THE Temple of Death, A POEM; Written by the Marquis of NORMANBY. Horace of the Art of Poetry, Made English by the Earl of Roscommon. THE Duel of the STAGS, By the Honourable Sir Robert Howard. Together With several other Excellent Poems by the Earls of Rochester and Orrery, Sir Charles Sedley, Sir George Etheridge, the Honourable Mr. Montague, Mr. Granvill, Mr. Dryden, Mr. Chetwood, and Mr. Tate. To which is added several Poems of the Honourable Madam Wharton.  
The Second Edition Corrected.  
LONDON Printed by Tho. Warren for Francis Saunders at the Blue Anchor in the Lower Walk of the New Exchange. MDCXCV.   

THE PUBLISHER TO THE READER.  
I Was desirous to make the Public a Present, without being at the same time obliged to make an Apology. The present Collection of Poems has afforded me an occasion to perform it. They all carry such Credentials, as not only to justify the good Taste of our Age and Nation, in the General Approbation that has been given of the greater part of them, but likewise to authorise their demanding the Reception of all Posterity. It is neither my Province, nor have I the Presumption to show, that the Performances of such Illustrious Hands, as this Collection is made up of, will stand the Test of the severest Criticisms, and are worked according to the Standard Rules of Poetry: but the best Judges I could advise with, have assured me they are so; and it is my Duty as well as Pride, to acquiesce in their Authority, and Recommendation. Nevertheless, supposing some small oversights shall have been committed for want of a due Review: yet I must beg the Courteous Reader to be pleased to consider, that the Richest Ore will have some Dross; notwithstanding which I despair not of so Honourable a Reception, as shall hereafter give Encouragement for a Second Volume.  
The French have lately Published Five or Six Volumes of their choicest Poems, by several Hands; but I must beg, that this Collection may not be thought to be done in imitation of them. We are pretty well recovered from the Servile way of following their Modes; and this Publication is an effect of Emulation, to show, That as the English Genius and Language for the Drama and for Epic Poetry, has been granted, infinitely to excel theirs; so we have no less the Advantage in the less, tho' nice Productions of the Nature of these Collections. Their Gallantry and Courtship is what we justly condemn as Foppery; and their Panegyrics are made up of nothing but Intolerable Daubing: whereas in this Collection you will find Performances of the Sublimest Fancy, Governed by Solidity of Judgement, and Polished by the utmost Delicacy of Art; which sufficiently demonstrates, that our Great Patrons, the MecoEnases of Poetry, can, when they please, be the Virgil's and Horace's too.  
I shall no longer detain the Courteous Reader, than to give him my Assurances that all Care and Diligence has been used as well by the Printer as myself, to render this Impression becoming such finished Pieces from so Masterly Hands.  
F. S.   

THE CONTENTS.  

PReface to the Art of Poetry, by the Earl of Roscommon.  
Of the Use of Poetry, by E. Waller, Esq Page 1.  
Horace of the Art of Poetry, by the Earl of Roscommon. p. 5.  
The Temple of Death (a Translation out of French) by the Earl of Mulgrave. p. 33.  
A Paraphrase on the 148. Psalms, by the Earl of Roscommon. Writ at 12 Years of Age. p. 49.  
To Orinda: In Imitation of Horace, by the Earl of Roscommon; Integer Vitae, etc. p. 55.  
The Grove, by the same Author. p. 58.  
The Duel of the Stags, by Sir R. Howard. p. 65.  
To Celia, by Sir Charles Sedley. p. 83.  
Answer, by the same Author. p. 85.  
To Celia, by the same Author. p. 86.  
To Chloris, by the same Author. p. 88  
To a Lady, who told him he could not Love. p. 90.  
To Chloris, by the same Author. p. 92.  
The Picture, in Imitation of Anacreon's Bathillus, by the Earl of Mulgrave. p. 95.  
To a Coquet-Beauty, by the same Author. p. 99  
Song, by the same Author. p. 102.  
The parting of Hector with his Princess Andromache, and only Son Astyanax, when he went upon his last Expedition, in which he was Slain by Achilles; done out of the Greek of Homer, Iliad 6. by Knightly Chetwood. Writ in 1677. p. 103.  
On a Poet who Writ in the praise of satire; by the Earl of Rochester. p. 111.  
A Farewell to Love. p. 114.  
To Celia, by a Person of Honour. * p. 116.  
Epilogue to Every Man in his Humour, by the same Author. * p. 117.  
On the Death of the late Duke of Ormond, 1687. by Knightly Chetwood. p. 121.  
To his Grace the present Duke of Ormond, by the same Author. p. 124.  
The Earl of Rochester's Answer to a Paper of Verses, sent him by L. B. Felton, and taken out of the Translation of Ovid's Epistles, 1680. p. 127.  
To a very Young Lady, by Sir George Etherege.  
The Forsaken Mistress, by the same Author, a Dialogue. p. 130.  
The Divided Heart, by the same Author. p. 133.  
To Mr. J. N. on his Translation out of French and Italian, by the same Author. p. 135.  
Virtue's Urania, by the same Author. p. 138.  
Sylvia, by the same Author. p. 140.  
To Celia, by Sir Charles Sedley. p. 142.  
The Submission, by the same Author. p. 144.  
Constancy, by the same Author. p. 146.  
The Indifference, by the same Author. p. 148.  
Pastoral Dialogue, by the same Author. p. 152.  
To a Lady, who fled the sight of him, by Sir George Etherege. p. 156.  
To a Lady, ask him how long he would Love her, by the same Author. p. 158.  
To Mr. G. Granville, on his Verses to the King, by Mr. Edmund Waller. p. 159.  
To Mr. Waller, by Mr. G. Granville. p. 160.  
On Myra's Singing, by the same Author. p. 162.  
In praise of Myra, by the same Author. p. 164.  
Song, by the same Author. p. 167.  
Song, by the same Author. p. 168.  
Verses sent from an unknown hand, to Mr. G. Granville in the Country. p. 169.  
Song, by Sir George Etherege. p. 171.  
To her Excellence, the Marchioness of Newcastle. after the reading her Incomparable Poems, by the same Author. p. 173.  
Epilogue to Tartuff, spoken by himself, by a Person of Honour. * p. 177.  
The Imperfect Enjoyment, by Sir George Etherege. p. 180.  
A Prologue spoken at the Opening of the Duke's New Playhouse, by the same Author. p. 184.  
Falling in Love with a Stranger at a Play, by Sir Charles Sedley. p. 187.  
Indifference Excused, by the same Author. p. 189.  
To my Honoured Friend Sir Robert Howard, on his Excellent Poems, by Mr. J. Dryden. p. 191.  
An Ode, in Imitation of— Quid Bellicosus cantabor, etc. Hor. Od. 11. l. 2. by Mr. John How. p. 198.  
The Platonic, by Sir Charles Sedley. p. 201.  
To a Devout Young Woman, by the same Author. p. 203.  
Song, by the same Author. p. 205.  
On the Lamented Death of the late Countess of Dorset, by N. Tate Servant to Their Majesties. p. 207.  
To Chloris, by Sir Charles Sedley. p. 212.  
Song, by the same Author. p. 214.  
Song, by the same Author. p. 216.  
A Dialogue between Amintas and Celia, by the same Author. p. 219.  
The Lamentations of Jeremiah, by Mrs. Wharton. p. 224.  
To Celia, by an Unknown Hand. p. 232.  
Song, by a Person of Honour. * p. 236.  
A Song, by Mrs. Wharton. p. 238.  
On the Storm between Gravesend and deep; made at that time, by the same Author. p. 240.  
To Mrs. A Behn, on what she Writ of the Earl of Rochester, by the same Author. p. 242.  
To Melpomene against Complaint, by the same Author. p. 245.  
Wit's Abuse, by the same Author. p. 248.  
My Fate, by the same Author. p. 251.  
On the Death of Mr. Abraham Cowley, and his Burial in Westminster-Abbey, by the Earl of Orrery. p. 253.  
On the Death of King Charles II. Writ at that time, by the Honourable Charles Montague. p. 259.  
On the Marriage of the Lady Mary with the Prince of Orange, by Edmund Waller, in the Year 1677. p. 270.    

THE PREFACE TO THE ART of POETRY.  
I Have seldom known a Trick succeed, and will put none upon the Reader; But tell him plainly that I think it could never be more seasonable than now to lay down such Rules, as if they be observed, will make Men write more Correctly, and judge more discreetly; But Horace must be read seriously or not at all, for else the Reader won't be the better for him, and I shall have lost my labour. I have kept as close as I could, both to the Meaning, and the words of the Author, and done nothing but what I believe he would forgive if he were alive; And I have often asked myself that Question. I know this is a Field Per quem Magnus Equos Arunci flexit Alumnus.  
But with all the respect due to the name of Ben. Johnson, to which no Man pays more Veneration than I; it cannot be denied, that the constraint of Rhyme, and a literal Translation (to which Horace in this Book declares himself an Enemy) has made him want a Comment in many places.  
My chief care has been to Write intelligibly, and where the Latin was obscure, I have added a Line or two to explain it.  
I am below the Envy of the Critics, but if I durst, I would beg them to remember, that Horace owed his Favour and his Fortune to the Character given of him by Virgil and Varius, that Fundanius and Pollio are still valued by what Horace says of them, and that in their Golden Age, there was a good Understanding among the Ingenious, and those who were the most Esteemed were the best Natured.  
Roscommon.   

OF THIS TRANSLATION, And of the Use of Poetry: BY Edmund Waller, Esq  
Room was not better by her Horace taught,  
Than we are here, to comprehend his thought:  
The Poet writ to Noble Piso, there,  
A Noble Piso does instruct us here,  
Gives us a pattern in his flowing Style,  
And with rich Precepts does oblige our Isle,  
Britain, whose Genius is in Verse expressed  
Bold and sublime, but negligently dressed.  
Horace will our superfluous Branches prune,  
Give us new rules, and set our Harp in tune,  
Direct us how to back the winged Horse,  
Favour his flight, and moderate his Force;  
Though Poets may of Inspiration boast,  
Their Rage ill governed, in the Clouds is lost;  
He that proportioned wonders can disclose,  
At once his Fancy and his Judgement shows.  
chaste moral Writing we may learn from hence  
Neglect of which no wit can recompense;  
The Fountain which from Helicon proceeds,  
That sacred Stream should never water weeds,  
Nor make the Crop of Thorns and Thistles grow  
Which Envy or perverted Nature sow.  
Well-sounding Verses are the Charm we use,  
Heroic thoughts, and virtue to infuse;  
Things of deep sense we may in Prose unfold,  
But they move more, in lofty numbers told;  
By the loud Trumpet, which our Courage aids,  
We learn that sound, as well as sense persuades.  
The Muse's Friend, unto himself severe,  
With silent pity looks on all that Err;  
But where a brave, a public Action shines,  
That he rewards with his Immortal Lines;  
Whether it be in Counsel or in Fight,  
His country's Honour is his chief delight;  
Praise of great Acts, he scatters as a seed,  
Which may the like, in coming Ages breed:  
Here taught the fate of Verses, always prized  
With admiration, or as much despised,  
Men will be less indulgent to their faults,  
And patience have to cultivate their thoughts,  
Poets lose half the praise they should have got,  
Could it be known, what they discreetly blot,  
Finding new words, that to the ravished Ear,  
May like the Language of the Gods appear,  
Such as of old, wise Bards employed to make  
Unpolished men their wild retreats forsake,  
Law-giving-Heroes, famed for taming Brutes,  
And raising Cities with their Charming Lutes,  
For rudest minds, with Harmony were caught:  
And civil Life was by the Muses taught.  
So wand'ring Bees would perish in the Air,  
Did not a sound, proportioned to their Ear,  
Appease their rage, invite them to the Hive,  
Unite their force, and teach them how to thrive,  
To rob the Flowers, and to forbear the spoil,  
Preserved in Winter by their Summer's toil,  
They give us food, which may with Nectar Vie,  
And Wax that does, the absent Sun supply.   

HORACE OF THE Art of Poetry.  By the EARL of Rescommon. 

IF in a Picture (Piso) you should see  
A handsome Woman with a Fish's Tail,  
Or a Man's Head upon a Horse's Neck,  
Or Limbs of Beasts of the most different kinds,  
Covered with Feathers of all sorts of Birds,  
Would you not laugh, and think the Painter mad?  
Trust me that Book is as ridiculous,  
Whose incoherent Style (like sick men's Dreams)  
Varies all Shapes, and mixes all Extremes.  
Painters and Poets have been still allowed,  
Their Pencils, and their Fancies unconfined,  
This privilege we freely give and take;  
But Nature, and the Common Laws of Sense,  
Forbid to reconcile Antipathies,  
Or make a Snake engender with a Dove,  
And hungry Tiger's court the tender Lambs;  
Some that at first have promised mighty things,  
Applaud themselves, when a few slorid Lines  
Shine through th' insipid dulness of the rest;  
Here they describe a Temple, or a Wood,  
Or Streams that through delightful Meadows run,  
And there the Rainbow, or the rapid Rhine,  
But they misplace them all, and crowd them in,  
And are as much to seek in other things,  
As he that only can design a Tree,  
Would be to draw a Shipwreck or a Storm.  
When you begin with so much Pomp and Show,  
Why is the end so little and so low?  
Be what you will, so you be still the same.  
Most Poets fall into the grossest faults,  
Deluded by a seeming Excellence:  
By striving to be short, they grow Obscure,  
And when they would write smoothly they want strength,  
Their Spirits sink; while others that affect  
A lofty Style, swell to a Tympany;  
Some timorous wretches start at every blast,  
And fearing Tempests, dare not leave the Shore;  
Others in love with wild variety,  
Draw Boars in Waves, and Dolphins in a Wood;  
Thus fear of Erring, joined with want of Skill,  
Is a most certain way of Erring still.  
The meanest Workman in the Aemilian Square,  
May grave the Nails, or imitate the Hair,  
But cannot finish what he hath begun;  
What is there more ridiculous than he?  
For one or two good features in a Face  
Where all the rest are scandalously ill,  
Make it but more remarkably deformed.  
Let Poets match their Subject to their strength,  
And often try what weight they can support,  
And what their Shoulders are too weak to bear,  
After a serious and judicious choice,  
Method and Eloquence will never fail;  
As well the Force as Ornament of Verse,  
Consist in choosing a fit time for things,  
And knowing when a Muse should be indulged  
In her full flight, and when she should be curbed.  
Words must be chosen, and be placed with skill,  
You gain your point, if your industrious Art  
Can make unusual words easy and plain,  
But (if you write of things Abstruse or New)  
Some of your own inventing may be used,  
(So it be seldom and discreetly done)  
But he that hopes to have new Words allowed,  
Must so derive them from the Grecian Spring,  
As they may seem to flow without constraint;  
Can an Impartial Reader discommend  
In Varus, or in Virgil what he likes?  
In Plautus or Caecilius? Why should I  
Be envied for the little I invent,  
When Ennius and Cato's copious Style  
Have so enriched, and so adorned our Tongue?  
Men ever had, and ever will have leave,  
To coin new words well suited to the age:  
Words are like Leaves, some whither every year,  
And every year a younger Race succeeds;  
Death is a Tribute all things owe to Fate;  
The Lucrine Mole (Caesar's stupendous Work)  
Protects our Navies from the raging North;  
And (since Cethegus drained the Pontin Lake)  
We Blow and Reap where former Ages rowed.  
See how the Tiber (whose licentious Waves  
So often overflowed the neighbouring Fields,)  
Now runs a smooth and inoffensive Course,  
Confined by our great Emperor's Command;  
Yet this and they, and all will be forgot;  
Why then should Words challenge Eternity,  
When greatest Men, and greatest Actions die?  
Use may revive the obsoletest Words,  
And banish those that now are most in Vogue;  
Use is the Judge, the Law, and rule of Speech.  
Homer first taught the World in Epic Verse  
(To write of great Commanders, and of Kings,  
Elegies were at first designed for Grief,  
Though now we use them to express our Joy)  
But to whose Muse we owe that sort of Verse,  
Is undecided by the Men of Skill.  
Rage with Iambick's, armed Archilochus  
Numbers for Dialogue and action fit,  
And favourites of the Dramatic Muse.  
Fierce, Lofty, Rapid, whose commanding sound  
Awes the tumultuous noises of the Pit,  
And whose peculiar Province is the Stage.  
Gods, Heroes, Conquerors, Olympic Crowns  
Loves pleasing Cares, and the free joys of Wine,  
Are proper subjects for the Lyric Song.  
Why is he honoured with a Poet's Name,  
Who neither knows, nor would observe a Rule?  
And chooses to be Ignorant and Proud,  
Rather than own his Ignorance, and Learn,  
Let every thing have its due Place and Time.  
A Comic Subject loves an humble Verse,  
Thyestes scorns a low and Comic Style.  
Yet Comedy sometimes may raise her Voice,  
And Chremes be allowed to foam and rail:  
Tragedians too, lay by their State to grieve;  
Peleus and Telephus exiled and poor,  
Forget their swelling, and Gygantick Words.  
He that would have Spectators share his Grief,  
Must write not only well, but movingly,  
And raise men's Passions to what height he will,  
We Weep and Laugh, as we see others do,  
He only makes me sad who shows the way,  
And first is sad himself, than (Telephus)  
I feel the weight of your Calamities,  
And fancy all your miseries my Own,  
But if you Act them ill, I sleep or laugh:  
Your looks must needs alter as your Subject does  
From kind to fierce, from wanton to severe,  
For Nature forms, and softens us within,  
And writes our fortune's changes in our face.  
Pleasure enchants, impetuous Rage transports,  
And grief dejects, and wrings the tortured Soul,  
And these are all interpreted by Speech;  
But he whose words and fortunes disagree,  
Absurd, unpitied, grows a public Jest.  
Observe the Characters of those that speak,  
Whether an honest Servant, or a Cheat,  
Or one whose blood boils in his youthful Veins,  
Or a grave Matron, or a busy Nurse,  
Extorting Merchants, careful Husbandmen,  
Argives, or Thebans, Asians or Greeks.  
Follow Report, or feign coherent things,  
Describe Achilles, as Achilles was,  
Impatient, rash, inexorable, proud,  
Scorning all Judges, and all Law but Arms;  
Medea must be all Revenge and Blood,  
Ino all Tears, Ixion all Deceit,  
Io must wander, and Orestes mourn:  
If your bold Muse dare tread unbeaten paths,  
And bring new Characters upon the stage,  
Be sure you keep them up to their first height.  
New Subjects are not easily explained,  
And you had better choose a well known Theme,  
Than trust to an Invention of your own;  
For what originally others writ,  
May be so well disguised, and so improved,  
That with some Justice it may pass for yours;  
But than you must not Copy trivial things,  
Nor word for word too faithfully Translate,  
Nor (as some servile Imitators do)  
Prescribe at first such strict uneasy rules,  
As they must ever slavishly observe,  
Or all the Laws of decency renounce:  
Begin not as the old Poetaster did,  
(Troy's famous War, and Priam's Fate, I sing)  
In what will all this Ostentation end?  
The labouring Mountain scarce brings forth a Mouse:  
How far is this from the Meonian Style?  
Muse, speak the Man, who since the Siege of Troy,  
So many Towns, such change of Manners saw.  
One with a flash begins, and ends in smoke,  
The other out of smoke brings glorious light,  
And (without raising expectation high)  
Surprises us with darling Miracles,  
The Bloody Lestrygons inhuman Feasts,  
With all the Monsters of the Land and Sea;  
How Scylla barked, and Polyphemus roared:  
He doth not trouble Us with Leda's Eggs,  
When he begins to write the Trojan War;  
Nor writing the return of Diomedes,  
Go back as far as Meleager's Death:  
Nothing is idle, each judicious Line  
Insensibly acquaints Us with the Plot;  
He chooses only what he can improve,  
And Truth and Fiction are so aptly mixed  
That all seems Uniform, and of a piece.  
Now hear what every Auditor expects;  
If you intent that he should stay to hear  
The Epilogue, and see the Curtain fall;  
Mind how our tempers alter with our years,  
And by those Rules form all your Characters.  
One that hath newly learned to speak and go,  
Loves childish Plays, is soon provoked and pleased,  
And changes every hour his wavering mind.  
A Youth that first casts off his Tutor's Yoke,  
Loves Horses, Hounds, and Sports, and Exercise,  
Prove to all Vice, impatient of Reproof,  
Proud, careless, fond, inconstant, and profuse.  
Gain and Ambition rule our riper years,  
And make us Slaves to interest and power.  
Old Men are only walking Hospitals,  
Where all Defects, and all Diseases crowd  
With restless pain, and more tormenting fear,  
Lazy, morose, full of delays and hopes,  
Oppressed with Riches which they dare not use;  
Ill-natured Censors of the present Age,  
And fond of all the follies of the past.  
Thus all the treasure of our flowing Years,  
Our ebb of Life for ever takes away.  
Boys must not have th' ambitious care of Men,  
Nor Men the weak Anxieties of Age.  
Some things are acted, others only told;  
But what we hear, moves less than what we see;  
Spectators only have their Eyes to trust,  
But Auditors must trust their Ears and you;  
Yet there are things improper for a Scene,  
Which Men of Judgement only will relate;  
Medea must not draw her murdering Knife,  
And spill her children's blood upon the Stage,  
Nor Atreus there his horrid Feast prepare,  
Cadmus', and Progne's Metamorphosis,  
(She to a Swallow turned, he to a Snake)  
And whatsoever contradicts my Sense,  
I hate to see, and never can believe.  
Five Acts are the just measure of a Play,  
Never presume to make a God appear,  
But for a business worthy of a God,  
And in one Scene no more than three should speak.  
A Chorus should supply what Action wants,  
And hath a generous and manly part;  
Bridles wild rage, loves rigid Honesty,  
And strict Observance of Impartial Laws,  
Sobriety, Security, and Peace,  
And begs the Gods to turn blind Fortune's wheel;  
To raise the Wretched, and pull down the Proud.  
(But nothing must be Sung between the Acts,  
But what some way conduces to the Plot.)  
First the shrill sound of a small rural Pipe,  
(Not loud like Trumpets, nor adorned as now)  
Was entertainment for the Infant Stage,  
And pleased the thin and bashful Audience,  
Of our well-meaning, frugal Ancestors.  
But when our Walls and Limits were enlarged,  
And Men (grown wanton by prosperity)  
Studied new Arts of Luxury and Ease,  
The Verse, the Music, and the Scene's improved:  
For how should Ignorance be judge of Wit,  
Or Men of Sense applaud the Jests of Fools?  
Then came rich clothes and graceful Action in,  
Theninstruments were taught more moving notes  
And Eloquence with all her pomp and charms  
Foretold as useful and sententious Truths,  
As those delivered by the Delphic God.  
The first Tragedians found that serious Style  
Too grave for their Uncultivated Age,  
And so brought wild and naked Satyrs in,  
(Whose motion, words, & shape were all a Farce)  
(As oft as decency would give them leave)  
Because the mad ungovernable Rout,  
Full of confusion, and the fumes of Wine,  
Loved such variety and antic Tricks.  
But then they did not wrong themselves so much,  
To make a God, a Hero, or a King,  
(Stripped of his golden Crown and purple Robe)  
Descend to a Mechanic Dialect,  
Nor (to avoid such meanness) soaring high  
With empty sound, and airy notions fly.  
For, Tragedy should blush as much to stoop  
To the low Mimic follies of a Farce,  
As a grave Matron would to dance with Girls:  
You must not think that a Satiric Style  
Allows of scandalous and brutish Words,  
Or the confounding of your Characters.  
Begin with Truth, then give Invention scope,  
And if your Style be natural and smooth,  
All men will try, and hope to write as well;  
And (not without much pains) be undeceived.  
So much good Method and Connexion may  
Improve the common and the plainest things.  
A satire that comes staring from the Woods,  
Must not at first speak like an Orator;  
But, though his language should not be refined,  
It must not be Obscene, and Impudent:  
The better sort abhors scurrility,  
And often censures, what the Rabble likes.  
Unpolished Verses pass with many Men,  
And Rome is too Indulgent in that Point.  
But then, to write at a loose rambling rate,  
In hope the World will wink at all our faults,  
Is such a rash, ill-grounded confidence,  
As Men may pardon, but will never praise.  
Consider well the Greek Originals,  
Read them by Day, and think of them by Night;  
But Plautus was admired in former time.  
With too much patience (not to call it worse)  
His harsh, unequal Verse, was Music then,  
And Rudeness had the Privilege of Wit:  
When Thespis first exposed the Tragic Muse,  
Rude were the Actors, and a Cart the Scene,  
Where ghastly Faces, stained with Lees of Wine,  
Frighted the Children, and amused the Crowd;  
This Aeschylus (with indignation) saw,  
And built a Stage, found out a decent dress,  
Brought Vizards in (a Civiler disguise)  
And taught Men how to speak, and how to act.  
Next Comedy appeared with great applause,  
Till her licentious, and abusive Tongue,  
Wakened the Magistrates Coercive power,  
And forced it to suppress her Insolence.  
Our Writers have attempted every way,  
And they deserve our praise, whose daring Muse  
Disdained to be beholden to the Greeks,  
And sound fit Subjects for her Verse at home.  
Nor should we be less famous for our Wit,  
Than for the force of our Victorious Arms;  
But that the time and care, that are required  
To overlook, and file, and polish well,  
Fright Poets from that necessary Toil.   

Democritus was so in love with Wit,  
And some men's Natural Impulse to write,  
That he despised the help of Art and Rules,  
And thought none Poets, till their Brains were cracked.  
And this hath so Intoxicated some,  
That (to appear incorrigibly mad)  
They Cleanliness and Company renounce:  
For Lunacy beyond the Cure of Art,  
With a long Beard, and Ten long dirty Nails,  
Pass currant for Apollo's Livery.  
O my unhappy Stars! If in the Spring,  
Some Physic had not cured me of the Spleen,  
None would have writ with more success than I;  
But I am satisfied to keep my sense,  
And only serve to whet that Wit in you,  
To which I willingly resign my claim.  
Yet without writing I may teach to write,  
Tell wh●● the duty of a Poet is;  
〈◊〉 his Wealth and Ornament consist,  
And how he may be formed, and how improved,  
What fit, what not, what excellent or ill,  
Sound judgement is the ground of Writing well:  
And when Philosophy directs your choice  
To proper Subjects rightly understood,  
Words from your Pen will naturally flow.  
He only gives the proper Characters,  
Who knows the duty of all Ranks of Men,  
And what we owe to Country, Parents, Friends,  
How Judges, and how Senators should act,  
And what becomes a General to do.  
Those are the likest Copies which are drawn,  
By the Original of humane Life.  
Sometimes in rough and undigested Plays  
We meet with such a lucky Character,  
As being humoured right and well pursued,  
Succeeds much better, than the shallow Verse,  
And chiming Trifles, of more studious Pens.  
Greece had a Genius, Greece had Eloquence,  
For her ambition and her end was Fame.  
Our Roman Youth is bred another way,  
And taught no arts but those of Usury;  
And the glad Father glories in his Child,  
When he can subdivide a Eraction.  
Can Souls, who by their Parents from their birth  
Have been devoted thus to rust and gain,  
Be capable of high and generous thoughts?  
Can Verses writ by such an Author live?  
But you (brave Youth) wise Numas worthy Heir,  
Remember of what weight your Judgement is,  
And never venture to commend a Book,  
That has not passed all Judges and all Tests.  
A Poet should instruct, or please, or both;  
Let all your Precepts be succinct and clear,  
That ready Wits may comprehend them soon,  
And faithful Memories retain them long;  
For superfluities are soon forgot.  
Never be so conceited of your Parts,  
To think you may persuade us what you please,  
Or venture to bring in a Child alive,  
That Cannibals have murdered and devoured;  
Old Age explodes all but Morality;  
Austerity offends aspiring Youths:  
But he that joins instructions with delight,  
Profit with pleasure, carries all the Votes;  
These are the Volumes that every the Shops,  
These pass with admiration through the World,  
And bring their Author an Eternal fame.  
Be not too rigidly Censorious,  
A string may jar in the best Master's hand,  
And the most skilful Archer miss his aim;  
But in a Poem elegantly writ,  
I will not quarrel with a slight mistake,  
Such as our Nature's frailty may excuse.  
But he that hath been often told his fault,  
And still persists, is as impertinent,  
As a Musician that will always play,  
And yet is always out at the same Note;  
When such a positive abandoned Fop,  
(Among his numerous Absurdities)  
Stumbles upon some tolerable Line,  
I fret to see them in such company,  
And wonder by what Magic they came there.  
But in long Works, Sleep will sometimes surprise,  
Homer himself hath been observed to nod.  
Poems (like Pictures) are of different forts,  
Some better at a distance, others near,  
Some love the dark, some choose the clearest light,  
And boldly challenge the most piercing Eye:  
Some please for once, some will for ever please;  
But Piso (tho' your own Experience,  
Joined with your Father's Precepts make you wise:  
Remember this as an important truth.  
Some things admit of Mediocrity,  
A Counsellor, or Pleader at the Bar,  
May want Messala's powerful Eloquence,  
Or be less read than deep Cassellius;  
Yet this indifferent Lawyer is esteemed.  
But no authority of Gods nor Men,  
Allow of any mean in Poesy,  
As an ill Consort, and a course Perfume,  
Disgrace the Delicacy of a Feast,  
And might with more discretion have been spared.  
So Poesy, whose end is to delight,  
Admits of no Degrees, but must be still,  
Sublimely good, or despicably ill.  
In other things Men have some reason left;  
And one that cannot Dance, or Fence, or Run,  
Despairing of success, forbears to Try.  
But all (without consideration) write;  
Some thinking that th' omnipotence of Wealth  
Can turn them into Poets when they please.  
But, Piso, you are of too quick a sight  
Not to discern which way your Talon lies,  
Or vainly struggle with your Genius;  
Yet if it ever be your fate to Write,  
Let your Productions pass the strictest hands,  
Mine and your Fathers, and not see the light,  
Till time and care have ripened every Line.  
What you keep by you, you may change & mend;  
But words once spoke can never be recalled.  
Orpheus' inspired by more than humane power,  
Did not (as Poets feign) tame savage Beasts;  
But Men as lawless, and as wild as they,  
And first dissuaded them from rage and blood.  
Thus when Amphion built the Theban Wall,  
They feigned the Stones obeyed his Magic Lute,  
Poets the first Instructers of Mankind,  
Brought all things to their proper, native Use;  
Some they appropriated to the Gods,  
And some to public, some to private ends;  
Promiscuous Love by Marriage was restrained.  
Cities were built, and useful Laws were made;  
So ancient is the pedigree of Verse,  
And so Divine a Poet's Function.  
Then Homer's and Tyrtaeus Martial Muse,  
Wakened the World, and sounded loud Alarms.  
To Verse we owe the Sacred Oracles,  
And our best Precepts of Morality;  
Some have by Verse, obtained the love of Kings,  
(Who, with the Muses, ease their wearied minds)  
Then blush not, Noble Piso, to protect,  
What Gods inspire, and King's delight to hear.  
Some think that Poets may be formed by Art,  
Others maintain, that Nature makes them so;  
I neither see what Art without a vein,  
Nor Wit without the help of Art can do,  
But mutually they need each others aid.  
He that intends to gain th' Olympic Prize,  
Must use himself to hunger, heat, and cold,  
Take leave of Wine, and the soft joys of Love;  
And no Musician dares pretend to skill,  
Without a great Expense of time and pains:  
But every little busy Scribbler now  
Swells with the praises which he gives himself;  
And taking Sanctuary in the Crowd,  
Brags of his Impudence, and scorns to mend.  
A wealthy Poet takes more pains to hire  
A flattering Audience, than poor Tradesmen do  
To persuade Customers to buy their Goods.  
'Tis hard to find a Man of great Estate,  
That can distinguish Flatterers from Friends.  
Never delude yourself, nor read your Book  
Before a bribed and fawning Auditor;  
For he'll commend and feign an Ecstasy,  
Grow pale, or weep, do any thing to please;  
True friends appear less moved than Sergeant:  
As Men that truly grieve at Funerals,  
Are not so loud, as those that cry for hire.  
Wise were the Kings, who never chose a Friend,  
Till with full Cups they had unmasked his Soul,  
And seen the bottom of his deepest thoughts.  
You cannot arm yourself with too much care  
Against the smiles of a designing Knave.  
Quintilius (if his advice were asked)  
Would freely tell you what you should correct,  
Or (if you could not) bid you blot it out,  
And with more care supply the vacancy:  
But if he found you fond, and obstinate;  
(And apt to defend than mend your faults)  
With silence leave you to admire yourself,  
And without Rival hug your darling Book.  
The prudent care of an Impartial Friend,  
Will give you notice of each idle Line,  
Show what sounds harsh, and what wants ornament,  
Or where it is too lavishly bestowed;  
Make you explain all that he finds Obscure,  
And with a strict Enquiry mark your faults;  
Nor for these trifles fear to lose your love.  
Those things, which now seem frivolous, and slight,  
Will be of serious consequence to you,  
When they have made you once Ridiculous.  
A Mad Dog's foam, th' Infection of the Plague,  
And all the Judgements of the angry Gods,  
We are not all more heedfully to shun,  
Than Poetasters in their raging fits,  
Followed and pointed at by Fools and Boys;  
But dreaded and proscribed by Men of Sense.  
If (in the Raving of a frantic Muse)  
And minding more his Verses than his Way,  
Any of these should drop into a Well,  
Tho' he might burst his Lungs to call for help;  
No Creature would assist, or pity him,  
But seem to think he fell on purpose in.  
Hear how an old Sicilian Poet died:  
Empedocles, mad to be thought a God,  
In a cold fit leaped into Aetna's Flames.  
Give Poets leave to make themselves away  
Why should it be a greater sin to kill,  
Than to keep Men alive against their will?  
Nor was this chance; But a deliberate choice;  
For if Empedocles were now revived,  
He would be at his Frolic once again,  
And his pretensions to Divinity.  
'Tis hard to say, whether for Sacrilege  
Or Incest, or some more unheard of Crime  
The Rhyming Fiend is sent into these Men:  
But they are all most visibly possessed,  
And like a baited Bear, when he breaks loose,  
Without distinction, seize on all they meet.  
None ever scaped that came within their reach,  
Sticking like Leeches till they burst with blood,  
Without remorse insatiably they read,  
And never leave till they have read Men dead.    

THE TEMPLE OF DEATH.  By the Earl of Mulgrave. 
A Translation out of FRENCH.  

IN those cold Climates, where the Sun appears  
Unwillingly, and hides his face in tears;  
A dreadful Vale lies in a Desert Isle,  
On which indulgent Heaven did never smile.  
There a thick Grove of Aged Cypress Trees,  
Which none without an awful horror sees,  
Into its withered Arms, deprived of Leaves,  
Whole Flocks of ill-presaging Birds receives:  
Poisons are all the Plants the Soil will bear,  
And Winter is the only Season there.  
Millions of Graves cover the spacious Field,  
And springs of blood a thousand Rivers yield,  
Whose streams oppressed with Carcases and Bones,  
Instead of gentle Murmurs, pour forth Groans.   

Within this Vale, a famous Temple stands,  
Old as the World itself, which it commands;  
Round is its figure, and four Iron-Gates  
Divide Mankind, by order of the Fates.  
There Come in Crowds, doomed to one common Grave,  
The Young, the Old, the Monarch, and the Slave.  
Old Age, and Pains, which Mankind most deplores,  
Are faithful Keepers of those sacred Doors;  
All clad in mournful Blacks, which also Load  
The sacred Walls of this obscure Abode,  
And Tapers, of a pitchy substance made,  
With Clouds of smoke increase the dismal Shade.   

A Monster, void of Reason, and of Sight,  
The Goddess is, who sways this Realm of Night.  
Her Power extends o'er all things that have breath,  
A Cruel Tyrant, and her Name is Death.  
The fairest Object of our wondering Eyes  
Was newly offered up her Sacrifice;  
Th' adjoining places where the Altar stood,  
Yet blushing with the fair Almeria's Blood.  
When grieved Orontes, whose unhappy flame  
Is known to all that e'er converse with Fame;  
His mind possessed by Fury and Despair,  
Within the Sacred Temple made this Prayer:  
Great Deity! Who in thy hands dost bear  
That rusty Sceptre, which poor Mortals fear;  
Who wanting Eyes, thyself respectest none,  
And neither spares the Laurel, nor the Crown!  
Oh, thou whom all Mankind in vain withstands,  
Each of whose Blood must one day slain thy Hands!  
Oh, thou who every Eye, which sees the Light,  
Closest again in an eternal Night!  
Open thy Ears, and hearken to my Grief,  
To which thy only Power can give Relief:  
I Come not hither to prolong my Fate,  
But wish my wretched Life a shorter date,  
And that the Earth would in its Bowels hide  
A Wretch, whom Heaven invades on every side:  
That from the sight of Day I could remove,  
And might have nothing left me but my Love.  
Thou only Comforter of Minds oppressed;  
The Port, where wearied Spirits are at rest;  
Conductor to Elysium! Take my Life;  
My Breast I offer to thy Sacred Knife:  
So just a Grace refuse not, nor despise  
A Willing, though a Worthless Sacrifice.  
Others, their frail and mortal State forgot,  
Before thy Altars are not to be brought  
Without constraint; the noise of dying rage,  
Heaps of the Slain, of every Sex and Age,  
The blade all reeking in the gore it shed,  
With severed Heads and Arms confusedly spread,  
The Rapid Flames of a perpetual fire,  
The Groans of Wretches ready to expire:  
This Tragic Scene makes them in Terror Live,  
Till that is forced, which they should freely give,  
Yielding unwillingly what Heaven will have,  
Their fears eclipse the Glory of their Grave▪  
Before thy Face they make undecent moan,  
And feel a hundred Deaths in fearing one;  
The flame becomes unhallowed in their Breast,  
And he a Murderer, who was a Priest;  
His Hands profaned in breaking Nature's Chain,  
By which the Body does the Soul detain:  
But against me thy strongest Forces call,  
And on my Head let all the Tempest fall;  
No shrinking back shall any weakness show,  
And Calmly I'll expect the fatal blow;  
My Limbs not trembling, in my mind no fear,  
Plaints in my Mouth, nor in my Eyes a Tear.  
Think not that time, our wont sure relief,  
That universal Cure for every grief,  
Whose aid so many Lovers oft have found,  
With like success can ever heal my wound;  
Too weak the Power of Nature, or of Art;  
Nothing but Death can ease a broken heart.  
And that thou mayst behold my helpless state,  
Learn the extremest rigour of my Fate.   

Amidst th' innumerable beauteous Train,  
Paris, the Queen of Cities, does contain,  
The fairest Town, the largest, and the best,  
So fair Almeria shined above the rest.  
From her bright Eyes to feel a hopeless flame,  
Was of our Youth the most ambitious aim;  
Her Chains were marks of Honour to the Brave,  
She made a Prince, when e'er she made a Slave.  
Love, under whose Tyrannic Power I groan,  
Showed me this Beauty e'er 'twas fully blown;  
Her timorous Charms, and her unpractised Look,  
Their first assurance from my Conquest took;  
By wounding me, she learned the fatal Art,  
And the first sigh she had, was from my Heart;  
My Eyes with Tears moistening her snowy Arms,  
Rendered the Tribute owing to her Charms:  
But as I soon of all Mortals paid  
My Vows, and to her Beauty Altars made;  
So among all those Slaves that sighed in vain,  
She thought me only worthy of my Chain.  
Love's heavy burden, my Submissive Heart  
Endured not long, before she bore her part;  
My violent flame melted her frozen Breast,  
And in soft Sighs her pity she expressed;  
Her gentle Voice allayed my raging Pains,  
And her fair hands Sustained me in my Chains;  
Even Tears of Pity waited on my moan,  
And tender Looks were cast on me alone.  
My hopes and dangers were less mine, than hers,  
Those filled her Soul with Joys, and these with Fears  
Our hearts united, had the same desires,  
And both alike, burned in Impatient Fires.   

Too Faithful Memory! I give thee Leave  
Thy wretched Master kindly to deceive;  
Make me not once possessor of her Charms;  
Let me not find her Languish in my Arms;  
Past Joys are now my Fancies mournful Themes;  
Make all my happy Nights appear but Dreams;  
Let not that Bliss before my Eyes be brought;  
Oh! hide those Scenes from my tormenting Thought;  
And in their place, Disdainful Beauty show,  
If thou wouldst not be cruel, make her so;  
And something to abate my deep Despair,  
Oh, let her seem less Gentle, or less Fair.  
But I in vain, flatter my wounded Mind,  
Never was Nymph so Lovely, or so Kind:  
No cold Repulses, my Desires suppressed,  
I seldom sighed but on Almeria's Breast;  
Of all the Passions which Mankind destroy,  
I only felt excess of Love and Joy:  
Numberless Pleasures charmed my Sense, and they  
Were as my Love, without the least Alloy.  
As pure, alas, but not so sure to last,  
For, like a pleasing Dream, they all are past.  
From Heaven her Beauty like fierce lightning came,  
Which breaks through Darkness with its Glorious Flame,  
A while it Shines, a while our Sight it cheers,  
But soon the short-lived Comfort disappears,  
And Thunder follows, whose resistless Rage,  
None can withstand, and nothing can Assuage.  
So oft the Light, which those bright flashes gave,  
Serves only to conduct us to our Grave.  
When I had just begun Love's Joys to taste,  
(Those full Rewards for Fears and Dangers past)  
A Fever seized her, and to nothing brought  
The richest Work that ever Nature Wrought.  
All things below, alas, uncertain stand;  
The firmest Rocks are fixed upon the Sand:  
Under this Law both Kings and Kingdoms bend,  
And no beginning is without an end.  
A Sacrifice to Time, Fate dooms us all,  
And at the Tyrant's Feet we daily fall:  
Time, whose bold hand alike does bring to dust  
Mankind, and all those Powers in which they trust.   

Her wasted Spirits now begin to faint,  
Yet Patience ties her Tongue from all Complaint,  
And in her Heart, as in a Fort remains,  
But yields at last to her resistless pains;  
Thus, while the Fever amorous of his Prey,  
Through all her Veins makes his delightful way,  
Her Fate's, like Semiles the Flames destroy  
That Beauty they too eagerly enjoy.  
Her charming Face is in its Spring decayed,  
Pale grow the Roses, and the Lilies fade;  
Her Skin has lost that lustre which surpassed  
The Sun's, and did deserve as long to last;  
Her Eyes, which used to pierce the firmest hearts,  
Are now disarmed of all their Flames and Darts,  
Those Stars now heavily and slowly move,  
And Sickness triumphs in the Throne of Love.  
The Fever every moment more prevails,  
Its rage her Body feels, and Tongue bewails;  
She, whose disdain so many Lovers prove,  
Sighs now for Torment, as they sigh for Love,  
And with loud Cries which rend the neighbouring Air,  
Wounds my sad heart, and wakens my Despair▪  
Both Gods and Men I charge now with my loss,  
And wild with Grief, my Thoughts each other cross;  
My Heart and Tongue labour in both extremes,  
That sends up slighted Prayers, while this blasphemes:  
I ask their help, whose malice I defy,  
And mingle Sacrilege with Piety.  
But that which does yet more perplex my mind,  
To Love her truly, I must seem unkind:  
So unconcerned a Face my Sorrow wears,  
I must restrain unruly floods of Tears.  
My Eyes and Tongue put on dissembling forms,  
I show a Calmness in the midst of Storms,  
I seem to hope, when all my hopes are gone,  
And almost dead with grief, discover none.  
But who can long deceive a Loving Eye,  
Or with dry Eyes behold his Mistress die?  
When Passion had with all its terrors brought  
Th' approaching danger nearer to my Thought,  
Off on a sudden, fell the forced disguise,  
And showed a sighing heart in weeping Eyes,  
My apprehensions now no more confined,  
Exposed my sorrows, and betrayed my mind.  
The Fair Afflicted, Soon perceives my Tears,  
Explains my Sighs, and thence concludes my Fears;  
With sad Presages of her hopeless Case,  
She reads her Fate in my dejected Face;  
Then, feels my Torment, and neglects her own,  
While I am Sensible of hers alone;  
Each does the others burden kindly bear,  
I fear her Death, and she bewails my Fear:  
Though we thus suffer under Fortune's Darts,  
'Tis only those of Love which reach our Hearts.  
Meanwhile the Fever mocks at all our Fears,  
Grows by our Sighs, and rages at our Tears,  
Those vain effects of our as vain desire,  
Like Wind and Oil increase the fatal fire.   

Almeria, then, feeling the Destinies  
About to shut her Lips, and close her Eyes,  
Weeping, in mine fixed her fair trembling Hand,  
And with these words, I scarce could understand;  
Her Passion in a dying Voice expressed  
Half, and her Sighs, alas, made out the rest.  
'Tis past; this pang, Nature gives o'er the strife;  
Thou must thy Mistress Lose, and I my Life;  
I die, but dying thine, the Fates may prove  
Their Conquest over me, but not my Love;  
Thy Memory, my Glory, and my Pain,  
In spite of Death itself, shall still remain:  
Ah! Dear Orontes, my hard Fate denys  
That hope is the last thing which in us dies:  
From my grieved Breast all those soft Thoughts are fled,  
And Love survives, although my Hope is dead;  
I yield my Life, but keep my Passion yet,  
And can all thoughts but of Orontes quit;  
My flame increases as my strength decays,  
Death, which puts out the light, the heat does raise;  
That still remains, though I from hence remove,  
I lose my Lover, but I keep my Love.  
The Sigh, which sent forth that last tender word,  
Up towards the heavens like a bright Meteor soared,  
And the Kind Nymph bereft of all her Charms,  
Fell cold and breathless in her Lover's Arms;  
Which shows, since Death could deny him relief,  
That 'tis in vain we hope to die with grief.   

Goddess, who now my Fate has understood,  
Spare but my Tears, and freely take my Blood;  
Here let me end the Story of my Cares,  
My Dismal Grief enough the rest declares.  
Judge thou by all this Misery displayed,  
Whether I ought not to implore thy aid:  
Thus to survive, reproaches on me draws,  
And my sad wishes have too Just a Cause.   

Come, then, my only hope; in every place  
Thou visitest, Men tremble at thy Face,  
And fear thy Name; once let thy fatal hand  
Fall on a Swain, that does the blow demand.  
Vouchsafe thy Dart: I need not one of those,  
With which thou dost unwilling Kings depose;  
Thy weakest, my desired release can bring,  
And free my Soul already on her wing.  
But since all Prayers and Tears are vain, I'll try,  
If, spite of thee, 'tis possible to die.    

A PARAPHRASE On the CXLVIII. PSALM.  By the Earl of Roscommon. 

OAzure Vaults! O Crystal Sky!  
The World's transparent Canopy,  
Break your long silence, and let Mortals know,  
With what contempt you look on things below   

Wing'd Squadrons of the God of War,  
Who Conquer wheresoever you are,  
Let Echoing Anthems make his Praises known  
On Earth, his Footstool, as in Heaven his Throne.  
Great Eye of All, whose Glorious Ray  
Rules the bright Empire of the Day.   

O praise his Name, without whose purer Liglit,  
Thou hadst been hid in an Abyss of Night:  
Ye Moon and Planets who dispense,  
By God's Command, your Influence.   

Resign to him, as your Creator, due,  
That Veneration which Men pay to you;  
Fairest, as well as first of things,  
From whom all Joy, all Beauty springs.   

O praise the Almighty Ruler of the Globe,  
Who useth thee for his Empyreal Robe:  
Praise him ye loud harmonious Spheres,  
Whose Sacred Stamp all Nature bears.   

Who did all Forms from the rude Chaos draw,  
And whose Command is th' universal Law:  
Ye wat'ry Mountains of the Sky,  
And you so far above our Eye.   

Vast ever-moving Orbs, Exalt his Name,  
Who gave its being to your Glorious Frame:  
Ye Dragons, whose Contagious Breath  
Peoples the dark Retreats of Death,   

Change your fierce hissing into joyful Song,  
And praise your Maker with your forked Tongue:  
Praise him ye Monsters of the Deep,  
That in the Seas vast Bosoms sleep,   

At whose Command the foaming Billows roar,  
Yet know their Limits, Tremble, and Adore.  
Ye Mists and Vapours, Hail and Snow,  
And you who through the Concave blow.   

Swift Executors of his holy Word,  
Whirlwinds and Tempest praise the Almighty Lord  
Mountains, who to your Maker's View  
Seem less than Molehills do to you,   

Remember how, when first Jehovah spoke,  
All Heaven was Fire, and Sinai hid in Smoak:  
Praise him sweet Offspring of the Ground,  
With Heavenly Nectar yearly Crowned.   

And ye tall Cedars, celebrate his Praise,  
That in his Temple Sacred Altars raise:  
Idle Musicians of the Spring,  
Whose only cares to Love and Sing,   

Fly thro' the World, and let your trembling Throat  
Praise your Creator with the sweetest Note.  
Praise him each Savage Furious Beast,  
That on his Stores do daily feast.   

And you tame Slaves of the Laborious Blow,  
Your weary Knees to your Creator bow:  
Majestic Monarches, Mortal Gods,  
Whose Power hath here no Periods:   

May all Attempts against your Crown be vain,  
But still remember by whose power you Reign:  
Let the wide World his Praises sing,  
Where Tagus and Euphrates spring.   

And from the Danube frosty Banks, to those,  
Where from an unknown head great Nilus flows:  
You that dispose of all our Lives,  
Praise him from whom your power derives.   

Be True and Just, like him, and fear his Word,  
As much as Malefactors do your Sword.  
Praise him old Monuments of Time,  
O praise him in your Youthful prime.   

Praise him fair Idols of our greedy Sense,  
Exalt his Name, sweet Age of Innocence:  
Jehovah's Name shall only last,  
When Heaven, Earth, and all is past.   

Nothing, Great God, is to be found in Thee,  
But Unconceivable Eternity:  
Exalt, O Jacob's Sacred Race,  
The God of Gods, the God of Grace,   

Who will above the Stars your Empire raise,  
And with His Glory, Recompense your Praise.    

TO ORINDA: An Imitation of HORACE.  By the Earl of Roscommon. Integer vitae, etc. Carm. Lib. 1. Od. 22. 

I.  
VIrtue (dear Friend) needs no defence,  
No Arms, but it's own Innocence;  
Quivers, and Bows, and poisoned Darts,  
Are only used by guilty Hearts.   

II.  
An honest mind, safely, alone  
May travel through the burning Zone,  
Or through the deepest Scythian Snows,  
Or where the famed Hydaspes flows.   

III.  
While (ruled by a resistless fire)  
Our Great ORINDA I Admire.  
The hungry Wolves that see me stray  
Unarmed and single, run away.   

IV.  
Set me in the remotest place  
That ever Neptune did embrace,  
When there her Image fills my Breast,  
Helicon is not half so blest.   

V.  
Leave me upon some Libyan Plain,  
So she my Fancy entertain,  
And when the thirsty Monsters meet,  
They'll all pay homage to my Feet.   

VI  
The Magic of ORINDA's Name,  
Not only can their fierceness tame,  
But, if that mighty word I once rehearse,  
They seem submissively to roar in Verse.    

THE GROVE.  By the same Author. 
AH happy Grove! Dark and secure retreat,  
Of Sacred silence, Rests Eternal Seat;  
How well your cool and unfrequented shade  
Suits with the chaste retirements of a Maid.  
Oh! If kind Heav●n had been so much my friend,  
To make my Fate upon my choice depend;  
All my ambition I would here confine,  
And only this Elysium should be mine.  
Fond Men by Passion wilfully betrayed,  
Adore those Idols which their fancy made;  
Purchasing Riches, with our time and care,  
We lose our freedom in a gilded Snare;  
And having all, all to ourselves, refuse,  
Oppressed with Blessings which we fear to use.  
Fame is at best but an inconstant good,  
Vain are the boasted Titles of our Blood;  
We soon lose what we most highly prize,  
And with our Youth our short-lived Beauty dies.  
In vain our Fields and Flocks increase our store,  
If our abundance makes us wish for more.  
How happy is the harmless Country Maid,  
Who rich by Nature, scorns superfluous aid!  
Whose modest clothes no wanton eyes invite,  
But like her Soul, preserves the Native White;  
Whose little store, her well-taught Mind does please,  
Not pinched with want, nor cloyed with wanton ease,  
Who free from Storms, which on the Great Ones fall,  
Makes but few Wishes, and enjoys them all;  
No care but Love can discompose her Breast,  
Love, of all Cares the sweetest and the best.  
Whilst on sweet Grass her bleating Charge does lie,  
Our happy Lover feeds upon her eye;  
Not one on whom or Gods or Men impose,  
But one whom Love has for this Lover chose,  
Under some favourite Myrtle's shady Boughts,  
They speak their Passions in repeated Vows:  
And whilst a Blush confesses how she burns,  
His faithful heart makes as sincere returns.  
Thus in the Arms of Love and Peace they lie,  
And whilst they Live, their flames can never die.   

THE DUEL OF THE STAGS.  Written by the Honourable Sir ROBERT HOWARD. 

IN Windsor Forest, before War destroyed  
The harmless Pleasures which soft Peace enjoyed;  
A mighty Stag grew Monarch of the Herd,  
By all his Savage Slaves obeyed, and feared:  
And while the Troops about their Sovereign fed,  
They watched the awful nodding of his Head.  
Still as he passeth by, they all remove,  
Proud in Dominion, Prouder in his Love:  
[And while with Pride and Appetite he swells;]  
He courts no chosen object, but compels:  
No Subject his loved Mistress dares deny,  
But yields his hopes up to his Tyranny.   

Long had this Prince imperiously thus swayed,  
By no set Laws, but by his Will obeyed;  
His fearful Slaves, to full Obedience grown,  
Admire his strength, and dare not use their own.   

One Subject most did his suspicion move,  
That showed least Fear, and counterfeited Love;  
In the best Pastures by his side he fed,  
Armed with two large Militia's on his head:  
As if he practised Majesty, he walked,  
And at his Nod, he made not haste, but stalked▪  
By his large shade, he saw how great he was,  
And his vast Layers on the bended Grass.  
His thoughts as large as his proportion grew,  
And judged himself, as fit for Empire too.  
Thus to rebellious hopes he swelled at length,  
Love and Ambition growing with his strength.  
This hid Ambition his bold Passion shows,  
And from a Subject to a Rival grows.  
Solicits all his Princes, fearful Dames,  
And in his sight Courts with rebellious flames.   

The Prince sees this with an inflamed Eye,  
But Looks are only signs of Majesty:  
When once a Prince's Will meets a restraint,  
His Power is then esteemed but his Complaint.  
His Head then shakes, at which th' affrighted Herd  
Start to each side; his Rival not afeared,  
Stands by his Mistress side, and stirs not thence,  
But bids her own his Love, and his Defence.   

The Quarrel now to a vast height is grown,  
Both urged to fight by Passion, and a Throne;  
But Love has most excuse, for all, we find,  
Have Passions, tho' not Thrones alike assigned.  
The Sovereign Stag shaking his loaded head,  
On which his Sceptres with his Arms were spread,  
Wisely by Nature, there together fixed,  
Where with the Title, the Defence was mixed.  
The Pace which he advanced with to engage,  
Became at once his Majesty, and Rage:  
Tother stands still with as much confidence,  
To make his part seem only his defence.   

Their heads now meet, and at one blow each strikes  
As many strokes, as if a Rank of Pikes  
Grew on his Brows, as thick their Antlers stand,  
Which every Year kind Nature does disband.  
Wild Beasts sometimes in peace and quiet are,  
But Man no season frees from Love or War.   

With equal strength they met, as if two Oaks  
Had fell, and mingled with a thousand strokes.  
One by Ambition urged, t'other Disdain,  
One to Preserve, the other fought to Gain:  
The Subjects, and the Mistresses stood by,  
With Love and Duty to crown Victory:  
For all Affections wait on prosperous Fame,  
Not he that climbs, but he that falls, meets shame.   

While thus with equal Courages they meet,  
The wounded Earth yields to their struggling Feet;  
And while one slides, t'other pursues the Fight,  
And thinks that forced Retreat looks like a Flight;  
But then ashamed of his Retreat, at length  
Drives his Foe back, his Rage renews his strength.   

As even Weights into a motion thrown,  
By equal turns, drive themselves up and down;  
So sometimes one, than t'other Stag prevails,  
And Victory, yet doubtful, holds the Scales.   

The Prince ashamed to be opposed so long,  
With all his strength united rushes on;  
The Rebel weaker, than at first appears,  
And from his Courage sinks unto his Fears.  
Not able longer to withstand his might,  
From a Retreat at last steals to a Flight.  
The mighty Stag pursues his flying Foe,  
Till his own pride of Conquest made him slow;  
Thought it enough to scorn a thing that flies,  
And only now pursued him with his Eyes.   

The Vanquished as he fled, turned back his sight,  
Ashamed to fly, and yet afraid to fight:  
Sometimes his Wounds, as his excuse survay'd,  
Then fled again, and then looked back and stayed  
Blushed that his Wounds so slight should not deny  
Strength for a fight, that left him strength to fly.  
Calls thoughts of Love and Empire to his aid,  
But fears more powerful than all those persuade,  
And yet in spite of them retains his shame,  
His Cooled ambition, and his half-quenched flame  
There's none from their own sense of shame can fly,  
And dregs of Passions dwell with misery.   

Now to the Shades he bends his feeble course,  
Despised by those that once Admired his force:  
The Wretch that to a scorned Condition's thrown,  
With the World's favour, loses too his own.   

While fawning Troops their Conquering Prince enclosed,  
Now rendered absolute by being opposed;  
Princes by Disobedience get Command,  
And by new quenched Rebellions firmer stand;  
Till by the boundless offers of success,  
They meet their Fate in ill-used happiness.   

The vanquished Stag to thickest shades repairs,  
Where he finds safety punished with his cares;  
Through the Woods he rushes not, but glides,  
And from all searches but his own he hides;  
Ashamed to live, unwilling yet to lose  
That wretched life he knew not how to use.   

In this Retirement thus he lived concealed,  
Till with his Wounds, his Fears were almost healed;  
His ancient Passions now began to move,  
He thought again of Empire, and of Love:  
Then roused himself, and stretched at his full length,  
Took the large measure of his mighty strength;  
Then shook his loaded Head; the shadow too,  
Shook like a Tree, where leaveless Branches grew:  
Stooping to drink, he sees it in the Streams,  
And in the Woods hears clashing of his Beams;  
No accident but does alike proclaim  
His growing strength, and his increasing shame.   

Now once again, resolves to try his Fate,  
(For Envy always is importunate;)  
And in the Mind perpetually does move,  
A fit Companion for unquiet Love.  
He thinks upon his Mighty Enemy  
Circled about with Power, and Luxury.  
And hoped his strength might sink in his desires;  
Remembering he had wasted in such Fires.  
Yet while he hoped by them to overcome,  
He wished the others fatal joys his own.   

Thus the unquiet Beast in safety lay,  
Where nothing was to fear, nor to obey;  
Where he alone Commanded, and was Lord  
Of every Bounty, Nature did afford,  
Choose Feasts for every Arbitrary sense,  
An Empire in the state of Innocence.   

But all the Feasts, Nature before him placed,  
Had but faint relishes to his lost taste.  
Sick Minds, like Bodies in a Fever spent,  
Turn Food to the Disease, not Nourishment.   

Sometimes he stole abroad, and shrinking stood,  
Under the shelter of the friendly Wood;  
Casting his envious Eyes towards those Plains  
Where with Crowned Joys, his Mighty Rival Reigns.  
He saw th' obeying Herd marching along,  
And weighed his Rival's Greatness by the Throng.  
Want takes false Measures, both of Power, and Joys,  
And envied Greatness is but Crowd, and Noise.   

Not able to endure this hated sight,  
Back to the Shades he flies to seek out Night.  
Like Exiles from their Native Soils, though sent  
To better Countries, think it Banishment.  
Here he enjoyed, what t'other could have there,  
The Woods as Shady, and the Streams as Clear,  
The Pastures more untainted, where he fed,  
And every Night, chose out an unpressed Bed.   

But then his labouring Soul with Dreams was pressed,  
And found the greatest weariness in Rest;  
His dreadful Rival in his sleep appears,  
And in his Dreams again, he fights, and fears:  
Shrinks at the strokes of tother's Mighty Head,  
Feels every wound, and dreams how fast he fled.  
At this he wakes, and with his fearful Eyes,  
Salutes the Light, that Fleet the Eastern Skies.  
Still half amazed, looks round, and held by fear,  
Scarce can Believe, no Enemy was near.  
But when he saw his heedless fears were brought,  
Not by a Substance, but a drowsy Thought,  
His ample sides he shakes, from whence the Dew  
In scattered Showers, like driven Tempests flew.  
At which, through all his Breast new boldness spread,  
And with his Courage, raised his Mighty Head.  
Then by his Love inspired, resolves to try  
The Combat now, and overcome, or die.  
Every weak Passion sometimes is above  
The fear of Death, much more the Noblest Love.  
By Hope 'tis scorned, and by despair 'tis fought,  
Pursued by Honour, and by Sorrow brought.   

Resolved the paths of danger now to tread,  
From his scorned shelter, and his fears, he fled.  
With a brave haste now seeks a second Fight,  
Redeems the base one by a Noble Flight.   

In the mean time, the Conqueror enjoyed  
That Power by which he was to be destroyed.  
How hard 'tis for the Prosperous to see,  
That Fate which waits on Power, and Victory.   

Thus he securely Reigned, when in a Rout,  
He saw th' affrighted Herd flying about;  
As if some Huntsmen did their Chase Pursue,  
About themselves in scattered Rings they flew.  
He like a careful Monarch, raised his Head,  
To see what Cause that strange disturbance bred▪   

But when the searcht-out Cause appeared no more,  
Then from a Slave, he had o'ercome before,  
A bold disdain did in his Looks appear,  
And shook his Awful Head to chide their Fear▪  
The Herd afraid of Friend and Enemy,  
Shrink from the one, and from the other Fly;  
They scarce know which they should Obey, or Trust,  
Since Fortune only makes it Safe and Just.   

Yet in Despite of all his Pride, he stayed,  
And this unlooked for Chance with Trouble weighed.   

His Rage, and his Contempt alike, swelled high,  
And only feared his Enemy should Fly;  
He thought of former Conquest, and from thence  
Cozened himself into a Confidence.   

Tother that saw his Conqueror so near,  
Stood still and list'ned to a whispering fear;  
From whence he heard his Conquest, and his Shame;  
But newborn Hopes his ancient Fears o'ercome▪   

The Mighty Enemies now met at length,  
With equal Fury, though not equal Strength;  
For now, too late, the Conqueror did find,  
That all was wasted in him but his Mind.  
His Courage in his Weakness yet prevails.  
As a bold Pilot steers with tattered Sails,  
And Cordage cracked, directs no steady Course,  
Carried by Resolution, more than Force.  
Before his once scorned Enemy he reels,  
His Wounds increasing with his Shame, he feels  
The others Strength, more from his Weakness grows,  
And with one furious push, his Rival throws.   

So a tall Oak, the pride of all the Wood,  
That long th' Assault of several Storms hath stood;  
Till by a Mighty Blast more powerfully pushed,  
His Root's torn up, and to the Earth he rushed.   

Yet than he raised his Head, on which there Grew  
Once, all his Power, and all his Title too;  
Unable now to rise, and less to Fight,  
He raised those Sceptres to demand his Right.  
But such weak Arguments prevail with none,  
To plead their Titles, when their Power is gone.   

His Head now sinks, and with it all defence,  
Not only robbed of Power, but Pretence.  
Wounds upon Wounds, the Conqueror still gives,  
And thinks himself unsafe, while t'other Lives:  
Unhappy State of such as wear a Crown,  
Fortune does seldom lay 'em gently down.   

Now to the most scorned Remedy he flies,  
And for some Pity seems to move his Eyes;  
Pity, by which the best of Virtue's tried,  
To wretched Princes ever is denied.  
There is a Debt to Fortune, which they pay  
For all their Greatness, by no Common way.   

The flattering Troops unto the Victor fly,  
And own his Title to his Victory;  
The faith of most, with Fortune does decline,  
Duty's but Fear, and Conscience but Design.   

The Victor now, proud in his great success,  
Hastes to enjoy his fatal Happiness;  
Forgot his Mighty Rival was destroyed  
By that, which he so fond now enjoyed.   

In Passions, thus Nature herself enjoys,  
Sometimes Preserves, and then again destroys;  
Yet all Destruction which Revenge can move,  
Time or Ambition, is supplied by Love.    

TO CELIA.  By Sir Charle Ssedley. 
YOU tell me, Celia, you approve,  
Yet never must return my love;  
An answer that my hope destroys,  
And in the Cradle wounds our joys.  
To kill at once what needs must die,  
None would to Birds and Beasts deny.  
How can you then so cruel prove,  
As to preserve and torture Love?  
That Beauty Nature kindly meant  
For her own Pride, and our Content;  
Why should the Tyrant Honour make  
Our greatest torment? Let us break  
His Yoke, and that base power disdain,  
Which only keeps the good in pain.  
In Love and War th' Impostor does  
The best to greatest harms expose.  
Come then, my Celia, let's no more  
This Devil, for a God adore.  
Like foolish Indians we have been,  
Whose whole Religion is a sin.  
If we the Laws of Love had kept,  
And not in Dreams of Honour slept,  
He would have surely, long ere this,  
Have Crowned us with the highest Bliss;  
Our Joy had then been as complete,  
As now our Folly has been great.  
Let's lose no time then, but repent,  
Love welcomes best a Penitent.   

ANSWER.  By the same Author. 
THyrsis, I wish, as well as you,  
To Honour there were nothing due:  
Then would I pay my Debt of Love  
In the same Coin that you approve;  
Which now you must in Friendship take,  
'Tis all the Payment I can make;  
Friendship so high, that I must say,  
'Tis rather Love with some allay.  
And rest contented, since that I  
As well myself as you deny.  
Learn then of me bravely to bear  
The want of what you hold most dear;  
And that which Honour does in me,  
Let my Example work on thee.   

TO CELIA.  By the same Author. 

PRinces make Laws, by which their Subjects live,  
And the high Gods, Rules for their Worship give.  
How should poor Mortals else a Service find  
At all proportioned to their mighty Mind?  
Had it been left to us, each one would bring,  
Of what he liked himself, an Offering;  
And with unwelcome Zeal, perhaps, displease  
Th' offended Deity he would appease.  
All powers but thine, this Mercy do allow,  
And how they would be served themselves do show.  
A rude Barbarian would his Captived Foe  
Fully instruct in what he'd have him do.  
And can it be, my Celia, that Love  
Less kind than War should to the vanquished prove.   

Say, cruel Fair, then, would you that my flame  
Should for a while move under Friendship's Name;  
Or may it boldly, like itself appear,  
And its own Tale deliver to your Ear?  
Or must it in my tortured Bosom live,  
Like Fire in quiet Flints, and no Light give:  
And only then humbly send forth a small  
Spark, when yourself does on that Subject fall?  
My Passion can with any Laws comply,  
And for your sake do any thing, but Die.    

TO CHLORIS.  By the same Author. 
CHloris, I justly am betrayed  
By a Design myself had laid;  
Like an old Rook, whom in his Cheat,  
A Run of Fortune does defeat.  
I thought at first with a small Sum  
Of Love, thy heap to overcome;  
Presuming on thy want of Art,  
Thy gentle and unpractised Heart.  
But naked Beauty can prevail,  
Like open force, when Plots do fail.  
Instead of that thou hast all mine,  
And I have not one Stake of thine:  
And, like all Winners, dost discover  
A willingness to give me over.  
And though I beg, thou wilt not now;  
'Twere better thou shouldst do so too:  
For I so far in Debt shall run,  
Even thee I shall be forced to shun.  
My Hand, alas, is no more mine,  
Else it had long ago been thine:  
My Heart I give thee, and we call  
No Man unjust that parts with all.  
What a Priest says, moves not the mind,  
Souls are by Love, not Words, combined.   

To a Lady, who told him he could not Love.  By the same Author. 
MAdam, though meaner Beauties might,  
Perhaps, have need of some such slight;  
Who to excuse their Rigour, must  
Say they our Passions do mistrust,  
And that they would more pity show,  
Were they but sure our Loves were true.  
You should those petty Arts despise,  
Secure of what is once your Prize.  
We to our Slaves no Frauds address,  
But as they are, our Minds express.  
Tell me not then I cannot Love,  
Say, rather, you it ne'er can move;  
Who can no more doubt of your Charms,  
Than I resist such powerful Arms:  
Whose numerous force that I withstood  
So long, was not through any hope I could  
Escape their power; but through despair,  
Which oft makes Courage out of fear.  
I trembling saw how you used those  
Who tamely yielded without blows:  
Had you but one of all them spared,  
I might, perhaps, have been ensnared,  
And not have thus, ere I did yield,  
Called Love's whole Force into the Field.  
Yet now I'm Conquered, I will prove  
Faithful as they that never strove.  
All flames in matter, where too fast  
They do not seize, the longer last.  
Then blame not mine for moving slow,  
Since all things durable are so.  
The Oak that's for three hundred Years  
Designed in growing, one out-wears.  
Whilst Flowers for a Season made  
Quickly spring up, and quickly fade.   

TO CHLORIS.  By the same Author. 
CHloris, you live adored by all,  
And yet on none your Favours fall.  
A stranger Mistress ne'er was known,  
You pay us all in Paying none.  
We him of Avarice accuse,  
Who what he has, does fear to use.  
But what Disease of Mind shall I  
Call this, thy hated Penury?  
Thou wilt not give out of a store,  
Which no Profuseness can make poor.  
Misers, when Dead, may make amends;  
And in their Wills enrich their Friends.  
But when thou Diest, thy Treasure dies,  
And thou canst leave no Legacies.  
What madness is it then to spare,  
When we want power to make an Heir?  
Live, Chloris, then at the full rate,  
Of thy great Beauty; and since Fate  
To Love, and Youth, is so severe,  
Enjoy'm freely while thouart here.  
Some caution yet I'd have thee use,  
whenever thou dost a Servant choose.  
We are not all for Lovers fit,  
No more than Arms or Arts of Wit.  
For Wisdom some respected are,  
Some we see po'wrful at the Bar;  
Some for Preferment waste their time,  
And the steep Hill of Honour climb;  
Others of Love their business make,  
In Love their whole Diversion take.  
Take one of those, for in one Breast  
Two Passions live but ill at rest:  
And even, of them, I'd have thee fly  
All that take flame at every Eye.  
All those that light and faithless are,  
All that dare more than think thee fair.  
Take one of Love who nothing says,  
And yet whom every word betrays.  
Love in the Cradle pretty shows,  
And when't can speak, unruly grows.   

THE PICTURE.  
In Imitation of ANACREON'S BATHILLUS.  By the Earl of Mulgrave. 

THou Flatterer of all the Fair,  
Come, with all your skill, and care,  
Draw me such a Shape, and Face,  
As your Flattery would disgrace.  
Wish not that she would appear,  
'Tis well for you She is not here,  
Scarce can you with safety see  
All her Charms described by me,  
Who, alas, have found too well  
What a power does in them dwell;  
I, alas, the danger know,  
ay, alas, have felt the Blow;  
Mourn, as lost, my former Days,  
That did not sing of Celia's praise;  
And those few that are behind  
I shall blest, or wretched find,  
Only just as she is kind.   

With her tempting Eyes begin,  
Eyes that might draw Angels in  
To a second sweeter sin.  
Oh, those wanton rolling Eyes!  
At each glance a Lover dies:  
Make them bright, yet make them willing,  
Let them look both kind and kill.   

Next, draw her Forehead, than her Nose,  
And Lips just opening, which disclose  
Teeth so white, and Breath so sweet,  
So much Beauty, so much Wit,  
To our very Soul they strike,  
All our Senses pleased alike;   

But so pure a white and red  
Never never can be said;  
What are words in such a case?  
What is paint to such a Face?  
How should either Art avail us?  
Fancy here itself will fail us.   

In her Looks, and in her Mien  
Such a graceful Air is seen,  
That if you with all your Art  
Can but reach the smallest part,  
Next to her, the Matchless She,  
We shall wonder most at Thee.   

Then, her Neck, and Breasts, and Hair,  
And her— but my Charming Fair  
Does in a thousand things excel,  
Which I must not, dare not tell.   

How go on then? Oh, I see  
A Lovely Venus drawn by Thee;  
Oh how fair she does appear!  
Touch it only here and there;  
Make her yet seem more Divine,  
Your Venus then may look like mine,  
Whose bright form, if once you saw,  
You by her would Venus draw.    

TO A Coquet Beauty.  By the same Author. 

FRom Wars and Plagues come no such harms,  
As from a Nymph so full of Charms,  
So much Sweetness in her Face,  
In her Motions such a Grace,  
In her kind inviting Eyes  
Such a soft Enchantment lies,  
That we please ourselves too soon,  
And are with vain hopes undone   

After all her softness, we  
Are but Slaves, while she is free;  
Free, alas, from all desire,  
Except to set the World on fire.   

Thou, fair Dissembler, dost but thus  
Deceive thyself as well as us;  
Like Ambitious Monarches, thou  
Wouldst rather force Mankind to bow,  
And venture o'er the World to roam,  
Than govern with content at home.  
But trust me, Celia, trust me when  
Apollo's self inspires my Pen,  
One hour of Love's Delights outweighs  
Whole Years of Universal Praise,  
And one Adorer kindly used,  
Is of more use, than Crowds refused.   

For what does Youth and Beauty serve?  
Why more than all your Sex deserve?  
Why such soft alluring Arts  
To charm our Eyes, and melt our Hearts?  
By our loss, you nothing gain;  
Unless you love, you please in vain.    

SONG.  By the same Author. 

FRom all Uneasy Passions Free,  
Revenge, Ambition, Jealousy,  
Contented I had been too blest,  
If Love and You would let me Rest.  
Yet that Dull Life I now Despise;  
Safe from your Eyes,  
I feared no Griefs, but, Oh, I found no Joys.   

Amidst a thousand soft Desires,  
Which Beauty moves, and Love inspires;  
I feel such pangs of Jealous Fear,  
No heart so kind as mine can bear.  
Yet I'll defy the worst of harms;  
Such are those Charms,  
'Tis worth a Life, to Die within your Arms.    

The Parting of Hector with his Princess Andromache, and only Son Astyanax, when he went upon his last Expedition, in which he was Slain by Achilles.  
Done out of the Greek of Homer, Iliad. 6.  By Knightly Chetwood. 

HEctor, though warned by an approaching Cry,  
That to Troy Walls the Conquering Greeks drew nigh;  
T'his Princess one short Visit pays in haste,  
Some Daemon told him this would be his last:  
Her (swiftly passing through the spacious Streets)  
He nor at home, nor in the Circle meets,  
Nor at 
* Note, The Temple of Minerva.  Minerva's, where the Beauteous Train  
Made Prayers and Vows to angry Powers in vain.  
She, half distracted with the loud Alarms,  
(The Prince was carried in his Nurse's Arms)  
Runs to a Turret, whose commanding height  
Presented all the Battle to her sight,  
Advancing Grecians, and the Trojans flight.  
Here Hector finds her, with a Lover's Pace  
She speeds, and breathless sinks in his Embrace:  
The Nurse came after with her Princely care,  
As Hesperus fresh, promising, and fair,  
Hector in little, with paternal Joy  
He blest in silent Smiles the Lovely Boy.  
The Princess, at his sight composed again,  
Pressing his Hand, does gently thus complain:   

My Dearest Lord, believe a careful Wife,  
You are too lavish of your precious Life:  
You foremost into every danger run,  
Of me regardless, and your little Son.  
Shortly the Greeks, what none can singly do,  
Will compass, pointing all the War, at you.  
But before that day comes (Heavens) may I have  
The mournful Privilege of an early Grave!  
For I, of your dear Company bereft,  
Have no Reserve, no second Comfort left.  
My Father, who did in Cilicia Reign,  
By fierce Achilles was in Battle Slain:  
His Arms that Savage Conqueror durst not spoil,  
But paid just Honours to his Funeral Pile:  
Wood-Nymphs about his Grave have planted since  
A rural Monument to a mighty Prince:  
Seven Brothers, who seven Legions did Command,  
Had the same Fate, from the same murdering hand.  
My Mother too, who their sad Heir did reign,  
With a vast Treasure was Redeemed in vain;  
For she soon closed her Empire, and her Breath,  
By Wretches last good fortune— Sudden Death.  
Thus Father, Mother, Brothers, all is gone,  
But they seem all alive in you alone.  
To gain you, those Endearments I have sold,  
And like the Purchase— if the Title hold.  
Have pity then, here in this Tower abide,  
And round the Walls and Works your Troops divide.  
But now the Greeks, by both their Generals led,  
Ajax, Idomeneus, Diomedes,  
With all their most experienced Chiefs, and brave,  
Three fierce Attacks upon the Outworks gave;  
Some God their Courage to this pitch did raise,  
Or this is one of Troy's unlucky Days.   

Hector replied, This you have said, and more,  
I have revolved in serious Thoughts before.  
But I not half so much those Grecians fear,  
As Carpet-Knights, State-Dames, and Flatterers here,  
For they, if ever I decline the Fight,  
Miscall wise Conduct Cowardice and Flight;  
Others may methods choose the most secure,  
My Life no middle Courses can endure.  
Urged by my own, and my great Father's Name,  
I must add something to our ancient Fame.  
Embarked in Ilium's Cause, I cannot fly,  
Will Conquer with it, or must for it die:  
But still some boding Genius does portend  
To all my Toils an Vnsuccessful end,  
For how can Man with heavenly Powers contend?  
The Day advances with the swiftest pace,  
Which Troy, and all her Glories, shall deface,  
Which Asia's sacred Empire shall confound,  
And these proud Towers lay level with the ground:  
But all compared with you does scarce appear,  
When I presage your case, I learn to fear:  
When you by some proud Conqueror shall be led  
A mournful Captive to a Master's Bed.  
Perhaps some haughty Dame your hands shall doom,  
To Wove Troy's Downfall, in a Grecian Loom.  
Or lower yet, you may be forced to bring  
Water to Argos, from Hiperia ' s Spring;  
And as you measure out the tedious way,  
Some one shall, pointing to his Neighbour, say,  
See to what Fortune Hector' s Wife is brought,  
That famous General, that for Ilium fought.  
This will renew your sorrows without end,  
Deprived in such a Day, of such a Friend.  
But this is Fancy, or before it I  
Low in the Dust will with my Country lie.   

Then to his Infant he his Arms addressed,  
The Child clung, crying, to his Nurse's Breast,  
Scared at the burnished Arms, and threatening Crest.  
This made them smile, whilst Hector doth unbrace  
His shining Helmet, and disclosed his Face:  
Then dancing the pleased Infant in the Air,  
Kissed him, and to the Gods conceived this Prayer:   

Jove, and you Heavenly Powers, whoever hear  
Hector's Request with a Propitious Ear,  
Grant, this my Child in Honour and Renown  
May equal me, wear, and deserve the Crown:  
And when from some great Action he shall come  
Laden with Hostile Spoils in Triumph home,  
May Trojans say, Hector great things hath done,  
But is surpassed by his Illustrious Son.  
This will rejoice his tender Mother's Heart,  
And sense of Joy to my pale Ghost impart.   

Then in the Mother's Arms he puts the Child,  
With troubled Joy, in flowing Tears she smiled.  
Beauty and Grief showed all their Pompand Pride,  
Whilst those soft Passions did her Looks divide.  
This Scene even Hector's Courage melted down,  
But soon recovering, with a Lover's Frown,   

Madam (says he) these Fancies put away,  
I cannot Die before my fatal Day.  
Heaven, when we first take in our vital Breath,  
Decrees the way, and moment of our Death.  
Women should fill their Heads with women's Cares,  
And leave to Men (unquestioned) men's Affairs.  
A Truncheon suits not with a Lady's Hand,  
War is my Province that in chief Command.  
The Beauteous Princess silently withdrew,  
Turns oft, and with sad, wishing Eyes, does her Lords Steps pursue.  
Pensive to her Apartment she returns,  
And with Prophetic Tears approaching Evils mourns.  
Then tells all to her Maids, officious they  
His Funeral Rites to living Hector pay,  
Whilst forth he rushes through the 
* The Left Gate, accounted Ominous.  Scoean Gate,  
Does his own part, and leaves the rest to Fate.    

ON A POET Who Writ in the Praise of satire.  By the Earl of Rochester. 
TO vex and torture thy unmeaning Brain  
In Satyr's praise, to a low untuned strain,  
In thee, was most impertinent and vain.  
When in thy Person we more plainly see  
That Satyr's of Divine Authority;  
For God made one on Man, when he made thee:  
In whom are all those Contradictions joined,  
That make a Fop prodigious, and refined;  
A Lump deformed and shapeless, wert thou born,  
Begot in Love's despite, and Nature's scorn,  
And art grown up the most ungainly Wight,  
Harsh to the Ear, and hideous to the Sight:  
Yet Love's thy Business, Beauty thy Delight.  
Curse on that silly hour that first inspired  
Thy Longing to Admire, and be Admired,  
To paint thy Grizly Face, to Dance, to Dress,  
And all those awkard Motions that express  
Thy Loathsome Love, and Filthy Daintiness.  
Who needs will be an Ugly Beau, Garsoon,  
Spit at, and scorned by every Girl in Town;  
Where dreadfully Love's Scarecrow thou art placed  
To fright the tender Flock, who long to taste.  
For none so Lewd and Silly yet have proved,  
Where thou mad'st Love, t'endure to be Beloved.  
'Twere Counsel lost, or else I would advise;  
But thy half Wit will ne'er let thee be Wise:  
Half Witty, and half Mad, and scarce half Brave,  
Half Honest, which is very much; a Knave,  
Made up of All those Halves, thou canst not pass  
For any thing entirely but an Ass.   

A FAREWEL TO LOVE.  
ONce more Love's mighty Chains are broke,  
His Strength and Cunning I defy:  
Once more I have thrown off his Yoke,  
And am a Man, and do despise the Boy.  
Thanks to her Pride, and her Disdain,  
And all the Follies of a scornful Mind:  
I had ne'er possessed my Heart again,  
If Fair Miranda had been kind.  
Welcome, Fond Wanderer, as Ease  
And Plenty to a Wretch in pain,  
That worn with Want and a Disease,  
Enjoys his Health, and all his Friends again.  
Let others waste their Time and Youth,  
Watch and look pale, to gain a peevish Maid,  
And learn too late this dear-bought Truth,  
At length they're sure to be betrayed.   

By a Person of HONOUR. *  
THough, Phillis, your prevailing Charms  
Have forced me from my Celia's Arms,  
That kind defence against all Powers,  
But those resistless Eyes of yours:  
Think not your Conquest to maintain,  
By Rigour and unjust disdain.  
In vain, fair Nymph, in vain you strive,  
For Love does seldom Hope survive.  
My Heart may Languish for a time,  
Whilst all your Glories in their prime,  
Can justify such Cruelty,  
By the same force that Conquered me.  
When Age shall come, at whose command  
Those Troops of Beauties must disband;  
A Tyrant's strength once took away,  
What Slave so dull as to Obey?   

EPILOGUE TO Every Man in his Humour.  By the same Author. * 
Entreaty shall not serve, nor Violence,  
To make me speak in such a Play's defence:  
A Play, where Wit and Humour do agree  
To break all practised Laws of Comedy:  
The Scene (what more absurd) in England lies,  
No Gods descend, nor dancing Devils rise;  
No Captive Prince, from nameless Country  
brought,  
No Battle, nay, there's not a Duel fought.  
And something yet more sharply might be said.  
But I consider the poor Author's Dead:  
Let that be his Excuse— Now for our own,  
Why— Faith, in my Opinion, we need none.  
The parts were fitted well; but some will say,  
Pox on 'em Rogues, What made'em choose this Play?  
I do not doubt but you will credit me,  
It was not Choice, but mere Necessity.  
To all our writing Friends, in Town, we sent,  
But not a Wit durst venture out in Lent.  
Have patience but till Easter-Term, and then  
You shall have Jig and Hobby-horse again.  
Here's Mr. Matthew, or Domestic Wit,  
Does promise one of the ten Plays h'as writ:  
But since great Bribes weigh nothing with the Just,  
Know, we have Merits, and in them we trust;  
When any Fasts, or holidays, defer  
The public Labours of the Theatre.  
We ride not forth, although the Day be fair,  
On Ambling Tit, to take the Suburb-air:  
But with our Authors meet, and spend that time  
To make up Quarrels between Sense and Rhyme.  
Wednesdays and Fridays, constantly we sat,  
Till after many a long and free debate,  
For divers weighty Reasons, 'twas thought fit,  
Unruly Sense should still to Rhyme submit.  
This the most wholesome Law we ever made,  
So strictly in this Epilogue obeyed:  
Sure, no Man here will ever dare to break.  Enter Johnson's Ghost. 
Hold, and give way, for I myself will speak,  
Can you encourage so much Insolence,  
And add new faults still to the great Offence  
Your Ancestors so rashly did commit  
Against the mighty Powers of Art and Wit?  
When they condemned those noble works of mine  
Sejanus, and my best-loved Catiline:  
Repent, or on your guilty Heads shall fall  
The Curse of many a Rhyming Pastoral:  
The three bold Beauchamps shall revive again,  
And with the London Apprentice conquer Spain.  
All the dull Follies of the former Age  
Shall rise and find applause upon this Stage.  
But if you pay the great Arrears of Praise,  
So long since due to my much injured Plays:  
From all past Crimes I first will set you free,  
And then inspire some one to write like me.   

UPON THE DEATH Of His GRACE the Late Duke of ORMOND, Anno 1687.  By Knightly Chetwood. 

REligious Discord, Fury of this Isle,  
A little Truce, cease your harsh Notes a while!  
Honour, Religion, Virtue, Learning, all  
Demand our Tears at their Great Patron' s fall.  
Whilst slight Court-Meteors, soon advancing high,  
Short-lived too long, once seen neglected die;  
At Eighty Years Ormond ' s Propitious Light  
Seems immaturely ravished from our sight.  
Some Prosperom Star torn from his Native Sphere,  
Would cause such Wonder and Confusion there.   

The Virtues of four Reigns he kept entire  
Fined from the Dross, as Gold by Chemic fire.  
Exalted Virtues, which here want a Name,  
Too weighty for the labouring Wings of Fame!  
Of Ancient Honour, Loyalty, and Truth,  
The Noblest Standard for our wandering Youth.  
Thus whilst the Patriarch lived, who passed the Flood,  
The Jewish State by Ancient Maxims stood;  
But He once gone, the Base, Degenerate Age,  
Sunk to its old Apostasy, and Rage.   

Some have in Courts, others in Camps been great,  
In Business some, some in a Wise Retreat,  
Ormond in all, his vast Imperious Mind  
Excelled in each, as if to one confined:  
All times of Life, all Stations he could grace,  
The distant Poles of goodness did embrace,  
With crowding Lights, filled all the glorious Space.   

Through several Climes he a bright Course did run,  
Kind, as the enlivening Progress of the Sun.  
Warmed by his Beams, even sad Hybernia ' s Isle  
Looked up, and cheered her Visage with a Smile;  
Moved Britain's Envy, but, her Patron dead,  
Deep in his Fens, her Genius sinks his Head.   

O—rd, which, during this Apollo ' s Reign,  
Rivalled your Sister, and improved your Vein,  
If you just Tribute to his Hearse deny,  
Your Swans fall Speechless, and your Streams be dry.  
Some grateful Voice his Glorious Life shall sing,  
More above Subjects, than beneath a King.   

To His Grace the present DUKE.  

THis Atlas gone, what Hero does remain,  
The ponderous Mass of Honours to sustain?  
'Tis You, Great Sir, his Rights, his Virtues too,  
(That best Succession!) are devolved on You.  
Your Mind, well-ballassed, bears the prosperous Gales,  
They cannot over-set, scarce fill your Sails.  
What a fair, steady Course you steer along  
Through Scylla's Barking, and false Siren's Song!  
Your Friendship not debased by Treacherous Art,  
Your Actions speak the Language of your Heart.  
Fortune despairs, or Flattering, or Unkind,  
To daunt your Courage, or corrupt your Mind.   

Some placed in foolish Pride's new tottering Seat,  
Grow less from little, labouring to look Great:  
Such do not rise, but weigh great Titles down,  
Their Misplaced Coronets but eclipse the Crown:  
Whilst your digested Honour easy lies,  
Came as a Debt, not taken by Surprise.   

Thus Torrents, Creatures of the Winter Sky,  
O'erflow whilst hurtful, in the heats grow dry:  
But Sacred Nile warmed by the Rising Sun,  
With him a thousand Leagues from his high Source does run;  
With a rich Deluge all the Plains does bless:  
Egypt were ruined, if his Streams were less.     

The Earl of ROCHESTER's Answer, to a Paper of Verses, sent him by L. B. Felton, and taken out of the Translation of Ovid's Epistles, 1680.  
WHat strange Surprise to meet such Words as these?  
Such Terms of Horror were ne'er chose to please:  
To meet, midst Pleasures of a Jovial Night,  
Words that can only give amaze and fright,  
No gentle thought that does to Love invite.  
Were it not better for your Arms t' employ,  
Grasping a Lover in pursuit of Joy,  
Than handling Sword, and Pen, Weapons unfit:  
Your Sex gains Conquest, by their Charms and Wit.  
Of Writers slain I could with pleasure hear,  
Approve of Fights, o'erjoyed to cause a Tear;  
So slain, I mean, that she should soon revive,  
Pleased in my Arms to find herself Alive.   

TO A Very Young LADY.  By Sir George Etherege. 
SWeetest Bud of Beauty, may  
No untimely Frost decay  
Th' early glories which we trace,  
Blooming in thy matchless Face;  
But kindly opening, like the Rose,  
Fresh Beauties every day disclose,  
Such as by Nature are not shown  
In all the Blossoms she has blown▪  
And then what conquest shall you make,  
Who hearts already daily take;  
Scorched in the Morning with thy beams,  
How shall we bear those sad extremes  
Which must attend thy threatening Eyes,  
When thou shalt to thy Noon arise,   

THE Forsaken Mistress.  By the same Author. 
DIALOGUE.  Phil. 

TELL me, gentle Strephon, why  
You from my Embraces fly?  
Does my Love thy Love destroy?  
Tell me, I will yet be coy.   

Stay, O stay, and I will seign  
(Though I break my Heart) disdain;  
But lest I too unkind appear,  
For every Frown I'll shed a Tear.   

And if in vain, I court thy Love,  
Let mine, at least, thy pity move:  
Ah while I scorn, vouchsafe to woe,  
Methinks you may dissemble too.   Streph. 

Ah Phillis, that you would contrive  
A way to keep my Love alive,  
But all your other Charms must fail,  
When Kindness ceases to prevail.  
Alas! No less than you, I grieve,  
My dying flame has no reprieve,  
For I can never hope to find,  
Should all the Nymphs, I Court, be kind,  
One Beauty able to renew  
Those Pleasures I enjoy in you,  
When Love and Youth did both conspire  
To fill our Breasts and Veins with fire.   

'Tis true, some other Nymph may gain  
That Heart which merits your Disdain,  
But second Love has still allay,  
The Joys grow aged, and decay.  
Then blame me not for losing more  
Than Love and Beauty can restore:  
And let this truth thy comfort prove,  
I would, but can no longer Love.    

THE DIVIDED HEART.  By the same Author. 

AH! Celia, that I were but sure,  
Thy Love, like mine, could still endure;  
That Time and Absence, which destroy  
The Cares of Lovers, and their Joy,  
Could never rob me of that part  
Which you have given me of your Heart;  
Others unenvied might possess  
Whole Hearts, and boast that Happiness.   

'Twas Nobler Fortune to divide  
The Roman Empire in her Pride,  
Than on some low and barbarous Throne,  
Obscurely placed, to rule alone.   

Love only from thy Heart exacts  
The several Debts thy Face contracts,  
And by that new and juster way,  
Secures thy Empire and his sway;  
Favouring but one, he might compel  
The hopeless Lover to rebel.   

But should he other Hearts thus share,  
That in the whole so worthless are,  
Should into several Squadrons draw  
That strength, which kept entire could awe,  
Men would his scattered Powers deride,  
And conquering Him those spoils divide.    

To Mr. J. N. on his Translations out of French and Italian.  By the same Author. 
WHile others toil, our Country to supply  
With what we need only for Luxury,  
Spices, and Silk, in the rich East provide,  
To glut our Avarice, and feed our Pride.  
You Foreign Learning prosperously transmit,  
To raise our Virtue, and provoke our Wit.  
Such brave Designs your Generous Soul inflame  
To be a bold Adventurer for Fame;  
How much obliged are Italy and France,  
While with your Voice their Music you advance?  
Your growing Fame with Envy can oppose,  
Who sing with no less Art than they Compose;  
In these Attempts, so few have had success,  
Their Beauties suffer in our English Dress:  
By Artless Hands, spoiled of their Native Air,  
They seldom pass from moderately fair:  
As if you meant these Injuries to atone,  
You give them Charms, more Conquering than their own.  
Not like the dull laborious Flatterer,  
With secret Art those Graces you confer.  
The skilful Painters, with slight strokes impart,  
That subtle Beauty which affects the Heart.  
There are, who publicly profess they hate  
Translations, and yet all they Write, Translate:  
So proud, they scorn to drive a Lawful Trade,  
Yet by their Wants, are shameless Pirates made:  
These you incense, while you their Thefts reveal,  
Or else prevent in what they meant to steal  
From all besides; you are secure of praise,  
But you so high our Expectation raise,  
A gen'ral Discontent we shall declare,  
If such a Workman only should repair.  
You to the Dead, your Piety have shown,  
Adorned their Monuments, now build your own:  
Drawn in the East, we in your Lines may trace  
That Genius which of old inspired the place:  
The banished Muses back to Greece you bring,  
Where their best Airs you so Divinely sing;  
The World must own they are by you restored  
To sacred shades, where they were first adored.   

Virtue's Urania.  By the same Author. 

HOpeless I languish out my Days,  
Struck with Vrania's Conquering Eyes:  
The Wretch at whom she darts these rays,  
Must feel the Wound until he dies.   

Though endless be her Cruelty,  
Calling her Beauties to my Mind,  
I bow beneath her Tyranny,  
And dare not murmur she's unkind.   

Reason this tameness does upbraid,  
proffering to arm in my defence;  
But when I call her to my aid,  
She's more a Traitor than my sense.   

No sooner I the War declare,  
But straight her succour she denies,  
And joining Forces with the Fair,  
Confirms the Conquest of her Eyes.    

SYLVIA.  By the same Author. 

THe Nymph that undoes me, is Fair and Unkind,  
No less than a Wonder by Nature designed;  
She's the Grief of my Heart, the Joy of my Eye,  
And the cause of a Flame that never can die.   

Her Mouth, from whence Wit still obligingly flows,  
Has the Beautiful Blush, and the Smell of the Rose;  
Love and Destiny both attend on her Will,  
She wounds with a Look, with a Frown she can kill.   

The Desperate Lover can hope no redress,  
Where Beauty and Rigour are both in excess;  
In Sylvia they meet, so unhappy am I,  
Who sees her must Love, and who Loves her must die.    

TO CELIA.  By Sir Charles Sedley. 
AS in those Nations where they yet adore  
Marble and Cedar, and their aid implore,  
'Tis not the Workman, nor the precious Wood,  
But 'tis the Worshipper that makes the God:  
So, cruel Fair, though Heaven has given thee all  
We Mortals (Virtue, or can Beauty) call,  
'Tis we that give the Thunder to your Frowns,  
Darts to your Eyes, and to ourselves the Wounds.  
Without our Love, which proudly you deride,  
Vain were your Beauty, and more vain your Pride,  
All envied Being's that the World can show,  
Still to some meaner thing their greatness owe.  
Subjects make Kings, and we (the numerous Train  
Of Humble Lovers) Constitute thy Reign.  
This difference only Beauty's Realm may boast,  
Where most it favours, it enslaves the most.  
And they to whom it is indulgent found,  
Are ever in the rudest Fetters bound.  
What Tyrant yet, but thee, was ever known  
Cruel to those that served to make him one?  
Valour's a Vice, if not with Honour joined,  
And Beauty a Disease, when 'tis not kind.   

THE SUBMISSION.  By the same Author. 
AH! Pardon, Madam, if I ever thought  
Your smallest Favours could too dear be bought;  
And the just greatness of your Servant's Flame,  
I did the poorness of their Spirits Name;  
Calling their due attendance, Slavery,  
Your power of Life and Death, flat Tyranny;  
Since now I yield, and do confess, there is  
No way too hard that leads to such a bliss.  
So when Hippomanes beheld the Race,  
Where Loss was Death, and Conquest but a Face,  
He stood amazed at the fatal strife,  
Wondering that Love should dearer be than Life,  
But when he saw the Prize, no longer stayed,  
But through those very dangers sought the Maid,  
And won her too: O may his Conquest prove  
A happy Omen to my purer Love;  
Which, if the honour of all Victory  
In the resistance of the Vanquished lie,  
Though, it may be, the least regarded Prize,  
Is not the smallest Trophy of your Eyes.   

CONSTANCY.  By the same Author. 
FEar not, My Dear, a Flame can never die,  
That is once kindled by so bright an Eye:  
Look on thyself, and measure thence my Love,  
Think what a Passion such a Form must move;  
For though thy Beauty first allured my Sight,  
Yet now I look on it but as the Light  
That led me to the Treasury of thy Mind,  
Whose inward Virtue in that Feature shined.  
That knot (be confident) will ever last,  
Which Fancy tied, and Reason has made fast;  
So fast, that time (although it may disarm  
Thy Lovely Face) my Faith can never harm;  
And Age, deluded when it comes, will find  
My Love removed, and to thy Soul assigned.  
The Passion I have now, shall ne'er grow less:  
No, though thy own Fair Self should it oppress.  
I could even hazard my Eternity,  
Love but again, and 'twill a Heaven be.   

THE INDIFFERENCE.  By the same Author. 

THanks, Fair Urania, to your scorn,  
I now am free as I was born;  
Of all the Pain that I endured,  
By your late Coldness, I am Cured.   

In losing me, proud Nymph, you lose  
The Humblest Slave your Beauty knows;  
In losing you, I but throw down  
A Cruel Tyrant from her Throne.   

I must confess, I ne'er could find  
Your equal, or in Shape, or Mind.  
Y'ave Beauty, Wit, and all things know,  
But where you should your Love bestow.   

I unawares, my Freedom gave,  
And to those Tyrants grew a Slave;  
But would y'ave kept what you have won,  
You should have more Compassion shown.   

Love is a burden, which two Hearts,  
When equally they bear their parts;  
With pleasure carry, but no one,  
Alas, can bear it long alone.   

I'm not of those, who Court their Pain,  
And make an Idol of Disdain;  
My hope in Love, does ne'er expire,  
But I lose also the Desire.   

Nor yet of those, who ill received,  
Would gladly have strange things believed,  
And if your Heart you do defend,  
Their Force against your Honour bend.   

Whoever does make his Victor less,  
His own low weakness does confess;  
And whiles her power he does defame,  
He poorly doubles his own shame.   

Even that Malice does betray,  
And speak concern another way.  
And all such scorn in Men is but  
The Smoke of Fires ill put out.   

He's still in Torment, whom the Rage  
To Detraction does engage;  
In Love, Indifference is sure  
The only sign of perfect Cure.   

Yet, Cruel Fair, if thou canst prove  
As happy in some other Love,  
As I could once have done in thine,  
The Sun on Happier does not shine.    

A Pastoral Dialogue.  By the same Author. Thyrsis. 
STrephon! O Strephon! Once the Jolliest Lad,  
That with shrill Pipe did ever Mountain glad,  
While'ome the foremost at our Rural Plays,  
The Pride and Glory of our holidays:  
Why dost thou now sit musing all alone,  
Teaching the Turtles yet a sadder Groan?  
Welled with thy Tears, why does the Neighbouring Brook  
Bear to the Ocean what she never took?  
Why do our Woods, so used to hear thee Sing,  
With nothing now but with thy Sorrows ring?  
Thy Flocks are well and fruitful, and no Swain  
Than thou more welcome to the Hill or Plain.  Strephon. 
No loss of these, or care of those are left,  
Hath wretched Strephon of his Peace bereft;  
I could invite the Wolf, my Cruel Guest,  
And play unmoved, while he on all did Feast;  
I could endure that every Swain outrun,  
Out-threw, Out-wrestled, and each Nymph should shun  
The hapless Strephon: But the Gods, I find,  
To no such trifles have this Heart designed;  
A feller grief, and sadder loss, I plain,  
Than ever Shepherd, or did Prince, sustain;  
Bright Galatea, in whose matchless Face  
State Rural Innocence with Heavenly Grace,  
In whose no less to be adored mind,  
With equal light, even distant Virtues shined,  
Chaste, without pride; though gentle, yet not soft;  
Not always cruel, nor yet kind too oft:  
Fair Goddess of these Fields, who for our sports,  
Though she might well become despised Courts,  
Beloved of all, and loving one alone,  
Is from my sight, I fear, for ever gone;  
Now I am sure thou wonder'st not, I grieve;  
But rather art amazed that I Live.  Thyrsis. 
Thy Case indeed is pitiful, but yet  
Thou on thy loss too great a price dost set;  
Women, like Days are, Strephon, some be far  
More bright and glorious than others are;  
Yet none so wonderful were ever seen,  
But by as Fair they have succeeded been.  Strephon. 
Others as Fair, and may as worthy prove,  
But sure I never shall another Love;  
Her bright Idea wanders in my Thought,  
At once my Poison, and my Antidote;  
The Stag shall sooner with the Eagle soar;  
Seas leave their Fishes naked on the shore;  
The Wolf shall sooner by the Lambkin die,  
And from the Kid the hungry Lion fly;  
Than I forget her Face; what once I Love,  
May from my Eyes, but not my Heart remove.   

To a Lady, who fled the Sight of him.  By Sir George Etherege. 

IF I my Celia could persuade  
To see those Wounds her Eyes have made,  
And hear, whilst I that Passion tell,  
Which, like herself, does so excel,  
How soon we might be freed from Care!  
She need not fear, nor I despair.   

Such Beauty does the Nymph protect,  
That all approach her with respect;  
And can I offer Violence  
Where Love does join in her defence?  
This Guard might all her Fears disperse,  
Did she with Savages Converse.  
Then my Celia would surprise  
With what's produced by her own Eyes;  
Those matchless Flames which they inspire  
In her own Breast, should raise a fire  
For Love, but with more subtle Art,  
As well as Beauty charms the Heart.    

To a Lady, ask him how long he would Love her.  By the same Author. 
IT is not, Celia, in our power  
To say how long our Love will last,  
It may be we within this Hour  
May lose those Joys we now do taste:  
The Blessed, that Immortal be,  
From Change in Love are only free.  
Then, since we Mortal Lovers are,  
Ask not how long our Love will last;  
But while it does, let us take care  
Each Minute be with Pleasure past;  
Were it not madness to deny  
To Live, because weare sure to Die.   

TO Mr. G. Granville, ON HIS VERSES TO THE KING.  By Mr. Edmund Waller. 
AN Early Plant, which such a Blossom bears,  
And shows a Genius so beyond his Years;  
A Judgement which could make so fair a Choice,  
So high a Subject to employ his Voice,  
Still as it grows, How sweetly will it sing,  
The growing Greatness of our Matchless King?   

TO Mr. WALLER.  By Mr. G. Granville. 
WHen into Lybia, the Young Grecian, came,  
To Talk with Hammon, and Consult for Fame;  
When from the Sacred Tripod where he stood,  
The Priest inspired, Saluted him, a God;  
So owned by Heaven, less glorious far was he,  
Great God of Verse, than I, thus Praised by Thee;  
Whoever their Names, can in thy Numbers show,  
Have more than Empire, and Immortal grow:  
Ages to come, shall scorn the Powers of Old,  
When in thy Verse, of Greater Gods they're told.  
Our Beauteous Queen, and Martial Monarch's Name,  
For Jove and Juno, shall be placed by Fame;  
Thy Charles, for Neptune, shall the Seas Command,  
And Sacharissa shall for Venus stand:  
Greece shall no longer Boast, nor Haughty Rome,  
But think from Britain, all the Gods did come.   

ON MYRA's Singing.  By the same Author. 
THE Sirens, once Deluded, Vainly Charmed,  
Tied to the Mast, Ulysses Sailed unharmed:  
Had Myra's Voice Enticed his Listening Ear,  
The Greek had stopped, and would have Died to hear:  
When Myra Sings, we seek th' Enchanting Sound,  
And Bless the Notes which do so sweetly Wound.  
What Music needs must dwell upon that Tongue,  
Whose Speech is Tuneful, as another's Song;  
Such Harmony, such Wit, a Face so fair,  
So many pointed Arrows, who can bear?  
The Slave that from her Wit, or Beauty flies,  
If she but reach him with her Voice, he Dies.  
Like Soldiers, so in Battle we succeed,  
One Peril scaping, by another Bleed:  
In vain the Dart, or glittering Sword we eat,  
Condemned to Perish by the Slaughtering Gun.   

IN Praise of MYRA.  By the same Author. 

I.  
TUNE the Harmonious Lyre: Begin my Muse,  
What Nymph? What Queen? What Goddess shall we choose?  
Whose Praises shall we Sing? What Charmer's Name  
Transmit Immortal down to Fame?  
Strike, strike thy Strings; let Echo take the Sound,  
And bear it far, to all the Mountains round:  
Pyndus again shall hear, again rejoice,  
And Haemus too, as when th' Enchanting Voice  
Of Tuneful Orpheus Charmed the Grove,  
Taught Oaks to Dance, and made the Cedars move.   

II.  
Nor Venus, nor Diana will we Name,  
Myra is Venus and Diana too,  
All that was feigned of them, applied to her, is true:  
Then Sing, my Muse; let Myra be our Theme.  
As when the Shepherds do their Garland make,  
They search, with pains, the Fragrant Meadows round,  
Plucking but here and there, and only take  
The Choicest Flowers, with which some Nymph is Crowned.  
In Framing Myra so Divinely Fair,  
Nature has taken the same care;  
All that is Lovely, Noble, Good, we see,  
All-beauteous Myra, all bound up in Thee.   

III.  
Where Myra is, there is the Queen of Love,  
Th' Arcadian Pastures, and the Cyprian Grove.  
When Myra Walks, so Charming is her Mien,  
In every Movement, every Grace is seen.  
When Myra speaks, so just's the sense and strong,  
So Sweet the Voice, 'tis like the Muse's Song.  
Place me on Mountains of Eternal Snow,  
Where all is Ice, all Winter Winds that blow;  
Or cast me underneath the Burning Line,  
Where everlasting Sun does shine,  
Where all is scorched— Whatever you decree,  
Ye Gods, wherever I shall be,  
Myra shall still be Loved, and still Adored by Me.    

SONG.  By the same Author. 

Prepared to Rail, Resolved to Part,  
When I approach the Perjured Maid;  
What is it awes my Timorous Heart?  
Why is my Tongue afraid?   

With the least Glance a little kind,  
Such wondrous Power have Myra's Charms!  
She drives my Doubts, Enslaves my Mind,  
And all my Rage disarms.   

Forgetful of her broken Vows,  
when gazing on that Form Divine,  
Her Injured Vassal, trembling bows,  
Nor dares the Slave Repine.    

SONG.  By the same Author. 

SO Smooth, and so Serene but now,  
What means this Change on Myra's Brow?  
Her Aguish Love now glows and burns,  
Then chills, and shakes, and the Cold Fit returns.   

Mocked with deluding Vows and Smiles,  
When on her Pity I depend,  
My airy hope she soon beguiles,  
And Laughs to see my Labours never end.   

So up the Steepy Hill with pain,  
The weighty Stone is rolled in vain;  
Which having touched the top, recoils,  
And leaves the Labourer 
* Sisyphus.  to renew his Toils.    

VERSES Sent from an Unknown Hand, To Mr. G. GRANVILLE, In the Country.  

WHY, G— I'll, is thy Life confined,  
To Shades, Thou whom the Gods designed  
In public, to do credit to Mankind?  
Why sleeps the Noble Ardour of thy Blood,  
Which from thy Ancestors, so many Ages past,  
From Rollo, down to Bevil Flood,  
And then appeared again at last,  
In Thee, whom thy Victorious Lance  
Bore the Disputed Prize, from all the Youth of   

In the first Trials, which are made for Fame,  
Those to whom Fate Success denies,  
If taking Counsel from their Shame,  
They modestly Retreat, they're Wise:  
But, why should you, who still succeed  
In all you do, whether with Graceful Art you lead  
The fiery Barb, or with as Graceful Motion tread  
At shining Balls, where all agree,  
To give the highest Praise, and the first Place to Thee.   

So Loved and Praised, whom all Admire,  
Why, why should you from Courts, or Camps retire?  
If Celia is unkind, (if it can be,  
That any Nymph can be unkind to Thee?)  
If Pensive made by Love, you thus retire,  
Awake your Muse, and string your Lyre;  
Thy tender Song, and thy Melodious Strain,  
Can never be addressed in vain:  
She needs will Love, and we shall have Thee back again.    

SONG.  By Sir George Etherege. 
TELL me no more you Love; in vain,  
Fair Celia, You this Passion feign;  
Can they pretend to Love, who do  
Refuse what Love persuades them to?  
Who once has felt his Active Flame,  
Dull Laws of Honour will disdain;  
You would be thought his Slave, and yet  
You will not to his Power submit.  
More Cruel than those Beauties are,  
Whose Coyness wounds us to despair;  
For all the kindness which you show,  
Each Smile and Kiss which you bestow▪  
Are like those Cordials which we give  
To Dying Men, to make them Live,  
And Languish out an Hour in pain;  
Be Kinder, Celia, or Disdain.   

To Her EXCELLENCE, the MARCHIONESS OF NEWCASTLE, After the Reading of Her Incomparable POEMS.  By the same Author. 
Madam,  

WIth so much Wonder we are struck  
When we begin to Read your matchless Book;  
A while your own excess of Merit stays  
Our forward Pens, and does suspend your Praise,  
Till Time our Minds does gently recompose,  
Allays this Wonder, and our Duty shows,  
Instructs us how your Virtues to proclaim,  
And what we ought to pay to your Great Fame;  
Your Fame, which in your Country has no Bounds,  
But wheresoever Learning's known, resounds.   

Those Grace's Nature did till now divide;  
Your Sex's Glory, and our Sex's Pride,  
Are joined in you, and all to you submit,  
The brightest Beauty, and the sharpest Wit.  
No Faction here, or fiery Envy sways,  
They give you Myrtle, while we offer Bays.  
What Mortal dares dispute those Wreaths with You,  
Armed thus with lightning, and with Thunder too?   

This made the Great New-Castle's Heart your Prize,  
Your Charming Soul, and your Victorious Eyes,  
Had only power his Martial Mind to tame,  
And raise in his Heroic Breast a Flame:  
A Flame, which with his Courage still aspires,  
As if Immortal Fuel fed those Fires:  
This Mighty Chief, and your Great Self made One,  
Together the same Race of Glory run;  
Together in the Wings of Fame you move,  
Like yours, his Virtue: And like yours, his Love.   

While we your Praise endeavouring to rehearse,  
Pay that great Duty in our Humble Verse;  
Such as may justly move your Anger, You,  
Like Heaven, forgive them, and accept them too.  
But what we cannot, your brave Hero pays,  
He builds those Monuments we strive to raise:  
Such as to after Ages shall make known,  
While he records your Deathless Fame, his own.  
So when an Artist some rare Beauty draws,  
Both in our wonder share, and our applause:  
His skill from Time secures the Glorious Dame,  
And makes himself Immortal in her Fame.    

EPILOGUE TO TARTUFF, Spoken by Himself.  By a Person of Honour. * 
MAny have been the vain attempts of Wit  
Against the still-prevailing Hypocrite▪  
Once, and but once, a Poet got the day,  
And vanquished Busy in a Puppet-play:  
But Busie rallying, armed with zeal, and rage,  
Possessed the Pulpit, and pulled down the Stage.  
To laugh at English Knaves is dangerous then,  
While English Fools will think them Honest Men  
But sure no Zealous Brother can deny us  
Free leave with this our Monsieur Ananias.  
A Man may say, without being called an Atheist,  
There are Damned Rogues among the French and Papist,  
That fix Salvation to short Band and Hair,  
That belch and snuffle to prolong a Prayer?  
That use t'enjoy the Creature, to express  
Plain Whoring, Gluttony, and Drunkenness?  
And in a decent way perform them too,  
As well, nay, better far, alas, than you;  
Whose Fleshly Failings are but Fornication,  
We Godly phrase it, Gospel-Propagation,  
Just as Rebellion was called Reformation.  
Zeal stands but Cent'ry at the Gate of Sin,  
Whilst all that have the Word pass freely in  
Silent, and in the dark, for fear of Spies,  
You march, and take Damnation by surprise:  
There's not a Roaring Blade in all this Town,  
Can go so far towards Hell for Half a Crown,  
As I for Six Pence, for we know the way;  
For want of Guides, Men often go astray:  
Therefore give ear to what I shall advise,  
Let every Married Man, that's Grave and Wise,  
Take a Tartuff, of known Ability,  
To teach and to instruct his Family,  
Who may so settle lasting Reformation,  
First get his Son, then give him Education.   

THE Imperfect Enjoyment.  By Sir George Etherege. 
AFter a Pretty, Amorous Discourse,  
She does resist my Love with a pleasing force;  
Moved not with Anger, but with Modesty,  
Against her will she is my Enemy.  
Her Eyes the rudeness of her Arms excuse,  
Whilst those accept what these seem to refuse;  
To ease my Passion, and to make me blest,  
Th' obliging Smock falls from her whiter Breast;  
Then with her lovely Hands she does conceal  
Those Wonders Chance so kindly did reveal;  
In vain, alas, her nimble Fingers strove  
To shield her Beauties from my greedy Love;  
Guarding her Breasts, her Lips she did expose,  
To save a Lily she must lose a Rose;  
So many Charms she has in every place,  
A hundred Hands cannot defend each Grace.  
Sighing, at length her force she does recall,  
For since I must have Part, she'll give me All.  
Her Arms the joyful Conqueror embrace,  
And seem to guide me to the sought-for place.  
Her Love is in her sparkling Eyes expressed,  
She falls o'th' Bed for Pleasure, more than rest.  
But Oh, strange Passion! Oh, Abortive Joy!  
My Zeal does my Devotion quite destroy,  
Come to the Temple, where I should Adore  
My Saint, I Worship at the sacred Door;  
Oh, cruel Chance! The Town which did oppose  
My Strength so long, now yields to my Dispose;  
When, overjoyed with Victory, I fall  
Dead at the foot of the surrendered Wall,  
Without the usual Ceremony, we  
Have both fulfilled the Amorous Mystery,  
The Action which we should have jointly done,  
Each has unluckily performed alone;  
The Union which our Bodies should enjoy,  
The Union of our eager Souls destroy.  
Our Flames are punished by their own excess,  
Wed had more Pleasure had our Loves been less;  
She Blushed and Frowned, perceiving we had done  
The Sport, she thought, we scarce had yet begun.  
Alas, said I, Condemn yourself, not Me;  
This is th' effect of too much Modesty.  
Hence with that peevish Virtue, the Delight  
Of both our Victories was lost i'th' Fight;  
Yet from my Shame, your Glory does arise,  
My Weakness proves the Vigour of your Eyes:  
They did consume the Victim, ere it came  
Unto the Altar, with a purer Flame:  
Phillis, let then this Comfort ease your Care,  
Yed been more Happy, had you been less Fair.   

A PROLOGUE Spoken at the Opening of the Duke's New Playhouse.  By the same Author. 
'TIS not in this, as in the former Age,  
When Wit alone sufficed t' Adorn the Stage,  
When things well said, an Audience could Invite,  
Without the hope of such a Gaudy Sight:  
What with your Fathers took, would take with you,  
If Wit had still the Charm of being New;  
Had not Enjoyment dulled your Appetite,  
She in her homely Dress would yet delight;  
Such stately Theatres we need not raise,  
Our Old House would put off our dullest Plays.  
You Gallants know, a fresh Wench of Sixteen,  
May drive the Trade in Honest Bombarine,  
And never want good Custom, should she lie  
In a Back-Room, two or three Stories high:  
But such a Beauty as has long been known,  
Though not decayed, but to Perfection grown,  
Must, if she mean to thrive in this lewd Town,  
Wear Points, Lac'd-Petticoats, and a rich Gown;  
Her Lodgings too, must with her Dress agree,  
Be hung with Damask, or with Tapestry;  
Have China, Cabinets, and a great Glass,  
To strike respect into an Amorous Ass.  
Without the help of Stratagems and Arts,  
An old Acquaintance cannot touch your Hearts.  
Methinks 'tis hard our Authors should submit  
So tamely to their Predecessors wit,  
Since, I am sure, among you there are few  
Would grant your Grandfathers had more than you:  
But hold! I in this business may proceed too far,  
And raise a storm against our Theatre;  
And then what would the wise Adventurers say,  
Who were in a much greater Fright to day  
Than ever Poet was about his Play?  
Our apprehensions none can justly blame,  
Money is dearer much to us than Fame:  
This thought on, let our Poets justify  
The Reputation of their Poetry;  
We are resolved we will not have to do  
With what's between those Gentlemen and you.  
Be kind, and let our House have but your praise,  
You're welcome every to damn their Plays.   

Falling in Love with a Stranger at a Play.  By Sir Charles Sedley. 
FAir Amarillis, on the Stage, whilst you  
Behold a feigned Love, you gave a true;  
I like a Coward in the Amorous War,  
Came only to look on, yet got a Scar;  
Fixed by your Eyes, I had no power to fly,  
They held me whilst you gained the Victory:  
I thought I safely might my sight content,  
To which the power to like (not Love) I lent;  
And if I ventured on some slight Discourse,  
It should be such as could no Passion nurse:  
Led by the treacherous lustre of your Eyes,  
At last I played too near the Precipice:  
Love came disguised in Wonder and Delight;  
And I was Conquered ere I knew him right;  
Your words fell on my Passion, like those showers  
Which swell and multiply the rising Flowers;  
Like Cupid's self, a God, and yet a Child,  
Your Looks at once were awful, and yet mild:  
Methoughts you Blushed, as Conscious of my Flame,  
Whilst your strict Virtue did your Beauty blame:  
But rest secure; y'are from the guilt as free,  
As Saints Adored from our Idolatry;  
And Love, a Torment, does for me prepare,  
Beyond your Rigour in my own Despair.   

Indifference Excused.  By the same Author. 

LOve, when 'tis true, needs not the aid  
Of Sighs nor Tears to make it known;  
And to convince the Cruelest Maid,  
Lovers should use their Love alone:   

Into their very Looks 'twill steal;  
And he that most will hide his Flame,  
Does in that Care his Pains reveal,  
Silence itself can Love proclaim.   

This, Aurelia, made me shun  
The Paths that common Lovers tread,  
Whose guilty passions are begun,  
Not in their Hearts, but in their Head.   

I could not sigh, and with crossed Arms  
Lament your Rigour and my Fate,  
Nor tax your Beauty with such Charms  
As Men Adore, and Women Hate:   

But Careless Live, and without Art,  
Knowing my Love you must have fp'ide,  
And thinking it a foolish part,  
To strive to show what none can hide.    

To my Honoured Friend Sir ROBERT HOWARD, On His Excellent Poems.  By Mr. John Dryden. 

AS there is Music uninformed by Art  
In those wild Notes, which with a merry Heart  
The Birds in unfrequented Shades express,  
Who better taught at home, yet please us less:  
So in your Verse, a native sweetness dwells,  
Which shames Composure, and its Art excels.  
Singing, no more can your soft numbers grace,  
Than Paint adds Charms unto a Beauteous Face.  
Yet as when mighty Rivers gently creep,  
Their even calmness does suppose them deep;  
Such is your Muse: No Metaphor swelled high  
With dangerous boldness lifts her to the Sky;  
Those mounting Fancies, when they fall again,  
Show Sand and Dirt at bottom do remain.  
So firm a strength, and yet withal so sweet,  
Did never but in Sampson's Riddle meet.  
'Tis strange each Line so great a weight should bear,  
And yet no sign of toil, no sweat appear.  
Either your Art hides Art, as Stoics feign,  
Than least to feel, when most they suffer pain,  
And we, dull Souls, admire, but cannot see  
What hidden Springs within the Engine be:  
Or 'tis some happiness that still pursues  
Each Act and Motion of your Graceful Muse.  
Or is it Fortune's Work, that in your Head  
The curious 
* Rete Mirabile.  Net that is for Fancies spread,  
Le's through its Meshes every meaner Thought,  
While rich Ideas there are only caught.  
Sure that's not all; this is a piece too fair  
To be the Child of Chance, and not of Care.  
No Atoms casually together hurled  
Coulde'er produce so beautiful a World.  
Nor dare I such a Doctrine here admit,  
As would destroy the Providence of Wit.  
'Tis your strong Genius then which does not feel  
Those weights would make a weaker Spirit reel:  
To carry weight, and run so lightly too,  
Is what alone your Pegasus can do.  
Great Hercules himself could ne'er do more,  
Than not to feel those heavens and Gods he bore.  
Your easier Odes, which for Delight were penned,  
Yet our Instruction make their second end:  
We're both enriched and pleased, like them that Woo,  
At once a Beauty, and a Fortune too.  
Of Moral Knowledge Poesy was Queen,  
And still she might, had wanton Wits not been;  
Who like ill Guardians lived themselves at large,  
And not content with that, debauched their Charge:  
Like some brave Captain, your successful Pen  
Restores the Exiled to her Crown again;  
And gives us hope, that having seen the Days  
When nothing flourished but Fanatic Bays,  
All will at length in this Opinion rest,  
" A Sober Prince's Government is best.  
This is not all; your Art the way has found  
To make improvement of the richest ground,  
That Soil which those Immortal Laurels bore,  
That once the Sacred Maro's Temples wore  
Elisa's Griefs, are so expressed by you,  
They are too Eloquent to have been true.  
Had she so spoke, Aeneas had obeyed  
What Dido rather than what Jove had said.  
If Funeral Rites can give a Ghost repose,  
Your Muse so justly has discharged those.  
Elisa's shade may now its wand'ring cease,  
And claim a Title to the Fields of Peace.  
But if Aeneas be obliged, no less  
Your kindness great Achilles doth confess,  
Who dressed by Statius in too bold a look,  
Did ill become those Virgin's Robes he took.  
To understand how much we owe to you,  
We must your Numbers, with your Author's view;  
Then we shall see his work was lamely rough,  
Each figure stiff as if designed in Buff;  
His Colours laid so thick on every place,  
As only showed the Paint, but hid the Face.  
But as in Perspective we Beauties see,  
Which in the Glass, not in the Picture be;  
So here our sight obligingly mistakes  
That Wealth which his your Bounty only makes.  
Thus vulgar Dishes are by Cooks disguised,  
More for their dressing than their substance prized.  
Your curious 
* Annorations on Statius.  Notes so search into that Age,  
When all was Fable but the Sacred Page,  
That since in that dark Night we needs must stray,  
We are at least misled in pleasant way.  
But what we most admire, your Verse no less  
The Prophet than the Poet doth confess.  
ere our weak Eyes discerned the doubtful streak  
Of Light, you saw Great Charles his Morning break.  
So skilful Seamen ken the Land from far,  
Which shows like Mists to the dull Passenger.  
To Charles your Muse first pays her duteous Love,  
As still the Ancients did begin from Jove.  
With Monk you end, whose Name preserved shall be,  
As Rome recorded 
* 
Hic situs est Rufus qui pulso vindice quandam.  
Imperium asseruit non sibi sed Patriae.   Rufus Memory,  
Who thought it greater honour to obey  
His country's Interest, than the World to sway.  
But to Write Worthy things, of Worthy Men,  
Is the peculiar Talon of your Pen:  
Yet let me take your Mantle up, and I  
Will venture in your right to Prophesy.   

" This Work by Merit, first of Fame secure,  
" Is likewise happy in its Geniture:  
" For since 'tis born when Charles ascends the Throne,  
" It shares, at once, his Fortune and its own.    

AN ODE In Imitation of — Quid Bellicosus Cantabor, etc. Hor. Od. 11. Lib. 2.  By Mr. John How. 
WHAT is't to us, who guides the State,  
Who's out of Favour, or who Great,  
Who are the Ministers and Spies,  
Who votes for Places, or who buys.  
The World will still be ruled by Knaves  
And Fools contending to be Slaves;  
Small Things, my Friend, serve to support  
Life, troublesome at best, and short:  
Our youth runs back, occasion flies,  
Grey Hairs come on, and Pleasure dies:  
Who would the present Blessings lose  
For Empires which he cannot use.  
Kind Providence has us supplied  
With what to others is denied,  
Virtue which teaches to condemn  
And scorn ill Actions and ill Men.  
Beneath this Lime-trees fragrant shade,  
On Beds of Flowers supinely laid,  
Let's then all other Cares remove,  
And Drink and Sing to those we Love:  
Here's to Neaera, Heaven designed  
Perfection of the Charming kind,  
Whose Beauty, Voice, and wondrous Wit  
Lays all Adoring at her Feet,  
Makes Angel's envy, Nature vain,  
And me delight in hopeless pain.  
May she be Blest, as she is Fair,  
And Pity me as I Love her;  
The rest let's leave to the unseen Powers,  
This Moment and this Glass is ours.   

THE PLATONIC.  By Sir Charles Sedley. 

FAIR Octavia, you are much to blame,  
To blow the fire, and wonder at the flame.  
I did converse, 'tis true, so far was mine;  
But that I Loved, and hoped, was wholly thine;  
Not hoped, as others do, for a return,  
But that I might without offending bourn.  
I thought those Eyes which every hour enslave,  
Could not remember all the Wounds they gave:  
Forgotten in the Crowd, I wished to lie,  
And of your Coldness, not your Anger, die;  
Yet since you know I Love, 'tis now no time  
Longer to hide, let me excuse the Crime;  
Seeing what Laws I to my Passion give,  
Perhaps you may consent that it should live▪   

First, It never shall a hope advance  
Of waiting on you, but by seeming chance.  
I at a distance will Adore your Eyes,  
As awful Persians do the Eastern Skies:  
I never will presume to think of Sex,  
Nor with gross Thoughts my Deathless Love perplex:  
I tread a pleasant path without design;  
And to thy care my Happiness resign,  
From Heaven itself thy Beauty cannot be  
A freer Gift than is my Love to Thee.    

TO A Devout Young Woman.  By the same Author. 

PHillis, this mighty Zeal assuage.  
You overact your part;  
The Martyrs at your tender Age,  
Gave Heaven but half their Heart.   

Old Men (till past the Pleasure) ne'er  
Declaim against the Sin,  
'Tis early to begin to fear  
The Devil at Fifteen.   

The World, to Youth, is too severe,  
And like a Treacherous Light,  
Beauty the Actions of the Fair  
Exposes to their sight.   

And yet this World, as old as 'tis,  
Is oft deceived by't too;  
Wise Combinations seldom miss,  
Let's try what we can do.    

SONG.  By the same Author. 

WHEN Aurelia first became  
The Mistress of his Heart,  
So mild and gentle was her Reign,  
Thyrsis, in hers, had part.   

Reserves and Care he laid aside,  
And gave his Love the Reins;  
The headlong course he now must bide,  
No other way remains.   

At first her Cruelty he feared,  
But that being overcome,  
No second for a while appeared,  
And he thought all his own:   

He called himself a happier Man  
Than ever Loved before;  
Her Favours still his Hopes outran,  
What Mortal can have more?   

Love smiled at first, then looking grave,  
Said, Thyrsis, leave to boast;  
More joy than all her kindness gave,  
Her Fickleness will cost.   

He spoke, and from that fatal time,  
All Thyrsis did, or said,  
Appeared unwelcome, or a Crime,  
To the Ungrateful Maid.   

Then he despairing of her Heart,  
Would fain have had his own.  
Love answered, such a Nymph could part  
With nothing she had won.    

On the Lamented DEATH Of the Late Countess of DORSET.  By N. Tate, Servant to Their Majesties. 

HOME, Shepherds, to your Cottages retire,  
Your Dorset Mourns; no more the Pipe inspire.  
Your Mirth is done, your Care is vain; what need  
To Tend those Flocks, that will no longer Feed?  
Nature herself concerned for Him appears,  
Sables for his and her lost Darling wears,  
She Sighs in Storms, and Weeps in Seas of Tears.  
Even Earth that does the precious Relics shroud,  
Laments the Treasure that should make her Proud:  
Alone exempted from the gen'ral Care,  
The Skies rejoice to have regained their Star.   

Profane Disease: The Crime had been too great,  
In only Battering of so fair a Seat!  
Which spitefully thou quite hast undermined,  
Because the bright Remains would still have shined:  
So Envious Rome no Method could employ  
Fair Carthage to Subdue, but to Destroy.   

Mute are the Groves, where Happy Shepherds sung,  
And Philomela once more has lost her Tongue;  
The Palm and Myrtle Glades no longer please:  
Cypress and Yew are now the only Trees.  
The ruthfull'st Objects, most Endearments have,  
The Uncouth Vale Delights, and gloomy Cave  
Can please, because it represents the Grave.  
Tears our Refreshment are, our sole Relief,  
To give Despair free scope,  
To set the Sluices open,  
And Rowl with the Impetuous Tide of Grief.   

Let the next Age the costly Tomb prepare,  
To her shrined Image come, and seek her there;  
The Present rears, beyond the Power of Art,  
A breathing Monument in every Heart.   

What empiric can divorce, what Charms of Verse,  
The Sighing Mother from her Darling's Hearse?  
To trace her Features, and her Virtues paint,  
In Form an Angel, as in Life a Saint;  
Are Themes ill suited to a Parent's Grief,  
The Food of Sorrow, an unkind Relief:  
One only sovereign Balm sick Nature bears,  
A Sympathising Royal Mourners Tears:  
Though Gods, nor Goddesses, may Fate reverse,  
Our Goddess Weeping Consecrates the Hearse.   

Behold, forlorn the Muse's Patron laid,  
With Mourning Cupids in the Cypress shade;  
Of Fate, nor cruel Skies, he once complains,  
But inwardly the Conflict deep sustains,  
The struggling Tumult in his Breast restrains.   

O DORSET, could our Worthless Live pretend  
(Whose Comforts only on thy Smiles depend)  
To Bribe thy Griefs, how pleased could we resign  
Our Breathes, compounding for one Pang of thine.  
Our Useless Breathes are tendered now in vain,  
Since Tuneful Notes no more must cheer the Plain,  
Let Numbers cease; for whom should they relieve,  
That can no Comfort to their Patron give?   

Yet, DORSET, Live, in pity to the Age,  
That to Condole thy Loss forgets its Rage;  
The Impious Age still from one Crime is free,  
Mad with Intestine Strife, we all agree,  
As in Admiring in Lamenting Thee!   

Let those dear Pledges Intercede at least,  
The Living Relics of the Fair Deceased;  
Till Infant Beauty to full Bloom arrives,  
The Mother's Virtues, and her Charms revives:  
Till Dawning Buckhurst to his Zenith rise,  
And gild (like you) and warm our Northern Skies.  
Till then Indulge our dearest Wishes scope,  
Next Age's DORSET, Britain's second Hope.    

TO CHLORIS.  By Sir Charles Sedley. 
CHloris, I cannot say, your Eyes  
Did my unwary Heart surprise,  
Nor will I swear it was your Face,  
Your Shape, or any nameless Grace;  
For you are so entirely Fair,  
To Love a part, injustice were;  
No drowing Man can know which drop  
Of water his last breath did stop;  
So when the Stars in Heaven appear,  
And join to make the Night look clear;  
The Light we no one's Bounty call,  
But the united work of all;  
He that both Lips, or Hands adore,  
Deserves them only, and no more;  
But I Love all, and every part,  
And nothing less can ease my Heart.  
Cupid that Lover weakly strikes,  
Who can express what 'tis he likes.   

SONG.  By the same Author. 

AVrelia, Art thou mad  
To let the World in me  
Envy Joys I never had,  
And censure them in Thee.   

Filled with grief for what is past,  
Let us at length be wise,  
And the Banquet boldly taste,  
Since we have paid the price.   

Love does easy Souls despise,  
Who lose themselves for Toys,  
And Escape for those devise,  
Who taste his utmost Joys.   

To be thus for Trifles blamed,  
Like theirs a Folly is,  
Who are for vain Swearing Damned,  
And knew no higher Bliss.   

Love should like the Year be Crowned,  
With sweet variety;  
Hope should in the Spring be found  
Kind Fears, and Jealousy.   

In the Summer Flowers should rise,  
And in the Autumn Fruit;  
His Spring doth else but mock our Eyes,  
And in a Scoff Salute.    

SONG.  By the same Author. 

LOVE still has something of the Sea,  
From whence his Mother rose;  
No time his Slaves from doubt can free,  
Nor give their Thoughts repose:   

They are becalmed in clearest Days,  
And in rough weather tossed;  
They whither under cold delays,  
Or are in Tempests lost.   

One while they seem to touch the Port,  
Then strait into the Main,  
Some angry Wind, in cruel sport,  
Their Vessel drives again.   

At first, Disdain and Pride they fear,  
Which if they chance to scape,  
Rivals and falsehood soon appear  
In a more dreadful Shape.   

By such degrees to Joy they come,  
And are so long withstood,  
So slowly they receive the Sum,  
It hardly does them good.   

'Tis Cruel to prolong a Pain;  
And to defer a Bliss:  
Believe me, gentle Hermione  
No less Inhuman is.   

And Hundred Thousand Oaths your Fears  
Perhaps would not remove;  
And if I gazed a Thousand Years,  
I could no deeper Love,   

'Tis fitter much for you to guests,  
Than for me to explain;  
But grant, O grant that Happiness  
Which only does remain.    

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN AMINTAS AS and CELIA.  By the same Author. Celia. 
A Mintas, I am come alone,  
According as I said;  
But whither is thy Honour flown?  
I fear I am betrayed:  
The Looks are changed, and in the place  
Of Innocent Desires,  
Methinks I see thy Eyes and Face  
Burn with unusual Fires.  Amintas. 
Sees not my Celia Nature wear  
One Countenance in the Spring,  
And yet another Shape prepare,  
To bring the Harvest in?  
Look on the Eagle, how unlike  
He to the Egg is found,  
When he prepares his Pownce to strike  
His Prey against the ground.  
Fears might my Infant Love become;  
'Twere want of kindness now,  
Should Modesty my Hope benumb,  
Or check what you allow.  Celia. 
Amintas, hold, What could you worse  
To worst of Women do?  
Ah! How could you a Passion nurse  
So much my Honour's Foe?  Amintas. 
Make not an Idol of a Toy,  
Which every breath can shake,  
Which all must have, or none enjoy,  
What course so e'er we take:  
Whilst Women hate, or Men are vain,  
You cannot be secure;  
What makes my Celia then a pain  
So fruitless to endure?  Celia. 
Could I the World neglect for Thee,  
Thy Love, though dear it cost,  
In some unkind Conceit of me,  
Would be untimely lost:  
Thou wouldst thy own Example fear,  
And every heedless word  
I chance let fall beyond thy Care,  
Would some new doubt afford.  Amintas. 
If I am Jealous, 'tis because  
I know not where you Love;  
With me fulfil Love's gentle Laws,  
And all my Fears remove.  Celia. 
Women, like things, at second hand,  
Do half their Value lose;  
But whilst all Courtship they withstand,  
May at their Pleasure choose.  Amintas. 
This were a fine Discourse, my Dear,  
If we were not alone;  
But now Love whispers in my Ear,  
There's somewhat to be done.  
She said, she never would forgive:  
He Kissing, swore she should;  
And told her she was mad to strive  
Against their Mutual Good.  
What farther past, I cannot tell,  
But sure not much amiss;  
He vowed he Loved her dearly well,  
She answered with a Kiss.   

THE LAMENTATIONS OF JEREMIAH.  By Mrs. Wharton. 
CHAP. I.  
The ARGUMENT.  
Verse 1. The Miserable Estate of Jerusalem, by reason of her Sin. 12. She Complaineth of her Grief. 18. And confesseth God's Judgements to be Righteous.  

1.  
HOW doth the Mournful Widowed City bow?  
She that was once so great: Alas, how low?  
Once filled with Joy, with Desolation now.   

2.  
Tears on her Cheeks, and Sables on her Head;  
She mourns her Lover's lost, and Comfort's Dead.  
Alas, alas, lost City, where are those,  
So proud once to be Friends, now turned her Foes?   

3.  
Judah is gone; alas, to Bondage gone,  
Amongst the Heathen Judah mourns alone,  
Grieved, and in Servitude, she finds no rest,  
Followed by none but those by whom oppressed.   

4.  
The Feasts of Zion, no one now attends,  
Unhappy Zion, destitute of Friends:  
Her Priests still Sigh, and all her Virgins Mourn,  
Because her Gladness now finds no return.   

5.  
Her Enemies are great, and ever nigh,  
Still Fortunate, because her Crimes were high.  
Her Captived Children, still her guilt upbraid,  
Who Mourn whilst their Insulting Foes Invade.   

6.  
Her Beauty which excelled, is now no more  
That brightness which all Nations did Adore;  
Here Princes are like hunted Hearts become,  
Breathless and Faint, whilst the Pursuit goes on:  
Alas for Zion, all their Strength is gone.   

7.  
Jerusalem then thought upon the Hour  
When she was Crowned with Peace, Delight,  
and Power;  
Thoughts once so Joyful, Mournful now and  
Vain,  
The Foe Insults, whilst she no help fustains,  
Mocking both at her Sabbaths and her Pains.   

8.  
Her Crims have caused her to be far removed,  
Jerusalem, who was so well beloved.  
All those who in her Pride admired her Fame,  
Despise her now, because thy've seen her Shame:  
Sighing she turns away, with Shame distressed,  
Amazed, Despised, Deserted and Oppressed.   

9  
Circled with Gild and Shame, she cannot fly,  
Her Comforts far removed, her End too nigh;  
She vainly think, on that 'tis now too late,  
Behold those Griefs, which no one can repeat,  
Her Fall is steep, and all her Foes are great.   

10.  
Her Sanctuary is by them betrayed,  
All her Delights they carelessly invade,  
Even the Heathen, of whom God had said,  
They should not in her Holy Temple tread.   

11.  
Her hungry People sigh, and give away  
For Bread, their Treasures, lest their Lives decay.  
Consider, Lord, see her with Gares bowed down,  
For I am Vile, and Zion left alone.   

12.  
All you who pass this way behold and see,  
Are my Griefs small? Do others grieve like me?  
Are not these Sorrows, under which I bow,  
With which the Lord hath brought my Soul so low?  
Turn back and Mourn with me, because my Lord  
In his fierce Anger doth no Peace afford.   

13.  
He from above hath Flames and Horror sent,  
Circling my Soul with Pain and Discontent;  
His Snares, alas, my weary Feet betray,  
Whilst Desolate and Faint, I Mourn all Day  
For Zion lost, her Glory thrown away.   

14.  
Our Sins have brought those Chains which his Command  
Hath fastened now (who can his Power withstand?)  
Now they are linked by his Almighty Hand.  
The Lord forsakes, and I am now the scorn  
Of Enemies, because of God forlorn:  
He was my Strength, and now, alas, 'tis gone.   

15.  
My Mighty Men are all by him cast down,  
They're crushed by numbers, and I'm left alone;  
Whilst silently thy Virgin Daughters Mourn,  
Unhappy Mournful Judah left Forlorn.   

16.  
For this I Weep, and waste myself in Tears,  
Because her Help's far off, and Sorrow's near:  
Ah, wretched Judah, where is now thy hope?  
Thy Foes still triumph whilst thy Children droop.   

17.  
Zion spreads forth her Arms to be relieved,  
But who can Comfort whom the Lord hath Grieved?  
Her Enemy's increase and flourish still,  
By his Command, by his all-powerful Will.  
Ah, wretched City, scorned and shamed by all,  
Who can enough lament thy dreadful Fall?   

18.  
Yet he is Just, for I am Guilty found,  
The Lord, with Righteousness is always Crowned.  
Ye that pass by, see me with Sorrows Drowned,  
My weight of Sin hath pressed me to the Ground.  
Who is it now my Freedom can restore?  
My Youth and Captive Virgins are no more.   

19  
I called for all my Friends, but they were gone,  
Friendship grows cold, when Misery comes on:  
With Hunger pined, my Priests and Rulers Died,  
Within my Walls perished my Strength and Guide.   

20.  
My Crimes were great, so are my Sorrows  
Behold my Lord, see the Afflicted bow; (now,  
Abroad th' unwearied Sword bereaves of Breath,  
And Grief at Home, is a more Cruel Death.   

21.  
All round me hear my Sighs, and see my Tears,  
Whilst there is none that can relieve my Cares:  
My Foes hear, and rejoice at what is done:  
But thou wilt surely, Lord, at last return,  
And then the Enemy, like me, will Mourn.   

22.  
Their Crimes are great, turn, Mighty Lord, and see,  
Afflict 'em then, as thou Afflictest me.  
My Griefs are great, turn therefore and Relent;  
My Sighs are many, and my Heart is Faint.    

TO CELIA.  By an unknown Hand. 
ALL things submit themselves to your Command,  
Fair Celia, when it does not Love withstand;  
The power it borrowed from your Eyes alone,  
All but himself would yield to who has none;  
Were he not blind, such are the Charms you have,  
He'd quit his Godhead to become your Slave.  
Be proud to act a Mortal Hero's part,  
And throw himself, for Fame, on his own Dart?  
But Fate hath otherwise disposed of things,  
In different Bonds Subjecting Slaves, and Kings.  
That Fate (like you, resistless) does ordain  
That Love alone should over Beauty Reign.  
By Harmony the Universe does move;  
And what is Harmony, but Mutual Love?  
See gentle Brooks, how quietly they glide,  
Kissing the rugged Banks on either side,  
Whilst in their Crystal Stream at once they show,  
And with them feed the Flowers which they bestow;  
Though pressed upon by their too rude Embrace,  
In gentle Murmurs they keep on their pace  
To their Loved Sea; for even Streams have Desires,  
Cool as they are, they feel Love's Powerful Fires,  
And with such Passion, that if any force  
Stop, or molest 'em in their Amorous Course,  
They swell with Rage, break down, and Ravage o'er  
The Banks they Kissed, the Flowers they fed before.  
Who would resist and Empire so Divine,  
Which Universal Nature does enjoin?  
Submit then Celia e'er you be reduced:  
For Rebels Vanquished once, are vilely used.  
And such are you, when e'er you dare obey  
Another Passion, and your Love betray.  
You are Love's Citadels, by you he reigns,  
And his proud Empire o'er the World maintains;  
He trusts you with his Stratagems and Arms,  
His Frowns, his Smiles, and all his Conquering Charms.  
Beauty's no more but the dead Soil which Love  
Manures, and does by wise Commerce improve;  
Sailing by Sighs, through Seas of Tears, he sends  
Courtship from Foreign Hearts: For your own Ends  
Cherish a Trade; for as with Indians we  
Get Gold and Jewels for our Trumpery;  
So to each other, for their useless Toys,  
Lovers afford Inestimable Joys:  
But if you're fond of Trifles, be, and Starve,  
Your Gugaw Reputation preserve;  
Live upon Modesty and empty Fame,  
Foregoing Sense, for a Fantastic Name.   

SONG.  By a Person of Honour. * 
AS he lay in the Plain, his Arm under his Head,  
And his Flock feeding by, the fond Celadon said,  
If Love's a Sweet Passion, why does it Torment?  
If a Bitter (said he) whence are Lovers Content?  
Since I suffer with Pleasure, why should I complain,  
Or grieve at my Fate, when I Know, 'tis in vain?  
Yet so pleasing the Pain is, so soft is the Dart,  
That at once it both Wounds me, and Tickles my Heart.  
To myself I sigh often, without knowing why;  
And when Absent from Phillis, methinks I could Die;  
But Oh! what a Pleasure still follows my Pain;  
When kind Fortune does help me to see her again.  
In her Eyes (the bright Stars that foretell what's to come,)  
By soft stealth now and then I examine my Doom.  
I press her Hand gently, look languishing down,  
And by Passionate Silence I make my Love known.  
But Oh! how I'm Blest, when so kind she does prove,  
By some willing Mistake to discover her Love;  
When in striving to hide, she reveals all her Flame,  
And our Eyes tell each other what neither dare name.   

A SONG.  By Mrs. Wharton. 

HOW hardly I concealed my Tears?  
How oft did I complain?  
When many tedious Days my Fears  
Told me I Loved in vain.   

But now my Joys as wild are grown,  
And hard to be concealed:  
Sorrow may make a silent Moan,  
But Joy will be revealed.   

I tell it to the Bleating Flocks,  
To every Stream and Tree,  
And Bless the Hollow Murmuring Rocks,  
For Echoing back to me.   

Thus you may see with how much Joy  
We Want, we Wish, Believe;  
'Tis hard such Passion to Destroy,  
But easy to Deceive.    

ON THE STORM BETWEEN Gravesend and deep; Made at that Time.  By the same Author. 
WHen the Tempestuous Sea did foam and roar,  
Tossing the Bark from the long-wished for Shore;  
With false affected fondness it betrayed,  
Striving to keep what Perished, if it stayed.  
Such is the Love of Impious Men, where e'er  
Their cruel Kindness lights, 'tis to ensnare:  
I, tossed in tedious Storms of troubled Thought,  
Was careless of the Waves the Ocean brought.  
My Anchor Hope was lost, and too too near  
On either hand were Rocks of sad Despair.  
Mistaken Seamen praised my fearless Mind,  
Which, sunk in Seas of Grief, could dare the Wind.  
In Life, tempestuous Life is dread and harm,  
Approaching Death had no unpleasing Form;  
Approaching Death appeases every Storm.   

TO Mrs. A. BEHN, On what she Writ of The Earl of Rochester.  By the same Author. 
IN pleasing Transport rap't, my Thoughts apire  
With humble Verse to Praise what you Admire:  
Few living Poets may the Laurel claim,  
Most pass through Death, to reach at Living Fame.  
Fame, Phoenix like, still rises from a Tomb;  
But bravely you this Custom have o'ercome.  
You force an Homage from each Generous Heart,  
Such as you always pay to just Desert.  
You praised him Living, whom you Dead bemoan,  
And now your Tears afresh his Laurel crown.  
It is this Flight of yours excites my Art,  
Weak as it is, to take your Muse's part,  
And pay loud Thanks back from my bleeding Heart.  
May you in every pleasing Grace excel,  
May Bright Apollo in your Bosom dwell;  
May yours excel the Matchless Sappho's Name;  
May you have all her Wit, without her Shame:  
Tho' she to Honour gave a fatal Wound,  
Employ your Hand to raise it from the ground.  
Right its wronged Cause with your Enticing Strain,  
Its ruin'd Temples try to build again.  
Scorn meaner Themes, declining low desire,  
And bid your Muse maintain a Vestal Fire.  
If you do this, what Glory will ensue,  
To all our Sex, to Poesy, and you?  
Write on, and may your Numbers ever flow,  
Soft as the Wishes that I make for you.   

TO MELPOMENE AGAINST COMPLAINT.  By the same Author. 
IN soft Complaints no longer ease I find,  
That latest refuge of a Tortured Mind;  
Romantic Heros may their Fancy please  
In telling of their Griefs to senseless Trees.  
'Tis now to me no pleasure to rehearse  
A doleful Tale in Melancholy Verse!  
Men are more Deaf than Trees, more Wild than Seas:  
Complaints and Tears will sooner Storms appease,  
Than draw soft pity from an Humane Breast.  
All Sooth the Happy, and Despise the Oppressed.  
Each Man who lives, of sorrow hath his share,  
Or else of Pride, and cannot pity spare,  
For those whose weight is more than one can bear.  
All who are happy, do their Merit boast,  
Think Heaven owes 'em more, and Heaven is Just.  
Still they observe the Oppressed with Partial Eyes,  
And think their Crimes draw Vengeance from the Skies.  
But were they gentle, pitiful, and mild,  
Not (as they are) rough, unconcerned and wild.  
What Joy can pity bring on other's Grief?  
For what I feel, affords me no relief;  
To see another's Eyes with pity melt,  
For wretched me, would add to what I felt.  
Since in Complaints there can no ease be found,  
For such an Heart as mine in sorrow drowned.  
Sleep, sleep, Melpomene, thou, mournful Muse:  
For of my Torments, I will thee accuse.  
I'll say thou keep'st 'em waking with thy Charms,  
And drives soft slumbers from my Longing Arms.  
Sleep, sleep, my Muse, and let my Cares alone;  
But if thou wilt not, since thy Harp is strung,  
Attend a while, and, like a dying Swan,  
My latest Accents shall be sweetly sung.   

WIT's ABUSE.  By the same Author. 
I Ask not why Astraea fled away,  
But wonder more, why any Virtues stay;  
In such a World, where they are made a scorn,  
Oppressed by numerous Vice, mangled and torn,  
Wounded by Laughter, and by Wit forlorn.  
I mean not here by Wit, what's truly so,  
But that false Coin which does for Current go.  
'Tis certain but a few can Judgement make  
Of such a gift, which but a few partake.  
Ignorant Judges may decide a Cause,  
Sooner against, than for Concealed Laws.  
This is Wit's Pledge, but few those Precepts know,  
Which many false Pretenders overthrow.  
And yet amongst those very few, there are  
Some who betray that Glorious Character;  
Whilst low-born Falsehood goes for Heavenly Wit;  
How many aim at what so few can hit?  
The Trade of Hell was never hard to get.  
Thus these Intruders double ends pursue,  
Rooting out Wit, they root out Virtue too.  
Soft pity passes now for Servile Fear,  
A generous scorn of Life for mean despair.  
Truth and Sincerity the Fools proclaim,  
Which witty falsehood always load with shame.  
An Active Soul affected Notions prove,  
Out-flying common Thoughts, or private Love.  
Thus tho' each Virtue in itself they hate,  
They love to make it add to a Deceit.  
Undressed 'tis scorned; but favoured and allowed,  
When to the Neighbouring Vice it lends a Cloud.  
Thus the Inconstant Empress of the Night,  
Tho' foul, and spotted, cloaths herself with Light,  
And can with borrowed Beams be always bright.   

MY FATE.  By the same Author. 
RAising my drooping Head, over charged with Thought,  
Having each Scene of Life before me brought;  
I chid myself because I durst repine  
At Nature's Laws, or those that were Divine.  
Throughout the whole Creation 'tis the same,  
The Fuel is devoured by the Flame;  
Each peaceful, harmless, unoffending thing  
Is to the Offender made an Offering:  
Even God himself. Hold, my aspiring Thought;  
Descend, my Muse, thy flight too high is wrought;  
Tell not, how He, all peaceful, and all kind,  
Was offered for the vilest of Mankind;  
A Victim for the vilest was designed.  
Descend, I say, my Muse; low things afford  
Themes high enough for thee: Touch not the Word,  
Till he hath touched thy Wings with Grace Divine,  
Then, only his, thou shalt the World decline.  
The harmless Dove the Falcon doth betray;  
The Lamb is to the Wolf become a Prey;  
And Men to whom free will Heaven doth impart,  
To follow still the Counsels of his Heart,  
If wracked with doubt; if harmless, he designs  
Peace to his Heart, and still his Wish confines  
Justice to Peace, and Love to Quiet joins.  
Why then the Dovelike Fate will sure be his;  
Short is his Life, unsettled is his Bliss:  
Hard Fate; that choice we eagerly pursue,  
Is, or to be undone, or to undo.   

ON THE DEATH OF Mr. Abraham Cowley, AND HIS BURIAL IN Westminster-Abbey.  By the Earl of Orrery. 

OUR Wit, till Cowley did its lustre raise,  
May be resembled to the first Three Days,  
In which did shine only such streaks of Light  
As served but to distinguish Day from Night:  
But Wit breaks forth, in all that he has done,  
Like Light when 'twas united in the Sun.   

The Poets formerly did lie in wait  
To rifle those whom they would imitate:  
We Watched to rob all strangers when they writ,  
And learned their Language but to steal their Wit.  
He from that need his Country does redeem,  
Since those who want may be supplied from him;  
And Foreign Nations now may borrow more  
From Cowley, than we could from them before:  
Who though he condescended to admit  
The Greeks and Romans for his Guides in Wit;  
Yet he those Ancient Poets does pursue,  
But as the Spaniards great Columbus do;  
He taught them first to the New World to steer,  
But they possess all that is precious there.   

When first his Spring of Wit began to flow,  
It raised in some, Wonder and Sorrow too,  
That God had so much Wit and Knowledge lent,  
And that they were not in his Praises spent.   

But those who in his Davideis look,  
Find they his Blossoms for his Fruit mistook:  
In differing Ages different Muses shined,  
His Green did Charm the Sense, his Ripe the Mind.  
Writing for Heaven, he was inspired from thence,  
And from his Theme derived his Influence.  
The Scripture will no more the Wicked fright:  
His Muse does make Religion a Delight.   

Oh how severely Man is used by Fate!  
The Covetous toil long for an Estate;  
And having got more than their Life can spend,  
They may bequeath it to a Son, or Friend:  
But Learning (in which none can have a share,  
Unless they climb to it by Time and Care,  
Learning, the truest Wealth which Man can have)  
Does, with his Body, perish in his Grave:  
To Tenements of Clay it is confined,  
Tho' 'tis the Noblest Purchase of the Mind:  
Oh, why can we thus leave our Friends possessed  
Of all our Acquisitions but the best?   

Still when we study Cowley we lament,  
That to the World he was no longer lent;  
Who, like a Lightning, to our Eyes was shown,  
So bright he shined, and was so quickly gone.  
Sure he rejoiced to see his flame expire,  
Since he himself could not have raised it higher;  
For when wise Poets can no higher fly,  
They would, like Saints, in their perfection die.   

Though Beauty some Affection in him bred,  
Yet only Sacred Learning he would wed;  
By which th' Illustrious Offspring of his Brain,  
Shall over Wit's great Empire ever Reign:  
His Works shall Live, when Pyramids of Pride  
Shrink to such Ashes as they long did hide.   

That Sacrilegious Fire (which did last Year  
Levelly those Piles which Piety did rear)  
Dreaded near that Majestic Church to fly,  
Where English Kings, and English Poets lie:  
It at an awful distance did expire,  
Such power had Sacred Ashes o'er that Fire;  
Such as it durst not near that Structure come  
Which Fate had ordered to be Cowley's Tomb;  
And 'twill be still preserved, by being so,  
From what the rage of future Flames can do.  
Material Fire dares not that place infest,  
Where he who had immortal Flame does rest.   

There let his Urn remain; for it was fit  
Amongst our Kings to lay the King of Wit:  
By which the Structure more renowned will prove  
For that part buried, than for all above.    

ON THE DEATH OF King CHARLES II.  Writ at that Time, By the Honourable Charles Montague. 

FArewel, Great Charles, Monarch of blessed Renown,  
The best Good Man, that ever filled a Throne:  
Whom Nature, as her highest Pattern, wrought,  
And mixed both Sex's Virtues in one Draught.  
Wisdom for Councils, Bravery in War,  
With all the mild Good-nature of the Fair.  
The Woman's sweetness tempered Manly Wit,  
And Loving Power did Crowned with Meekness sit;  
His awful Person Reverence engaged,  
Which mild Address and Tenderness assuaged:  
Thus the Almighty Gracious King above,  
Does both command our Fear, and win our Love.   

With Wonders born, by Miracles preserved,  
A Heavenly Host the Infant's Cradle served.  
And Men His healing Empire's Omen read,  
When Sun with Stars, and Day with Night, agreed.  
His Youth for valorous Patience was renowned,  
Like David, persecuted first, then Crowned.  
Loved in all Courts, admired, where e'er he came,  
At once our Nation's Glory, and its Shame:  
They blessed the Isle, where such great Spirits dwell,  
Abhorred the Men, that could such worth expel.  
To spare our Lives, He meekly did defeat  
Those Saul's, whom wandering Asses made so great;  
Waiting, till Heaven's Election should be shown,  
And the Almighty should His Unction own,  
And own He did— His powerful Arm displayed  
And Isreal, the Beloved of God, obeyed,  
Called by His People's Tears, He came, He eased  
The groaning Nation, the black Storms appeased:  
Did greater Blessings, than He took, afford,  
England itself, was more, than He, Restored▪  
Unhappy Albion, by strange Ills oppressed,  
In various Fevers tossed, could find no rest:  
Quite spent and wearied, to His Arms She fled,  
And rested on His Shoulders, her fair bending Head.   

In Conquests Mild, He came from Exile kind,  
No Climes, no Provocations, changed His Mind:  
No Malice showed, no Hate, Revenge, or Pride,  
But Ruled as Meekly, as His Father Died;  
Eased us from endless Wars, made Discords cease,  
Restored to Quiet, and maintained in Peace:  
A mighty Series of new Time began,  
And rolling Years in joyful Circles ran.  
Then Wealth the City, business filled the Port,  
To Mirth our Tumults turned, our Wars to Sport:  
Then Learning flourished, blooming Arts did spring,  
And the glad Muses pruned their drooping wing.  
Then did our flying Towers improvement know,  
Who now command as far, as Winds can blow.  
With Canvas Wings round all the Globe they fly,  
And, built by Charles His Art, all Storms defy:  
To every Coast with ready Sails are hurled,  
Fill Us with Wealth, and with our Fame the World:  
From whose Distractions Seas do us divide;  
Their Riches here in floating Castles ride.  
We reap the swarthy Indian's Sweat and Toil,  
Their Fruit, without the mischiefs of their Soil.  
Here in cool Shades their Gold, and Pearls receive,  
Free from the heat, which does their lustre give.  
In Persian Silks, eat Eastern Spice; secure  
From burning Fluxes, and their Calenture.  
Under our Vines upon the peaceful Shore,  
We see all Europe tossed, hear Tempests roar:  
Rapine, Sword, Wars, and Famine rage abroad,  
While Charles their Host, like Jove from Ida, awed;  
Us from our Foes, and from ourselves did shield,  
Our Towns from Tumults, and from Arms the Field.  
For, when bold Factions Goodness could disdain,  
Unwillingly He used a straighter Rein:  
In the still gentle Voice He loved to speak,  
But could with Thunder hardened Rebels break.  
Yet though they wakeed the Laws, His tender Mind  
Was undisturbed, in Wrath severely Kind.  
Tempting His Power, and urging to assume;  
Thus Jove in Love did Semele consume.  
As the Stout Oak, when round his Trunk the Vine  
Does in soft wreaths, and amorous foldings twine,  
Easie and slight appears: The Winds from far  
Summon their noisy Forces to the War,  
But though so gentle seems his outward form,  
His hidden strength outbraves the loudest storm:  
Firmer he stands, and boldly keeps the Field,  
Showing stout Minds, when unprovok'd, are mild.  
So when the Good Man made the Crowd presume,  
He showed himself, and did the King Assume:  
For Goodness in Excess may be a sin,  
Justice must tame, whom Mercy cannot win.  
Thus Winter fixes the unstable Sea,  
And teaches restless Water constancy,  
Which under the warm influence of bright days,  
The fickle motion of each Blast obeys.  
To bridle Factions, stop Rebellion's course,  
By easy Methods, vanquish without force,  
Relieve the Good, bold stubborn Foes subdue,  
Mildness in Wrath, Meekness in Anger show,  
Were Arts, Great Charles His Prudence only knew.  
To fright the Bad thus awful Thunder rolls;  
While the bright Bow secures the Faithful Souls.   

Such is thy Glory, Charles, thy lasting Name,  
Brighter than our proud Neighbour's guilty Fame:  
More noble than the Spoils, that Battles yield,  
Or all the empty Triumphs of the Field.  
'Tis less to Conquer, than to make Wars cease,  
And without fight, awe the World to Peace;  
For proudest Triumphs from Contempt arise,  
The vanquished first the conquerors Arms despise,  
Won Ensigns are the gaudy marks of scorn,  
They brave the Victor first and then adorn.  
But peaceful Monarches Reign like Gods; while none  
Dispute, all Love, bless, Reverence their Throne.  
Tigers, and Bears, with all the Savage Host,  
May Boldness, Strength, and daring Conquest boast:  
But the sweet Passions of a Generous Mind,  
Are the Prerogative of Humane kind,  
The Godlike Image, on our Clay impressed,  
The Darling Attribute, which Heaven loves best.  
In Charles, so Good a Man and King, we see  
A double Image of the Deity.  
Oh! Had He more resembled It! Oh why  
Was He not still more like; and could not die?  
Now do our Thoughts alone enjoy His Name,  
And faint Ideas of our Blessing frame!  
In Thames, the Ocean's Darling, England's Pride,  
The pleasing Emblem of his Reign does glide.  
Thames the support, and Glory of our Isle,  
Richer, than Tagus, or Egyptian Nile.  
Though no rich Sand in him, no Pearls are found,  
Yet Fields rejoice, his Meadows laugh around;  
Lesle Wealth his Bosom holds, less guilty stores,  
For he Exhausts himself, t'enrich the Shores:  
Mildred, and Serene, the peaceful Current flows,  
No angry foam, no raging Surges knows.  
No dreadful Wreck upon his Banks appears,  
His Crystal Stream unstained by Widow's Tears,  
His Channel strong and easy, deep and clear.  
No Arbitrary Inundations sweep  
The Plowman's Hopes, and Life into the deep,  
The Even Waters the old Limits keep.  
But oh! He Ebbs, the smiling Waves decay,  
(For ever, Lovely Stream, for ever stay!)  
To the black Sea his silent course does bend,  
Where the best Streams, the longest Rivers, end.  
His spotless Waves there undistinguished pass,  
None see, how Clear, how Bounteous, Sweet, he was.  
No difference, now, (though late so much) is seen,  
'Twixt Him, fierce Rhine, and the Impetuous Seyne.   

But lo! The Joyful Tide our Hopes restores,  
And dancing Waves extend the wid'ning Shores.  
JAMES is our CHARLES in all things but in Name:  
Thus Thames is daily lost, yet still the same.    

ON THE MARRIAGE Of the LADY MARY WITH THE Prince of ORANGE.  By Edmond Waller, in the Year 1677. 

AS once the Lion Honey gave,  
Out of the Strong such Sweetness came:  
A Royal Hero, no less brave,  
Produced this Sweet, this Lovely Dame.   

To her the Prince, that did oppose  
Such mighty Armies in the Field,  
And Holland from prevailing Foes  
Could so well free, himself does yield.   

Not Belgia's Fleet (his high Command)  
Which Triumphs where the Sun does rise,  
Nor all the force he leads by Land,  
Could guard him from her Conquering Eyes.   

Orange with Youth Experience has,  
In Action Young, in Counsel Old:  
Orange is what Augustus was,  
Brave, Wary, Provident and Bold.   

On that fair Tree, which bears his Name,  
Blossoms and Fruit at once are found:  
In him we all admire the same,  
His Flowery Youth with Wisdom Crowned.   

Empire and Freedom Reconciled,  
In Holland are, by Great Nassaw,  
Like those he sprung from, Just and Mild,  
To willing People he gives Law.   

Thrice happy Pair, so near Allied  
In Royal Blood, and Virtue too;  
Now Love has you together tied,  
Let none this Triple Knot undo.   

The Church shall be the happy place,  
Where Streams which from the same Source run,  
(Tho' divers Lands awhile they grace)  
United there again make one.   

A thousand Thanks the Nation owes  
To him that does protect us all,  
For while he thus his Niece bestows,  
About our Isle he builds a Wall.   

A Wall like that, which Athens had,  
By th' Oracle's Advice, of Wood:  
Had theirs been such, as Charles has made,  
That Mighty State till now had stood.   
FINIS.   

A Catalogue of Books Printed for, and Sold by Francis Saunders.  

FOLIO.  
THe Baronage of England, in 3 vol.  
Monasticon Anglicanum, in 3 vol.  
Both Writ by Sir William Dugdale.  
Shakespear's Plays  
Beaumond and Fletcher's Plays.  
Ben. Johnson's Works.  
Mr. Cowley's Works.  
Sir William D'avenant's Works.  
Mrs. Phillip's Poems.  
Mr. Chaucer's Works.  
Mr. Spencer's Fairy-Queen.  
Mr. Milton's Paradise Lost and Regained.  
Mr. Killigrew's Plays.  
Davila's History of the Civil Wars of France.  
Paul Paratas History of Venice.  
An Epistle to the Right Honourable Charles Earl of Dorset and Middlesex, Lord Chamberlain of His Majesty's Household. Occasioned by His Majesty's Victory in Ireland. By Charles Montague, Esque.  
An Epistle to Charles Montague, Esq on His Majesty's Voyage to Holland. By Mr. George Stepney.   

QVARTO's.  
SIR Charles' Sedley's, Sir George Etherege's, and Mr. Wycherly's Plays; being in all Ten, either in 1 vol. or single.  
Mr. Dryden's Plays and Poems in 3 or 4 vol.  
Mr. Shadwel's 17 Plays in 1 vol, or single.  
Mr. Lee's 11 Plays in 1 vol. or single.  
Mr. Otway's 9 Plays in 1 vol. or single.  
Or any other single Play, or in vol.   

Octavos. Poetry, etc.  
EArl of Rochester's Poems.  
Sir John Sucklin— Poems, etc.  
Sir John Denham's Poems.  
Sir Robert Howard's Poems, etc.  
Mr. Waller's Poems.  
Dr. Donn's Poems.  
Pastor Fido, by Sir Richard Fanshaw.  
Hudibras complete.  
Godfrey of Bulloign.  
Mrs. Behn's Lovers in Fashion.    

Books Lately Printed.  
THe Life of Alexander the Great, Dedicated to the Queen.  
Henry the Fifth, Mustapha, Black Prince, and Tryphon, and Guzman, all Five by the Earl of Orrery, and Bound together, or single.  
The Committee, the Surprisal, the Vestal Virgins, the Indian-Queen, and the Duke of Lerma, by Sir Robert Howard, either Bound by themselves, or with the Earl of Orreries.  
An Historical Relation of the Kingdom of Siam.  
The Practical Christian in four parts, Written by Dr. Sherlock of Winwick.  
Seraphic Love, Written by the Honourable Mr. boil.  
The Memoirs of the Court of Spain, by the Lady that Writ the Travels into Spain.  
The Life of the Emperor Theodosius the Great.  
A Present for the Ladies, being an Historical Account of the Female Sex, etc.  
The Visions of Don Francisco de Quevedo.  
A Collection of Letters, by Sir Toby Matthews.  
Zaide, a Romance, in 2 parts.  
Zingis, a Tartarian History.  
The Royal Slave, by Mrs. Behn.  
The Gallants, in 2 parts.  
Sultan of Barbary, and Phylautus and Bellamont, Two Novels. Both Translated by Ladies.  
All Sorts of Divinity, History, Poetry and Romances; and all Sorts of Gilt and Plain Paper.