad about her Neck did cling;  
I vied in pleasure with the Persian King.   

LYDIA.  
When you no Beauty loved but only mine,  
And Lydia was no slave to Chloes shrine,  
Then fairest Lydia had a lasting Name,  
Preceded Ilia in the rank of Fame.   

HORACE.  
The Thracian Chloe now has got my Heart,  
Sweet at her Lute, excelling in her Art:  
For whose dear sake I joyfully would die,  
If I might gain the living Maid thereby.   

LYDIA.  
Calys, Ornitho's Son, a worthy Name,  
Scorches my Heart with no unequal flame:  
For whom I would a double Death enjoy,  
If Heaven would give me the surviving Boy.   

HORACE.  
What now if Venus should the game retrieve,  
And Marriage bonds betwixt us two should give?  
If I should hate fair Chloes Aubourn Hair,  
And ope' the Gate to Lydia, as my Dear?   

LYDIA.  
Though thou wert wilder than the raging Sea,  
And he as beauteous as the Milky-way;  
Thou angry as the Seas that threat the Sky,  
In thy loved bosom I would live and die.      

ODE.  

I.  
AND why in red dost thou appear?  
Heavens! how you look, and how I gaze?  
Can you the Martial Livery wear,  
And with it tread the Lover's Maze?  
Though red and furious you are seen,  
I'm sure you're white and kind within.   

II.  
For you I sigh, I grieve alone;  
Give me your Heart to ease my pain;  
I'll kindly mark it for mine own,  
And give it back to you again:  
Free from times blot, my Name shall rest,  
Enrolled so safe within your Breast.    

ODE.  

I.  
CUrse on your Friends! Why should they interpose?  
I never sought their Love:  
And if my Loving you they disapprove;  
You say, You Love, and you I chose.  
Base, awkard Sots! To tell of Blood and Name,  
And Titles, and Estate, and talk of Fame;  
Things not worth the having;  
Of which Young Lovers never have a Thought:  
Though they by Fools are dearly bought,  
They are not worth the saving.   

II.  
Would you that Young tawdry Coxcomb wed,  
Your Father so admires?  
No; bind him to your Waiting-Maid,  
She's fit for his Desires.  
I grant him store of Wealth, and I have none;  
But yet my Wit will last, when all his Money's gone.  
Poor silly Fool! Must he my Rival be,  
'Cause he's set off with gaudy Shows,  
Lace, Ribbons, and fine coloured clothes?  
And this is all his Equipage and Worth.  
I too will dress my Sword, and set it forth  
In the new fashioned Pedantry;  
It shall make Love as well, nay, better far than he.   

III.  
Let the old Fumblers dote at home,  
And make long Bags for whom they please;  
In wanton Joys young Lovers roam,  
And Fancies crosses still their Ease.  
Friendship and Love all Ties will break,  
And will, from Nature, Licence seek.  
Why then, Dear Caelia, should your Friends make such ado  
About your Jointure, and your Portion given?  
Which, if once done, ere 'tis obtained by You,  
Their Souls will be either in Hell or Heaven.  
ne'er think of Wealth, and painted Joys,  
That please the Men, and cheat the Boys:  
The same to All's the God of Love;  
All Affections he does move;  
Over all he spreads his Wings,  
Making Beggars equal Kings.  
ne'er from his Dictates then remove;  
But give your Person where you gave your Love.    

ODE.  

I.  
WEll; Caelia's Married! If she be, I do not care,  
Since some unmarried are.  
I thought, at first, my Love could never die;  
But now I find it otherwise.  
When Fuel's taken from the Fire,  
How soon the hottest Flame in gloomy Darkness dies?  
Smoak puts out Flame, Marriage Desire;  
All things must wait  
The Revolution of their Fate.  
The Gods for us decree, and we for them obey;  
They manage us like Engines, They the First Movers are;  
We move in a Circumscribed Sphere:  
They make the Night, and They the Day:  
They manage Love, and Leagues command:  
They make those Vows above, to which we Mortals set our Hand.   

II.  
Did Caelia think, she angered me,  
When she forsook her Vow?  
No; such a Sot I ne'er could be,  
To die in Love for You.  
Mad Men upon themselves their Poniards prove;  
I am not Mad, for I am not in Love.  
Shall I in some dark Corner die alone,  
'Cause I have lost a Faithless One?  
No, Madam, Thanks to you, my Heart is grown  
As hard as any Stone:  
And it has the Attractive Virtue too;  
It draws a Thousand Beauties to it every Day,  
Clear as the Sun, and sweet as May;  
And, in my Eyes, more Bright than You.   

III.  
Now, Heavens be praised, I'm free!  
And thank my Mistress for my Goal-Delivery.  
Like some poor Prisoner, from a Tyrant got,  
I'm surfeited with Ease.  
Sunshine of Beauty was too hot;  
But now, being to the Shadow got,  
I find that Love was a Disease.  
Now shall I, as your Gallants do,  
Rail at her, that me forsook,  
In whose Words I Pleasure took;  
Curse her, cause she is untrue:  
No; that's beneath a Man, much less a Lover,  
His own dear Love to hide, or Mistress Crimes discovers.    

ODE.  

YOU merry Virgins, mad Maids,  
Of busy London Town,  
Abuse the Country sad Maids,  
And every Rusty Clown:  
Your Beauties all shall wither,  
You Bawds and Whores together.  
For if your Painting  
Were but wanting,  
Where would your Beauty be?  
The Glances of your Eyes,  
By which you do surprise,  
Are all to Art, not Nature, due:  
All your Charms are untrue;  
Your faithless Vows do with your Paint agree.    

ODE.  

I.  
WHere discontented Lovers walk,  
Hard by the gliding Brooks, and smiling Springs,  
And mournfully together talk  
Of Love's vain Joys, and fruitless Things:  
Here I once scorched by Heat of Love and Day,  
Cupid and Phoebus both my Ruin meant.  
ay, chiding Fortune, here expiring lay:  
Alas! cried I; What means she now to do?  
Am I her Prisoner, and her Exile too?  
Come, Savage Tigers, come! and quickly tear  
This dismal gloomy Breast,  
By Tyrannous Love oppressed;  
Come quick, and all your cruel Tortures show:  
But, when you find my Heart, I charge you, spare  
Her Image there,  
Though she be crueler than you,  
And thus I cried;  
And thus sad Echo soon replied:   

Enough, enough of Lover's Pain;  
Poor wretched Mortal, thou hast spent in vain  
Enough of fruitless Pain.   

II.  
Then on the Grass I lay me down again:  
Sleep, sleep, I cried; Sleep, wretched Mortal here!  
Eternal Thoughts of Joy begets Despair,  
And foolish Loving ever is a Pain.   

Could thou enjoy thy scornful Dear,  
Soon She must part from Thee, or Thou from Her.  
See yonder Amorous Waters, how they sport,   

And the coy Bank, their Mistress, court;  
And though they would in long Embraces stay,  
They only kiss the Banks, and glide away.  
Of Thee, my Dear, but one soft Smile I crave;  
And those that Love like me, so small a Gift may have.   

And thus I cried;  
And thus sad Echo soon replied:  
Enough, enough of Lover's Pain;  
Poor wretched Mortal, thou hast spent in vain  
Enough of fruitless Pain.    

A LETTER TO A FRIEND.  

THanks for your Praises! were they due, I would  
Pamper myself with Joy, and think 'em Good.  
Loaden with Laurels for mine unknown Art,  
You paint me Great, although beneath Desert.  
But if Maecenas had a lasting Fame,  
Because the best of Poets used his Name;  
Then Merit justly may to me belong,  
Because 'tis sung by your all-skilful Tongue.  
Oft have I blamed my Stars, that I should be  
Plagued with this soft deluding Poetry▪  
This Charming Mistress, that has kept my Heart,  
Quite from a Child, by her bewitching Art.  
From her glad Fountain I can always find  
A pleasing Philtre to make Phillis kind:  
For tell me that coy Maid could ever be  
Cruel, when urged by Charming Poesy?  
Verse is the Poet's Beauty, Wealth and Wit;  
And what soft Virgin won't be won by it?  
But, wearied with Delight, I always try  
Against this Spell to find a Remedy.  
By good Divinity I think to find  
A Sovereign Remedy for Soul and Mind:  
But then, with Holy Flame, I straight do burn,  
And all to Hymns, and Sacred Anthems turn.  
Nay, when the Night does waking Thoughts redress,  
And Guardian Angels with our Souls converse,  
To busy Mortals is the sleeping Time;  
I dream and slumber all the Night in Rhyme.  
Then puzzling Logic next I take in hand;  
But this, Alas! can't Poesy withstand.  
Barbara, Celerent, I with Ease express,  
And yoke tough Ergoes into well-made Verse:  
My Faithless Lover's Syllogism tries;  
I by stout Logic find their Fallacies.  
Then Scheibler, Suarez, Bellarmine I get,  
And sound the depth of Metaphysic wit:  
Straight, in a fret, I damn 'em all at once,  
And vow they are as dull as Zabarel or Dunce.   

Credit me, Sir, no greater plague can be,  
Than to be poisoned with mad Poetry:  
Like Pocky Lechers, who have got a Clap,  
And paid the Doctor for the dear mishap;  
But newly eased of their nausceous pain,  
Return to their wanton Sin again.  
So Poets be they plagueed with naughty Verse,  
They never value good nor bad success:  
Or be they trebly damned, they will prefer  
Their next vile scribbling to the Theatre.  
Well might the Audience, with their hisses, damn  
The Bawdy Sot that late wrote Limberham:  
But yet you see, the Stage he will command,  
And hold the Laurel in's polluted Hand.  
In slothful ease, a while I took delight,  
And thought all Poets mad that used to write.  
So long I kept from Verse, I thought I'd lost  
My Versing Vein, and of my Fortune boast:  
But having trial made, I quickly found  
My store renewed, in numbers strong and sound.  
With ease my happy fancies come and go,  
As Rivulets do from Parnassus' flow.  
Then finding that in vain I long had tried  
The Poet from the Tutchim to divide;  
I charming Poesy make my delight,  
And propagate the humour still to Write.   

Our new Divines do alter not one jot,  
From what their Tribe in older times have wrote;  
Except, like Parker, to have something new,  
They broach new Doctrines, either false or true:  
A Public Conscience, which for nought does pass,  
But proves the Writer is a public Ass;  
Who the new Philosophic world have told,  
Have for a new but varnished o'er the old.  
But all Poetic Fancy can't draw dry,  
Th' unfathomed Wells of deepest Poesy,  
The Bifront Hill is always stout and strong;  
The Muses still are handsome, always young,  
The clearest streams of Crystal Helicon  
Do o'er the Pebbles in sweet Rhyming run,  
Why then should you, Dear Sir, (that have pretence  
To the extremest bounds of Wit and Sense)  
Lay by your Quills and hold your Tune-ful, Tongue,  
While all the witty want your pleasing Song?  
Once more renew those Lays that gave delight,  
That cheer the Day, and glad the gloomy Night:  
May with your dying breath your Verses end;  
Thus prays your constant, and   
Your truest Friend, J. T.   

ON THE DEATH OF M RS E. P.  
Who Died of the SMALLPOX.  

I.  
A Dreadful day it was, a lowering time,  
Nature appeared in black, a Mourner too;  
When first I heard the Message read,  
The doleful Message, that my Friend was dead.  
Weep on ye Clouds, weep on till you grow dry,  
At least as free from Tears as I:  
Who'd lavished all my stock before,  
And wept, till I could weep no more,  
For Sylvia fled to the Elysian Shore.   

II.  
Scarce was loved Sylvia Buried;  
Scarce had I  
Cleared up my Eyes, and wipeed 'em dry,  
But lo! another Bill of Fate appears,  
Black as the Night, and all bedropt with Tears:  
It told, (Oh, that I ne'er had heard it told!)  
How my best Friend was gone;  
How pinioned, like a Dove, she fled,  
And drove the beauteous Aether on,  
Till she had forced her passage to the Immortal Dead.   

III.  
Hail, Sacred Maid; for sure we know,  
Thou art the same above thou wast below.  
Mistaken Mortals! so unjust, unkind;  
While thou were't here we thought thee Womankind,  
And called thee so; but now thou'rt gone,  
What shall we do to recompense?  
How shall we this impiety atone?  
How oft have we blasphemed thy Name,  
And said, she's humane frame?  
Ah, dire Mistake! in our dull acts of Sense.   

IV.  
'Tis true, thou hadst a Body, but it was  
Clearer than transparent Glass;  
Through which thy Virtue did appear:  
The gaudy pleasure of the blooming Year,  
Was never half so fair.  
Ah, ungentile Disease! to take thee hence;  
To crop this flower, ere 't could enough dispense  
The sweets of Wit, and solid fruits of Sense.   

V.  
So does some Godlike Hero walk among  
The crowded pressing of the Mortal throng:  
Th' illiterate crowd knows not his real worth,  
Or what immortal power brought him forth:  
Sees not, through homely weeds, his Soul's array;  
Mistakes his Heavenly Frame for common Clay.  
Unpraised, unenvied, for a time does roam,  
Till kinder Heaven does take the Godlike Creature home.   

VI  
She, like a Comet, was but shown;  
A beauteous Comet in the glorious Skies,  
To tell the World the Events of Fate;  
The falls of Crowns, and overthrows of State:  
But e'er the Omens are entirely done,  
See, in the dark, the Constellation dies!  
Too bright for Mortal Eyes to gaze upon.   

VII.  
How soon the Good do spend their days?  
How fast their downy hours post along?  
The Bad their Monuments do raise,  
And fill their time with Mirth and Song.  
Goodness and real worth one day can't give;  
She from this lightsome world had never gone away,  
If solid Virtue could have bribed her stay:  
For all that we call good or great,  
In her assumed a glorious Seat;  
And with her too, I doubt they went,  
Except some Female did their flight prevent.   

VIII.  
The Monster Man long since has worn out  
His rags of Virtue, which he did retain:  
In Goodness weak, in Villainies grown stout;  
He vows he'll ne'er be good again.  
Stupid he lies, and senseless in his Vice;  
He shared the Fall in Sin, but not in Virtues Rise.  
Woman alone does climb the Holy Hill;  
But Man below remains a Devil still:  
They ne'er expect in Heaven a room,  
Only good Poets and good Women thither come.   

IX.  
Blessed Maid! once more accept my tuneless Verse,  
Which does in linked proportion not agree:  
No Poet ever trod this Path, no Woman ever lived like thee.  
Rude and unthought, I must my grief express;  
Soft Words and tuneful Notes were here unfit,  
For Grief of Harmony could ne'er admit.     

PART II. THE Unfortunate SHEPHERD. A PASTORAL.  
 
LONDON, Printed for Jonathan Greenwood, at the Black Raven in the Poultry. 1685.   

Personae.  

Amoretta, A Nymph of the Country.  
Ephelia, A scornful Lady of the City; descended from the Royal-Line, and come in disguise into the Country.  
Proba, Her Maid.  
Corydon, A Shepherd.  
Thyrsis, Another Shepherd, in Love with Ephelia.  
Damaetas, An old Herdsman.  
Damon, A wealthy Shepherd.    

THE Unfortunate SHEPHERD. A PASTORAL.  

Thyrsis and Corydon.  Cor. 

OUR Flocks beside you ' Mountain coolly graze,  
And joyful bleat Echo from the place:  
The roaming Ewes to the cool shadows run,  
And the soft Lambs avoid the scorching Sun,  
Beneath this Hawthorn-Tree let us sit down,  
And talk of pleasures we can call our own:  
For the same Fate our roving Flocks does keep,  
At once does aid the Shepherd, and his Sheep.   Thyr. 

There was time, indeed, when I could sing,  
With charming Notes could stop the hasty Spring;  
Talk of my pleasures in the Myrtle shade,  
Where the good Shepherds all supinely laid:  
Made a resounding Chorus, charmed the Wood,  
And, like loved Orpheus, stopped the listening Flood.  
To entertain her honest civil Guest,  
Nature herself prepared a pompous Feast:  
Sleep from the Grass we took, Drink from the Flood,  
Solwes from the Hedge, and Wildings from the Wood  
Cool were the days, our Heads with Ivy Crowned;  
To each glad Swain a lasting Health went round:  
But now, Alas! my pleasing Joy is fled,  
And Grief, resistless Grief! come in its stead.   Cor. 

Now by that mighty God, whose Blessings can  
Augment the jolly Fold, our mighty Pan;  
If Love has made you sad, your cruel grief  
Shall from my solid comfort find relief.  
If hurtful Seasons have destroyed your Fold,  
Half of my Flock is at your service told.   Thyr. 

My Flocks are healthful, and their number great,  
The thriving Twins about their Mother's bleat.  
No rave'nous Wolf of late has filled his Paws  
With my young Lambs, or with 'em tried his Jaws:  
But angry Cupid— Cursed be the Fatal Name!  
Has fired my Breast with an Eternal Flame.  
Ah! why should Shepherds such disasters prove?  
Why should mean Swains be plagued with melting Love?  
Cursed be the Light, that ushered in the Day!  
And Cursed these Eyes, that did my Heart betray!  
Ah! Corydon, 'tis Love.   Cor. 

Love let it be:  
'Tis Love that makes us like the Deity.  
I know you're young, in Lover's Art unskilled;  
What's one Man's pleasure, has another killed.  
You grieve for Love, which does my time devour,  
And fills the empty space of every hour.  
Were't not for Love, I'd quit this World below,  
And to the Tombs of senseless Lovers go:  
If after Death we're empty shadows made,  
Rather than not b' in Love, I'll court a Shade.  
Happy's that Man, whom Love does make its friend;  
Does in his active Breast its gentle fire send.   Thyr. 

Wisely you talk of Love, who never felt  
The flame so long has in my bosom dwelled:  
Fond to Love at the extremest rate,  
And to receive again Disdain and Hate.  
Witness, ye Heavens! how oft have I sat down  
On the cold Earth, and sadly grieved alone.  
Sadly the Winds and Clouds above me fly;  
But neither sighed or wept so much as I.  
The Floods that useed in hollow murmurs groan,  
'Slid silent by; and pitied my sad moan.  
The neighbouring Philomela, late lost her young,  
Fills not the Woods with a more mournful Song:  
But yet for all the toilsome Love I've born,  
I meet with cold neglect, and public scorn.   Cor. 

Disdain and Hate the Lover oft does prove;  
Yet Hatred often turns to kindest Love.  
Were she a Goddess, and of Race Divine,  
Her lofty Head should stoop to Cupid's shrine:  
I tell thee, Shepherd, she will soon relent,  
And all her offered injuries repent.  
She'll Love that Man she now disdains to own;  
And like an humble suppliant stooping down,  
On Cupid's Altar, offer up a Prayer;  
And for each angry Word, sha'll shed a Tear:  
Believe me, Shepherd, for I well do know,  
The deepest mysteries of Love below:  
Full Twenty years its Sacred Books I've read,  
And of its force a long experience had.  
Trust then to Love, for sure 'twill ne'er disdain,  
So blithe a Shepherd, and so good a Swain.   Thyr. 

Had you but seen, my Corydon, how she,  
My cruel fair one, cast disdain at me;  
You'd sink beneath the pressure of the pain:  
No more with wont Notes would fill the Plain.  
In her hard Breast Disdain and Anger strove;  
Just like the Thunder of Almighty Jove.  
Lightning flew from her Eyes, a Bolt each Word;  
And in my pensive Breast it loudly roared.  
Ah! who can live, when angry Woman's skill,  
With each disdainful Word, can slily kill?  
I thought, when first I saw her, she had been,  
A gentle Nymph, companion of the Green.  
Good Gods! how well she Danced? How low she Bowed?  
And paid obeisance to the gazing Crowd?  
Smiled on each lovely Swain, and looked such Words,  
As kindest Strephon to his Dear affords.  
Who could imagine Laurels would become  
A scornful Nymph, Born at prouder Rome?  
She boasts her Worth, and Rome's exalted place;  
Her highborn Blood, and Priam's mighty Race:  
Vilely she makes a Virtue of Disdain,  
And loathes the very name of Country Swain.  
But yet, Alas! I'm doomed to Love her still.   Cor. 

You're led not by your Reason, but your Will;  
Are there not Nymphs enough here of our own?  
What need have we to court the stupid Town?  
From Stinks and Pride, ignoble Poverty,  
And all the Plagues damned Citizens do see,  
Good God Almighty Pan, deliver me!  
Take this fine Fool, has overcome thy Heart,  
And home to the inglorious Town depart:  
There hug thy Chains, thy painted Slavery;  
Damon and's Chloe ne'er shall envy thee.   Thyr. 

Now kindest Fate to Thyrsis put an end;  
I ne'er shall gain my Love, yet lose my Friend.  
On me bestow your angry Bolts in store;  
No wreathed Mortal ere could wish 'em more. Exit.    

Amoretta and Ephelia.  Amor. 

Ho, Corydon! did not I meet Thyrsis?  
Sure I did; and paler far he looked,  
Than some dead Corpse, that's carrying to its Cell.  
What means it, Corydon? Is he in Love?  
His Eyes looked languid, and he walked along  
Just like a shadow, or an empty Ghost.   Cor. 

How soon these Women find out Love's Disease?  
Dear Nymph! did not you feel his Pulse,  
Observe its Motion?   Amor. 
By Pan, I did not!  Cor. 

Yes sure; 'tis Love does grieve his troubled mind:  
Restless he lies at Night, and all the Day,  
With Groans and Sighs, lie fills the wont Plains:  
He ' as broke his Pipe, and quite forgot to Sing;  
There's nought of Man left in him but the Name.   Eph. 

We came not here to talk of Love, but Sport.  
Where are the jolly Swains, must Dance the Ring?  
And where the Bays, the Victor's Sacred Meed?  
I long to see the nimble Youths unstrip,  
And take their chosen Nymphs into their Hands.  
But now we talk of Mirth, where's old Damaetas,  
My good adopted Father?    

Damaetas:  Dam. 

Here I am!  
I must confess, I'm Old and Feeble grown;  
But yet my Mirth and Age increase together:  
Winter has seized my Brow, but yet some heat  
Informs my aged Breast: and though it cannot  
Melt down my Snowy Hairs, and turn 'em black;  
Yet I can Kiss as well as e'er I could.   Eph. 

What! with that Beard so like a prickly Furz?  
Sure it must be some wretch has bought her Grave,  
And given Death its Fee already, that would take  
Deucalion's Grandfather to be her Bride.   Am. 

What pleasure can it be to Wed a Lout,  
Whose only Exercise is Hunting Snails:  
And their dull nimble course so far exceeds  
Thy awkard Limbs, they've broke thy aged wind.   Dam. 

Well— I will give you leave to jeer me too;  
For 'tis the property of your weak Sex  
To laugh at Age— But I would have you know,  
But t'other day, I Danced at Damon's Door,  
And leaped quite o'er the Threshold.   Eph. 
Had it any?  Amor. 

Did not you tumble o'er, and make it pass  
For a good Leap?   Dam. 

Women and Fools are the worst sort of cattle;  
So headstrong, so unruly, and so proud!  
You scorn my grizly Hairs, my awkard Limbs:  
Yet I must tell you, Nymph, I've been a Man,  
Could Dance, and Sing a jolly Roundelay:  
And though my Age has made me leave the sport,  
Yet I desire it still, and love to see  
The bonny Youths and Wenches tripped away  
Over the Green: You know not half the Mirth,  
The gladsome pleasure whileome I enjoyed.  
Here's my Friend Corydon does know full well:  
He has seen me Dance, old as I am, and stood  
Astonished to see my Comic sport.   Cor. 

By yonder Plain, I have! I've seen this Man,  
For all his Age, Blithe as a Woman, Merry as a God.  
Not long since he and I together meet,  
(Where loved Cayister cuts its winding way)  
Encamped upon the Plain, an Host of Swains:  
An Army, not designed for Martial Work,  
But all for Love. The amorous Ground  
Gladly received us, and the hollow Vale,  
As if grown covetous of what we Sang,  
Lengthened in Echoes every charming Note.  
Each River-God raised up a downy Wave:  
On watery Chairs of State they proudly sat;  
And viewed with envious Eyes our homely Joy.  
The River-Nymphs poeped out their curled Heads  
From amongst the Reeds, and slunk them in again;  
As if they grieved to see themselves outdone.  
The nimble Satyrs all stood silent by,  
Wondering to see such things more swift than they;  
And raging beat, with their cloven Feet, the Ground.  
You know not half the Mirth we Country Swains enjoy.   Dam. 
No; if they did, they'd prise me more.  Eph. 

Sure, Father, what we say, we speak in jest;  
We honour your Grey Hairs; by Pan, we love you!  
You are the Soul of Mirth, our only Joy.   Dam. 

Then come, my Friends, this day is Damon's Sheep-shear:  
There you'll see acted all the joys we're told:  
Joys, that can make the meanest Shepherd Great;  
Can banish Grief, and make damned Care retreat. Exeunt.   
Finis Actus Primi.    

The SECOND ACT.  

Scene, Damaetas' House.  

Damaetas and Servants.  Damae. 

GET all things ready, in due order placed:  
Provide the Shears, and things to hold the Wool;  
Bring the clean Sheep down to the lesser Fold:  
Drive those, that lately came from the Wash-Pool,  
To yonder Sunny Bank, and let 'em dry.  
Shear the Lambs first; and if their Fleece be wet,  
Lay 'em on that quick Hedge, that Phoebus may  
Bestow his piercing heat, and melt 'em dry.  
Then let the rest provide the Festival:  
And first, bring in the lusty Bacon-Chine  
Of the great Hog, that whilom spoiled the Pease;  
And on the selfsame Dish, on either side,  
Serve up the two Red Cocks, that another's Day  
Were Fight at the Barn's Door: And bring  
A piece of the Red Cow, with Coleworts boiled:  
And in another Dish, two sucking Pigs,  
With Guts of Sage, and Bellies full of Bread;  
With all the rest of the good Country Fare.  
Besure to fill the Liquor well about;  
And see the Beechen Bowl, that holds a Quart,  
By each glad Swain be nimbly taken off.  
Spare not the Cider, nor the Barley Juice;  
Ceres and Pan will make all up again.    

Corydon, Thyrsis, Amoretta, Damaetas, Proba and Guests.  Dam. 

You're kindly welcome, Friends! pray sit you down  
Upon this Hurdle; with what Mirth you can,  
Dissolve the coming hours in sweetest joy,  
Until such time the pleasant work is o'er.  
The Fleecy Sheep have ta'en their Summer suits,  
And stripped themselves to Dance along with us. Goes to the Workmen.   Eph. 

Where am I now? Ye Gods! this Sylvane Scene  
Proves your great Paradise but low and mean.  
Too long the City toils, alas! too long,  
Have I admired the dull inglorious throng!  
Pardon, Augustus, I Blaspheme thy Court,  
Were't here with me, thou'dst leave thy fancied sport;  
Quit thy poor Throne, thyself a Shepherd make;  
And for a Sceptre, wouldst a Sheephook take.  
Health to you all! Companions, strive with me  
To praise your Country life.   Thyr. 

So well agree,  
Our Minds and Souls in this, that all alike,  
One common Note our joyful Pipes will strike.  
This Hurdle is an Altar, Mirth our Prayer;  
We Votaries, and you our Venus are;  
Whilst each glad Swain, as an unquestioned due,  
Shall pay his Orisons to Love and You;  
I'll sit and feast mine Eyes, and crowd my Breast,  
With the Idea of your Beauty blest.   Amor. 

Yonder's a ragged Cliff beside the Plain,  
The sturdy limit of the boisterous Main:  
There every day in solitude I keep  
Some nobler hours, and view the spacious deep.  
Sometimes (the weather fair) myself I please,  
To see the Vessels scim along the Seas,  
With gaudy Prow, and no less gaudy Stern;  
Gilt with the yellow glittering of the Morn;  
Stem the proud Waves, and kiss the amorous Flood;  
Play with the Winds, than Anchor in the Road;  
Till scorching Phoebus from his rest is come;  
Shows his red Head, and hotly drives me home.   Cor. 

Yonder's a steepy Hill, where every day,  
From my glad Flocks, I slily steal a way;  
Sat on a Tufft of Grass, and view the Plain,  
The roving Flocks, and every roving Swain:  
View here a lonesome Cottage, there a Grove;  
Here a close Wood, designed for closer Love:  
Yonder the Fields of Corn, producing Food;  
And Meadows groaning underneath their load.  
With greedy Eyes the Forest I survey;  
And thus in glorious Ease, I nobly spend the Day.   Thyr. 

By yonder Dome, there runs a purling Stream,  
(The Cowherds Glory, and the Muse's Theme)  
On whose soft Bank an aged Alder grows;  
And stretcheth o'er the Flood his spacious boughs.  
A natural Arbour on its Trunk is made;  
And its thick Leaves afford a secret Shade.  
Sometimes its hanging Boughs stooped down, and would  
Take a soft kiss from the transparent Flood.  
Sometimes in it the neighbouring Halcyons hung  
Their brooding Nests, and there bred up their young.  
Here every day I come, and sit me down,  
And tell the groaning Flood my piteous moan.  
I Carve my Mistresses Name on every bough,  
And charge the Flood to watered, make it grow:  
Then to my lonesome Flocks, I back return,  
And all the way her much-loathed Crossness mourn.   Damae. 

Heavens bless ye Swains! You well have praised the Life  
We Countrymen enjoy; let solitude,  
And Country ease, and noble Luxury  
Inspire each Swains immortal Breast, and make him  
Tell to the Vrbane Crowd his and their Miseries.  
I now defy all Caesar's gaudy Coxcombs,  
To vie with us in pleasure; who can boast  
Of Days, and Months, and Years spent all in joy.  
Care never here makes lean, but plump and full;  
Swelled up, like Bacchus, with the juice of Grape:  
Grown strong, as Ceres, with the strength of Wheat.  
This aged Head of mine scarce ever Ached;  
These Snowy Hairs are Time's slow Harbingers  
Of Death; nor are they caused by anxious Grief,  
But 'tis the effect of Nature: All must yield  
To Fate. This Fourscore years and Ten have I  
Enjoyed one lasting Scene of Mirth and Bliss:  
Not one sad hour has intermixed with Ease.  
When Fate lets fall the Curtain, takes me hence,  
Then every Swain shall weep, Damaetas gone;  
And say, He lived, he died, a Jovial Swain.   Damon and Servants with the Festival. Dam. 

Now are the Golden days of Orpheus come  
Once more; Mirth is great, as triumphant  
As ere it was; the Grecian Shepherds could not  
In olden times, boast of more Mirth than we.  
Now all at once, our Senses shall be Feasted:  
Wine that's fined, not paled, shall please our Palates:  
The wholesome Country Food shall fill our stomaches:  
The flowery Meeds and Lawns shall feast our Eyes;  
And these young Swains shall Feast our listening Ears  
With Music. Come Lads, begin the pleasant Song,  
Was whileome sung to Caelia on the Green. They Sing.     

SONG I.  

I.  
ALL Hail, to fair Caelia! for I will adore  
Not Venus herself, nor a Goddess no more:  
To Caelia, to Caelia my Vows shall be paid;  
And all the Sacred Oaths, that Lovers have made.   

II.  
She makes Summer to smile, and the Winter to thaw,  
And keeps the fierce course of Nature in awe.  
The Melancholy Gods are made brisk by her Charms;  
And languishing Mortals revive in her Arms.   

III.  
She sits on the Bank, the Forest does view;  
With her Rosy Mouth she sips of the Dew:  
She gathers the Violet, and Rose of the Field;  
But none, as herself, such Rich Incense can yield.   

IV.  
She never is Cruel, nor never Unkind;  
No Angry Thought perplexeth her Mind:  
Then who would complain of the Chains of her Love,  
When every Link a Cupid does prove?    

Damaetas Sings. SONG II.  

I.  
BY the side of a Mountain, my dwelling shall be  
In an old hollow Tree;  
With age, with age grown rusty as I.  
With a hole for a Window, from whence I survey,  
The neighbouring Groves, where every day  
The amorous Nymphs, and Shepherds do play.  
Thus warm and still,  
In my close wooden shell,  
Secure from Storms and Tempests I lie.  
The sullen old Scrub,  
That dwelled in a Tub,  
Was never so Merry, so Merry as I.   

II.  
On a Pipe as old as myself I Play:  
When some good Lady Magpie, or Mistress Jay,  
Resort to my boughs for shade,  
I strike up a Serenade,  
And fright my Guests away.  
In my hollow old Tree you would wonder;  
My Music roars like Thunder:  
Secure from Storms and Tempests I lie.  
The sullen old Scrub,  
That dwelled in Tub,  
Was never so Merry, so Merry as I.   

III.  
Here free from Care, and Kingly disasters;  
From chiding of Servants, and pleasing of Masters.  
I'm a Commonwealth alone,  
Mounted on a Wooden Throne:  
I d' enjoy more Peace than on a Golden one.  
My Kitchen, my Parlour, and Chappel's together;  
Where I Pray, and I Banquet, and keep from the Wether.  
Full fraught with Pleasure, my hours I keep,  
And in the Night season supinely I sleep:  
And thus undisturbed, I quietly lie.  
The sullen old Scrub,  
That dwelled in a Tub,  
Was never so Merry, so Merry as I.   Cor. 

May every day be like to this! and may  
What we have spoke and sung, be well received!  
Received, as a Tribute due to Pan.  
May blooming youth always adorn our Brows!  
And active Blood still circle in our veins!  
May Manly Heat our noble Spirits sway!  
May you, blessed Nymphs, always be fresh and fair;  
Clear as the Spring, and brighter than the Noon,  
chaste as the Morn, and silent as the Night!  
May you for ever Live, for ever be  
Tall as Cedar, lasting as the Yew.   Eph. 

And henceforth, may the Shepherds always thrive!  
May every Ewe bring forth a pair of Lambs!  
May hurtful Seasons ne'er molest your Flocks,  
Nor ravenous Wolf tear the young tender Kid!   Amor. 

All the kind blessings that the Gods have laid  
On Mortals, light on you! May all your Life  
Be one continued Scene of Bliss and Joy!   Damaet. 

But now the Nightly Season hasteth on,  
And traveling Phoebus to his rest is gone.  
The Evening Toads from watery Marshes croak,  
And yonder Villages begin to smoke.  
Their young ones to the Roost the Partridge call;  
And larger shadows from the Mountains fall.  
Let us go home, and sleep until the Morn;  
Rise with the Light, and with the Day return. Exeunt.   
Finis Actus Secundi.   

The THIRD ACT.  

Ephelia sola.  Eph. 

HOW I have been deceived '? Who could have thought  
That Rustics lived so well? Our gaudy Town,  
With all its Monuments and Statues decked,  
And all its glittering Pageants, never looked  
Half so beautiful, so gay and great  
As yonder Village.  
Surely the Gods have ta'en possession here:  
This is the Seat of the Aetherial Race.    

Thrysis.  Thyr. 

All alone! I'll enjoy a little more  
Of her Scorn.  
[To her] Fair Maid, I hope you'll pardon the surprise;  
You know my Message by my languid Eyes.  
Cupid has led me to this lonely Grove,  
And charged me here perform the Deuce of Love:  
To you, my better Soul! my Love impart;  
Give you my Hand, and offer up my Heart.   Eph. 

Farneze be't from me, your Love to entertain!  
And Heaven guard me from the Monster Man!  
Who open Falsehood and Deceit does show,  
Though slily covered in Love's Name does go.   Thyr. 

My Modesty's an Argument to prove,  
How ignorant I am in Arts of Love:  
How oft have I your Beauty praised, and said,  
You are the best, the only lovely Maid?  
When e'er you Danced, amazed I stood by,  
And at each gentle stop, I dropped a sigh!  
My Groans went faster than your Feet, and proved  
To all the Company how much I Loved.  
Ost when you rose, in the same place I laid,  
And kissed the print your lovely Body made.  
Heaven knows how much this Passion me has vexed;  
First to avoid, and to dissemble it next,  
Has proved a task so tightly great,  
A worse even Fate itself, could not create.  
Had some sinister end my Passion moved,  
I e'er this time had told how much I Loved.  
My Love, like Fire penned in a narrow hole,  
Whose limits does its threatening Rage control,  
Which while but warm, glowing and quiet lay;  
Now heated quite, breaks the weak bands away  
Sooner may Ships on tumbling Surges rest,  
Than Love in my no less disturbed Breast.  
Winds may forget to roar, and Storms to fly,  
ere this grieved Breast shall be unlearned to sigh.   Eph. 

Well; since you do such mighty dangers prove,  
For your reward I give you leave to Love.  
For being Loved why should we Women chide?  
The Gods are Loved, and so we're deified.  
Then Love me still; but Love me as a Friend.   Thyr. 

You grant the Means, but you deny the End.  
Such Love I always to my Sex do give:  
But you, my Mistress, should more Love receive.   Eph. 

Your Mistress! Coxcomb, is your Pride so great?  
This the ambition of a mean Retreat?  
How well my Silks and your course Weeds agree?  
Have I been Born to be enjoyed by thee?  
Is that foul Mein of thine a Match for me?  
Whose noble Birth each Godlike Poets sing,  
Sprung from an ancient Race of mighty Kings:  
Sooner may Grass on the wild Ocean grow,  
And Tiber to its Streams may backward flow,  
Rome Wed with yonder Village, Ladies court  
Their bulky Footmen, and with Page's sport:  
ere I to thee, mean Swain! can Wedded be.   Thyr. 

So well your Pride and Highborn Blood agree.  
If to your ancient Race you proudly fly;  
My Father was a Shepherd, so am I  
On yonder Hill his hundred Flocks he led;  
And on yon Hillock laid his drowsy Head.  
The Gods for Masterdom have often strove;  
Yet Pan always out-vy'd poor Bankrupt Jove.  
Let Rome to Ruins be entirely thrown;  
And vast Destruction writ on every Stone!  
Curse on your gaudy Crew!  
Home to my Arms, my lovely fair one, fly:  
On this still constant Breast securely lie.  
False Oaths and broken Vows surround the Town,  
Their impious Hands pull Virtues Statues down.  
Try once our Country pleasure, easy Bliss;  
You know not what a thing a Shepherd is.   Eph. 

The pleasures of your Life I well approve;  
But not one word, I charge you, more of Love.  
When with these joys I've satisfied my mind,  
I may perhaps advance, and then prove kind.  
But if your Love does always thus drop down,  
'Twill make my Heart as hard as any Stone;  
And than your Words, and deep-fetched Sighs are vain:  
'T will only serve to Echo 'em back again.  
But stay; I hear some noise! for once, adieu. Exit.    

Corydon and Damaetas.  Damae. 
Ha! Here's my Thyrsis!  Thyr. 
Father!  Damae. 

Son!  
Methinks thou look'st like some old Rural God:  
The happy Offspring of our mighty Pan;  
Woods to the Fields, or Verdure to the Woods,  
Are not a greater Ornament, than thou to Men.  
Thou knowst how 'tis to Live; how 'tis to steal  
A glorious life from the inglorious Throng:  
Is not that Grove thy planting? Sure it is!  
It looks as if some happy Hand had set it.  
When Caesar's Statues shall grow old and rusty,  
Then this thy Verdant Grove shall flourish still.  
When thou art dead, it shall bestow green Laurels,  
As signals of thy lasting memory.   Cory. 

If any are Immortal, sure 'tis we!  
On yonder Mountain great Alphesebseus  
Cut his loved Name; and still the gentle Ground  
Retains the mark for each good Swain to read.  
The wand'ring Sheep when o'er the place they go,  
Forbear to eat it, that it still may grow.   Damae. 

In yonder Wood, there stands an aged Tree,  
In which is carved the mighty Orpheus' Name,  
For many hundred years ago, and still  
'Tis legible.  
Happy the Tree that bears it, for 't has given,  
An Immortality, a lasting Verdure;  
And sure his Pipe lies buried thereabouts;  
For every day the Airy Choristers,  
Do thither come, a Heavenly Consort make.  
Here Philomela does need no wakeful Thorn  
To spur her Breast; nor can she sleep a Nights,  
But always quavers out her Tereus' Song.   Thyr. 

May I see henceforth nought but Woods and Plains!  
May Shepherds be my Company! And may  
We all be Merry!  
And may these Eyes never behold the Court;  
The boisterous Deep, or the tempestuous Main;  
The frightful Rock, or the Death-threatning Sands! Damaetas Sings.     

SONG.  

I.  
THen hail ye Shepherds! free from Cares,  
Free from Passions, free from Fears!  
Phillis Loves, and Phillis may  
A greater Bliss to us convey,  
Than what painted Sylvia brings,  
To the costly Bed of Kings.   

II.  
King's are Gods; so let them be;  
Still they're from my Envy free.  
We can sport, and spend the Nights,  
In no less undisturbed delights.  
A calm Voyage we can prove,  
O'er the Hellespont of Love.   

III.  
The Beechen Bowl no poison hath:  
'Tis Gold and Silver make up Death.  
Behind these Walls no Bullies slide;  
'Tis Arras does the Traitor hide.  
No wanton She was here Embraced:  
At Court no Woman e'er proved Chast.   

IV.  
Virtue here, in pomp Arrayed,  
Is the Beauty of each Maid.  
No Ornaments but homely Stuff,  
Serves to set poor Phillis off:  
Yet as fair, as sweet she's seen,  
As the Beauteous Paphian Queen.   

V.  
Then hail ye Shepherds! free from Cares,  
Free from Passions, free from Fears!  
Hail ye Nymphs! as kind as Day,  
Fair as Spring, and sweet as May!  
Your old Damaetas still shall raise  
A living Structure to your Praise.   Thyr. 
We thank you, Father.  Cor. 

How well he Sings! Sure he grows young again!  
He, like the Snake, has cast his ancient Skin,  
Has ta'en a new, and Youth together with it.  
Pray, Father, what's your Age?   Damae. 
Not quite an Hundred.  Thyr. 
Almost.  Damae. 

Yes,  
The yonder Grove, and I were born together.  
That aged Oak, I well may call my Brother;  
In the same Day my Father set us both.   Cory. 
And you're grown up together too.  Damae. 

Some Snowy Hairs have seized my aged Head,  
And Moss, the Hair of Wood, has seized its stock:  
I know not but I may survive it.   Thyr. 

Were I as you, I'd cut it down, and make  
A lusty fire of its spacious Boughs,  
To warm my chilly Limbs in Winter.  
ere I did die, I would not leave a branch  
In any Wood should bear a longer date  
Than I.   Damae. 

No; let Posterity enjoy the fruit  
Of former Ages Labour; by it we're made  
Immortal.  
Through countless Ages shall it still be said,  
This Damon set, and this Damaetas planted.  
Live still ye Woods! and spread your flourishing Arms!  
Grow till you make a solitude beneath  
Your Boughs, till ye exclude the Light,  
And you become an Umbrage for the Deer,  
The timorous Hare, the Fox, and Evening Wolf.  
Grow, till ye be a shelter for the Swains,  
A shade in Heat, and Covert from the Storm. Exeunt.   
Finis Actus Tertii.   

The FOURTH ACT.  Ephelia and Amoretta. Eph. 
HE's the plague of my Life!  Am. 

How you blaspheme the Sacred Deity?  
Ungrateful wretch! whom Love might well disown.  
Is that a plague, God Cupid has ordained,  
The great perfection of our humane Race?  
Of Harmony and Love our Souls are made;  
And who hath neither, was by Fate designed  
To be the laughingstock of humane kind.  
A thing so near a Beast, but just the shape  
Does make the difference.   Eph. 

Love is indeed a Passion great and good,  
And what the Gods so lovingly have given,  
Should not so carelessly be thrown away:  
We hoard our Jewels up in Cabinets.   Am. 

A better Cabinet can ne'er be found  
Than the kind Breast of him adores your Name.   Eph. 

That homely rotten Chest would quite disgrace,  
So Sacred Relics as Immortal Love.  
The Smoky Chimney of his Breast could ne'er  
Adorn so pure a flame as mine.   Am. 

But then your Love might be an Ornament  
To his mean Breast.   Eph. 

'Twould look just like a Canvas Coat,  
That's laceed with Gold, and lineed with Velvet.   Am. 

So much the better.  
The White shows more delightful, when 'tis near  
The Black. The transparent Taper never looks  
Half so bright as in the Dark.   Eph. 

Well; when I Wed a Swain may Night be Day,  
And all the course of Nature backward run.  
May the fixed Orb a local Motion have,  
And travel round the World with the Sun:  
The Spheres descend and Sing my Marriage Song.   Am. 
Bravely resolved! but Blasphemously spoken!  Eph. 

No! I love myself too well.  
Were these Hands ever made to hold a Crook?  
I fancy it a pleasant sight to see  
Me driving home a drove of Milking Cows.  
My Husband, Clown, just following at my heels;  
Whistling a lamentable Tune, all clad  
In Leather, ruffling and noisy, like the Wind.   Am. 
A very fine description of a Swain!  Eph. 

Then to the low thatched Cottage we are come;  
And all the Household there is one great Dog,  
And three small bawling Children.   Am. 
Very well joined!  Eph. 

Then down I sit me by the Dun-Cows side,  
And with my tender Hands I Milk her clean.  
Can I leave all my glorious Pomp, myself demean?  
ay, who have known the pleasures of the Court,  
Change all my former glory; meanly take  
A homely Cottage, for a gaudy Palace?  
Say, Nymph, I do but what is rational?   Am. 

So you say:  
But what is all your boasted City Joy;  
The fulsome pleasure does your Senses cloy?  
Are not these homely Cotes, this Rural shade,  
A better Covert than a Masquerade?  
Free from all tricks of Court we quiet rest;  
And talk of Summer joys close in our Winter Nest.   Eph. 

And may you there still rest, unenvied be,  
At least no great ambition work in me!  
To Savage Woods, and Desert Caves I'll go,  
When madness in my Breast does overflow:  
Too well the City pomp and worth I know.  
Secure, like Bees, we slumber in our Hive;  
On Summer Honey we in Winter live:  
Nor need we buzz about to every Bower,  
And Plunder here, and there a Flower;  
Rob all the Gardens, and each fruitful Soil;  
Get little sweets with industry and toil.  
Home to our very doors does Plenty come,  
And begs admittance, prays to find a home.  
We spend the day in ravishing delights;  
Good Books, and better Friends, dissolve the Nights.  
Each Man an Angel seems, each Prince a God;  
Each Woman fair, each Maid divinely good:  
Free from the Stormy Winter's hurtful noise,  
We bathe in Pleasure, and we swim in Joys.   Am. 

And what are gaudy Joys, that do create  
In Men no more but Envy, Pride and Hate?  
What the adored Monster, that is born  
To public Praise, the wise call, public Scorn?  
By Nature, not by Art we're understood:  
Our Youths are born both beautiful and good.  
Sprung like a Pinetree up, a Youth does rise;  
In Spring grows wanton, and in Winter wise:  
In middle Age is strong, at length appears,  
An old. Plebeian of an Hundred Years.  
Grey Hairs about his Head like Laurels grow,  
And down his Shoulders in grave branches flow:  
Sure Emblems all of Wit; and then, to crown  
His other joys, in Death he lays him down  
Easy and soft, without or Ache or Pains,  
Departs to Shepherds on the Elysian Plains.   Eph. 

So in the Town a Youth begins his days,  
Is born in Triumph and begot with Praise;  
Grown up in Honour, and his Age to crown,  
He wears his grisly Hairs with much Renown;  
Does speak in Halls, at Council-Boards debate,  
And wisely manages Affairs of State.  
If the shrill noise of Mars resounds from far,  
Our Youth takes up the Iron Robes of War  
March out Death-threatning Warriors, and then come  
Loaden with Praise and Earthly Honour's home.  
Of Glory's Meed, and Hero's Name he'll miss,  
Who seeks for Honour where no Action is.   Am. 

And yet these wondrous great, these wand'ring Elves,  
Know much of others, yet know not themselves:  
To Fame's chief Pinnacle they proudly rise,  
Grow often Great but seldom they grow Wise.  
Nature can teach what Arts could never do.  
Adieu! here's Thyrsis! Exit.   Eph. 

She's left me! nay betrayed me too!  
Here's the tormentor of my Life already come:  
False Woman!   

Thyrsis.  Ho, Thyrsis! Thyr. 
Nymph!  Eph. 
Shepherd?  Thyr. 

Would I were your Shepherd!  
I know, I am the Man that Loves you dearly;  
And were your Love but half so great as mine,  
I had not spent so many tedious Nights, and lain  
Speechless, nay almost breathless on the ground.  
ay, since the time I saw you, have not slept;  
Sometimes indeed I Dreamed, still Dreamed of you.  
Before my Eyes methought I saw you stand:  
Fair as you are, methought you then looked kind;  
And smiling said, My Thyrsis, Come let's go  
To yonder Bower, for Thyrsis I am thine:  
My nimble sleepy feet began to move;  
At which I waked, and found 'twas but a Dream.  
Had you but seen, how then I tore my Hair!  
Cursed the deluding Vision that was gone!   Eph. 

Why, Shepherd? Love is nothing but a Dream:  
Nothing of solid worth does crown its praise;  
'Tis but the raging Calenture of Minds.  
Some Madman first invented it, and made  
It fashionable; at Court it got a Name  
For a fit thing to please sick Lady's fancies:  
Tricked up in Compliment, set off with Cringes  
And modish postures, adorned with Tears and Sighs,  
The wind of falsest Hearts to raise compassion.  
It grew so much in custom, each was thought  
An Ass, that was no Madman, not in Love.  
The Court thus cloyed with all its foolery,  
Poor bankrupt Love, sought out another seat,  
And placed itself in the fresh Country Air:  
The gentle breezes of one blooming Spring  
Made the old tattered Bawd look young again.  
Swallows themselves were not more welcome made  
Than this old Hag, a Minion she was thought,  
Each Swain admired the Mines of her Face;  
And Love was all the Talk and all the Song.  
The Pipe could play nought but of Love; the Voice  
Could sound nothing but Love; all day the Plains,  
The unfrequented Woods with Love was filled,  
The lovely Cloris, charming Phillis filled  
The Mouth of every Swain; nay sometimes 'twould  
Make 'em mistake, and call their Flock and Herds  
By name of Mistress:  
Nay by the Fire side in Winter-nights',  
Instead of Tales of Sprights and Fairies,  
And dreadful great Hobgoblins, Love did make  
All the Discourse; each Swain told of his Dear;  
He praised her Beauty, or how well she Danced;  
Her kindness, or the Dowry her Father left.  
I tell thee, Shepherd, Love is but a Name.  
Go tell thy Sheep, and Hurdle up thy Fold;  
And leave these fooleries to Babes and Women.   Thyr. 

Yes, I could leave them there, were but sure  
They'd be accepted. Love is the thing I'd give  
To you a Woman, but false as you are fair,  
Much better had I speak to Rocks and Stones;  
Mountains have more relenting Hearts than Women;  
Tigers are born to more Humanity;  
And Wolves more kindness show unto their Kind.   Eph. 
Sure the Man's mad! How he raves?  Thyr. 

If Love be Madness, than I am grown mad!  
And, sure, 'tis Madness!   Eph. 

I am no Company  
For mad Men: Adieu! I'll never see you more! Exit.   Thyr. 
She's gone!   

Damaetas.  Damaet. 
From whence that Groan, good Thyrsis?  Thyr. 

The Nymph just left me! She said, She'd never see  
Me more.   Damaet. 

And dost thou groan for that?  
I'll tell thee, Man, My noble Breast has always Joy;  
And yet I never care to see a Woman.   Thyr. 

Your aged Breast, which Winter's Frost has hardened,  
How can it melt? But I, whom Youth and Heat  
Inspire; I, who could bid Defiance once  
To Love, am all in Flame!   Damaet. 

And may'st thou burn!  
Who, if thou wouldst apply but just one Drop  
Of Reason, 'twould quench th' impetuous Flame.   Thyr. 
I have tried it.  Damaet. 

Is 't not a glorious Sight to a Youth  
Handsome and strong, a Masterpiece of Nature,  
One that might win the Garland in the Dance,  
Or take the Standard in the Martial Field;  
To see this Man, with folded Arms, and languid Eyes,  
Look like a Changeling, talk of nought but Love,  
And Nymphs, and Beauty, and such idle Stuff!   Thyr. 
And yet the Best have done so?  Damaet. 
The best of Fools, I must confess!  Thyr. 

When Friends augment, and She disdains to own  
My Grief; 'tis time, I think, to die alone.  
When She will never to my Love submit;  
When Love deserts me, must I fly from it?  
'Tis vain th' approaching Destiny to shun;  
I'll meet my Ruin, to its Embraces run. Exit.   Damaet. 

There went a Lover!  
Now, to good Drink, and Friends, I'll get me gone;  
Sport by the Day, and revel by the Moon:  
Love never shall deny my aged Breast  
The Sweets of Mirth, and solid Hours of Rest. Exeunt.   
Finis Actus Quarti.    

The Unfortunate Shepherd: The FIFTH ACT.  Damaetas and Corydon. Damaet. 

NOW for a Scene of Bliss, an Age of Joy,  
Contracted in the narrow Hours of a Day:  
Let us now use our Mirth, as dying Men  
Do their last Gasp; catch, with an eager Joy,  
Our parting Pleasure. Mirth we may have again;  
But yet, we are not certain. Fate may retrieve  
Its old Decree: Mirth is not always Man's;  
We must submit to Fate. A doleful Hour  
Must interpose. The Day is now our own;  
Then let us use it: Hugg the downy Hours,  
C●●rt 'em to stay; and, if they will be flying,  
Then we'll Contemplate on the Joys we've had.   Cory. 

The yonder Dome is a substantial Place  
For Pleasure; there lives an aged Woman,  
Knows much of Joy; she knows true solid Pleasure:  
Let that be our Retreat. Never was Day  
Spent in more Mirth: Never were Shepherds  
So gamesome, as we'll be! This joyful Day  
To future Ages shall be told.   Amoretta, Proba, and Nymphs, Weeping. 

Ha! They weep! What angry Planet reigns?  
Say, beauteous Maids, From whence proceed your Tears?   Am. 
Would Grief would give me leave to speak!  Cory. 

Now, I conjure you, by our Mighty Pan,  
Tell us this dismal News?   Am. 
Thyrsis is slain! Slain by himself!  Cory. 
Oh, my Thyrsis!  Damaet. 

Did not we talk of Joy? How soon 'tis gone?  
Where's now our Scene of Bliss, our promised Joy?  
We may decree what e'er we please, below;  
If Heaven think otherwise, it shan't be so.  
Ah, wretched Mortals! in uncertain State,  
Governed by the Almighty Hand of Fate!  
How soon our Hopes are turned to Despair,  
And all our Joys dwindled to Wind and Air?  
But since we cannot with our Death contend,  
Let us endeavour then to mourn our Friend.   Cory. 

That Work may justly, Swain, to you belong:  
This is a Subject for a Skilful Tongue.  
Whilst you his Requiem sing, let others come,  
With mournful Cypress to adorn his Tomb.   Damaet. 

Thyrsis was once the Joy of all though Plain;  
The Lovely Thyrsis, the Renowned Swain!  
True to his Gods, and Faithful in his Vows;  
Constant to all the Terms that Faith allows.   Cory. 

And yet ill-natured Death has took him hence!  
What was it did thy mighty Rage incense?   Damaet. 

No more his wandering Sheep! he never will  
Behold 'em grazing on the steepy Hill!  
Nor that Green Den shall never more receive  
The joyful Sound his gladsome Pipe did give.   Cory. 

Surely, his Tuneful Pipe could Wit inspire;  
It far outdid the Strings of Orpheus Lyre.  
Ah! Would to God, he had bequeathed to me  
His Pipe, tho' tuneless, for a Legacy!   Damaet. 

Were't Dumbe and Tuneless, yet it would rejoice;  
The Thoughts of him, would sure inspire a Voice.   Cory. 

Not Beauteous Venus e'er lamented more  
Her loved Adonis, slain by Savage Boar;  
Than we will mourn our Thyrsis o'er the Hills,  
While our sad Note the empty Valley fills.   Damaet. 

Speak to the Raging Sea, and bid it tell  
To all the Rivers, how loved Thyrsis fell;  
Tell it to Tiber, and to Thame's fair Stream;  
And let Cayister's Swans lament with them!   Cory. 

Nay, let the Winds too, with 'em bear a part;  
They, like his Lover too, can sigh without an Heart.   Damaet. 

But now, let us an happier Morning choose:  
Go, Publish to the World the direful News. Exeunt.   Ephelia. Eph. 
Why so sad, Nymph?  Am. 
Don't ye know, Thyrsis is slain?  Eph. 
Yes.  Am. 
And don't you know, that he died for you?  Eph. 

I know, they say so: But if so he did,  
He died a Fool: 'Tis more than I will do for him.  
But, How died he, Nymph?   Am. 

Down to a Melancholy Grove he went;  
Thrice on the Ground he laid him down, and wept:  
Then sighed, then tore his Hair!   Eph. 
Very pitiful!  Am. 

Opened his Breast, invoked Ephelia's Name;  
Took out his Poniard, struck it to his Heart:  
The last Word ere he spoke, was, Ephelia!   Eph. 

Indeed, I'm much beholding for his kindness,  
To speak of Me, when his Life was so concerned.  
But, Is he Dead, tho'?   Am. 
Would She that Killed him, were so Dead!  Eph. 

Ah, Love! Thou Child of Folly, Babe of Madness!  
Parent to all Disorder! Brother of Distraction!  
If ever I do own thy Deity,  
May I become as False, as Mad, as Thee! Exeunt Omnes.   
Finis Actus Quinti.   

A DISCOURSE OF LIFE.  
IT is not my intent to make a Philosophical Discourse of Life; neither shall I endeavour to invent a stratagem to prolong it: to a Wiseman it is not so desirable, and none but a Madman would bestow Cost and Pain in adorning an Inn, in which he must tarry but for a Night. Whether those things Physicians call Radical Moisture, and Natural Heat are any thing, or nothing, I know not; and whether they are incapable of solid Reparation, I shall not stand to examine. But of this I am sure, That the Lamp of my Life shall burn as long as it has any matter to work upon; and if a puff of denouncing Fate shall blow it out before its Oil be quite spent, I have no reason to be angry; but rather to bless the kind blast, that wafts me to the serenity of Darkness. I shall not fill my Discourse with the unfathomable words of Deseccation, Arefaction, Alimentation, Bodies tangible, and Pneumatical, the Glory of the Physicians; words as ridiculous as their Practice is poor; But my intent is only to discourse of the Happiness of Life. Though Mortality be writ on the Forehead of all our Enjoyments, and we know that this Garland of Mirth one Sun does produce, another shall wither; yet how apt are we to bless ourselves under the Umbrage of our Verdant Gourd, unmindful of the envious Worm that sculcks at the bottom, and will soon eat down the pleasure of it. Our Life is so uncertain, and the happiness of it so unconstant, that we can only tell that we live; and that there is such a thing as Happiness. Some Pleasure there is, but it is mixed with Misery; we have some Honey but 'tis alloyed with Gall; some lucid Intervals, some gentle gales of Mirth and Ease; but soon a black Cloud of Fate does intervene. We are all the Balls of Fortune; some she unfortunately throws into the Hazzard, and others she bandies about at her pleasure: But to a Man of Resolution, all things are alike: He's neither puffed up with Plenty, nor discontented with Want; He values not the praise of Fools, nor the frowns of Knaves; He can despise what the Great call Good; The Vicisicutedes, and changes of Fortune are no more to him than the Change of the Moon: Certainly there is no better Antidote against an exorbitant desire of the World, than a generous Contempt of its Pleasures. What wise Man would court the ruined Beauties of an old weather-heaten World? What Symmetry or Proportion is there in its Features? What Votary did it ever make Eternally Rich? What Admirers did it ever make happy? I had rather be the Servant of Aristotle or Pythagoras, than the Heir of Midas. Apuleius his Golden Ass, is the exact Emblem of a great Man. Happiness is no more consistent with Superfluity, than it is with Penury. Content is a greater stranger to the Palace, than 'tis to the Cottage. Pyramids and Spires of Steeples are rend by the Thunderbolt, when the low Houses remain untouched. The lofty Hills are clothed with Barrenness, while the humble Valleys rejoice in their Plenty. If there be any thing Great below, 'tis a Nobleness of Mind: If there be any Grandeur, 'tis Virtue: If there be any Happiness, 'tis Wisdom. Virtue is a Sacred Amulet, who ever wears it, is secured from the stings of Serpentine Greatness. Figure to yourself a Virtuous Man, though Poor; how well he becomes the meanest condition? he looks like a transparent Taper in a gloomy Night; like a Jewel amongst a heap of Rubbish and Stones: Though he chooses his Seat upon the Earth, his Mind is employed above the Clouds; like the Poetic Birds, who sing on the tops of Trees, though their Nest be in the Hedge. It shows more of a generous and Heroic temper, to contemn the grandeur of the World, than to desire it. The greatest Spirits that ever blessed the World with their Memory, have done it. A better sight it was to see Scipio retired into a Wood, after all his Conquests, than to behold him at the head of his Army. Epaminondas, the best Man that ever Greece bred, who delivered his Country of Thebes from the Lacedaemonian Slavery, whose Conquests could have lifted him to the highest pitch of Pride and Profit; yet was he such a Contemner of Riches, that when he died, he left not enough behind him ●o defray his Funeral Charges. Natural Reason can easily discover how much they are mistaken in Happiness, who place it in Wealth, and outward Grandeur. What the chiefest Felicity is, cannot easily be determined; but of this we are sure, That it is hard to be obtained. We may truly say of Happiness, That Philosophers seek it, Divines find it, and only Religious Men enjoy it. The chiefest Felicity, by the excellent Boethius, is defined to be Statu●● omnium bonorum aggregatione perfectu●●; a State perfect in the confluence of all good things: A state certainly not attained by any in this Life. All that Men call Good may be reduced to these Three heads, Either the Goods of Fortune; the Goods of the Mind; or the Goods of the Body. But where shall we find one Man that enjoys 'em all? We see we purchase one by the loss of the other. If I am Rich, and great in Fortune, yet I may want a greatness of Mind: If I am Beautiful, Rich, and Learned, yet I may be too Bookish, and want a complaisant Humour to render me agreeable. Had Methusalem lived to this Age, 'tis like he might have acquired these accomplishments; but our Age is too short to admit of 'em.  

Da spatium vitae! multos da Jupiter annos!  
Give many Years, good God and lasting Life!   
is the Prayer both of Old and Young. Though Life be indeed so Calamitous and troublesome, that were we capable of knowing what it is before we enjoy it, none would venture on so tedious a Fatigue: Yet do we naturally desire our Lives to be lengthened out, though our Misery increase with it. As a Man is a Creature, he is Mortal; as he is Rational, he is Miserable: For his Reason is but the Usher to introduce his Misery, and the Perspective through which he beholds his trouble. Whoever expects to have an entire Happiness here, may expect to see the Orbs move irregularly; Rivers flow back to their Fountains, and Rivulets command the Ocean. The most we can enjoy, is but a Scene of Bliss; Fate will change the Scene, let down the Curtain, and put an Exit to our fancied Joys. Why then should we court a Shadow we cannot hold? and be desirous of a Good that depends only upon the imagination? For certainly there is no other Happiness here, but what is phancied; we soothe ourselves with hopes of future Joys, and Paint what the Wise call Vanity and Vexation of Spirit, like the Statue of Pleasure. Well then, if Life does afford no Happiness that is real, let us expect it at Death; certainly there 'tis to be found, according to that of Ovid,  

— Sed ultima semper  
Expectanda dies homini est, dicique beatus,  
Ante obitum nemo, supremaque Funera debet.   
Which Mr. Sands very excellently Translates.  

But Man must censured be by his last hour:  
Whom truly we can never happy call  
Afore his Death, and closing Funeral.   
Indeed there is no better way to understand the Vanity of Life, than the Contemplation of its contrary, Death: Death, that frees us from the Miseries of Life; that removes us from the distraction of Noise and Tumult; that delivers us from the Fetters of Diseases, and Lashes of Pain. Sleep, which is the image of Death, how grateful, how refreshing is it to a Natural Body? When I am asleep, I am in the Land of Forgetfulness; happily buried in a pleasing silence; my Soul for that time is, as it were, removed from its troublesome companion, the Body: Oblivion has seized on all my Passions; all my Pains and Aches are still and quiet: What a Tranquillity than must attend Death, which is Sleep in the highest degree, Sleep in its perfection? When I am Dead, I need no pleasing murmurs of Winds in the Trees, nor sleepy groan of purling Brooks, to lull my Senses asleep: I need no soft melancholy Music, to charm the Evil-Spirit from my Eyelids, they close naturally: The Province of Death affords no Noise, Hurry, or Contention; but a lucid Ray of Serenity informs each Breast: Morpheus is the only God they adore; and Tranquillity the only Pleasure they admire. Death is the beginning of Happiness, and the consummation of it. Happiness has not a motion, as other things, by degrees; it has not a Maturing and Mellowing time, like Fruits; but is born in Perfection. The destruction of Life is the Generation of Happiness. And if Happiness be not attainable before Death, how diligent ought we to be, to make our Lives as Happy as we can? To counterfeit a Happiness, and please ourselves with it on the Ocean of Life, till we arrive at the Harbour of Death.  
To live well, is to be Wise betimes; and Wisdom is attained by so few, that we have reason to doubt, whether Animal Rationale be a good definition of Man in general. Methinks it is a bold saying of the Sieur de Mountaigne, That were he to live over his Life again, he would live as he had done: Were the Sieur my Equal, I should accuse him of Madness and Folly. For my part, I am but in the Twenty third Year of my Age; and have always devoted my Time to the study of Learning and Wisdom; yet were I to Correct the Erratas of my short Life, I would quite alter the Press: Not an Action have I done, but is liable to the censure of right Reason; and not a Line have I Written; but has need of Correction. Certainly the Life of the best amongst us, is but one great Blot. We may see Folly attending the wisest of Philosophers; when they would persuade us to follow their dictates, at the same time they grow Cynical and morose; and the Tub of a Diogenes is but the derision of an Alexander. Should I speak of those Worthies, that have won the immortal Garland of Honour in the Field, we should find Folly and Rashness always mixed with their Erterprises: Should I speak of Alexander? he Slew Parmenio: Should I mention Marcus Antonius? he lost the World for a Cleopatra; a Woman, a thing in Petticoats: What an odious sight must it be, to see this great Man, this Anthony, who not long since appeared in Iron, and Painted it with Blood, now prostrate at the Feet of a silly Woman? To see Honour and Glory subdued by Beauty? Hence we may conclude, That Effeminacy is mixed with the greatest Valour, and Folly with the greatest Wisdom. All our Actions are marked with the Character of Weakness: Our Humanity supposeth us frail and inconstant. The Decaying Nature of what we Enjoy, tells us every day, there is no solid Happiness in Life▪ Why then should we be so stupid to court this lucid Vapour to remain in our inglorious Houses of Clay? Why should we be so Tyrannous and Cowardly, to desire our Souls to remain in Prison, and keep them unblessed from their Enlargement? But it is natural to Man to desire Life; and the Wisest and Stoutest Men do it: Therefore Curtius gives a good description of a Valiant Man; not to hate Life, but to contemn Death: i. e. To have no servile fear of a dissolution, or tremble at grizly Hairs, the Emblems of Death. How vainly do the Old envy the Pleasures, or rather Follies of the Young? An amazing spectacle it is, to see an old grizly Lady applying the black Patches to her Face; tampering of her Fucus, and courting her new-vamped Visage in her Glass? though the stench of Death has seized her already, and supersedes the rankness of her Powders. There is nothing so much incenses a Woman, as to tell her, She is Old: That unlucky word, Old, brings all the Blood in her Body to her Face; and for a time supplies the place of artificial Beauty. Neither are the Men free from this Folly; 'tis a contagious Plague, a Gangrene that spreads over the whole Body of Mankind: To see an Old-Man with the mark of Death in his Forehead, buttressed up with a Crutch (like the Pinion-end of an Old-House) spitting and spawling, as if he did intend to drown himself with an inundation of Phlegm: To see him, like a superannuated Ape, acting all his Juvenile Follies over; chewing his Cud upon some delicious Cavalcade, performed by him in Whetstones-Park, or White-friar's: To see him pruning of his Head, and picking the Hairs from his clothes; setting up for a Spark, with a Cravat of Point de Venice, which the longitude of his Beard will not suffer to be seen: To hear him repeating some of his Compliments out of the Academy: To hear him talk of his Assignation-Notes, and telling the young Wantoness, how many Mistresses he formerly had; how he knew the meaning of their Hearts, by the glancing of their Eyes, and the colour of their Garters by the complexion of their Shoestrings; and then holds up his old reverend Noddle, concluding with Oh mihi praeter●itos referet si Jupiter annos! I fancy there is nothing more absurd and ridiculous than this. That ever the wrinkles of Old-Age, should be the Indices of lost Reason! And grey Hairs should be attended with so much Folly!  
Were Envy a Virtue, I should exercise it in nothing more than in coveting a Country-Man's life, who has enough of the World to keep him from being beholding, and burdensome to Friends; enough to make him an ordinary Gentleman, and not enough to advance him to the place of a Justice of the Peace; enough to secure him from Contempt, and not enough to make him Honourable, or Miserable, which you please: For Honour is a perplexing Plague, the damned Fatigue of Life, the Devil that bewitches Mortals, the Ignis fatuus, that leads Men into Ruin. Were I to lay a Curse upon a Man, a Curse, that should have more than all Pharoah's Plagues in it, I would wish him Honourable; I would damn him to a gilt Coach and Six, two cast off Lackqueys always to attend him; always to be making his Honours; Complementing and Caressing of Ladies; often to be at Balls, and never to appear but in uncomfortable Grandeur. Indeed, Princes and Great Personages cannot properly be said to live; they are but the Pageants of the People, the Sign-Posts of Honour; what they count their Glory (the praise of the multitude) is but Air and Wind. It was a noble and resolute act of Horace, to choose the melancholy Dome in the Tiburtine Wood, before the place of Secretary to Augustus. He was too much a Poet, to be pleased with any kind of Lustre, beside the Ornaments of the Mind; and certainly never Man appeared in more splendour upon that account than he. He was too well acquainted with the folly of Noise and Tumult: He could not be ignorant of the pleasure of a Country Retirement, who had all the Muses for his instructors.  
Solitude is a thing so agreeable with an Ingenuous and Manly Temper, that it seems to be the very Parent of Wit. What greater Pleasure can there be than to live retired? Company is the Remora of all glorious designs; the spring of Vice; the source of Discord and Disorder. Were it not for Company, Emulation had never had a being; Pride had been concealed in its original Chaos; Thefts, Rapes and Murders had never filled the World with their nauseous fame. To live Retired, is to imitate our pristine state of Innocence, ere Rapine and Cruelty had invaded our World. But, Alas! herein is our Misery, we never can attain to the Happy State of our Forefather: He lived in a Garden, so may we; but it cannot be an Eden: He was retired in a glorious obscurity, we may be so too; but here is the fatal consequence, our Passions, our Lusts, our Inordinate Desires still accompany us: But yet for all this, Solitude is a thing the nearest Happiness of any; for though we have our Passions always with us, the infamous Retinue, the black Guard of Miserable Bodies; yet in Solitude they are better tamed, there are fewer objects to exercise them on. When I am alone, I can Envy, Hate, Quarrel with none: Indeed Solitude is an Antidote against all the raging Plagues of the Tumultuous World. What Encomiums are good enough for Noble Solitude?  

I.  
Ah Solitude! what shall I do  
Thy worth to show!  
Thou source of Poetry, and gay Desire;  
Love's brightest Spark, and Wit's immortal Fire:  
School of Sense, and Learned Arts;  
With Whom Philosophy is bred:  
The glory of Ambitious Hearts;  
And honour of each Laurel Head:  
Thou giv'st new Life to the Immortal Dead.   

II.  
First State, and Best of Men!  
Free from all Cares!  
Ancorité Adam happy still had been,  
Free from Lust, and free from Fears  
Had not Company and Vice come rolling in;  
And with it all that Mortals vex:  
Envy pale, and Discontent  
Hand in hand together went;  
Envy could not be withstood,  
It died the Earth with Brother's Blood.  
Noisy Tumults then perplexed  
The quiet Sylvane Scene, and silent Shade;  
Where, drunk with Rest, the Creature was supinely laid.   

III.  
The greatest Scipio Thee admired,  
After his Conquests to a Grove retired.  
'Tis Solitude that gives us Rest;  
'Tis Solitude inspires each noble Breast.  
In vain's the giddy Noise of worthless Schools,  
Or Taverns crammed with loads of Knaves and Fools:  
Let them boast on of Wit in Company,  
While all the Wise grow Great in good Obscurity.   
I know, in this I differ much from the Men of Business; who place their Happiness in Talk, admire London, and damn the Country; think that the harmonious Twattling of a Company of Gossipping Hero's, is more delightful than the Melancholy Singing of Birds in a Noble Solitude. These are the genuine Sons of Mother-Midnight; and would better become the Society of a christening, than the Solid Retinue of Wisdom. Others there are, that place their Happiness in outward Pomp and Grandeur; that think nothing Great, but what is Gaudy: And some there are, that as much admire an Infinite heap of Gold and Silver; and think, Happiness only consists in Excess and Superfluity; when indeed, the substantial Goodness of our Estates, as well as our Passions, consists in a Mediocrity. I think, I could say Amen to this Prayer of Mr. Cowley's: 

Magne Deus, quod ad has Vitae brevis attinet horas,  
Da mihi, Da panem Libertatemque nec ultra  
Sollicitas effundo preces; si quid datur ultra  
Accipiam gratus, sin non contentu● abibo.    
And were I to lay down a Rule for a Wise Man to walk by, (I wish, I were capable of following it myself) it should be to Retire from the World, to Immure himself within the Earthen Walls of a Homely Cottage; where not one Cranny should be open, for Lust or Passion to enter: For we are the best Friends, or worst Enemies to ourselves. Another's Affronts cannot injure us, unless we resent them: And he that keeps his Breast shut against all Temptations, keeps his Soul more secure, than a Body that is surrounded with the Walls of a Castle. To Conclude:  

Could we our Passions guide by Reason's Law,  
And keep th' Affections in severest Awe:  
Could we a Limit set to boundless Love,  
And make our Wrath in peaceful Order move:  
Could we unruly Hate in Fetters bind,  
And tame the wild Desires of the Mind;  
Not Lovers would enjoy more Blissful Ease,  
Or Halcions brooding on the silent Seas:  
More Damage would the sturdy Oaks sustain  
From Fight Winds, and the Tempestuous Rain,  
Than We; though Passion should its Storms raise,  
Wild as the Wind, and raging as the Seas.  
Grant me, good God a Melancholy Seat,  
Free from the Noise and Tumults of the Great:  
Like some Blessed Man, who his Retinue sees  
A tall and sprightly Grove of servile Trees,  
Of complimental Trees, that fright the Hinds,  
Making low Congees to the roaring Winds:  
A Place where Lust and Passion die away,  
And some good Friends make sort● the tedious Day.  
Fraught full of Mirth, the Hours more Joy would bring,  
Than the black Days attend a Regent King.   
FINIS.    

THE CONTENTS.  

PART I.  

A satire against Vice. Page 1  
A satire against Whoring. 10  
On the Memory of Sir John Oldham. 13  
On the Memory of the Right Honourable the Earl of Rochester. 17  
An Ode. 20  
The Tory Catch. 22  
Hypermnestra to Linus. 24  
Corinna to Philocles. 28  
Cleopatra to Anthony. 37  
Translations out of Horace. 43  
Ode. 54  
Ode. Page 55  
Ode. 58  
Ode. 61  
Ode. 62  
A Letter to a Friend. 64  
On the Death of Mrs. E.P. who died on the Small Pox. 69    

PART II.  

The Unfortunate Shepherd, a Pastoral. 77  
A Discourse of Life. 127     

Books Printed for Jonathan Greenwood, at the Black Raven in the Poultry, ●ear the Old Jury.  
INstructions about Heart-Work; what is to be done on God's Part, and Ours, for the Cure and Keeping of the Heart, that we may live in the Exercise and Growth of Grace here, and have a comfortable Assurance of Glory to Eternity: By that Eminent Gospel-Minister, Mr. Richard Allein, Author of Vindiciae Pietatis: With a Preface, by Dr. Annesley.  
Compassionate Counsel to all Young Men; especially, 1. London-Apprentices. 2. Students of Divinity, Physic and Law. 3. The Sons of Magistrates, and Rich Men. By Richard Baxter. Price bound, 1 s. 6 d.  
A Sermon Preached at the Funeral of the Right Honourable Anne Baroness Holles, of Ifield in Sussex; with a short Account of her Holy Life, and Patience under all Afflictions, from Heb. 13.14. By James Waters, Domestic Chaplain to the Right Honourable Francis Lord Holles, Baron Holles of Ifield, her late Husband.