LETTERS AND POEMS, AMOROUS AND GALLANT.  
LONDON  
Printed for jacob Tonson at the Iudge's-Head in Chancery-Lane near Fleetstreet. 1692.   

PREFACE.  
IT has been so usual among modern Authors to write Prefaces, that a Man is thought rude to his Reader, who does not give him some Account before hand, of what he is to expect in the Book. That which may make somewhat of this kind more necessary in my Case, than others is, That a great part of this Collection consists of familiar Letters, which sort of Writings some Learned Persons among us have thought unfit to be published. It must be confessed, indeed, that a great Beauty of Letters does often consist in little Passages of private Conversation, and references to particular Matters, that can be understood by none but those to whom they are written: But to draw a general Conclusion from thence, That familiar Letters can please none, but those very Persons, is to conclude against the common Experience of all the World; since besides the great applauses have been given the Letters of Cicero and Pliny among the Romans; we see no Book has been better received among the Spaniards, than the Letters of Guevara; or among the French, than those of Voiture and Balsac: Not to mention the Italians, among whom there has been hardly any considerable Man, who has not published Letters with good Success. What may have contributed very much to the kind Reception these things have met, is, that there is no sort of Writing so necessary for People to understand as this. A Man may have a great deal of Wit, without being able to write Verses or make Harangues; and may live in very good repute, without having occasion of doing either. But a Man can hardly live in the World, without being able to write Letters. There is no state of Life in which a Faculty of that kind is not requisite; and there are few Days pass, in which a Man has not occasion to make use of it.  
The Style of Letters ought to be free, easy and natural; as near approaching to familiar Conversation as possible. The two best Qualities in Conversation, are good Humour and good Breeding; those Letters are therefore certainly the best that show the most of those two Qualities. There are some Men so surly, so ill natured, and so illbred, that tho' we can hardly deny 'em to have Wit; yet we can say, at least, that we are sorry they have it. And indeed, as their Wit is troublesome to other People, so I can hardly imagine of what great use it can be to themselves. For if the end of Wit, be not to render one self agreeable, I shall scarce envy 'em any other use they can make of it.  
The second Part of this Collection consists of Amorous Verses. Those who are conversant with the Writings of the Ancients, will observe a great difference between what they, and the Moderns have published upon this Subject. The occasions upon which the Poems of the former are written, are such as happen to every Man almost that is in Love; and the Thoughts such, as are natural for every Man in love to think. The Moderns on the other hand have sought out for Occasions, that none meet with, but themselves; and fill their Verses with thoughts that are surprising and glittering, but not tender, passionate, or natural to a Man in Love.  
To judge which of these two are in the right; we ought to consider the end that People propose in writing Love-Verses: And that I take not to be the getting Fame or Admiration from the World, but the obtaining the Love of their Mistress; and the best way I conceive to make her love you, is to convince her that you love her. Now this certainly is not to be done by forced Conceits, far fetched Similes, and shining Points; but by a true and lively Representation of the Pains and Thoughts attending such a Passion.  

Si vis me flere, dolendum est: (laedent.  
Primum ipsitibi, tunc tua me infortunia.   
I would assoon believe a Widow in great grief for her Husband, because I saw her dance a Corant about his Coffin, as believe a Man in Love with his Mistress for his writing such Verses, as some great Modern Wits have done upon theirs.  
I am satisfied that Catullus, Tibullus, Propertius, and Ovid, were in love with their Mistresses, while they upbraid them, quarrel with them, threaten them, and forswear them; but I confess I cannot believe Petrarch in Love with his, when he writes Conceits upon her Name, her Gloves, and the place of her Birth. I know it is natural for a Lover, in Transports of jealousy, to treat his Mistress with all the Violence imaginable; but I cannot think it natural for a Man, who is much in Love, to amuse himself with such Trifles as the other. I am pleased with Tibullus, when he says, he could live in a Desert with his Mistress, where never any Humane Foost-steps appeared, because, I doubt not but he really thinks what he says; but I confess I can hardly for bear laughing when Petrarch tells us, he could live without any other sustenance than his Mistresses Looks. I can very easily believe a Man may love a Woman so well, as to desire no Company but hers; but I can never believe a Man can love a Woman so well, as to have no need of Meat and Drink, if he may look upon her. The first is a Thought so natural for a Lover, that there is no Man really in Love, but thinks the same thing; the other is not the thought of a Man in Love, but of a Man who would impose upon us with a pretended Love (and that indeed very grossly too) while he had really none at all.  
It would be endless to pursue this Point; and any Man who will but give himself the trouble to compare what the Ancients and Moderns have said upon the same Occasions, will soon perceive the advantage the former have over the others. I have chosen to mention Petrarch only, as being by much the most famous of all the Moderns who have written Love-Verses: And it is, indeed, the great Reputation which he has gotten, that has given Encouragement to this false sort of Wit in the World: for People seeing the great Credit he had, and has, indeed, to this day, not only in Italy, but over all Europe; have satisfied themselves with the Imitation of him, never enquiring whether the way he took was the right or not.  
There are no Modern Writers, perhaps, who have succeeded better in Love-Verses than the English; and it is indeed just that the fairest Ladies should inspire the best Poets. Never was there a more copious Fancy or greater reach of Wit, than what appears in Dr. Donne; nothing can be more gallant or gentile than the Poems of Mr. Waller; nothing more gay or sprightly than those of Sir john Suckling; and nothing fuller of Variety and Learning than Mr. Cowley's. However, it may be observed, that among all these, that Softness, Tenderness, and Violence of Passion, which the Ancients thought most proper for Love-Verses, is wanting: and at the same time that we must allow Dr. Donne to have been a very great Wit; Mr. Waller a very gallant Writer; Sir john Suckling a very gay one, and Mr. Cowley a great Genius; yet metbinks I can hardly fancy any one of them to have been a very great Lover. And it grieves me that the Ancients, who could never have handsomer Women than we have, should nevertheless be so much more in Love than we are. But it is probable the great Reason of this may be the Cruelty of our Ladies; for a Man must be imprudent indeed to let his Passion take very deep root, when he has no reason to expect any sort of return to it. And if it be so, there ought to be a Petition made to the Fair, that they would be pleased sometimes to abate a little of their Rigour, for the propagation of good Verse. I do not mean, that they should confer their Favours upon none but Men of Wit: that would be too great a Confinement indeed: but that they would admit them upon the same foot with other People; and if they please now and then to make the Experiment, I fancy they will find Entertainment enough from the very Variety of it.  
There are three sorts of Poems that are proper for Love: Pastorals, Elegies, and Lyric Verses; under which last I comprehend all Songs, Odes, Sonnets, Madrigals and Stanza's. Of all these, Pastoral is the lowest, and, upon that account, perhaps most proper for Love; since it is the Nature of that Passion to render the Soul soft and humble. These three sorts of Poems ought to differ, not only in their Numbers, but in the Designs, and in every Thought of them. Though we have no Difference between the Verses of Pastoral and Elegy in the Modern Languages; yet the Numbers of the first ought to be loser and not so sonorous as the other; the Thoughts more simple, more easy and more humble. The Design ought to be the representing the Life of a Shepherd, not only by talking of Sheep and Fields, but by showing us the Truth, Sincerity and Innocence that accompanies that sort of Life. For though I know our Masters, Theocritus and Virgil, have not always conformed in this Point of Innocence; Theocritus, in his Daphnis, having made his Love too wanton, and Virgil, in his Alexis, placed his Passion upon a Boy; yet (if we may be allowed to censure those whom we must always reverence) I take both those things to be Faults in their Poems, and should have been better pleased with the Alexis, if it had been made to a Woman; and with the Daphnis, if he had made his Shepherds more modest. When I give Humility and Modesty as the Character of Pastoral, it is not, however, but that a Shepherd may be allowed to boast of his Pipe, his Songs, his Flocks, and to show a Contempt of his Rival, as we see both Theocritus and Virgil do. But this must be still in such a manner, as if the Occasion offered itself, and was not sought, and proceeded rather from the Violence of the Shepherd's Passion, than any natural Pride or Malice in him.  
There aught to be the same difference observed between Pastorals and Elegies, as between the Life of the Country and the Court. In the first, Love aught to be represented as among Shepherds, in the other as among Gentlemen. They ought to be smooth, clear, tender and passionate. The Thoughts may be bold, more gay, and more elevated than in Pastoral. The Passions they represent, either more Gallant or more Violent, and less innocent than the others. The subjects of them, Prayers, Praises, Expostulations, Quarrels, Reconcilements, threatenings, jealousies, and, in fine, all the natural Effects of Love.  
Lyrics may be allowed to handle all the same subjects with Elegy; but to do it however in a different manner. An Elegy ought to be so entirely one thing, and every Verse ought so to depend upon the other, that they should not be able to subsist alone: Or, to make use of the words of a 
* My Lord Mulgrave.  great Modern Critic, there must be  

— a just Coherence made  
Between each Thought, and the whole Model laid;  
So right, that every step may higher rise,  
Like goodly Mountains, till they reach the Skies.   
Lyrics on the other hand, tho' they ought to make one Body as well as the other, yet may consist of Parts that are entire of themselves. It being a Rule in Modern Languages, that every Stanza ought to make up a complete sense, without running into the other. Frequent Sentences which are accounted Faults in Elegies, are Beauties here. Besides this, Malherb, and the French Poets after him, have made it a Rule in the Stanzas of six Lines, to make a pause at the third; and in those of ten Lines, at the third and the seventh. And it must be confessed that this exactness renders them much more Musical and Harmonious; tho' they have not always been so Religious in observing the latter Rule as the former.  
But I am engaged in a very vain, or a very foolish Design: Those who are Critics, it would be a presumption in me to pretend I could instruct; and to instruct those who are not, at the same time I write myself, is (if I may be allowed to apply another Man's Simile) like selling Arms to an Enemy in time of War. Tho' there ought, perhaps, to be more indulgence shown to things of Love and Gallantry, than any others; because they are generally written when People are young, and intended for Ladies who are not supposed to be very old; and all young People, especially of the fair Sex, are more taken with the liveliness of Fancy, than the correctness of judgement. It may be also observed, that to write of Love well, a Man must be really in Love; and to correct his Writings well, he must be out of Love again. I am well enough satisfied, I may be in Circumstances of writing of Love; but I am almost in despair of ever being in Circumstances of correcting it. This I hope may be a Reason for the Fair and the Young, to pass over some of the Faults; and as for the Grave and Wise, all the Favour I shall beg of them is, that they would not read'em. Things of this Nature, are calculated only for the former. If Love-Verses work upon the Ladies, a Man will not trouble himself with what the Critics say of them; and if they do not, all the Commendations the Critics can give him, will make but very little amends. All I shall say for these trifles is, That I pretend not to vie with any Man whatsoever. I doubt not but there are several now living, who are able to write better upon all Subjects, than I am upon any one: But I will take the boldness to say, That there is no one Man among them all, who shall be readier to acknowledge his own Faults, or to do justice to the Merits of other People.   

LETTERS Gallant & Amorous.  

LETTER I.  
To two Masques.  
THough I cannot boast much of Particularity to the Person I love, yet as to the Love itself, I may safely say, It is one of the most particular under the Sun. Others think it enough to fall in love with a Lady after having seen her. I am in love with two, without having ever seen either: Not that I would willingly admit two Tyrants into my Heart; but though one of you may perhaps be Monarch there, yet neither you nor I knowing which it is, the matter must rest in doubt till another opportunity. For he who condemned Paris as too bold a Man, in daring to judge of the three Goddesses Beauties, when he saw 'em naked, would have thought me a bold one indeed, if I should pretend to make a judgement between two Ladies in Masques. Consider a little under what difficulties you make me labour: If I should commend the Colour of your Hair, and it was all the while deep red; the smoothness and delicacy of your Skins, when they were rough and tawny; the fineness of your Shapes, while you were stuck up within Iron Bodice; the brightness of your Eyes, and they should prove bleared and squinting. Do but imagine when I had done this, what sort of an Effect it would have upon you. Whatever Inconveniences of this nature happen, it is your own Faults; for my part I leave this encountering with Helmets over their Faces, to Sir Amadis and his Knights Errand; the way of Duelling is altered, People do not only encounter barefaced, but strip when they go to it. As for this way, I can assure you, I find it not in the least fair; and had rather be in love with the most hardhearted Beauty living, than continue in this uncertain state, and neither know what I love, why I love, nor whether I love, or no. Take pity, Ladies, upon a Lover in distress; clear the Business to me, and let me know if I am in good earnest, when I profess myself  
Your most passionate Admirer.   

LETTER II.  
To one of the former.  
IT is by Faith alone that I fancy you the most charming, but I find by Experience you are one of the most unreasonable Ladies under the Sun. I concluded I had done the boldest Action in the World, to declare a Passion to two Masques; but you, Madam, set up a Title of your own, and are not satisfied without Particularity, and Constancy. Your Charms I confess, Madam, as far as I saw of them, are very great: The Masque was very good Genoa Velvet; the Gloves very good Blois Gloves, and the Hackney Coach, for aught I know, lined with very good green Plush. Now, Madam, though so far I do steadfastly believe, yet to fall constantly and particularly in love with Masques, Gloves, or Hackney-Coaches, is what I do not find a Precedent for, in any of the French Romances; and being naturally diffident of myself, I should be loath to begin a new sort of Gallantry, without knowing how it would take. Consider, Madam, a little better upon the reasonableness of your Request; for Particularity and Constancy are very hardly to be answered for, at our Years. It is, I doubt not, Madam, in your power to blow my Love up to that height whenever you please; and to confess a truth to you, I have a very great Stock of Particularity and Constancy lying upon my Hands at this time, and know not how to apply it. I have all the reason in the World to imagine it is kept for you; but however, Madam, it would be necessary to have one view of you, before I can be positive in that point. I am satisfied in my Conscience that I have done all my Duty in the thing; let it lie at your Door if the Humour break off; for my part I cannot imagine how you will be able to answer it to all the World, if you should, for want of discovering yourself, lose the most constant and most faithful Lover under the Sun.   

LETTER III.  
To the same.  
Constancy and Fidelity are, without doubt, great Virtues, though not always great Charms in a Mistress; but as to your Invisibility, it is a Quality that does not please me at all. I grant you, Madam, it is a pretty aëreal sort of Beauty, and may do very well for spiritual Lovers; but for me, Madam, who am a little embarassed with matter, and who generally carry a Body of six foot long about with me, it would be convenient to have some more corporeal Accomplishments. Descend, Madam, in this case, to your Lover's Capacity, and make use of his Senses to represent you as charming as without doubt you are, to his Imagination. For though I must confess Fancy has been very kind to you in this point, yet it would be convenient to call in the Help of the Eyes to strengthen the Evidence: I expect therefore from your next Letter, an appointment where I may meet you in a visible manner. These are the only Terms upon which I can treat any farther with you; for tho' you write the most agreeably in the World, yet you must certainly own, that after having been monstrously in love for a whole Week together, it is very reasonable that a Man should know at last with whom it is.   

LETTER IU.  
To the same.  
YEs really, Madam, I think you are in the right of it; Hanging and Drowning are such vulgar ways of Dying, that for my part I would rather live a thousand Years, than make use of either. Then, Madam, they are the most inconvenient Methods in the World; Drowning will spoil your Clothes, and Hanging your Complexion; besides several other things that might be said to dissuade you from it, but that I know a word to the Wise is enough. I am of Opinion you had better defer all sort of dying till another Opportunity; though if you are positive in it, I would rather recommend Mr. boil's Air-Pump as a newer Invention; or being poisoned in Perfumes, as somewhat that looks pleasant enough. But to be less serious, Madam, make no doubt of your own Perfections, and reckon that in having me, you have the most reasonable Lover, of an unreasonable Lover, in the World. I confess were I to form a Beauty to myself, she should be— let me consider a little upon it; she should be— I protest, Madam, I know not what she should be: monstrously in love with me, that is certain; for the rest, I should trust the Stars, I think I may say, without Flattery, I love myself so well, that I can love any body else that does so too; and should prefer that single Beauty, of an immoderate Passion for me in a Mistress, to all the other Charms in the World, as Bayes does the single beating of Armies in his Hero, to all the Moral Virtues put together. If you can answer for this Charm, Madam, take no care for any other; he must be unreasonable indeed, who is not satisfied with that, in a Lady of Sixteen.   

LETTER V.  
To the fair Unbeliever.  
ST. Jerome says, (St. Jerome I must confess is a very odd beginning of a Billet doux) That a Man who can with patience suffer himself to be called Heretic, ought not to be esteemed a good Christian: And in common Account you see, one who is called Coward, if he does not resent the Affront, shall always be thought such. As my Provocations are much greater than either of these, so if my Indignation were answerable to 'em, you could not expect to be forgiven by me, even in the Article of Death: For after all People can say of Heretics and Cowards, they will allow 'em to be Men; but by your Reflections upon me, you would degrade me from that Rank, without allowing me any place among the inferior Creatures. Had you called me Brute, or Beast, I had not been so zealous in my own justification: Daily Experience convinces us, That Men who have no more Understanding than Horses, or Mules, provided they have all the other Qualifications of those Noble Animals, may be acceptable enough to some or other of the fair Sex; but want of Virility is an Imputation that will cut a Man off from all sort of Communication with 'em. Had the Husbands or Old Women had this Opinion of me, I should not have been so violent in my own Defence. Scandals, as well as Oaths, aught to be taken in the sense of those that impose 'em; I should not be angry at a Turk, or a jew, for thinking me of their Religion; because whatever I thought it was what made them like me the better; but this would be no Reason to make me forgive a Christian for calling me so. In like manner, Madam, though I could have pardoned the Husbands and Old Women for saying such a thing of me, yet I can very hardly pardon you for it. It were in vain to call Witnesses in this case, or turn you over to another hand for Satisfaction in that point, which can only properly be resolved by myself; and it were as vain to think to clear myself by Words from an Imputation that ought to be done by Actions; I shall therefore only challenge you to meet me at your own place and time; where I doubt not to give you full Satisfaction in this point, and convince you that I am not the Man (or rather indeed the No Man) that you take me to be. In the mean time I shall remain your most Humble, (a Curse on that Humble) but I mean,  
Madam, Your most affectionate and passionate Lover and Servant.   

LETTER VI.  
I Have been waiting these three Months to tell you a thing that may be said in three Words; it is, I love you. I will grant you, Madam, that this is no necessary Reason why you should love me again; but you must grant me in recompense, That it is a very sufficient Reason why I should tell you of it. I do not expect you should write me a Letter in return to this, and therefore venture it without a Name: It is from your Eyes alone, I shall attend my Answer. But, Madam, that we may not mistake one another in this point, and that I may not take for an Encouragement of my Passion, what you intent for a Discouragement of it; I must tell you, That if you do not look upon me after this, I shall believe you are in love, and that makes you bashful: If you look angrily, I shall think it is to give me occasion to come and justify myself; and if you look negligently, I shall conclude 'tis management to disguise the Amour from the World: In fine, Madam, I shall take nothing for a Refusal of my Heart, but looking very kindly upon me. But that you may not be mistaken in the Person who sends this, and imagine it to come from some Lord with a blue Garter, or white Staff, that comes from a Commoner without either. I will describe myself so, as you may know me well enough to encourage my Passion if you like it, but not so as to make a Trophy of me, if you do not. My Stature is somewhat above the ordinary; my Body neither very big, nor very small; my Hair light; my Eyes dark; and Love has not as yet made me either very lean, or very pale: My Humour is the most commodious for a Lover in the World, not so much inclined to Hanging or Drowning, perhaps, as some others; but for Passion and Constancy, no Man goes beyond me. If you will accept of a Heart with all these Qualifications, I offer you mine; if not, send it me back by the Penny-Post, if you know me by any other Title than that of  
Your most humble Servant.   

LETTER VII.  
To the same.  
I Grant you, Madam, there are others who will love you as much as I; but are there any who will love you as little? Yes, Madam, I under stand very well what I say, Will they love you as little? for that is the only difficulty you have to apprehend. There is no question but a Man who is possessed of the most charming-Creature in the Universe, will be constant to her as long as she pleases; but it is a great Question if he will part with her as soon as she pleases. This is the Rock upon which those Ladies split, who will admit of none but constant Lovers; not considering that the Women are as changeable as the Men can be for the Lives of them and consider, pray, into what pretty Circumstances a Lady brings herself, who is plagued with an obstinate old Lover, when she is passionately in love with a new one. I know not what those Crimes are the Lady you tell me lays to my Charge, but I fancy an importunate Perseverance in Love of the same Woman, is not one of the number: And whenever you please to make the Experiment, as the least sign in the World is sufficient after these Preliminaries, to make me a most passionate Lover; so the least sign you give me afterwards of any new Amour, shall make me lay aside that Title, for the less-ambitious one of  
Your most humble Servant.   

LETTER VIII.  
To a Lady who had spoken against him.  
THere may have been other Men, perhaps, besides myself, who have fallen in love with a Woman they did not know; but for a Man to do it for no other reason than her declaring against him, is, I believe, an Honour that has been reserved for your humble Servant. They tell me, Madam, you are so far from liking me yourself, that you will not believe any Body else can: That you find nothing agreeable in my Person, from the Crown of my Head, to the Sole of my Foot: That for my Wit, (for every body, Madam, carries somewhat about them which they call Wit) it is all Affectation: That I am an Abstract of Vanity: That I am so much in love with myself, that it is impossible for me to be so with any Body else. These things, Madam, that might have put some People into Anger, have put me into Love: For as those who are naturally peevish, will be angry at People, let them endeavour never so much to please 'em; so we who are naturally amorous, cannot avoid being in love with a Lady, let her take never so much pains to anger us. And indeed, Madam, did People ground their Passions upon Reason, you have given me one of the most reasonable Causes to love you in the World: For as there is no Man of Wit but knows himself to be a Fool, so he ought to have an Opinion of their judgements, who find it out as well as himself. It is reported as an Instance of the Bravery of the Amazons, That they would never marry a Man, till they had fought with him first; and if he beat 'em very much, he might expect to be loved very much by them. Now I, Madam, who profess as great a Veneration for Wit, as the Amazons had for Courage, cannot have so good a Reason for Love, as your having exercised your Wit upon me: Tho' it is possible you may attribute my Passion to another Cause, and as you think I love nothing beside myself, may have some kindness for you, because you are never like to be my Rival; however, assure yourself, Madam, it is no such thing, but knowing the worst you can say of me to be true, and having a natural Affection for Truth, Wit, and Women, (you will think a Man a very general Lover, that can love Truth, Wit, and Women, at the same time) I must needs be infinitely in love with you, in whom I find 'em altogether. Be not however deluded into a better Opinion of me, by what any body can say; for as it is only your hating me that makes me love you, as soon as that ceases, I am afraid my Love will do so too. As you therefore value my Kindness, take heed of having any for me; and satisfy yourself, That as long as you continue to think me a silly, idle, conceited Fop, I shall continue to be, with all the Passion imaginable,  
Madam, Your, etc.   

LETTER IX.  
To a Masqued Lady.  
THo' I doubt not, Madam, but you have made the most considerable Conquests under the Sun, yet give me leave to say, You never made any so extraordinary as this before: You have subdued, without the Conqueror's common Vanity, of making yourself known, and have gained the most absolute Victory in the World, without as much as shea●hing your Face. ay, who never knew a Woman could overcome me, am now overcome by I know not who: And can both boast of the greatest Passion, and greatest Faith in Nature together: The seeing you, which is the reason of other People's Love, might, for aught I know, destroy mine; for I have raised Ideas of you, to which it is very difficult for any thing in Nature to arrive. I imagine you the most charming Creature in the Universe, and at the same time fancy you to be somewhat more than I imagine. I have dressed you up in all the most different shapes of Natute. In whatever you appear, it has been always the most amiable: And after having supposed you Maid, Wife, and Widow by turns, I ' find I can love you infinitely, be you any one of them. Did I know in which state you were, I would certainly make love to all of it, till I arrived at you; and for want of that, I am forced to confine myself to Womankind. I leave it to your own Conscience, Madam, whether you can leave the most constant Lover in Nature, in this Condition; tho' if it feel no remorse for the last Disappointment, I shall very hardly ever trust it more: Yet however extravagant my Passion is, do not apprehend that I should make any malicious Reflections on you to the World; let my other Virtues be what they will, my Fidelity is unquestionable: And assure yourself, there is no Man breathing less apt to tell a Secret that he does not know, than,  
Madam, Your, etc.   

LETTER X.  
To a Friend.  
SIR,  
FOr Friend I can hardly call you, since under that disguise, you have done me one of the greatest injuries in the World; and it is vain for me to guard my Territories against the malicious Designs of Enemies and Rivals; when you, whom I never took for either, have more prejudiced me in an Amour, than they could with all their Forces together. But that I may not condemn you without a Cause, nor conclude you guilty till I hear what you can say in your own justification, I will give you a plain account of the Business. Meeting one of the Ladies last Night, with whom I am in love, she began a discourse of Lovers, wherein she showed the many inconveniencies that attended the having a Man of Wit in that Capacity. ay, who do not naturally love to dispute with a fair Lady, (especially in a Cause where I thought myself no more concerned than if she had talked of jews or Mahometans) agreed with her in all she said; when she turned briskly upon me, and told me, For that Reason a Woman must have a care of having any thing to do with me. I told her that was acting after the manner of some late judges; call a thing Treason without Law, and then hang a Man for it without Proof: That I appealed to all the World for my Innocence in the matter, and defied my greatest Enemies to bring any Evidence of my guilt. She told me she had it from such a one, who had it from another; and that, in fine, the original Author of this Calumny was yourself. Now tho' I grant you that some People might have said such a thing as this, out of Inadvertency; yet I can hardly believe a Man of your Prudence to have done it upon that account. You who very well know, That to commend a Man for a Wit to the Women, is like commending him for a good Protestant to the Fathers of the Inquisition; and he that reported me an Eunuch among 'em, could not do it upon a more malicious account. They love a tame, easy, governable Fool, and fancy all Wits ill-natured and proud: Have not you often told me so? and after that to put me upon 'em for one! Well, Sir, I am a Gentleman; nor shall I pass by such a thing as this, without satisfaction. I expect therefore you should either give it me under your Hand, That you never said any such thing of me; or if you really said it, That you should go immediately to the Person to whom you did it; and assure 'em you were misinformed in the thing, and that to your knowledge Ireland itself never bred a more tame, easy fool than I am: for here lies the greatest danger; I have gotten a Rival of that Country, and you know how difficult it is to succeed in a Contest with one of them, when want of Wit to give is the preference. After all, methinks if you would be hearty in the thing, you may bring me out of these Difficulties: I know you have Wit enough to convince 'em that I have none; and if the worst come to the worst, it is but carrying you to 'em, to show the difference. In that hopes, I resume the Title of  
Your, etc.   

LETTER XI.  
To a Lady in the Country, who was going to be married.  
AFter having written you a Letter upon your first going down, I have never dared to venture one since, lest I should be mistaken in my Address; and for aught I know, to write to you now by the Title of Mrs—, may be as uncivil as to treat the King with the Title of Prince of Orange. However, Madam, blame not me for it, since we are here in perfect ignorance of the matter. We had very positive news one while of your being married; and as positive after, that it was not yet done; which some here took, I can assure you, for a great Act of Mercy. Half a dozen Sparks of your Acquaintance have provided themselves either with Lovesongs, or Epithalamiums, to send you, as occasion shall require, without being yet able to know which would be most proper: And here are half a dozen more, who have had Halters about their Necks, ever since the Report of your going to be married; for they are resolved to be ready upon the first notice, That the same Post which brings the news of your Wedding, may carry back that of their Deaths. 'Tis true, Madam, I took the boldness to advise 'em not to be overhasty in the Affair, since they might do it afterwards at their own Convenience; and Experiments of this nature were difficult enough to correct, when they were once ill done. But all I could say was in vain; they are positive in the matter, and half a dozen of the handsomest Trees in the Park, are marked out for the Execution. I must confess, I endeavoured to divert 'em as much as I could from choosing that place, for the Benefit of the Company that walks there; I told 'em it was contrary to all precedent, to make use of Elms, or Lime-Trees, since the Willow had time out of mind been reserved for that use; and that a Lover who did not hang himself according to form, had as good never hang himself at all. They answered me very surlily, (though very truly too I must own) That it was not my Business: That it was a very hard case People might not hang themselves without ask my leave; and as they would not hinder me whenever I was going about such a thing, so they took it very ill that I should pretend to hinder them. I must confess, Madam, I could say very little in the case; and you may believe I had no great mind to enter upon a Quarrel with People in their Circumstances; but I thought the acquainting you with it, was a Duty that became  
Your, etc.   

LETTER XII.  
To a Lady that asked him for his Heart.  
THo' to tell a Man that you will dispose of his Heart to one who shall use it ill, is but a very small Encouragement for him to part with it; yet since you say you have a particular fancy for mine, I cannot refuse you such a trifle as that, upon whatever terms you demand it. I have enclosed it therefore in this Letter, and trusted it to the Penny-Post, lest your Generosity should have made you give a Messenger more for the bringing it, than the thing itself is really worth. I wish, Madam, it were better for your sake; and can assure you, That were it the most mo●ish one in the World, it should be at your Service. As it is, Madam, I am afraid you will think it very old fashioned, and too much given to those antiquated Qualities, Constancy and Fidelity. It is probable the Lady for whom you intent it, may despise those Things, and think a Heart of that sort as ridiculous as a Lover in a short Cloak, slash Sleeves, pincked Doublet, and trunk Hose. But let her not be prejudiced against things for their first appearances; I have seen a very awkward Beginner, come to Dance very well at last; and it is not impossible but by good management the Heart may be brought quite off those disagreeable Qualities. You may please to tell her, That it having been bred up very tenderly till now, it would be convenient to treat it a little kindlier than ordinary at first, lest it should be apt to run away: She should encourage his Sighs now and then with a kind Whisper; and when she sees the Fire grow a little faint, let her give but one or two kind Looks, and it will blaze out afresh. Having been troubled with an extraordinary Fever, since it was in the presence of a certain Lady, it ought not to be exposed to the open Air, for fear of catching cold; she may conveniently enough confine it to her Bedchamber, where it may be of great use rightly managed, and wake her in a morning with half a dozen deep-fetched Sighs, better than any Larum-Clock. You see, Madam, what Confidence I have in your Conduct, since I trust you to dispose of a Heart for me, that I have never been able to dispose of myself. You will think, perhaps, it is but making a Virtue of Necessity, and surrendering up a Fort which I am not able to hold out against you. However, Madam, the fiercest Conquerors are kind to Garrisons that yield upon the first Summons; and as I know your Power to be greater than any of theirs; so I doubt not but your Virtues are answerable to 'em. All the favour I shall beg for my Heart, is, That it may be treated as a Prisoner of War, and that I may have the liberty of keeping a Correspondence with it, during its Confinement. To show you I intent nothing but what is fair, I am satisfied you should read all the Letters I write; and that none should come to me, but by your Approbation. And indeed you need not fear this making any escape; for if I can guests at all at his Humour, he will prefer such a Captivity to all the Liberty in the World; and will not be so proud of the Titles of Prince, or Conqueror, as that of your Prisoner & Slave.   

LETTER XIII.  
To the same.  

If streaming Blood my fatal Letter stain,  
Imagine ere you read, the Writer slain:  
One Hand the Sword, and one the Pen employs,  
And in my Lap the ready Paper lies.   
I Have been these six Hours in debate, Whether I should stab myself, or write to you first? At last, Madam, I have determined on the latter: For I consider that if you should hear a Fellow mounted upon a Cricket, singing some doleful Ballad of my Death, you would be at a loss to know the cause of so sad an Accident; and, in an Age so inquisitive as ours, would take it much better to have a relation of the thing from the first hand, than be put to the trouble of stopping to inquire of it in the Street, or trusting to the Fidelity of a Grub-street Historian. The Business then in short, Madam, is this: Coming home about Twelve a Clock last Night, I found a Letter, to tell me, That I should meet you in— at Five a Clock in the Afternoon. Now, Madam, I am really so sensible of my guilt of disappointing you in this manner, that after having arraigned, judged, and condemned myself for it, I am just now upon the point of Execution. I must confess, some People have advised me to the contrary, and tell me you cannot take it ill that I did not meet you, when you know how late it was before I received the Letter. But I told them, That after having written to you, I ought never to have stirred from home, but stayed in expectation of an answer. For tho' it was urged in my Defence, That I had some great Business which called me out; and that I had little hopes you should have granted me the Honour of meeting you so soon; yet this Excuse does not satisfy me in the least: For why a Devil should a Man pretend to make Love, when he has great Business, and little Hope? This Consideration has absolutely determined me for a sudden Execution; and whatever you may think upon the first sight of this Letter, yet before you can have read it out, you may assure yourself I shall be no more  
Your, etc.  
Postscript.  
I have a thing just now come into my Head, that may possibly make me defer my Execution, till I hear farther from you. Different People having different Tastes; and there being as many ways of kill Lovers, as there are of dressing Eggs, it would anger me very much if I should stab myself for your sake, when you would rather have me hanged or drowned.   

LETTER XIV.  
To the same.  
IT is well, Madam, you prepared me for a Disappointment in your Letter, otherwise, I confess, I am very impatient under those Circumstances. I hope it was not in revenge for my missing the other Assignation; if it be, reckon we are upon the square now. You will certainly grant, you have all the reason in the World to make me amends for this; and it is with a great deal of impatience I expect a more favourable Opportunity. In recompense, you shall dispose of me, in whatever manner you please; and I am sure you must allow, That if I am not the most passionate Lover in the World, I am at least the most convenient: For whenever you have a mind to give Sir—, or Mr.— opportunities of saying soft things, you shall see that I manage the other Party to your advantage, as naturally as can be. Then, Madam, if after this, you have any occasion to make 'em jealous again, there is no Man in the World fitter for such an Employment than myself. You may make use of me, Madam, in any of these Capacities, (but still make use of me) and you will not only oblige yourself, but  
Your, etc.   

LETTER XV.  
To the same.  
CErtainly the Lady who accused me of Indifference last night, has the least reason in the World to do so. Is it indifference to be always following her up-and-down? Is it indifference to shun all Company for hers? Is it indifference to gaze upon her with all the tenderness in Nature? These are but the outward Signs; but, oh! could she look within, and accuse of Indifference a Heart that burns with the most violent Passion that ever was! It is true, Madam, the rest of the World may, with justice enough, tax me with it: For as there is but one Person living, who can make me otherwise; so Prudence obliges me to manage things so, as to disguise my Passion from all the World beside. And is there no return due to this, but a Resolution to deceive me? Well, Madam; it is some comfort to me however, That if you can but for one half hour delude me into an Opinion that I am beloved by you, that short Cheat will be a greater Satisfaction, than all Womankind can grant me beside.   

LETTER XVI.  
To the same.  
I See I am destined to destruction! Why, O Heaven! did I ever see her? Or since I did, why did any Body else? Had I never, I could never have been happy; and by having seen you, I am the most miserable Wretch breathing. These will appear Mysteries, perhaps, to you; and if you think me distracted when I writ this, you will think right: Love, Rage, jealousy, and Despair, are tearing my Soul in pieces. If you have any Compassion for a Man whom you have rendered the most miserable in the World, give me an Opportunity of meeting you to day, though it be but for one half hour. I would not have you come to the Walks after this Rain, for fear you should catch cold; and a meeting at Shops or Indian Houses, may make People suspicious. Though I die if I see you not, yet I would rather do so, than bring your Health or Reputation in any danger. Think, oh think upon some way of satisfying my Request; and do not apprehend that this Distraction which I show you, should appear to any body else, to your prejudice. I wish every one were as careful of you as I am; yet I lie, I do not wish it; for to be so, they must love you at the same rate; and I had rather allow 'em all the Favours you can grant, than that. Adieu— I am— alas I know not what I am, but that I am miserable, and that I am  
Yours.   

LETTER XVII.  
To the same.  
I Think I have taken all the ways imaginable to convince you that I love you above the World; however, Madam, you shall see I will yet do more, which is, never to see you again. It is true, Mrs.— told me, I might come to you to day; but she told me at the same time, That you thought it improper for me to come so often. Had you any kindness for me, you could not have refused my Visits upon so cold a Reason as their being improper; and if you have not, you cannot be pleased that I make 'em at all. You shall see therefore, Madam, how much I value your Quiet above my own, since I engage my Word to you (and I am sure, Madam, neither you, nor any Woman in the World, can say I have ever broken my Word with 'em) that I will never make you another Visit, or come into any place where you are, except you give me very good assurance that my Company will be more acceptable to you, than I have reason to believe it has been of late.   

LETTER XVIII.  
To the same.  
THat this parting has not been sought of my side, Heaven can be my Witness; and how little satisfaction I take in it, every Vein in my Heart can testify. No; I tremble, I am all confusion, and I die when I think upon it; and it is only in complaisance to you, that I have resolved it. I see you are picking little Occasions of quarrelling with me; I see you are uneasy when I am with you, and I see you do not make a return that is suitable to a Passion so violent and so sincere as mine is. Heavens! Madam, what would you have me do? Should I come to put you out of Humour? Or would you have me appear as a Spectacle of your Rigour to your more-favoured Servants. No, Madam, I had too much tenderness for you, to give you any disturbance; and give me leave to say, I have not so mean a Spirit as to follow any Woman, when I have reason to believe she thinks me troublesome, how difficult soever it may be to quit her.  
Since you command it, I shall not fail of waiting upon you once more, before we part for ever.   

On the Author of a Dialogue concerning Women, pretended to be writ in defence of the Sex.  

NEar Coven-Garden Theatre, where you know  
Poets their Sense, Players their Shapes do show,  
There is a Club of Critics of the Pit,  
Who do themselves admire for Men of Wit;  
And lo! an arbitrary Power assume  
On Plays and Ladies both to pass their Doom;  
Censure all things and Persons, Priest and Prince,  
And judge them by the Standard of their Sense:  
But scan these Sparks, or by their Words or Mien,  
You'll find them Fop without, and Fool within.  
One of these Brats dressed up in shape of satire,  
Comes forth to be the Lady's Vindicator:  
And since for Chivalry he claims no Warrant,  
Instead of Knight sets up for Poet Errand.  
Bless us! said I, what mighty Hero's here?  
He thunders so, 'tis dangerous to come near.  
The beauteous Sex may set their Hearts at rest;  
Of all their Patrons, sure this is the best.  
This great dead-doing Champion of the Quill,  
Will all the Fry of lewd Lampooners kill;  
Then to begin with Dryden's dreadful Name,  
Should mark out something of no common Fame.  
But when the boasted Matter I had read,  
I found my Expectation was misled,  
And that the Poet, though he does pretend  
To do them justice, is no Woman's Friend.  
Misogynes is made to shoot with Ball,  
Philogynes allowed no charge at all.  
And howsoever he disguise the matter,  
To publish the First Part, be writ the latter.  
He that but strictly marks the whole Design,  
May trace the Prefacer in every Line;  
And tho' he did not own the wanton Ape,  
He nursed the Cub, and licked it into shape.  
And, Ladies, now without the help of Day,  
You may discern who does the Weapon sway.  
And brandishes his Pen against your Credit;  
To Mr. Eat-finger himself that did it.  
He that sits silent in his Wit's defence,  
Whose Mouth is filled with Fist instead of Sense;  
Or else he crams his Hand into his jaws,  
Like Russian Bears that live upon their Paws.  
At Coffeehouse among the Men of Worth,  
He goggles like a Quaker holding forth.  
Like an Endymion he can court the Moon,  
And bark at her bright Glories when h'as done;  
Or like the Mouse in Fable he can plead,  
He has deserved t'aspire to Princess Bed,  
Till for his daring Arrogance he's spurned,  
And all his fop-Pretensions overturned.  
Then like the little Vermin squeaks and dies,  
Or prints a Book of Lady's Cruelties.  
This is the Fool, fair Ladies, that does haunt you,  
That will from Dressing-Room: o Play Gallant you.  
W— he is called; what Name so much renowned,  
Through all the Realms of Nonsense can be found?    

LETTER XIX.  
To a Lady who sent him the foregoing Verses into the Country.  
I Received a Copy of Verses from you last Post, with a Command (for the Requests of fair Ladies are always Commands to me) that I should answer 'em. I would serve you, Madam, you may be sure, in any thing that was in my Power, but this I must own is quite beyond it; and after having read them over, I found myself utterly unable to cope with so dead-doing an Author: I sent therefore immediately to the Clerk of the Parish (a very honest Man, a good Weaver, and no ill Critic I can assure you, as Critics go) to beg the favour of him, that he would come and assist me in the thing. With his help, Madam, I read 'em over again: We both agreed, That there were never Words better chosen, Verse more delicately turned, satire more fine, or Raptures more poetical. As for example:  

Bless us! said I, what mighty Hero's here?  
He thunders so, 'tis dangerous to come near.  
The beauteous Sex may set their Hearts at rest;  
Of all their Patrons, sure this is the best.   
The Clerk indeed made some Exceptions to the Lines that follow:  

But when the boasted matter I had read,  
I found my Expectation was misled.   
He said he could not imagine that so wise a Person as the Author of those Verses, could be misled in any thing.  

And, Ladies, now   
(An Apostrophé to the Ladies:)  

without the help of Day,   
O God, Madam, by a Rush-light as plain as can be,  

You may discern who does the Weapon sway.   
If it were not too great a trouble to the Author, I would desire to know of him who it is that does sway the Weapon; for sometimes he makes us believe it is the Prefacer, and sometimes the pretended Author:  

And brandishes his Pen against your Credit,  
To Mr. Eat-finger himself that did it.   
This last was so very good a Conceit, and so very new, that I thought the Clerk would have died with laughing at it. Well, said he, (when he had a little recovered himself) that Eat-finger is so ingenious, that a Man might have made five or six very good Verses of that one Thought. Set your Heart at rest, said I, and see if this Author has not as much Management as he has Wit.  

He that sits silent in his Wit's defence,   
I warrant this Poet never sat silent in his Life,  

Whose Mouth is filled with Fist instead of Sense,  
Or else he crams his Hand into his jaws:   
That is to say, Either he eats his Fingers, or fills his Mouth with his Fist, or crams his Hand into his jaws. Never were there Fancies more sublime, or more variety of 'em put together.  

At Coffeehouse among the Men of Worth,   
Observe here, Madam, if you please, a new Argument for Rhyme, and that is the Civility and Good-breeding which proceed from it. Had it not been for the Rhyme's sake, those who were Fops and Fools in the beginning of the Poem, had little reason to expect to be adopted Men of Worth in the latter part of it.  

He goggles like a Quaker holding forth.   
This we both allowed to be the very best jest of all. It is true, indeed, the Clerk (who is a very good natured Man, tho' perhaps a little too curious in his Criticisms) said, He could not find any very great resemblance between a Man who sat silent, and a Quaker that was holding forth. But I told him, He must suppose it was a Quaker holding forth at a silent Meetting.  

Like an Endymion he can court the Moon,  
And bark at her bright Glories when he's done.   
The Clerk told me, He doubted the Author was mistaken here: For as the Story has been always written, Endymion did not make love to the Moon, but the Moon to Endymion. And as for the Barking, he assured me he had it from an ancient Greek Manuscript, whose Author was intimately acquainred with Endymion; and protests, That he never saw a Man less apt to bark at People in his Life than he was. But if all the little Curs of the Town have always barked at the Moon, it is very hard that Endymion, who was never known to bark at any body, must be supposed the Author of all that Noise. But pray, Madam, inform yourself a little better from the Author, of what follows: Was there ever any Mouse? or was there any Fable wherein there was a Mouse?  

— did plead,  
He had deserved t' aspire to Princess Bed?   
For if the thing be really true, it was the most impudent Mouse that ever I heard of; and we must, both the Clerk and I, agree with the Author, in the just resentment he shows for so horrible a Presumption.  
But to be a little more serious, Madam: Tho' I can allow a jest as far as any body, yet I would not have People imagine I shall bear such things as these. You may advise the Author therefore, for his own sake, to keep his Name concealed. How great soever his Quality may be (for if I can guests at all at him, he's a Person of considerable Quality) let him not imagine that shall protect him from my Revenge. Had the Great Mogul written such a Copy of Verses against me (not that I have any particular Pique to the Great Mogul) without any respect at all to his Quality, I would have printed the Verses, and put his Name to 'em. However, Madam, in the midst of my Fury, he shall see how much more like a Christian I treat him, than he has done me: For tho' he has maliciously insinuated, That Mr. Dryden writes for me, and that I am covetous of M. L. D.'s Company, yet I must do him the justice to declare, I do not in the least believe Mr. Dryden has any hand in his Works, or that he ever found any great Satisfaction in the Conversation of M. L. D. I am,  
Madam, Your, etc.  
The Clerk presents his Service to the Author, and has written the Enclosed, which he desires may be delivered to him.   

LETTER XX.  
To the most Noble Author of that incomparable Poem, on the Author of a Dialogue concerning Women, etc.  
Most Noble Sir;  
YOu cannot imagine with what unexpressible satisfaction I read over your late Poem. It pleases me extremely to see, that notwithstanding the Endeavours of our Enemies, the Wits, there are still some generous Spirits who tread in the Steps of our Predecessors, and imitate those hidden Graces that lie undiscovered in the Works of Mr. Thomas Sternhold, and Mr. Robert Wisdom of Blessed Memory. I have seen several modern Lampoons that have gone some steps towards it; but I may say without flattery, I have seen no Man who has gone so far in it as yourself. And whereas most of the Pieces now in vogue are dull, flat things, taken from the Ancients; Yours is brisk, sharp, and all your own: Envy itself cannot say you have stolen one good thing from any body; and truly I think it will be very difficult for any Man to steal one from you. There is a Saying of Virgil's concerning Homer, (for I would scorn to compare such a Poet as you to any thing less than Homer) That it was casier to take the Club from Hercules, than a Verse from him. What was, perhaps, but a Compliment when said of Homer's Verses, may, with a great deal of justice, be affirmed of your jests. I do no less approve your Generosity in undertaking the Moon's 'Cause, than your Address in the management of it: I fancy, if your Modesty would give you leave to own it, you are deeper in her Favour than ever Endymion was: At least all the World must own she has a very great influence upon you; and I fancy your Fit of Poetry comes upon you, when she is at the full. No more at present, but that with all due Respects to her and the Mouse presented, I remain  
Yours, while W. S.   

LETTER XXI.  
To a Friend.  
Written from the Country.  
THe Dialogues of Plato, with your last Letter, have quite turned my Head. What delicacy of Invention! What sublimity of Thought! I talk no more of Women, of Gallantry; I think of nothing but Philosophy and Seraphic Love. Oh Vanity of Pomp, of Glory, of Trifles, falsely called Pleasures! They appear beautiful to the sight, but once tasted, they leave nothing but Shame, Sorrow, and Repentance. Let us give others leave to play the Fool, while we enjoy the sweetness of Philosophy. O charming Quiet! Oh dear Repose! Oh Life truly celestial! Mounted upon the lofty tops of Philosophy, we regard at our ease the Vanity, the Folly, the Madness of the World: The greatest Cities appear nothing but great Herds of Madmen; so many Men, so many Follies.  

Suave mari magno turbantibus aethera ventis,  
Eterrâ magnum alterius spectare laborem.  
Sed nil dulcius est bene quam munita tenere  
Edita doctrinâ sapientum templa serena;  
Despicere, unde queas alios, passimque videre  
Errare, atque vias palantes quaerere vitae.   
The Soul of Man, according to Plato, has two Wings; the one celestial, with which she flies up to the Empyreal Heaven; the other terrestrial, which pulls her down to the Earth again. It is the first of these that raises you to those lofty divine Paths, reached by none but the greatest Wits, the noblest Souls; The other brings Men down to the things of this World; to Vanity, to Sin, to Marriage! Poor Husbands! you have truly observed how soon Beauty flies away; but, alas! Love flies away much sooner: Uncomplaisant Companion that he is, who tho' he comes with Beauty, will not stay with it. Great Politicians without doubt these Husbands! who suffer an eternal slavery for a thing of so little duration. But what signifies that to us? Let us leave 'em in peace (if there be any such thing as Peace in Marriage) and love me as I love you.   

LETTER XXII.  
To the same.  
From London.  
IT is so long since I wrote to you, that I am almost ashamed of doing it now: But, to say the truth, I have too just an Excuse for my neglect, being relapsed into my former malady, and notwithstanding all the Assistance of Philosophy, fallen in love ten times more than ever. I am ashamed to tell you how long I have been so; but I am ten times more ashamed to tell you, I do not yet find the least decay in my Passion, tho' I have reason enough to believe the Lady did not care tho' she saw me hanging up at her Gate. Well; we may put as good a face upon the matter as we will; but first or last I see Constancy comes upon us all. In the humour I am at present, I had a good mind to forswear ever being in love again. And yet upon better thoughts, I think I had as good try it once more: For of three Amours I have had in my Life-time, (as for Amourettes, those are not worth mentioning) I valued the one Mistress after I left loving her; I loved another, after I left valuing her; I love and value the third, after having lost all hopes of her: So that methinks according to the course of my Passions, I ought to love and value the next, after having obtained her. However, from this time forward, upon what Follies soever you fall, be pleased for my sake to spare those of love; being very well satisfied, there is not one Folly of that kind (except Marriage) which I have not already committed. I have been, without raillery, in love with the Beauty of a Woman whom I have never seen; with the Wit of one whom I have never heard speak, nor seen any thing that she has written; and with the Heroic Virtues of a Woman, without knowing any one Action of her Life, that could make me think she had any. Considering how very common these Qualities are, I suppose you will not ask me if I have ever been mistaken. I know not what you think in the Country; but, for my part, I am of Opinion a Man must resolve to abandon Women or Philosophy entirely, for they will never agree well together. After an absence of five or six Months from Town, I find the Ladies still the same; that is to say, still various. Those who were in love when I went from hence, are in love still; but they are in love with other Men. They are constant to Love, but inconstant to the Lovers: And in this point, to speak the truth among Friends, I think there is no great difference between the two Sexes. The Men complain of the Woman's inconstancy, and the Women of the Men's; for my part being unwilling to disoblige either, I am very apt to agree with both. But Cupid will have it so; and what can weak Mortals do against so potent a God? Adieu; live pleasantly, that is, philosophically; and guard your Heart from the Pains of Love.    

POEMS.   

POEMS.  

To his Book.  
GO, little Book, and to the World impart  
The faithful Image of an amorous Heart:  
Those who Love's dear, deluding Pains have known,  
May in my fatal Stories read their own.  
Those who have lived from all its Torments free,  
May find the thing they never felt, by me.  
Perhaps advised, avoid the gilded Bait,  
And, warned by my Example, eat my Fate.  
While with calm joy, safe landed on the Coast,  
I view the Waves on which I once was tossed.  
Love is a medley of Endearments, jars,  
Suspicions, Quarrels, Reconcilements, Wars;  
Then Peace again. Oh! would it not be best,  
To chase the fatal Poison from our Breast?  
But since so few can live from Passion free,  
Happy the Man, and only happy he,  
Who with such lucky Stars begins his love,  
That his cool judgement does his Choice approve.  
Ill grounded Passions quickly wear away;  
What's built upon Esteem, can ne'er decay.   

ELEGY.  
The unrewarded Lover.  
LEt the dull Merchant curse his angry Fate,  
And from the Winds and Waves his Fortune  
(wait  
Let the loud Lawyer break his Brains, and be  
A Slave to wrangling Coxcombs for a Free:  
Let the rough Soldier fight his Prince's Foes,  
And for a Livelihood his Life expose:  
I wage no War, I plead no Cause but Love's,  
I fear no Storms, but what Celinda moves.  
And what grave Censor can my Choice despise?  
But here, fair Charmer, here the difference lies:  
The Merchant after all his Hazards past,  
Enjoys the fruit of his long Toils at last;  
The Soldier high in his King's Favour stands,  
And after having long obeyed, commands:  
The Lawyer to reward his tedious Care,  
Roars on the Bench, that babbled at the Bar;  
While I take pains to meet a Fate more hard,  
And reap no Fruit, no Favour, no Reward.   

EPIGRAM.  
Written in a Lady's Table-Book.  
WIth what strange Raptures would my Soul  
(be blest,  
Were but her Book an Emblem of her Breast?  
As I from that all former Marks efface,  
And, uncontrolled, put new ones in their place;  
So might I chase all others from her Heart,  
And my own Image in the stead impart.  
But, ah! how short the Bliss would prove, if he  
Who seized it next, might do the same by me.   

ELEGY.  
The Power of Verse.  
To his Mistress.  
WHile those bright Eyes subdue wherever  
(you will,  
And, as you please, can either save, or kill;  
What Youth so bold the Conquest to design?  
What Wealth so great to purchase Hearts like thine?  
None but the Muse that Privilege can claim,  
And what you give in Love, return in Fame.  
Riches and Titles with your Life must end;  
Nay, cannot even in Life your Fame descend:  
Verse can give Fame, can fading Beauties save,  
And, after Death, redeem'em from the Grave;  
Embalmed in Verse, through distant Times they  
(come,  
Preserved, like Bees, within an Amber Tomb.  
Poets, (like Monarches, on an Eastern Throne,  
Restrained by nothing but their Will alone)  
Here can cry up, and there as boldly blame,  
And, as they please, give Infamy or Fame.  
In vain the 
* Dido.  Tyrian Queen resigns her Life,  
For the bright Glory of a spotless Wife,  
If lying Bards may false Amours rehearse,  
And blast her Name with arbitrary Verse.  
While 
* Penelope.  one who all the absence of her Lord,  
Had her wide Courts with pressing Lovers stored;  
Yet by a Poet graced, in deathless Rhimes,  
Stands a chaste Pattern to succeeding Times.  
With pity then the Muse's Friends survey,  
Nor think your Favours there are thrown away;  
Wisely like Seed on fruitful Soil they're thrown,  
To bring large Crops of Glory and Renown.  
For as the Sun that in the Marshes breeds  
Nothing but nauseous and unwholesome Weeds;  
With the same Rays on rich and pregnant Earth,  
To pleasant Flowers, and useful Fruits gives birth.  
So Favours cast on Fools, ' get only Shame;  
On Poets shed, produce eternal Fame:  
Their generous Breasts warm with a genial Fire,  
And more than all the Muses can inspire.   

jealousy.  

I.  
WHo could more happy, who more blessed  
(could live,  
Than they whom kind, whom amorous Passions  
(move?  
What Crowns, what Empires greater joys could  
(give,  
Than the soft Chains, the slavery of Love?  
Were not the Bliss too often crossed,  
By that unhappy, vile Distrust;  
That gnawing Doubt, that anxious Fear, that dange-  
(rous Malady,  
That terrible tormenting Rage, that Madness jea-  
(lousy.   

II.  
In vain Celinda boasts she has been true;  
In vain she swears she keeps untouched her  
(Charms;  
Dire jealousy does all my Pains renew,  
And represents her in my Rival's Arms.  
His Sighs I hear, his Looks I view,  
I see her damned Advances too;  
I see her smile, I see her kiss; and, oh! methinks I  
(see  
Her give up all those joys to him, she should reserve  
(for me.   

III.  
Ingrateful fair One, canst thou hear my Groans?  
Canst thou behold these Tears that fill my Eyes?  
And yet unmoved by all my Pains, my Moans,  
Into another's Arms resign my Prize?  
If Merit could not gain your Love,  
My Sufferings might your Pity move:  
Might hinder you from adding thus, by jealous  
(Frenzies, more  
New Pangs, to one whom hopeless Love had  
(plagued too much before.   

IV.  
Think not, false Nymph, my Fury to out-storm,  
I scorn your Anger, and despise your Frown:  
Dress up your Rage in its most hideous form,  
It will not move my Heart when Love is flown;  
No, tho' you from my Kindness fly,  
My Vengeance you shall satisfy;  
The Muse that would have sung your Praise, shall  
(now aloud proclaim  
To the malicious, spiteful World, your Infamy and  
(Shame.   

V.  
Ye Gods! she weeps; behold that falling Shower!  
See how her Eyes are quite dissolved in Tears!  
Can she in vain that precious Torrent pour?  
Oh, no, it bears away my Doubts and Fears.  
'Twas Pity sure that made it flow;  
For the same Pity stop it now:  
For every charming, heavenly Drop, that from those  
(Eyes does part,  
Is paid with Streams of Blood, that gush from my  
(overflowing Heart.   

VI  
Yes, I will love; I will believe you true,  
And raise my Passions up as high as e'er;  
Nay, I'll believe you false, yet love you too,  
Let the least sign of Penitence appear.  
I'll frame Excuses for your Fault,  
Think you surprised, or meanly caught;  
Nay, in the fury, in the height of that abhorred  
(Embrace,  
Believe you thought; believe at least, you wished me  
(in the place.   

VII.  
Oh let me lie whole Ages in those Arms,  
And on that Bosom lull asleep my Cares:  
Forgive those foolish Fears of fansyed Harms,  
That stab my Soul, while they but move thy  
(Tears.  
And think unless I loved thee still,  
I had not treated thee so ill;  
For these rude Pangs of jealousy, are much more  
(certain signs  
Of Love, than all the tender Words an amorous  
(Fancy coins.   

VIII.  
Torment me with this horrid Rage no more;  
Oh, smile and grant one reconciling Kiss!  
Ye Gods, she's kind, I'm ecstasy all over!  
My Soul's too narrow to contain the Bliss.  
Thou pleasing Torture of my Breast,  
Sure thou wert framed to plague my Rest,  
Since both the Ill and Good you do, alike my Peace  
(destroy;  
That kills me with excess of Grief, This with excess  
(of joy..    

Cure of jealousy.  

WHat Tortures can there be in Hell,  
Compared to what fond Lovers feel,  
When doting on some fair One's Charms,  
They think she yields 'em to their Rivals Arms?   

As Lions tho' they once were tame,  
Yet if sharp Wounds their Rage inflame,  
Lift up their stormy Voices, roar,  
And tear the Keepers they obeyed before.   

So fares the Lover, when his Breast  
By jealous Frenzy is possessed,  
Forswears the Nymph for whom he burns;  
Yet straight to her whom he forswears, returns.   

But when the Fair resolves his Doubt,  
The Love comes in, the Fear goes out;  
The Cloud of jealousy's dispelled,  
And the bright Sun of Innocence revealed.   

With what strange Rapture's is he blest!  
Raptures too great to be expressed.  
Tho' hard the Torment's to endure,  
Who would not have the Sickness, for the Cure?    

SONNET.  
Death.  

WHat has this Bugbear Death that's worth  
(our Care?  
After a Life in Pain and Sorrow past,  
After deluding Hope and dire Despair,  
Death only gives us Quiet at the last.   

How strangely are our Love and Hate misplaced!  
Freedom we seek, and yet from Freedom flee;  
Courting those Tyrant-Sins that chain us fast,  
And shunning Death, that only sets us free.   

'Tis not a foolish fear of future Pains,  
(Why should they fear who keep their Souls from Stains?)  
That makes me dread thy Terrors, Death, to see:   

'Tis not the Loss of Riches, or of Fame,  
Or the vain Toys the Vulgar Pleasure's name;  
'Tis nothing, Caelia, but the losing thee.    

ELEGY.  
To his false Mistress.  
CAElia, your Tricks will now no longer pass,  
And I'm no more the Fool that once I was.  
I know my happier Rival does obtain  
All the vast Bliss for which I sigh in vain.  
Him, him you love; to me you use your Art:  
I had your Looks, another had your Heart.  
To me y'are sick, to me of Spies afraid:  
He finds your Sickness gone, your Spies betrayed.  
I fie beneath your Window all the Night;  
He in your Arms possesses the Delight.  
I know you treat me thus, false Fair, I do;  
And, oh! what plagues me worse, he knows it too:  
To him my Sighs are told, my Letters shown;  
And all my Pains are his Diversion grown.  
Yet since you could such horrid Treason's act,  
I'm pleased you chose out him to do the Fact:  
His Vanity does for my Wrongs atone;  
And 'tis by that I have your Falsehood known.  
What shall I do! for treated at this rate,  
I must not love; and yet I cannot hate.  
I hate the Actions, but I love the Face;  
Oh, were thy Virtue more, or Beauty less!  
I'm all Confusion, and my Soul's on fire,  
Torn by contending Reason and Desire:  
This bids me love, that bids me Love give over;  
One counsels best, the other pleases more.  
I know I ought to hate you for your Fault;  
But, oh! I cannot do the thing I ought.  
Canst thou, mean Wretch! canst thou contented  
(prove,  
With the cold Relics of a Rival's Love?  
Why did I see that Face to charm my Breast?  
Or having seen, why did I know the rest?  
Gods! if I have obeyed your just Commands,  
If I've deserved some Favour of your hands,  
Make me that tame, that easy Fool again,  
And rid me of my Knowledge, and my Pain.  
And you, false Fair! for whom so oft I've grieved,  
Pity a Wretch that begs to be deceived;  
Forswear yourself for one who dies for you,  
Vow not a word of the whole Charge was true;  
But Scandals all, and Forgeries, devised  
By a vain Wretch, neglected and despised.  
I too will help to forward the Deceit,  
And, to my power, contribute to the Cheat.  
And thou, bold Man, who think'st to rival me,  
For thy Presumption I could pardon thee;  
I could forgive thy lying in her Arms,  
I could forgive thy rifling all her Charms;  
But, oh! I never can forgive the Tongue,  
That boasts her Favours, and proclaims my Wrong.   

Upon the same Occasion.  
WHat Fury does disturb my Rest?  
What Hell is this within my Breast?  
Now I abhor, and now I love;  
And each an equal Torment prove.  
I see Celinda's Cruelty,  
I see she loves all Men but me;  
I see her Falsehood, see her Pride,  
I see ten thousand Faults beside;  
I see she sticks at nought that's ill;  
Yet, oh ye Powers! I love her still,  
Others on Precipices run,  
Which, blind with Love, they cannot shun.  
I see my Danger, see my Ruin,  
Yet seek, yet court my own undoing:  
And each new Reason I explore  
To hate her makes me love her more,   

The Antidote.  

WHen I see the bright Nymph who my  
(Heart does enthral,  
When I view her soft Eyes, and her languishing  
(Air,  
Her Merit so great, my own Merit so small,  
It makes me adore, and it makes me despair.   

But when I consider, that she squanders on Fools  
All those Treasures of Beauty with which she is  
(stored;  
My Fancy it damps, my Passion it cools,  
And it makes me despise what before I adored.   

Thus sometimes I despair, and sometimes I despise;  
I love, and I hate, but I never esteem.  
The Passion grows up, when I view her bright Eyes,  
Which my Rival's destroy, when I look upon  
(them.   

How wisely does Nature things so different unite!  
In such odd Compositions our safety is found;  
As the Blood of the Scorpion is a Cure for the By't;  
So her Folly makes whole, whom her Beauty does  
(wound.    

Upon a Favour offered.  

CAElia, too late you would repent  
The offering all your store;  
Is now but like a Pardon sent  
To one that's dead before.   

While at the first you cruel proved,  
And grant the Bliss too late;  
You hindered me of one I loved,  
To give me one I hate.   

I thought you innocent, as fair,  
When first my court I made;  
But when your Falsehoods plain appear,  
My Love no longer stayed.   

Your Bounty of those Favours shown,  
Whose Worth you first deface;  
Is melting valued Medals down,  
And giving us the Brass.   

Oh, since the thing we beg's a Toy,  
That's prized by Love alone,  
Why cannot Women grant the joy,  
Before our Love is gone?    

The Reconcilement.  
BE gone, ye Sighs! be gone, ye Tears!  
Be gone, ye jealousies and Fears.  
Celinda swears she never loved,  
Celinda swears none ever moved  
Her Heart, but I; if this be true,  
Shall I keep company with you?  
What tho'a senseless Rival swore,  
She said as much to him before?  
What though I saw him in her Bed?  
I'll trust not what I saw, but what she said.  
Curse on the Prudent and the Wise,  
Who ne'er believe such pleasing Lies:  
I grant she only does deceive;  
I grant'tis Folly to believe;  
But by this Folly I vast Pleasures gain,  
While you with all your Wisdom live in Pain.   

DIALOGUE  
Between a Lover and his Friend.  
(Irregular Verses.)  

Friend.  
VAlue thyself, fond Youth, no more  
On Favours Mulus had before;  
He had her first, her Virgin Flame;  
You like a bold Intruder came  
To the cold Relics of a Feast,  
When he at first had seized the best.   

Lover.  
When he dull Sot had seized the worse,  
I came in at the Second Course,  
'Tis Chance that first makes People love,  
judgement their riper Francies move.  
Mulus you say first charmed her Eyes;  
First, she loved Babies and Dirt-Pies;  
But she grew wiser, and in time  
Found out the folly of those Toys, and him.   

Friend.  
If Wisdom change in Love begets,  
Women, no doubt, are wondrous Wits.  
But Wisdom that now makes her change to you,  
In time will make her change to others too,   

Lover.  
I grant you no Man can foresee his Doom;  
But shall I grieve because an ill may come?  
Yet I'll allow her Change, when she can see  
A Man deserves her more than me,  
As much as I deserve her more than he.   

Friend.  
Did they with our own Eyes see our Desert,  
No Woman e'er could from her Lover part.  
But oh! they see not with their own,  
All things to them are through false Optics shown.  
Love at the first does all your Charms increase,  
When the Tube's turned, Hate represents'em less.   

Lover.  
Whate'er may come, I will not grieve,  
For Dangers that I can't believe.  
She'll ne'er cease loving me; or if she do,  
'Tis ten to one I cease to love her too.    

EPIGRAM.  
LYCE.  
GO, said old Lice, senseless Lover, go,  
And with soft Verses court the Fair; but (know,  
With all thy Verses, thou canst get no more  
Than Fools without one Verse have had before.  
Enraged at this, upon the Bawd I flew;  
And that which most enraged me was, 'twas true.   

The fair Mourner.  
IN what sad Pomp the mournful Charmer lies!  
Does she lament the Victim of her Eyes?  
Or would she Hearts with soft Compassion move,  
To make 'em take the deeper stamp of Love?  
What Youth so wise, so wary to escape,  
When Rigour comes, dressed up in Pity's shape?  
Let not in vain those precious Tears be shed,  
Pity the Dying fair One, not the Dead;  
While you unjustly of the Fates complain,  
I grieve as much for you, as much in vain.  
Each to relentless judges make their moan,  
Blame not Death's Cruelty, but cease you own.  
While raging Passion both out Souls does wound,  
A sovereign Balm might sure for both be found;  
Would you but wipe your fruitless Tears away,  
And with a just Compassion mine survey.   

EPIGRAM.  
To his false Mistress.  
THou saidst that I alone thy Heart could  
(move,  
And that for me thou wouldst abandon jove.  
I loved thee then, not with a love defiled,  
But as a Father loves his only Child.  
I know thee now, and tho' I fiercelier burn,  
Thou art become the Object of my Scorn.  
See what thy Falsehood gets; I must confess  
I love thee more, but I esteem the less.   

EPIGRAM.  
Love and jealousy.  
HOw much are they deceived who vainly strive,  
By jealous Fears, to keep our Flames alive?  
Love's like a Torch, which if secured from Blasts,  
Will faintlier burn; but than it longer lasts.  
Exposed to storms of jealousy and Doubt,  
The Blaze grows greater, but 'tis sooner out.   

ELEGY.  
The Petition.  
(In imitation of Catullus.)  
IS there a pious Pleasure, that proceeds  
From contemplation of our virtuous Deeds?  
That all mean, sordid Actions we despise,  
And scorn to gain a Throne by Cheats and Lies?  
Thyrsis, thou hast sure Blessings laid in store,  
From thy just dealing in this cursed Amour.  
What Honour can in Words or Deeds be shown,  
Which to the Fair thou hast not said and done?  
On her false Heart they all are thrown away;  
She only swears, more easily to betray.  
Ye Powers! that know the many Vows she broke,  
Free my just Soul from this unequal Yoke!  
My Love boils up, and, like a raging Flood,  
Runs through my Veins, and taints my Vital Blood.  
I do not vainly beg she may grow chaste,  
Or with an equal Passion burn at last;  
The one she cannot practise, tho' she would,  
And I contemn the other, tho' she should.  
Nor ask I Vengeance on the perjured jilt:  
'Tis punishment enough to have her Gild.  
I beg but Balsam for my bleeding Breast,  
Cure for my Wounds, and from my Labours rest.   

ELEGY.  
Upon quitting his Mistress.  

I Know, Celinda, I have born too long,  
And, by forgiving, have increased my Wrong:  
Yet if there be a Power in Verse to slack  
Thy course in Vice, or bring fled Virtue back,  
I'll undertake the Task; however so hard,  
A generous Action is its own Reward.  
Oh! were thy Virtue's equal to thy Charms,  
I'd fly from Crowns to live within those Arms:  
But who, oh who, can e'er believe thee just,  
When such known Falsehoods have destroyed all  
(Trust?   

Farewell, false Fair! nor shall I longer stay;  
Since we must part, why should we thus delay?  
Your Love alone, was what my Soul could prise;  
And missing that, can all the rest despise.  
Yet should I not repent my Follies past,  
Could you take up, and grow reserved at last,  
'Twould please me, parted from your fatal Charms,  
To see you happy in fewer Arms.  
Whatever threatenings Fury might extort,  
Oh fear not I should ever do you hurt:  
For tho' my former Passion is removed,  
I would not injure one I once had loved.  
Adieu! While thus I waste my time in vain,  
Sure there are Maids I might entirely gain:  
I'll search for such, and to the first that's true,  
Resign the Heart so Lardly freed from you.    

To his Mistress.  
Against Marriage.  

YEs, all the World must sure agree,  
He who's secured of having thee,  
Will be entirely blest;  
But 'twere in me too great a Wrong,  
To make one who has been so long  
My Queen, my Slave at last.   

Nor ought those things to be confined,  
That were sor Public Good designed;  
Could we in foolish Pride,  
Make the Sun always with us stay,  
Twoved burn our Corn and Grass away,  
To starve the World beside.   

Let not the Thoughts of parting, fright  
Two Souls which Passion does unite;  
For while our Love doeslast,  
Neither will strive to go away;  
And why the Devil should we stay,  
When once that love is past?    

EPIGRAM.  
Chloe.  
CHloe newmarryed looks on Men no more;  
Why then 'tis plain for what she looked before.   

EPIGRAM.  
Cornus.  
COrnus proclaims aloud his Wife's a Whore;  
Alas, good Cornus, what can we do more?  
Wert thou no Cuckold, we might make thee one;  
But being one, we cannot make thee none.   

EPIGRAM.  
Thraso.  
THraso picks Quarrels when he's drunk at  
(Night;  
When sober in the Morning, dares not fight.  
Thraso, to shun those Ills that may ensue,  
Drink not at Night, or drink at Morning too.   

EPIGRAM.  
Gripe and Shifter.  
RIch Gripe does all his Thoughts and Cunning  
(bend,  
T'increase that Wealth he wants the Soul to spend.  
Poor Shifter does his whole Contrivance set  
To spend that Wealth, he wants the Sense to get.  

How happy would appear to each his Fate,  
Had Gripe his Humour, or he Gripe's Estate!  
Kind Fate and Fortune, blend'em if you can,  
And of two Wretches, make one happy Man.    

To Caelia, upon some Alterations in her Face.  

AH, Caelia! where are now the Charms,  
That did such wondrous Passions move?  
Time, cruel Time, those Eyes disarms,  
And blunts the feeble Darts of Love.   

What Malice does the Tyrant bear  
To women's Interest, and to ours?  
Beauties in which the Public share,  
The greedy Villain first devours.   

Who, without Tears, can see a Prince,  
That Trains of fawning Courtiers had,  
Abandoned, left without defence?  
Nor is thy hapless Fate less sad.   

Thou who so many Fools hast known,  
And all the Fools would hardly do,  
Shouldst now confine thyself to one!  
And he, alas! a Husband too.   

See the ungrateful Slaves how fast  
They from thy setting Glories run;  
And in what mighty Crowds they haste,  
To worship Flavia's rising Sun!   

In vain are all the practised Wiles,  
In vain those Eyes would Love impart;  
Not all th' Advances, all the Smiles,  
Can move one unrelenting Heart.   

While Flavia, charming Flavia still,  
By Cruelty, her Cause maintains;  
And scarce vouchsafes a careless Smile  
To the poor Slaves that wear her Chains.   

Well, Caelia, let them waste their Tears,  
But sure they will in time repine,  
That thou hast not a Face like hers,  
Or she has not a Heart like thine.    

The Retirement.  

ALl hail, ye Fields, where constant Peace at-  
(tends!  
All hail, ye sacred, solitary Groves!  
All hail, ye Books, my true, my real Friends,  
Whose Conversation pleases, and improves!   

Could one who studied your sublimer Rules,  
Become so mad to search for joys abroad?  
To run to Towns, to herd with Knaves and Fools,  
And undistinguished pass among the Crowd?   

One to ambitious Fancy's made a Prey,  
Thinks Happiness in great Preferment lies;  
Nor fears for that his Country to betray,  
Cursed by the Fools, and laughed at by the Wise.   

Others whom avaricious Thoughts bewitch,  
Consume their Time, to multiply their Gains;  
And fancying Wretched all that are not rich,  
Neglect the End of Life to get the Means.   

Others the Name of Pleasure does invite,  
All their dull Time in sensual joys they live;  
And hope to gain that solid sirm Delight  
By Vice, which Innocence alone can give.   

But how perplexed, alas! is Humane Fate?  
I whom nor Avarice, nor Pleasures move;  
Who view with scorn the Trophies of the Great,  
Yet must myself be made a Slave to Love.   

If this dire Passion never will be gone,  
If Beauty always must my Heart enthral;  
Oh! rather let me be confined to one,  
Than madly thus be made a Prey to all!   

One who has early known the Pomp's of State;  
(For things unknown 'tis ignorance to condemn)  
And after having viewed the gaudy Bait,  
Can boldly say, The Trifle I contemn.   

In her blessed Arms contented could I live,  
Contented could I die: But, oh! my Mind  
I feed with Fancies, and my Thoughts deceive,  
With hope of things impossible to find.   

In Women how should Sense and Beauty meet?  
The wisest Men their Youth in Follies spend;  
The best is he that earliest finds the Cheat,  
And sees his Errors while there's time to mend.    

Pastoral Eclogues.  

ECLOGUE I.  

Daphne.  
SIcilian Muse, my humble Voice inspire  
To sing of Daphne's Charms and Damon's Fire.  
Long had the faithful Swain suppressed his Grief,  
And since he durst not hope, ne'er asked relief.  
But at th' arrival of the fatal Day  
That took the Namph and all his joys away;  
With dying Looks he gazed upon the Fair,  
And what his Tongue could not, his Eyes declare:  
Till with deep Sighs, as if his Heartstrings broke,  
Pressing her Hand, these tender Things he spoke:   

Damon.  
Ah lovely Nymph! behold your Lover burn,  
And view that Passion which you'll not return.  
As no Nymphs Charms did ever equal thine;  
So no Swain's Love did ever equal mine.  
How happy, Fair, how happy should I be,  
Might I but sacrifice myself for thee?  
Could I but please thee with my dying Verse,  
And make thee shed one Tear upon my Hearse?   

Daphne.  
Too free an Offer of that Love you make,  
Which now, alas, I have not power to take:  
Your Wounds I cannot, tho' I would, relieve:  
Phaon has all the Love that I can give.  
Had you among the rest at first assailed  
My Heart, when free, you had perhaps prevailed.  
Now if you blame, Oh blame not me, but Fate,  
That never brought you till 'twas grown too late.   

Damon.  
Had the Fates brought me then, too charming Fair,  
I could not hope, and now I must despair.  
Ruled by your Friends, you quit the Lover's Flame  
For Flocks, for Pastures, for an empty Name.  
Yet tho' the blessed Possession Fate denies;  
Oh let me gaze for ever on those Eyes.  
So just, so true, so innocent's my Flame,  
That Phaon did he see it, could not blame.   

Daphne.  
Such generous Ends I know you still pursue,  
What I can do, be sure I will for you.  
If on Esteem, or Pity you can live,  
Or Hopes of more, if I had more to give;  
Those you may have, but cannot have my Heart:  
And since we now perhaps for ever part;  
Such noble Thoughts through all your life express,  
May make the Value more, the Pity less.   

Damon.  
Can you then go? Can you for ever part  
(Ye Gods! what shivering Pains surround my Heart!)  
And have one Thought to make your Pity less?  
Ah Daphne, could I half my Pangs express,  
You could not think, tho'hard as Rocks you were,  
Your Pity ever could too great appear.  
I ne'er shall be one Moment free from pain,  
Till I behold those charming Eyes again.  
When gay Diversions do your Thoughts employ,  
I would not come to interrupt the joy:  
But when from them you some spare Moment find,  
Think then, oh think on whom you leave behind!  
Think with what Heart I shall behold the green,  
Where I so oft those charming Eyes have seen!  
Think with what Grief I walk the Groves alone,  
When You, the Glory of them all, are gone!  
Yet, oh! that little time you have to stay,  
Let me still speak, and gaze my Soul away!  
But see, my Passion that small Aid denies;  
Grief stops my Tongue, and Tears overflow my Eyes.    

ECLOGUE II.  

Galatea.  
THyrsis, the gayest one of all the Swains,  
Who fed their Flocks upon th' Arcadian  
(Plains;  
While Love's mad Passion quite devoured his Heart,  
And the coy Nymph that caused, neglects his Smart;  
Strives in low Numbers, such as Shepherds use,  
If not to move her Breast, his own amuse.  
You, Chloris, who with scorn refuse to see  
The mighty Wounds that you have made on me;  
Yet cannot sure with equal Pride disdain,  
To hear an humble Hind of his complain.   

Now while the Flocks and Herds to Shades retire,  
While the fierce Sun sets all the World on fire;  
Through burning Fields, through rugged Brakes I  
(rove,  
And to the Hills and Woods declare my Love.  
How small's the Heat? how easy is the Pain  
I feel without, to that I feel within?   

Yet scornful Galatea will not hear,  
But from my Songs and Pipe still turns her Ear.  
Not so the sage Corisca, nor the fair  
Climena, nor rich aegon's only Care:  
From them my Songs a just Compassion drew,  
And they shall have them, since contemned by you.   

Why name I them, when even chaste Cynthia stays,  
And Pan himself, to listen to my Lays?  
Pan, whose sweet Pipe has been admired so long,  
Has not disdained sometimes to hear my Song.  
Yet Galatea Scorns whate'er I say;  
And Galatea's wiser sure than they.   

Relentless Nymph! can nothing move your Mind?  
Must you be deaf, because you are unkind?  
Tho' you dislike the Subject of my Lays,  
Yet sure the Sweetness of my Voice might please.  
It is not thus that you dull Mopsus use,  
His Songs divert you, tho' you mine refuse.  
Yet I could tell you, fair One, if I would,  
(And since you treat me thus, methinks I should)  
What the wise Lycon said, when in yond Plain,  
He saw him court in hope, and me in vain;  
Forbear, fond Youth, to chase a heedless Fair,  
Nor think with well-tuned Verse to please her Ear;  
Seek out some other Nymph, nor e'er repine,  
That one who likes his Songs, should fly from thine.   

Ah, Lycon! ah! your Rage false Dangers forms;  
'Tis not his Songs, but 'tis his Fortune Charms:  
Yet, scornful Maid, in time you'll find those Toys  
Can yield no real, no substantial joys;  
In vain his Wealth, his Titles gain esteem,  
If for all that you are ashamed of Him.   

Ah, Galatea, wouldst thou turn those Eyes,  
Wouldst thou but once vouchsafe to hear my Cries:  
In such soft Notes I would my Pains impart,  
As could not fail to move thy rocky Heart;  
With such sweet Songs I would thy Fame make  
(known,  
As Pan himself might not disdain to own.  
Oh couldst thou, fair One, but contented be  
To tend the Sheep, and chase the Hares with me;  
To have thy Praises echoed through the Groves,  
And pass thy Days with one who truly loves;  
Nor let those gaudy Toys thy Heart surprise,  
Which the Fool's envy, and the Sage despise.   

But Galatea Scorns my humble Flame,  
And neither asks my Fortune, nor my Name.  
Of the best Cheese my well-stored Dairy's full,  
And my soft Sheep produce the finest Wool;  
The richest Wines of Greece my Vineyard's yield,  
And smiling Crops of Grain adorn my Field.   

Ah, foolish Youth! in vain thou boast'st thy store,  
Have what thou wilt, if Mopsus still has more.  
See whilst thou singest, behold her haughty Pride,  
With what disdain she turns her Head aside!  
Oh, why would Nature, to our Ruin, place  
A Tyger's Heart, with such an Angel's Face?   

Cease, Shepherd, cease, at last thy fruitless Moan;  
Nor hope to gain a Heart already gone.  
While Rocks and Caves thy tuneful Notes resound,  
See how thy Corn lies withered on the Ground!  
The hungry Wolves devours thy fattened Lambs;  
And bleating for the Young, makes lean the dams.  
Take, Shepherd, take thy Hook, thy Flocks pursue,  
And when one Nymph proves cruel, find a new.    

ECLOGUE III.  

Damon. (Taken from the Eighth Eclogue of Virgil.)  
ARise, O Phosphorus! and bring the Day,  
While I in Sighs and Tears consume away;  
Deceived with flattering Hopes of Nisa's Love;  
And to the Gods my vain Petitions move:  
Tho' they've done nothing to prevent my Death,  
I'll yet invoke 'em with my dying Breath.  
Begin, my Muse, begin th' Arcadian Strains.   

Arcadia's famous for its spacious Plains,  
Its whistling Pinetrees, and its shady Groves,  
And often hears the Swains lament their Loves.  
Great Pan upon its Mountains feeds his Goats,  
Who first taught Reeds to warble Rural Notes.  
Begin, my Muse, begin th' Arcadian Strains.   

Mopsus weds Nisa! Oh, well-suited Pair!  
When he succeeds, what Lover can despair?  
After this Match, let Mares and Griffins breed;  
And Hounds with Hares in friendly consort feed.  
Go, Mopsus, go; provide the Bridal Cake;  
And to thy Bed the blooming Virgin take:  
In her soft Arms thou shalt securely rest.  
Behold, the Evening comes to make thee blest!  
Begin, my Muse, begin th' Arcadian Strains.   

Oh, Nisa, happy in a lovely Choice!  
While you with scorn neglect my Pipe and Voice;  
While you despise my humble Songs, my Herd,  
My shaggy Eyebrows, and my rugged Beard;  
While through the Plains disdainfully you move,  
And think no Shepherd can deserve your Love;  
Mopsus alone can the nice Virgin win,  
With charming Person, and with graceful Mien.  
Begin, my Muse, begin th' Arcadian Strains.   

When first I saw you on those fatal Plains,  
I reached you Fruit; your Mother too was there;  
Scarce had you seen the thirteenth Spring appear:  
Yet Beauty's Buds were opening in your Face;  
I gazed, and Blushes did your Charms increase.  
'Tis Love, thought I, that's rising in her Breast;  
Alas, your Passion, by my own, I guest;  
Then upon trust I fed the raging Pains.  
Begin, my Muse, begin th' Arcadian Strains.   

Oh, Love! I know thee now; thou ow'st thy  
(Birth  
To Rocks; some craggy Mountain brought thee  
(forth:  
Nor is it Humane Blood that fills thy Veins,  
Begin, my Muse, begin th' Arcadian Strains.   

Relentless Love to bold Medea showed,  
To slain her guilty Hands in Child's Blood.  
Was she more cruel, or more wicked he?  
He was a wicked Counsellor, a cruel Mother she.  
Begin, my Muse, begin th' Arcadian Strains.   

Now let the Scriech-Owls vie with warbling  
(Swans;  
Upon hard Oaks let blushing Peaches grow,  
And from the Brambles, liquid Amber flow.  
The harmless Wolves, the ravenous Sheep shall shun;  
And valiant Deer, at fearful Greyhounds run:  
Let the Sea rise, and overflow the Plains.  
Begin, my Muse, begin th' Arcadian Strains.   

Adieu, ye Flocks, no more shall I pursue!  
Adieu, ye Groves, a long, a long Adieu!  
And you, coy Nymph, who all my Vows disdain,  
Take this last Present from a dying Swain.  
Since you dislike whate'er in Life I said,  
You may be pleased, perhaps, to hear I'm dead:  
This Leap shall put an end to all my Pains.  
Now cease, my Muse, now cease th' Arcadian Strains.   

Thus Damon sung while on the Cliff he stood,  
Then headlong plunged into the raging Flood.  
All with united Grief the Loss bemoan,  
Except the Authress of his Fate alone,  
Who hears it with an unrelenting Breast.  
Ah, cruel Nymph! forbear your Scorns at last.  
How much soever you may the Love despise,  
'Tis barbarous to insult on one that dies.     
FINIS.