MISCELLANY POEMS UPON Several Occasions: Consisting of Original Poems, BY The late Duke of Buckingham, Mr Cow, Mr. Milton, Mr. Prior, Mrs. Behn, Mr. Tho. Brown, etc.  
And the Translations from Horace, Persius, Petronius Arbiter, etc.  
WITH An Essay upon satire, By the Famous M. DACIER.  
Licenced May 21. 1692.  
LONDON, Printed for Peter Buck, at the Sign of the Temple, near Temple-Bar, in Fleetstreet. 1692.   

The Epistle Dedicatory, TO Mr. CARDELL GOODMAN.  
SIR,  
THere are a sort of Spleenatic, Ill natured Gentlemen in the World, who are so very Critical upon Dedications, that if they find the Author touching never so lightly on the just Praise of his Patron, they presently condemn him of Flattery, as if 'twere impossible that any Man of THIS Age could deserve a good Word. Among this number, I am sorry to find the Ingenious Sir George Mackenzie in his Epistle to Mr. boil, because I am confident if he had consulted Reason (the subject of his Book) he must at least have mollified the severity of his Opinion, as I hope will appear from what I have here to say. This great Name has served many of the smaller Critics, who build their Judgement, and Reputation on Authority, as a safe Retreat against the Onsets of Reason, with which the Majority of them are at mortal odds. These Misanthropes are arrived to that extremity now, that they will not give a Man leave to discover his own private Knowledge of an other, if to his Advantage, under the unpleasant Penalty of being received as a servile, nauseous Sycophant.  
This Hazard, Sir, I must run, if I will declare in Public what I know of those excellent Accomplishments, which render you so dear to all that are acquainted wi●h you. Your WIT, and your Courage are things not to be mentioned, much less your GENEROSITY, that being a Virtue that never resides alone. There are some Virtues that are Solitary, and like Hermits dwell in Deserts, overrun with the wild's of every vicious Deformity in Nature: But GENEROSITY is the King of Virtues, and never goes unattended, which makes me sometimes fancy, 'tis the Result of all other Virtues, when they meet together; The Harmony, which proceeds from the Active Agreement of all the rest. This I am sure,— 'tis the noblest Emotion of the Soul, and that which gives the most finishing, and visible Strokes to the Image of our Maker. Therefore these morose Gentlemen would never forgive me, if I should tell the World, that you are Generous almost to a Fault (if 'twere possible that could be criminal in Man, for which alone all the World does, and ever has worshipped a Deity) tho' I know it to be true to the utmost Extent; because that will make the considering part of Mankind conclude you adorned with all other Virtues, inseparable Companions of this. They will never consider the Reasons I have to aver this, viz. my own Knowledge, and the Experience of several others And tho' I urge, that I have found you Generous beyond the extravagance of Hopes, when the Bonds of Nature, the Laws of Humanity, and of God himself, could not obtain the least regard from those, who had not a little Reputation in the World for better Principles: Yet will they cry out I am a FLATTERER, if I express my Gratitude to you in Print. Strange effects of a profligate Age, when ill Nature and professed Scandal, dressed in a Politer sort of Bilingsgate, shall be sufficient to establish a Man's Fame (spite of all the most monstrous absurdities of the contexture) as a Wit: And the most deserved Praise enough to stigmatize the Writer with indelible Infamy. For if any Bold Man dare celebrate the Virtues of any one, they gaze upon him, and shake their Heads as if it were an impudent Imposture, or at best a Prodigy as incredible as a circular Rainbow, or any other unusual Phaenomenon, that there should be any thing Virtuous and Brave in OUR Age.  
Not that I am so very fond of this Opinion, that Virtues are in being at this time, and in the Practice of Men, as to take every appearance for a Reality. Nor do I admit a great many that pass for mighty Lovers of Virtue, into that number; in particular, none of those, that are famed for a noisy Zeal in the controverted Points of Religion, which prompts an inconsidering Generation to cut one another's Throats, because they can't agree in what themselves allow uncertain. Nor those, who with a Precise Behaviour, make an Ostentatious Show of being the most intimate Friends of God Almighty in Public, but shake Hands with the Devil in a corner with no little Ardour. Nor shall I grace with the noble Title of VIRTUE, those sorts of Religious Charities, that have not the Equitable good of Mankind for their end, but only vain Glory in particular Reputation. I could name some, that are very forward in contributing largely to the Building any public Structure, which may commend their Names to Posterity, as well as to the present time, but are inexorable to the nearest Relations who seek for a private Assistance, tho' a Trifle would save a whole Family. That which affects the view of the World, is the Child of Pride, and is not at all to be valued by any considering Man; the other is the Offspring of Virtue, having nothing but the good of another for its end, and yet it obtains generally a more lasting Fame, and especially if it meet with Ability and Gratitude to commend it to Posterity, in a nobler way, than in dead Piles of Building.  
Tho' I deny all this to be Virtue, yet I can never be of their Mind, who exclude it entirely from Human Race, since I am sensible 'tis to be found in a great many at this day, particularly in yourself. I am therefore of a much contrary Opinion, to those Man-haters I have mentioned those Devotees to satire (as they call it) for I have always thought it a far nobler Task to be conversant with the Virtues of Mankind, than with the Vices; and if Fiction must be made use of (as 'tis every day by our Prose-Satyrists) I am sure 'tis more reasonable to admire an Angel of our own forming, than to combat a Devil of ones own conjuring up; one gives us a greater, and juster Idea of the noblest of God's Works, the other flies in the face of Providence, and would render that Being ridiculous, and contemptible, that was made by the Power and Wisdom of INFINITY, and which God seems more than once to take no small Pleasure in.  
The greatest Patrons of satire, I am sure, cannot prove that it answers the End, they pretend, 'twas designed for, viz. the Reformation of Vice, especially that satire, which names Men, and tends to a personal abuse. For instead of Reforming Vice it only gratifies the ill-nature of most, and that Criminal delight they have in hearing an other abused, without any influence on the Manners of those it aims to Correct; unless it be to return the Author's with a satire of dry Bastinade. The Minds of all men have something, that is with more Modesty concealed, than exposed to view, as well as the Body; which satire is continually setting before the Eyes of the World; whilst Panegyric draws a decent Veil over it. Panegyric paints Virtue, in its most taking Colours, and shows the more Beautiful parts of Mankind, whilst satire is continually raking in the Augean Stable of its Follies, and Vices. Panegyric gives a Noble, and taking prospect of Virtue, stirring up Emulation, in others, and a Caution in him that is Praised, not to be guilty of any thing contrary to the character the World has of him, that he may be thought really to deserve it. Nor can I ever believe, but that Virgil's Aeneids have contributed more to the Progress of Virtue, than Horace's Satyrs: The first forming Noble images in the Mind, making it in Love with Honour, the last, at best exposing but the deformity of some Vice, or folly, which when we avoid we ramble so in the dark by their directions, that we can never find out Virtue, and so may well fall into the contrary extreme; satire only giving negative definitions of Virtue, like Mr. Cowlys of Wit: But in Epic posy and Panegyric all goes in the clear, and evident affirmative, presenting so exact a portraiture of Virtue, that you can't mistake, or not know it at first sight.  
But that which is most of all, Panegyric has the effectual force satire pretends to, in chasing away Vice and Folly, by discovering the Properties, and Beauties of their contraries; and if it be placed on an undeserving Subject, it carries as severe a Sting: For who is it that reads those Verses of Lucan upon Nero, but thinks them a severe satire, though they bear the Face of Praise— for having reckoned up the Mischiefs of Civil War, he cries out— 
Quod si non aliam venturo fata Neroni  
Invenere viam, magnoque aeterna parantur  
Regna this, coelumque suo servire Tonanti  
Non nisi saevorum potuit post bella Gigantum:  
Jam nihil o superi querimur, scelera ipsa, nefasque  
Hac mercede placent, &c—  
'Twould be to tedious too quote the rest.   
This I am sure was the safest way of abusing that Prince. An extravagant Praise of one, that merits nothing, is the most effectual of Satyrs. Panegyric is like a Lawful, and Mild Prince, that wins obedience by Love: Whilst satire like a Tyrant would force it by threats and servile fear; the first is the Noblest, as well as the surest way. The Custom of the Lacedæmonians of making their Slaves drunk, to represent to their Youth the Folly and Odiousness of that Vice, as it was proportioned to the grossness of their Genius so it seems to have a likeness to satire, which pretends to put Vice out of Countenance, by exposing it, which it generally does in such terms, that it only pleases the vitiated Appetites of some with the lively descriptions of what they delight in. But Panegyric, like the Wiser State of Athens, gives us Examples, and descriptions of Virtue, justly imagining, that, where those Attractives, are no man can be drawn from Beauty to Deformity. 'Twould be too tedious to run this consideration of the Pre-eminence of Panegyric to satire any farther, having said enough already (I hope) to satisfy any sensible man of the truth of what I assert.  
Having thus vindicated Panegyric from the Odium it lies under, and placed it in its due rank, nothing could hinder me from attempting one on you, Sir, who so ev'ry way deserve it, but my Inabilities, which persuade me to say nothing of that Excellence I value, since I am Conscious that I cannot say enough, nor perform that Task with the Wit and Eloquence it requires.  
As to the Book Sir, I present you with▪ I am extremely satisfied to know, that it is a Present worth your acceptance; for I may say that there has scarce been a Collection which visited the World, with fewer trifling Verses in it. I except my own, which I had the more encouragement to print now, since I had so good an opportunity of making so large an Atonement, with the Wit of others for my own Dulness, and that I hope will chiefly excuse them to you, as well as convince the World of the real Value I have for you, when it sees me prefix your Name to no Vulgar Book, of my own Composing, but to one that owes its excellence to the generous contribution of my Friends of undoubted Wit. Statius in his Epistle dedicatory to Stella, seems to put his Sylvae in balance with his Thebaidos, for their being the productions of a sudden Heat, or Inspiration, the same is applicable to these; All, or most of them being writ when the Soul was in tune, and not by a Mercenary End, forced upon a task, it was not at all disposed to. Besides which, they have most had the advantage of good judgements to prune the Luxuriancy of a flowing Fancy, which Statius would not give himself the trouble of. This Book I may therefore say (without any self-esteem) will (if any thing in Poetry have perpetuity) convey your Name to posterity, and with it the Testimony— how great a value I put upon your Worth, and how much I am Sir, without reserve,  
Your humble Servant Charles Gildon.   

AN Essay upon satire, FROM M. DACIER.  
EXpecting several Satyrs for this Collection more than I met with, I designed an Essay upon satire, as to its Etymology, Progress, and Virtues, with a short Examen of what we have had published in English, in that Nature, and finally a Collation of that with the Ancient; believing a Discourse on that Subject would not be ungrateful to the Ingenious, as being both New, and Curious; which made me promise my Bookseller to attempt it: But finding myself disappointed in my Expectations, I was of Opinion such an Essay would not be altogether so proper: But to make the Bookseller a large Amends (and to gratify the Town with an agreeable Entertainment) I got, of a very Ingenious Friend of Mine, this Preface of M. Dacier, to the sixth Tome of Horace, which though it be not of that extent, as to take in all the Points I designed to treat of, yet Horace being now in that just Esteem he deserves, I thought I could not better gratify his Admirers, than to let our English World see those hidden Beauties of this great Poet, discovered by M. Dacier, with no less Wit, than Judgement.   

The Preface of M. Dacier.  
HOrace entitles his two Books of Satyrs indifferently, Sermons, and Satyrae; And since these two Names give different Ideas; for certain Reasons it is necessary to explain what the Latins understood by the Word satire. The Learned Casaubon is the first, and only Man that has with Success attempted to show what was the Satirical Poesy of the Greeks, and the satire of the Romans. His Book is an inestimable Treasure, and I confess I have had great Helps from it; which is the use we ought to make of the Works of those extraordinary Men, who have only gone before us to be our Guides, and serve us as Torches in the thick Darkness of Antiquity. But you must not have your Eyes so continually fixed on them, as not to regard whither they lead you; for they deviate sometimes into Paths, where you cannot safely follow them. This Rule I myself have observed, in forsaking my Guides, and past that Way which no Body before me has done, as the following Discourse will convince you.  
satire is a kind of Poesy, only known to the Romans, being not at all related to the Satirical Poesy of the Greeks, as some learned Men have pretended. Quintilian leaves us no Doubt upon this Point, when he writes in Chap. 10. Satira quidem tota nostra est. The same Reason makes Horace call it in the last satire of Book 1. Graecis intactum Carmen. The Natural and true Etymology is this: The Latins called it SATUR, quasi plenum, to which there was nothing wanting for its Perfection. Thus Satur colour, when the Wool has taken a good Dye, and nothing can be added to the Perfection of it. From Satur they have made Satura, which they wrote sometimes with an i, Satira; They used in other Words, the same Variation of the Letter u into ay, as in Maxumus, Maximus, optumus, optimus. Satura, is an Adjective, which has reference to a Substantive understood; for the Ancient Romans said Saturam, understanding Lancem. And Satura Lanx, was properly a Basin filled with all sorts of Fruit, which they offered every Year to Ceres, and Bacchus, as the First Fruits of all they had gathered. These Offerings of different things mixed together, were not unknown to the Greeks, who called 'em 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, a Sacrifice of all sorts of Fruit, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 & 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, an Offering of all sorts of Grain, when they offered Potherbs. The Grammarian Diomedes has perfectly described both the Custom of the Romans, and the Word Satura, in this Passage Lanx referta variis multisque primitiis, sacris Cereris inferebatur, & a copia & Saturitate rei, Satura vocabatur: cujus generis lancium & Virgilius in Georgicis meminit, cum hoc modo dicit, Lancibus & pandis fumantia reddimus exta▪ and— lancesque & liba feremus. From thence the Word Satura was applied to many other Mixtures, as in Festus: Satira cibi genus, ex variis rebus conditum. From hence it past to the Works of the Mind; for they called some Laws Leges Saturas, which contained many Heads, or Titles, as the julian, Papian and Popean Laws, which were called Miscellas, which is of the same Signification with Satura: From hence arose this Phrase, Per Saturam legem far, when the Senate made a Law, without gathering, and counting the Votes in haste, and confusedly all together, which was properly called, Per Saturam sententias exquirere, as Sallust has it after Lelius. But they rested not here, but gave this Name to certain Books, as Pescennius Festus, whose Histories were called Saturas, or per Saturam. From all these Examples, 'tis not hard to suppose, that these Works of Horace took from hence their Name, and that they were called, Saturae quia multis & variis rebus hoc carmen refertum est, because these Poems are full of a great many different Things, as Porphyrius says, which is partly true. But it must not be thought it is immediately from thence; for this Name had been used before for other things, which bore a nearer resemblance to the Satyrs of Horace; in explanation of which a Method is to be followed, which Casaubon himself never thought of, and which will put things in so clear a Light, that there can be no Place left for Doubt.  
The Romans having been almost four hundred Years without any Scenical Plays, Chance and Debauchery made them find in one of their Feasts the Saturnian, and Fescennine Verses, which for six score Years they had instead of Dramatic Pieces. But these Verses were rude, and almost without any Numbers, as being made extempore, and by a People, as yet but barbarous, who had little other Skill, than what flowed from their Joy, and the Fumes of Wine. They were filled with the grossest sort of Raileries, and attended with Gestures and Dances. To have a livelier Idea of this, you need but reflect upon the honest Peasants▪ whose clownish Dances are attended with extempore Verses, in which, in a wretched manner they jeer one another, with all they know. To this Horace refers in the first Epistle of his second Book, 
Fescennina per hunc inventa licentia morem,  
Versibus alt ernis opprobia rustica fudit.   
This Licentious and Irregular Verse, was succeeded by a sort more correct, filled with a pleasant Raillery, without the Mixture of any thing scurrilous, and these obtained the Name of Satyrs, by reason of their Variety, and had regulated Forms, that is, regular Dances, and Music, but undecent Postures were banished. Titus Livius has it in his seventh Book. Vernaculis artificibus, quia Hister Tusco verbo Ludio vocabatur, nomen Histrionibus inditum, qui non sicut ante Fescennino versu similem compositum temere, ac rudem alternis jaciebant; sed impletas modis Satiras, descripto jam ad Tibicinem cantu, motusque congruenti peragebant. These Satyrs were properly honest Farces, in which the Spectators and Actors were rallied without Distinction.  
Livius Andronicus found things in this posture, when he first undertook to make Comedies, and Tragedies in Imitation of the Grecians. This Diversion appearing more noble, and perfect, they run to it in Multitudes, neglecting the Satyrs for some time, though they received them a little after; and some modelled them into a purposed Form to act at the end of their Comedies, as the French act their Farces now. And then they altered their Name of Satyrs for that of Exodia, which they preserve to this day. This was the first and most ancient kind of Roman satire. There are two other sorts, which tho' very different from this first, yet both owe their Birth to this, and are, as it were, Branches of it. This I shall prove the most succinctly I can.  
A Year after Livius Andronicus had caused his first Efforts to be Acted, Italy gave birth to Ennius, who being grown up, and having all the leisure in the World to observe the eager Satisfaction with which the Romans received the Satyrs, of which I have already spoke, was of Opinion, that Poems, tho' not adapted to the Theatre, yet preserving the Gaul the Rail and Pleasantness, which made these Satyrs take with so much Applause, would not fail of being well received; he therefore ventured at it, and composed several Discourses to which he retained the name of Satyrs. These Discourses were entirely like those of Horace, both for the Matter and the Variety. The only essential difference, that is observable, is that Ennius, in Imitation of some Greeks, and of Homer himself, took the liberty of mixing several kinds of Verses together, as Hexameters, jambics, Trimeters, with Tetrimeters, Trochaics or Square Verse; as it appears from the Fragments which are left us. These following Verses are of the Square kind, which Aullus Gellius has preserved us, and which very well merit a place here for the Beauty they contain: 
Hoc erit tibi Argumentum semper in promptu situm,  
Ne quid expectes Amicos, quod tute agere possies.   
I attribute also to these Satyrs of Ennius these other kinds of Verses, which are of a Beauty, and Elegance, much above the Age in which they were made; nor will the sight of 'em here be unpleasant.  
Non habeo denique nauci Marsum Augurem,  
Non vicanos aruspices, non de Cicro Astrologos,  
Non Isiacoes Conjectores, non Interpretes Hominum:  
Non enim sunt ij aut Scientia, aut Arte Divini;  
Sed Superstitiosi vates, Impudentesque harioli,  
Aut inertes, aut insani, aut quibus egestas Imperat:  
Qui sui questus caussa fictas suscitant sententias,  
Qui sibi semitam non sapiunt, alteri monstrant viam,  
Quibus devitias pollicentur, ab iis Drachmam petunt,  
De devitijs deducant Drachmam, reddant caetera.  
Horace has borrowed several things from these Satyrs. After Ennius came Pacuvius, who also writ Satyrs in Imitation of his Uncle Ennius.  
Lucilius was born in the time when Pacuvius was in most Reputation. He also wrote Satyrs. But he gave them a new turn, and endeavoured to imitate, as near as he could, the Character of the old Greek Comedy, of which we had but a very imperfect Idea in the ancient Roman satire, and such, as one might find in a Poem, which Nature alone had dictated before the Romans had thought of imitating the Grecians, and enriching themselves with their Spoils. 'Tis thus you must understand this Passage of the first satire of the second Book of Horace, 
— Quid, cum est Lucilius ausis,  
Primus in hunc operis componere carmina morem?  Horace never intended by this to say, That there were no Satyrs before Lucilius, because Ennius and Pacuvius were before him, whose Example he followed: He only would have it understood, That Lucilius having given a new Turn to this Poem, and embellished it, aught by way of Excellence to be esteemed the first Author. Quintilian had the same Thought, when he writ, in the first Chapther of the tenth Book Satira quidem tota nostra est, in qua primus insignem laudem adeptus est Lucilius. You must not therefore be of the Opinion of Casaubon, who building on the Judgement of Diomedes, thought that the satire of Ennius, and that of Lucilius were entirely different: These are the very Words of this Grammarian, which have deceived this Judicious Critic. Satira est Carmen apud Romanos, non quidem apud Graecos maledicum, ad carpenda hominum vitia, Archaeae Comoediae charactere compositum, quale scripserunt Lucilius & Horatius, & Persius. Sed olim Carmen quod ex variis Poematibus constabat, Satira dicebatur, quale scripserunt Pacuvius & Ennius. You may see plainly that Diomedes distinguishes the satire of Lucilius, from that of Ennius, and Pacuvius; the reason which he gives for this Distinction, is ridiculous, and absolutely false: The good Man had not examined the Nature and Origin of these two Satyrs, which were entirely like one another, both in Matter and Form, for Lucilius added to it only a little Politeness, and more Salt, almost without changing any thing: And if he did not put together several Sorts of Verse in the same Piece, as Ennius has done, yet he made several Pieces, of which some were entirely Hexameters, others entirely jambics, and others Trochaic's, as is evident from his Fragments. In short, if the Satyrs of Lucilius differ from these of Ennius, because the former has added much to the Endeavours of the latter, as Casaubon has pretended, it will follow from thence, that those of Horace, and those of Lucilius, are also entirely different, for Horace has no less refined on the Satyrs of Lucilius, than he on those of Ennius, and Pacuvius. This Passage of Diomedes has also deceived Dousa the Son. I say not this to expose some Light Faults of these great Men, but only to show, with what Exactness, and with what Caution their Works must be read, when they treat of any thing so Obscure, and so ancient.  
I have made appear what was the Ancient satire, that was made for the Theatre; I have shown, That that gave the Idea of the satire of Ennius: And, in fine, I have sufficiently proved, that the Satyrs of Ennius, and Pacuvius; of Lucilius, and Horace, are but one kind of Poem, which has received its Perfection from the last. 'Tis Time now to speak of the second kind of satire, which I promised to explain, and which is also derived from the Ancient satire; 'tis that which we call Varronian, or the satire of Menippus, the Cinic Philosopher.  
This satire was not only composed of several forts of Verse, but Varro added Prose to it, and made a Mixture of Greek and Latin. Quintilian, after he had spoke of the satire of Lucilius, adds, Alterum illud est, & prius Satirae genus, quod non sola Carminum varietate mistum condidit Terentius Varro, vir Romanorum Eruditissimus. The only Difficulty of this Passage is, that Quintilian assures us, that this satire of Varro was the first, for how could that be, since Varro was a great while after Lucilius? Quintilian meant not that the satire of Varro was the first in Order of Time, for he knew well enough, that in that respect he was the last: But he would give us to understand, that this kind of satire, so mixed, was more like the satire of Ennius, and Pacuvius, who gave themselves a greater Liberty in this Composition, than Lucilius, who was more severe, and correct.  
We have now only some Fragments left of the satire of Varro, and those generally very imperfect; the Titles, which are most commonly double, show the great Variety of Subjects, of which Varro treated.  
Seneca's Book on the Death of Claudius, Boetius, his Consolation of Philosophy, and that of Petronius Arbiter, are Satyrs entirely like those of Varro.  
This is what I have in general to say on satire; nor is it necessary I insist any more on this Subject. This the Reader may observe, that the Name of satire in Latin▪ is not less proper for Discourses, that recommend Virtue, than to those which are designed against Vice. It had nothing so formidable in it, as it has now, when a bare Mention of satire makes them tremble, who would fain seem what they are not, for satire, with us, signifies the same thing, as exposing, or lashing of some thing, or Person: Yet this different Acceptation altars not the Word, which is always the same; but the Latins in the Titles of their Books, have often had regard only to the Word, in the extent of its Signification, founded on its Etymology, whereas we have had respect only to the first, and general Use, which has been made of it in the beginning to mock, and deride; yet this Word ought always to be writ in Latin with an (u) or (i) Satura, or Satira, and in English by an ay those who have wrote it with a (y) thought with Scaliger, Heinsius, and a great many others, that the Divinities of the Groves, which the Grecians called Satyrs, the Romans Fawns, gave their Names to these Pieces; and that of the Word Satyrus they had made Satyra, and that these Satyrs had a great affinity with the Satyric Pieces of the Greeks, which is absolutely false, as Casaubon has very well proved it, in making it appear, That of the Word Satyrus they could never make Satyra, but Satyrica: And in showing the Difference betwixt the Satyric Poems of the Greeks, and the Roman Satyrs. Mr. Spanheim, in his fine Preface to the Caesars, concerning the Emperor julian, has added new Reflections to those which this Judicious Critic had advanced; and he has established, with a great deal of Judgement, five, or six essential Differences, between those two Poems, which you may find in his Book. The Greeks had never any thing that came near this Roman satire, but their Silli [〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉] which were also biting Poems, as they may easily be perceived to be yet, by some Fragments of the Silli of Timon. There was however this Difference, That the Silli of the Greeks were Parodious, from one End to the other, which cannot be said of the Roman Satyrs; where, if sometimes you find some Parodia's, you may plainly see that the Poet did not design to affect it, and by consequence the Parodia's do not make the Essence of a satire, as they do the Essence of the Silli.  
Having explained the Nature, Origin and Progress of satire, I'll now say a Word, or two of Horace in particular.  
There cannot be a more just Idea given of this part of his Works, than in comparing them to the Statues of the Sileni, to which Alcibiades in the Banquet, compares Socrates. They were Figures, that without had nothing agreeable, or beautiful, but when you took the Pains to open them, you found the Figures of all the Gods. In the manner that Horace presents himself to us in his Satyrs, we discover nothing of him at first, that deserves our Attachment. He seems to be fitter to amuse Children than to employ the Thoughts of Men; but when we remove that, which hides him from our Eyes, and view him even to the Bottom, we find in him all the Gods together; that is to say, all those Virtues, which ought to be the continual Practice of such as seriously endeavour to forsake their Vices.  
Hitherto we have been content to see only his outside, and 'tis a strange thing, that Satyrs, which have been read so long, have been so little understood, or explained: They have made a Halt at the outside, and were wholly busied in giving the Interpretation of Words. They have commented upon him like Grammarians, not Philosophers; as if Horace had writ merely to have his Language understood, and rather to divert, than instruct us. That is not the End of this Work of his. The end of any Discourse is the Action for which that Discourse is composed; when it produces no Action, 'tis only a vain amusement, which idly tickles the Ear, without ever reaching the Heart.  
In these two Books of his Satyrs, Horace would teach us, to conquer our Vices, to rule our Passions, to follow Nature, to limit our Desires, to distinguish True from False, and Ideas from Things, to forsake Prejudice, to know throughly the Principles, and Motives of all our Actions, and to shun that Folly which is in all Men, who are bigoted to the Opinions they have imbibed under their Teachers, which they keep obstinately without examining whether they are well-grounded. In a Word, he endeavours to make us happy for ourselves, agreeable, and faithful to our Friends, easy, discreet, and honest to all, with whom we are obliged to live. To make us understand the Terms he uses, to explain the Figures he employs, and to conduct the Reader safely through the Labyrinth of a difficult Expression, or obscure Parenthesis, is no great matter to perform: And as Epictetus says, there is nothing in that Beautiful, or truly worthy a wise Man. The principal, and most important Business, is to show the Rise, the Reason, and the Proof of his Precepts, to demonstrate that those, who do not endeavour to correct themselves by so beautiful a Model, are just like sick Men, who having a Book full of Receipts, proper to their Distempers, content themselves to read 'em, without comprehending them, or so much as knowing the Advantage of them.  
I urge not this because I have myself omitted any thing in these Annotations, which was the incumbent Duty of a Grammarian to observe; this, I hope the World will be sensible of, and that there remains no more Difficulty in the Text. But that which has been my chief Care, is, to give an insight into the very matter, that Horace treats of, to show the solidity of his Reasons, to discover the Turns he makes use of to prove what he aims at, and to refute or illude that which is opposed to him, to confirm, the Truth of his Decisions, to make the Delicacy of his Sentiments perceived, to expose to open Day the Folly he finds in what he condemns. This is what none have done before me. On the contrary, as Horace is a true Proteus, that takes a thousand different Forms, they have often lost him, and not knowing where to find him, have grappled him as well as they could; they have palm'd upon him in several Places, not only Opinions, which he had not, but even those which he directly refutes: I don't say this to blame those who have taken Pains before me on the Works of this great Poet, I commend their Endeavours, they have opened me the way; and if it be granted, that I have some little Advantage over them, I owe it wholly to the great Men of Antiquity, whom I have read with more Care, and without doubt with more Leisure. I speak of Homer, of Plato, and Aristotle, and of some other Greek and Latin Authors, which I study continually, that I may form my taste on theirs, and draw out of their Writings, the justness of Wit, good Sense and Reason.  
I know very well, that there are now adays some Authors, who laugh at these great Names, who disallow the Acclamations, which they have received from all Ages, and who would deprive them of the Crowns, which they have so well deserved, and which they have got before such August Tribunals. But for fear of falling into Admiration, which they look upon as the Child of Ignorance, they do not perceive that they go from that Admiration, which Plato calls the Mother of Wisdom, and which was the first that opened men's Eyes. I do not wonder that the Celestial Beauties, which we find in the Writing of these incomparable Men, lose with them all their Attractives, and Charms, because they have not the Strength to keep their Eyes long enough upon them. Besides, it is much easier to despise than understand them. As for myself, I declare, that I am full of Admiration, and Veneration for their Divine Geniusses: I have them always before my Eyes, as Venerable and Incorruptible Judges; before whom I take pleasure to fancy, That I ought to give an account of my Writings. At the same Time I have a great Respect for Posterity, and I always think with more Fear, than Confidence, on the Judgement that will pass on my Works, if they are happy enough to reach it. All this does not hinder me from esteeming the great Men that live now. I acknowledge that there are a great many who are an Honour to our Age, and who would have adorned the Ages passed. But amongst these great Men, I speak of, I do not know one, and there cannot be one, who does not esteem, and honour the Ancients, who is not of their taste, and who follows not their Rules. If you go never so little from them, you go at the same time from Nature and Truth; and I shall not be afraid to affirm, that it would not be more difficult to see without Eyes, or Light, than 'tis impossible to acquire a solid Merit, and to form the Understanding by other means, than by those, that the Greeks, and Romans have traced for us. Whether it be that we follow them by the only force of Natural Happiness, or Instinct, or that Art, and Study have conducted us thither. As for those who thus blame Antiquity, without knowing of it, once for all I'll undeceive them, and make it appear, that in giving all the advantage to our Age, they take the direct Course to dishonour it; for what greater Proofs can be of the Rudeness, or rather Barbarity of an Age, than in it, to hear Homer called dull, and heavy, Plato tiresome, and tedious, Aristotle ignorant, Demosthenes and Cicero, vulgar Orators, Virgil a Poet without either Grace, or Beauty, and Horace an Author unpolished, languid, and without force? The Barbarians who ravaged Greece, and Italy, and who laboured with so much fury to destroy all things that were fine and noble, have never done any thing so horrible as this. But I hope that the false taste of some particular Men without Authority, will not be imputed to the whole Age, nor give the least Blemish to the Ancients. 'Twas to no purpose that a certain Emperor declared himself an Enemy to Homer, Virgil and Titus Livius. All his Efforts were ineffectual, and the Oppsition he made to Works so perfect, served only to augment in his History the number of his Follies, and render him more odious to all Posterity.   

The INDEX.  

A Letter from Mr. Prior, to Mr. Fleetwood Sheppard. page. 1.  
Horace, Lib. 2. Ode 14. Imitated by Mr. Congreve. 12  
An Ode in imitation of Horace, Ode 9 lib. 1. by the same. 17  
Horace Ode 27. Book 1. imitated. 22  
On a Lady who denied him entrance into her Closet. 24  
King Charles the First Lot at Sorts Virgilianae, Translated by Mr. Cow. 26  
The Deists Plea Answered by the Honourable Robert Boyl Esq 27  
julii Mazarini Cardinalis Epitaphium, Authore Joh. Milton. 29  
In Urbanum VIII. P. M. 33  
Epitaph on Felton by the Duke of Buckingham, Ibid.  
Upon a Ladies Singing, by Mr. Congreve. 35  
Advice about Marriage, in imitation of a French satire, by Mr. Tho. Brown. 40  
Part of a Panegyric upon Colonel Walker of Londonderry, by the same. 43  
Carolo Martyri Sacrum, Authore Tho. Brown. 44  
Catch by Mr. Taverner. 45  
The Beaux, by Mr. Brown. Ibid,  
The Repenting Husband, or a satire upon Marriage, by S. W. 47  
Upon the Duke of Buckingham's Retirement, by Madam Wharton. 54  
Petronius Arbiter. Qui Pelago Credit. 60  
Song by Henry Cromwell, Esq 61  
Upon the Art of Love, a Book presented to a Lady, by the same. 62  
A Song by the same. 63  
The Decay a Song, by Mr. W. C. 64  
Song by Mr. S. 65  
By the same a Song. 66  
Song by Tho. Changed— Esq 68  
Song by the same. 69  
The Message a Song, by W. C. 71  
By Henry Cromwell, Esq Martial. Epi. de morte Festi. 72  
A Catch. 74  
A Letter from Hen. Cr— Esq to Tho. Ch.— Esq for Women against Wine. 75  
An Answer to the foregoing Letter, by Tho. Changed— Esq for Wine. 77  
Song by Henry Cromwell, Esq 82  
An Invitation to the Music Meeting, by the same. 83  
On a Conventicle, by Mrs. Behn. 84  
Verses designed by Mrs. Behn to be sent to a fair Lady, etc. 85  
Venus and Cupid, by the same. 86  
The old Man's Complaint, by Mr. Wells. 90  
Upon Marriage, by Dr. N. 92  
A Song by Mr. J. S. of the Middle Temple. 93.  
To Sylvia a Song, by C. G. 94  
To Sylvia the Meeting, by the same. 96  
The beginning of the first satire of Persius Imitated, by the same. 99  
On Affairs abroad, and King William's Expedition, by Mr. Durfey. 107  
On my Lord Fairfax, by the late Duke of Buckingham. 109    

POEMS, etc.  

A Letter from Mr. Prior, to Mr. Fleetwood Sheppard.  
SIR,  
AS once a Twelve month to the Priest,  
Whom some call Pope, some Antichrist,  
The Spanish Monarch sends a Jennet,  
To show his Love, that's all that's in it:  
For if his Holiness would thump  
His Reverend Bum against Horse's Rump,  
He might be ' quiped from his own Stable  
With one more White, and eke more able.  
Or as with Gondola's and Men, his  
Good Excellence the Duke of Venice,  
(I wish for Rhyme 'thad been the King)  
Sails out, and gives the Sea a Ring:  
Which Trick of State he wisely maintains,  
Keeps Kindness up 'twixt old Acquaintance;  
For else, in honest Truth, the Sea  
Has much less need of Gold than he.  
Or, not to rove and pump one's Fancy,  
For Popish Similes beyond Sea;  
As Folks from Mudwalled Tenement  
Bring Landlords Pepper-Corn for Rent,  
Present a Turkey or a Hen  
To those might better spare them Ten:  
Even so, with all Submission, I  
(For first Men instance, than apply)  
Send you each Year a homely Letter,  
Who may return me much a better.  
Then take it, Sir, as it was writ,  
To pay Respect, and not show Wit:  
Nor look askew at what it saith,  
There's no Petition in it— Faith.  
Here some would scratch their Heads and try  
What they should write, and how, and why;  
But I conceive such Folks are quite in  
Mistakes, in Theory of Writing:  
If once for Principles 'tis laid  
That Thought is Trouble to the Head;  
I argue thus, the World agrees,  
That he writes well, who writes with Ease;  
Then he, by Sequel Logical,  
Writes best, who never thinks at all.  
Verse comes from Heaven, like Inward Light,  
Mere Human Pains can ne'er come by it.  
The God, not we, the Poem makes,  
We only tell Folks what he Speaks.  
Hence when Anatomists discourse  
How like Brutus' Organs are to ours;  
They grant, if higher Powers think fit,  
A Bear might soon be made a Wit:  
And that, for any thing in Nature,  
Pigs might squeak Love-Odes, Dogs bark satire.  
Memnon, tho' Stone, was counted Vocal,  
But 'twas the God, mean while, that spoke all.  
Rome oft has heard a Cross haranguing,  
With prompting Priest behind the Hanging;  
The Wooden Head resolved the Question,  
Whilst you and Pettys helped the Jest on.  
Your crabbed Rogues that read Lucretius,  
Are against Gods, you know, and teach us,  
The God makes not the Poet, but  
The Thesis' vice versa put  
Should Hebrew-wise be understood,  
And means the Poet makes the God.  
Egyptian gardeners thus are said to  
Have set the Leeks they after prayed to:  
And Romish Bakers praise the Deity  
They chipped, whilst yet in its Paniety.  
That when you Poets Swear and Cry  
The God Inspires, I rave, I die;  
If inward Wind does truly swell ye,  
'Tmust be the Colic in the Belly.  
That Writing is but just like Dice,  
And lucky Mains make People Wise:  
That jumbled Words, If Fortune throw 'em,  
Can well as Dryden form a Poem;  
Or make a Speech correct and witty,  
As you know who— at the Committee:  
So Atoms dancing round the Centre,  
They urge, formed all things at a venture.  
But granting Matters should be spoke  
By Method rather than by Luck,  
This may confine their younger Styles,  
Whom Dr— n pedagogues at Wills:  
But never could be meant to tie  
Authentic Wits, like you and I:  
For as young Children who are tried in  
Go Carts to keep their Steps from Sliding;  
When Members knit, and Legs grow stronger,  
Make use of such Machine no longer,  
But leap, pro libitu, and scout  
On Horse called Hobby, or without:  
So when at School we first declaim,  
Old Busbie walks us in a Theme,  
Whose Props support our Infant Vein,  
And help the Rickets in the Brain:  
But when our Souls their Force dilate,  
And Thoughts grow up to Wit's Estate,  
In Verse or Prose we Write or Chat,  
Not Six Pence Matter upon what.  
'Tis not how well a Writer says,  
But 'tis how much that gathers Praise:  
T— n, who is himself a Wit,  
Count's Authors Merits by the Sheet;  
Thus each should down with all he thinks,  
As Boys eat Bread to fill up Chinks.  
Kind Sir, I should be glad to see you,  
I hope you're well, so God be with ye,  
Was all at first I thought to write,  
But Things since that are altered quite;  
Fancies flow in, and Muse flies high,  
So God knows when my Clack will lie;  
I must, Sir, prattle on as afore,  
And beg your Pardon yet this half Hour.  
So, where I've with my Gran'am gone,  
At Sacred Barn of pure Noncon—  
When Lob has sifted all his Text,  
And I well hoped the Pudding next,  
The Rogue has coughed up tother Hour,  
And to apply has plagued me more  
Than all his Villain Stuff before.  
For your Religion, then, I hear  
A very good Account of her;  
They say she's honest as your Claret,  
Not soured with Cant, nor stumed with Merit,  
Your Chamber is the sole retreat  
Of Chaplains every Sunday-Night,  
Of Grace no Doubt a certain Sign,  
When Layman herds with Man Divine;  
For if their Fame be justly high, who  
Would never treat the Pope's Nuncio,  
That his is higher, we must grant,  
Who will treat Nuncio's Protestant.  
In Politics, I hear, you're staunch,  
Directly bend against the French,  
Deny to have your freeborn Toe  
Dragooned into a Wooden Shoe,  
Are in no Plots, but fairly drive at  
The Public Welfare in your Private,  
And will for England's Glory try  
Turks, jews and jesuits, to defy,  
And keep your Places till you die.  
For me, whom wandering Fortune threw  
From what I loved, the Town and you,  
Let me just tell you how my Time is  
Past in a Country-Life— Imprimis.  
As soon as Phaebus' Rays inspect Us,  
I rise to Read, perhaps to Breakfast,  
So on till 'foresaid God does Set,  
I sometimes Study, sometimes Eat;  
Thus of your Heroes and Brave Boys,  
With whom Old Homer makes such Noise,  
The greatest Actions I can find,  
Are, that they did their Work and Dined.  
The Books of which I'm chief fond,  
Are such as you have whilom conned,  
That Treat of China's Civil-Law,  
And Subjects Rights in Golconda:  
Of Highway Elephants at Ceylan,  
That Rob in Clans, like Men o'th' High Land.  
Of Apes that Storm or Keep a Town  
Better, perhaps, than Count Lausune:  
Of Unicorns and Alligators,  
Elks, Mermaids, Mummies, Witches, Satyrs,  
And Twenty other stranger Matters:  
Which, tho' they're things I've no concern in,  
Make all our Grooms admire my Learning.  
Critics I Read on other Men,  
And Hypers upon them again,  
From whose Remarks I give Opinion  
On Twenty Books, yet ne'er look in One:  
Then all your Wits that fleer and Shame,  
Down from Don Quixot to Tom Tram;  
From whom I Jests and Puns Purloin,  
And slily put 'em off for Mine.  
Fond to be thought a Country-Wit,  
The rest when Fate and You think fit.  
Sometimes I climb my Mare, and kick her,  
To Bottled Ale, and Neighbouring Vicar;  
Sometimes at Stamford take a Quart,  
'Squire Sheppard's Health with all my Heart.  
Thus far from Pleasure, Sir, or Grief,  
I fool away an Idle Life,  
Till Mr. Maidwell cease to Teach,  
Then I'll Jerk Youth, and say Inspeech;  
Or Shadwell from the Town retires,  
Choked up with Fame and Sea-Coal-Fires,  
To bless the Woods with Peaceful Lyric,  
Then hay! for Praise and Panegyric;  
Justice restored, and Nations freed,  
And Wreaths round William's Glorious Head.   

HORACE, Lib. II. Ode 14. Imitated by Mr. Congreve.  Eheu Fugaces, Posthume, Posthume, Labuntur Anni, etc. 

I.  
AH! No, 'tis all in vain, believe me 'tis  
‛ This Pious Artifice.  
Not all these Prayers and Alms, can Buy  
One Moment towered Eternity.  
Eternity! that boundless Race,  
Which, Time himself can never run:  
(Swift, as he flies, with an unwearied pace,)  
Which, when Ten Thousand, Thousand Years are done,  
Is still the same, and still to be begun.  
Fixed are those Limits, which prescribe  
A short Extent to the most lasting Breath,  
And though thou couldst for Sacrifice, lay down  
Millions of other Lives to save thine own;  
'Twere fruitless all; not all would Bribe  
One Supernumerary Gasp from Death.   

II.  
In vain's thy Inexhausted Store  
Of Wealth, in vain thy Power,  
Thy Honours, Titles; all must fail,  
Where Piety itself does nought avail.  
The Rich, the Great, the Innocent and Just,  
Must all be huddled to the Grave,  
With the most Vile and Ignominious Slave,  
And undistinguished lie in Dust.  
In vain, the Fearful, flies Alarms,  
In vain, he is secure, from wounds of Arms,  
In vain, avoids the Faithless Seas,  
And is confined to Home and Ease,  
Bounding his Knowledge, to extend his Days.  
In vain, are all those Arts we try,  
All our Evasions, and Regret to Die:  
From the Contagion of Mortality,  
No Clime is pure, no Air is free:  
And no Retreat  
Is so Obscure, as to be hid from Fate.   

III.  
Thou must, alas! thou must my Friend;  
(The very Hour thou now dost spend  
In studying to avoid, brings on thine end,)  
Thou must forego the dearest Joys of Life;  
Leave the warm Bosom of thy tender Wife,  
And all the much loved Offspring of her Womb,  
To molder in the Cold Embraces of a Tomb.  
All must be left, and all be lost;  
Thy House, whose stately Structure so much cost,  
Shall not afford  
Room for the stinking Carcase of its Lord.  
Of all thy pleasant Gardens, Grots, and Bowers,  
Thy Costly Fruits, thy far-fetched Plants and Flowers:  
Nought shalt thou save;  
Unless a Sprig of Rosemary thou have,  
To wither with thee in the Grave:  
The rest shall live and flourish, to upbraid  
Their Transitory Master Dead.   

IV.  
Then shall thy long-expecting Heir,  
A Joyful Mourning wear:  
And Riot in the waste of that Estate  
Which thou hast taken so much pains to get.  
All thy hid Stores he shall unsold,  
And set at large thy Captived Gold.  
That precious Wine, condemned by thee  
To Vaults and Prisons, shall again be free:  
Buried alive, tho' now it lies,  
Agained shall rise,  
Again its sparkling Surface show,  
And free as Element, profusely flow.  
With such choice Food he shall set forth his Feasts,  
That Cardinals shall wish to be his Guests;  
And pampered Prelates see  
Themselves outdone in Luxury.    

An ODE, In imitation of HORACE, Ode IX. Lib. 1.  By Mr. CONGREVE. Vides ut alta, etc.— 

I.  
BLess me, 'tis cold! how I'll the Air?  
How naked does the World appear!  
But see (big with the Offspring of the North)  
The teeming Clouds bring forth.  
A Shower of soft and fleecy Rain,  
Falls, to new-cloath the Earth again.  
Behold the Mountain-Tops, around,  
As if with Fur of Ermines crowned:  
And lo! how by degrees  
The universal Mantle hides the Trees,  
In hoary Flakes, which downward fly,  
As if it were the Autumn of the Sky;  
Whose Fall of Leaf would theirs supply:  
Trembling, the Groves sustain the Weight, and bow  
Like aged Limbs, which feebly go  
Beneath a venerable Head of Snow.   

II.  
Diffusive Cold does the whole Earth invade,  
Like a Disease, through all its Veins 'tis spread,  
And each late living Stream, is numbed and dead;  
Le's melt the frozen Hours, make warm the Air.  
Let cheerful Fires Sol's feeble Beams repair;  
Fill the large Bowl with sparkling Wine;  
Let's drink, till our own Faces shine,  
Till we like Suns appear,  
To light and warm the Hemisphere.  
Wine can dispense to all both Light and Heat,  
They are with Wine incorporate:  
That powerful Juice, with which no Cold dares mix,  
Which still is fluid, and no Frost can fix:  
Let that but in abundance flow,  
And let it storm and thunder, hail and snow,  
'Tis heavens Concern; and let it be  
The Care of Heaven still for me:  
These Winds, which rend the Oaks and plough the Seas;  
Great jove can, if he please,  
With one commanding Nod appease.   

III.  
Seek not to know to Morrows Doom;  
That is not ours, which is to come.  
The present Moment's all our Store:  
The next, should Heaven allow,  
Then this will be no more:  
So all our Life is but one instant Now.  
Look on each Day you've past  
To be a mighty Treasure won:  
And lay each Moment out in haste;  
We're sure to live too fast,  
And cannot live too soon.  
Youth does a thousand Pleasures bring,  
Which from decrepit Age will fly;  
Sweets that wanton i'th' Bosom of the Spring,  
In Winter's cold Embraces die.   

IV.  
Now Love, that everlasting Boy, invites  
To revel while you may, in soft Delights:  
Now the kind Nymph yields all her Charms,  
Nor yields in vain to youthful Arms.  
Slowly she promises at Night to meet,  
But eagerly prevents the Hour with swifter Feet.  
To gloomy Groves and obscure Shades she flies,  
There vails the bright Confession of her Eyes.  
Unwillingly she stays,  
Would more unwillingly depart,  
And in soft Sighs conveys  
The Whispers of her Heart.  
Still she invites and still denies,  
And vows she'll leave you if y'are rude;  
Then from her Ravisher she flies,  
But flies to be pursued:  
If from his Sight she does herself convey,  
With a feigned Laugh she will herself betray,  
And cunningly instruct him in the way.    

Horace Ode 27, Book 1. imitated.  Natis in usum laetitiae Scyphis, etc. 

WHat Boys, are ye mad? is the Dutch Devil in ye?  
Must your Quarrels as long as your Glasses continue?  
Give it o'er, ye dull Sots! let the dull-pated Boors,  
Snic or snee, at their Punch-Bowls, or slash for their Whores,  
We'll be merry and wise, but for Bloodshed we bar it,  
No Red shall be seen here but your Port and good Claret.   

What a P— should we fight for? No Bayonets here  
But the Sconces all round & the Bottles appear.  
Look, the Wine blushes for us! while it gently disgraces  
Our unnatural Freaks and our mortified Faces.  
Come let's do what we came for! let the Brimmers be crowned,  
And a Health to all quiet Good-fellows go round!   

Must I take off my Glass too? then jack prithee tell us  
Thy new Mistress' Name: What a Mischief art Jealous?  
Must her Name be a Secret? Alons then I've done,  
Hang the greedy Curmudgeon that will eat all alone.  
Come discover you Blockhead! I'm sure I mistook ye,  
Or else in these Amours jack was used to be lucky   

Well, but whisper it then! I'll keep Counsel, ne'er fear it,  
Is it she? the damned Jilt! Gad let no Body hear it;  
Why, Faith jack thou'rt undone then, 'twas some Witchcraft I'm sure  
Could betray thee to th' Arms of a Pockified Whore.  
Well, 'tis vain to repine Boy; let us drink away Sorrow,  
Use thy freedom to Night Man, let the Punk reign to Morrow.    

To a Lady, who denied him Entrance into her Closet.  
PArdon at least it merits, if not Praise,  
To this high Wish, our bold Desires to raise.  
For what Place more our longing Eyes can bless,  
Than that where you alone yourself possess,  
Where in a calm and undisturbed Retreat  
All your mild tender Thoughts together meet,  
And Love and Innocence each other greet?  
Here some unhappy Virgin's Fate you read,  
And your soft Soul with her sad Story feed:  
Admire the Truth which she, tho' injured, bears,  
And praise the mournful Beauty of her Tears;  
Such charming Tears as those alone excel,  
Which from your Eyes for loved Pamela fell:  
There, with concern of Heroes past you read;  
How do we envy then the happier dead!  
But oh! what Hopes can living Lovers find,  
If they alone take up your gentle Mind!  
To this blessed Place are all our Wishes bound,  
Where no unhallowed Feet e'er touched the ground:  
Hither w'approach not so profane or rude,  
As without your Permission to intrude:  
Nor can we of this mighty Grace despair,  
From the bright Nymph that's gentle as she's fair,  
In whom we Nature's noblest Strife may find,  
Which should excel, her Beauty or her Mind;  
In the warm Snow of whose soft tender Breast,  
Mildness and gentlest Pity build their Nest;  
And Virtue, stronglier, noblier fortified  
By easy Freedom than disdainful Pride.   

King Charles I. at Oxford, being at a Sport called Sorts Virgilianae, drew for his Lott some part of the 4th Eneid, about Verse 615. and had six Verses translated by Mr. Cowley.  
BY a bold People's stubborn Arms oppressed,  
Forced to forsake the Land which he possessed,  
Torn from his dearest Son, let him in vain  
Beg help, and see his Friends unjustly slain:  
Let him to bold unequal Terms submit,  
In hopes to save his Crown; yet lose both it  
And Life at once: Untimely let him die,  
And on an open Stage unburied lie.  

The Latin Verses.  
AT bello audacis populi vexatus & armis,  
Finibus extorris, complexu avulsus juli  
Auxilium imploret, videatque indigna suorum  
Funera, nec cum se sub leges pacis iniquae  
Tradiderit, regno aut optata lace fruatur,  
Sed cadat ante diem, mediaque inhumatus arena.    

The Deist's Plea, answered by the Honourable, Robert boil, Esq.  

The Deist's Plea.  
NAtural Religion, easy first and Plain;  
Tales made it Mystery, Offerings made it gain;  
Sacrifices and Feasts were at length prepared▪  
The Priests eat roast Meat, and the People stared.   

The Christian's Plea.  
NAtural Religion does indeed display  
The Duty of serving God, but not the way:  
Man of himself roving, perverse and blind,  
A Precipice sooner than that way would find,  
What Worship God will like: Himself must teach,  
And so he did, by those he sent to preach;  
Who Doctrines worthy to be thought Divine,  
Confirmed by Miracles, where his Power did shine:  
Who by those Wonders, Instances did give  
Of things, as strange as they bid us believe;  
Who promised endless Joys, and Lives required  
Worthy of those, that to such Joys aspired,  
Who what they taught so much believed and prized  
That, for its sake, they all things else despised:  
And both by its strict Rules their Lives did guide,  
And to attest its Truth most gladly died;  
And without Arms subdued the World, save those  
Whom Vice, not Wit, engaged clear Truths t'oppose.    

julii Mazirini, Cardinalis, Epitaphium: Authore joh. Milton.  
HIC jacet Iulius Mazirinus,  
Galliae Rex, Italus  
Ecclesiae Praesul Laicus,  
Europae praedo purpuratus,  
Fortunam omnem ambiit omnem corrupit;  
Aerarium administravit, & exhausit;  
Civile bellum compressit, sed commovit;  
Regni jura tuitus est, & invasit;  
Beneficia possedit, & vendidit;  
Pacem dedit aliquando, sed distulit,  
Hostes cladibus, cives oneribus afflixit,  
Arrisit paucis, irrisit plurimos,  
Omnibus nocuit.  
Negotiator in Templo, Tyrannus in Regno,  
Praedo in Ministerio,  
Vulpes in Consilio,  
Grassator in Bello,  
Solus nobis in Pace Hostis.  
Fortunam olim adversam, aut elusit aut vicit:  
E nostro seculo vidimus  
Adorari fugitivum,  
Imperare Civibus Exulem,  
Regnare proscriptum.  
Quid deinde egerit, rogas? Paucis accipe.  
Lusit, fefellit, rapuit;  
Ferreum nobis seculum induxit, sibi ex auro nostro  
Aureum fecit.  
Quorundam capiti nullius fortunis pepercit,  
Homo crudeliter clemens;  
Pluribus tandem morbis elanguit,  
Plures ei mortes coelo irrogante,  
Cui Senatus olim unam decreverat:  
Vincenni se arcibus inclusit moriturus;  
Id quidem apte  
Quaesivit carcerem;  
Diu laedentem animam retinuit, aegre reddidit,  
Sic retinere omnia didicerat,  
Nil sua sponte reddere,  
Constanter tamen visurus est mori, quid mirum?  
Vt vixit, sic obiit dissimulans,  
Ne morbum quidem novere qui curabant.  
Hac una fraude nobis profuit,  
Fefellit Medicos;  
Mortuus est tamen, ni fallimur, & moriens  
Regem regno, Regnum Regi restituit;  
Reliquit▪  
Praesulibus pessima exempla,  
Aulicis infida consilia,  
Adoptivo amplissima spolia,  
Paupertatem populis;  
Successoribus suis omnes praedandi artes,  
Sed praedam nullam.  
Immensas tamen opes licet profuderit,  
Id unum habuit ex suo quod daret,  
Nomen suum.  
Pectus ejus, post mortem apertum est,  
Tunc primum patuit vafrum cor  
Mazirini  
Quod nec precibus, nec lacrymis, nec injuriis moveretur.  
Diu quaesivimus, invenere medici  
Cor Lapideum.  
Quod mortuus adhuc omnia moveat & administret ne mireris:  
Stipendia in hunc annum accepit,  
Nec fraudat post Mortem bonae fidei:  
Quo tandem evaserit forsitan, rogas?  
Coelum (si rapitur) tenet, si datur meritis longe abest.  
Sed abi Viator, & cave;  
Nam hic Tumulus  
Est Specus Latronis.   

In Vrbanum viij. P. M.  
EST ne Papa Christianus?  
Immo vero, Christianissimus.  
Estne verus Petri Successor?  
Immo verissimus:  
Quotiescunque enim Gallus Cantat,  
Dominum abnegat.   

EPITAPH upon Felton, by his Grace the late D. of Buckingham.  
HEre unintered suspends (though not to save  
Surviving Friends th'expenses of a Grave)  
Felton's dead Earth, which to the World must be,  
His own sad Monument, His Elegy,  
As large as Fame, but whether bad, or good,  
I say not, by himself 'twas writ in Blood.  
Having his Body thus entombed in Air,  
Arched o'er with Heaven, and set with many a fair  
And glorious Diamond-Star; a Sepulchre  
Which Time can't ruinate, and where  
The impartial Worm, which is not bribed to spare  
Princes, when wrapped in Marble, cannot share  
His Flesh, which oft the charitable Skies  
Embalm with Tears, doing those Obsequies  
Belong to Men, until the pitying Fowl,  
Contend to reach his Body to his Soul.   

Upon a Lady's Singing PINDARIC ODE,  By Mr. CONGREVE. 

I.  
LEt all be hushed, each softest Motion cease,  
Be every loud tumultuous Thought at Peace,  
And every ruder Gasp of Breath  
Be calm, as in the Arms of Death.  
And thou most fickle, most uneasy Part,  
Thou restless Wanderer, my Heart,  
Be still; gently, ah gently, leave,  
Thou busy, idle thing, to heave.  
Stir not a Pulse; and let my Blood,  
That turbulent, unruly Flood,  
Be softly stayed:  
Let me be all, but my Attention, dead.  
Go, rest, y'unnecessary Springs of Life,  
Leave your officious Toil and Strife;  
For I would hear this Voice, and try  
If it be possible to die.   

II.  
Come all ye Lovesick Maids and wounded Swains,  
And listen to her Healing Strains.  
A wondrous Balm, between her Lips she wears,  
Of sovereign Force to soften Cares;  
'Tis piercing as your Thoughts, and melting as your Tears:  
And this, through every Ear she does impart,  
(By tuneful Breath diffused) to every Heart.  
Swiftly the gentle Charmer Flies,  
And to the tender Grief soft Air applies,  
Which, warbling Mystic Sounds,  
Cements the bleeding Panter's Wounds.  
But ah! beware of clamorous Moan:  
Let no unpleasing Murmur or harsh Groan,  
Your slighted Loves declare:  
Your very tenderest moving Sighs forbear,  
For even they will be too boisterous here.  
Hither let nought but Sacred Silence come,  
And let all saucy Praise be dumb.   

III.  
And lo! Silence himself is here;  
Methinks I see the Midnight God appear,  
In all his downy Pomp arrayed,  
Behold the reverend Shade:  
An ancient Sigh he sits upon,  
Whose Memory of Sound is long since gone,  
And purposely annihilated for his Throne:  
Beneath two soft transparent Clouds do meet,  
In which he seems to sink his softer Feet.  
A melancholy Thought, condensed to Air,  
Stolen from a Lover in Despair,  
Like a thin Mantle, serves to wrap  
In Fluid Folds, his visionary Shape.  
A wreath of Darkness round his Head he wears,  
Where curling Mists supply the want of Hairs:  
While the still Vapours, which from Poppies rise,  
Bedew his hoary Face and lull his Eyes.   

IV.  
But hark! the heavenly Sphere turns round,  
And Silence now is drowned  
In Ectasy of Sound.  
How on a sudden the still Air is charmed,  
As if all Harmony were just alarmed!  
And every Soul with Transport filled,  
Alternately is thawed and Chilled.  
See how the Heavenly Choir  
Come flocking, to admire,  
And with what Speed and Care,  
Descending Angels cull the thinnest Air!  
Haste then, come all th'immortal Throng,  
And listen to her Song;  
Leave your loved Mansions, in the Sky,  
And hither, quickly hither fly;  
Your Loss of Heaven, nor shall you need to fear,  
While she sings 'tis Heaven here.   

V.  
See how they crowd, see how the little Cherubs skip!  
While others sit around her Mouth, and sip  
Sweet Hellelujahs from her Lip.  
Those Lips, where in Surprise of Bliss they rove;  
For ne'er before were Angels blest  
With such a luscious Feast  
Of Music and of Love.  
Prepare then, ye immortal Choir  
Each sacred Minstrel tune his 〈◊〉  
And with her Voice in Chorus  
Her Voice, which next to yours i●●●st divine.  
Bless the glad Earth with heavenly Lays,  
And to that Pitch th'eternal Accents raise,  
Which only Breath inspired can reach,  
To Notes, which only she can learn, and you can teach:  
While we, charmed with the loved Excess,  
Are wrapped in sweet Forgetfulness  
Of all, of all, but of the present Happiness:  
Wishing, for ever in that State to lie,  
For ever to be dying so, yet never die.    

Advice about Marriage: An Imitation of a French satire; by Mr. Tho. Brown.  
THE Husband's the Pilot, the Wife is the Ocean,  
He always in Danger, she always in Motion,  
And he that in Wedlock twice hazards his Carcase  
Twice ventures a drowning; and Faith that's a hard Case.  
Even at our own Weapons the Females defeat us,  
And Death, only Death, can sign our Quietus.  
Not to tell you sad Stories of Liberty lost,  
How our Mirth is all palled, and our Pleasures all crossed:  
This Pagan Confinement, this damnable Station  
Suits no order, nor age, nor degree in the Nation.  
The Levite it keeps from Parochial Duty,  
For who can at once mind Religion and Beauty?  
The Rich it alarms with Expenses and Trouble,  
And a poor Beast, you know, can scarce carry double.  
'Twas invented, they'll tell you, to keep us from falling,  
Oh the Virtue and Grace of a shrill Caterwauling!  
But it pales in your Game— Ay, but how do you know Sir,  
How often your Neighbour breaks up your Enclosure?  
For this is the principal Comfort of Marriage,  
You must eat, tho' an hundred have spit in your Porridge,  
If at Night you're unactive and fail of performing,  
Enter Thunder and Lightning, and Bloodshed next Morning:  
Cries the Bone of your Side," Thanks dear Mr. Horner,  
" This comes of your sinning with Crape in a Corner.  
Then, to make up the Breach, all your Strength you must rally,  
And labour and sweat like a Slave at the Galley:  
But still you must charge, oh blessed Condition!  
Tho' you know to your Cost you've no more Ammunition;  
Till at last my dear mortified Tool of a Man,  
You're not able to make a poor Flash in the Pan.  
Fire, Female and Flood begin with a Letter,  
And the World's for'em all scarce a Farthing the better,  
Your Flood soon is gone, and your Fire you may humble,  
If into the Flames store of Water you tumble:  
But to cool the damned Heat of your Wive's Titillation,  
You may use half the Engines and Pumps in the Nation,  
But may piss out as well the last Conflagration.  
Thus Sir, I have sent you my Thoughts of the Matter,  
Judge you, as you please, but I scorn to flatter.   

Part of a Panegyric upon the Famous Colonel Walker, Governor of Londonderry; by Mr. Tho. Brown.  
A Town he kept in spite of Fate,  
The Irish he confounded:  
For this he got five thousand Pound,  
Oh Hero most renowned!  
More of his valiant Deeds and Worth,  
What need we then to cry-a,  
Since Walker George has made amends  
For Walker Obadiah.   

CAROLO Martyri Sacrum: Autore Thoma Brown.  
CArole Gentis Honos, sate Carole sanguine Divum,  
Qui major magnis annumeraris Avis,  
Relligio accepit, quo Principe, nostra Coronam,  
Quo vivente decus, quo moriente fidem.  
Haec damus ultrici damnata volumina Flammae  
Manibus inferias, sancte Monarcha, tuis.  
Seu tulerint Batavae funesta venena paludes,  
Seu dederit saevam Scotia dira luem.  
Sic semper pereat quaecunque lacessere Charta  
Vel Reges ausa est, vel tetigisse Deos.   

A Catch, by Mr. Taverner.  
PAle Faces stand off, and our bright ones adore,  
We look like our Claret, they worse than our Score;  
Then light up your Pimples, all Art we'll outshine,  
When the plump God does paint, each Stroke is divine.  
Clean Glasses our Pencils, our Claret is Oil,  
He that sits for his Picture must sit a good while   

The Beaux, an Ephigram, by Mr. Tho. Brown.  
TEll me, Sage Will, thou, that the Town around  
For Wit, and Tea and Coffee art renowned;  
Tell me, for as the common Rumour goes,  
Thy House is crammed eternally with Beaux,  
How shall I that strange Animal define,  
What are his Marks, his Virtues or his Sign?  
So may'st thou still keep in the Wits good Graces,  
And never lose a Farthing more at Races.  
Thus I enquired, when straight Sage Will rereplyed,  
His Nutmeg, Spoon, and Grater laid aside;  
" He that like M— Sings, like S— writeth,  
" Dresses like R—, like T— Fights,  
" Like H— in a no engagement swears,  
" Chatters like D—, Squints like W— at Prayers;  
" Dams every thing besides his own dull Jest,  
" That thing's a Beau: Why then that Beau's a Beast.   

The Repenting Husband: Or a satire upon Marriage: By Mr. S. W.  Beaugard. 
IT can't be he. Courtine! the brisk, the gay!  
What Hag has stolen the Friend and Man away?  
What Monster is he metamorphosed to?  
How all unlike the jolly Thing we knew?  
Such Vnderwoods' have overrun the Coast,  
In his Beard's Thicket all his Face is lost;  
That hanging Look sad Ghesses does invite,  
And on his wrinkled Forehead Husband write.  Courtine. 
For thy unseasonable Mirth a Curse,  
As heavy as that Fiend, that haunts me thus:  
That Constellation of Plagues be thine  
Which spiteful Heaven has doomed with Sylvia, mine:  
Be thou condemned to lug an endless Life,  
The Galleyslave to an Eternal Wife.  Beaugard. 
A friendly Wish! But Partners would destroy  
That Bliss, which none but one can well enjoy:  
Lucky Courtine, how even in spite of me  
Does thy good Fortune make me envy thee?  
How like the neat Sir Davy, Sage and wise,  
New Aldermen sit Budding in her Eyes!  
A Face so fair as Sylvia's sure might move,  
Spite of his Hymns, a bloodless Angel's Love;  
And then what dull Platonic can behold  
The Beauty, and the Virtue of her Gold?  
The Atheist thinks a merry Life does well,  
Bartering short Pleasant Toys for a long future Hell.  
To Lovers thus the happy Night alone  
For a whole Age of Torments might atone,  
After a Day of Eating, which might vie  
With the Lord Mayor or Shreeval Luxury:  
See where a Drove of envious wishing Friends  
Around thy Bed, the Bower of Bliss Attends;  
Each squinting Gallant prays thy Place were his  
And by Delays excel the coming Blyss:  
Sack-posset then, while each green Virgin throws  
Prophetic Stocken, at thy patient Nose.  
Sack-posset still, and when they that remove;  
Next— enter the sweet Syllabub of LOVE.  
Soft Music than thy Laziness must chide,  
And give a fair Excuse to leave the Bride;  
Not wooing Puss can louder Songs compose,  
Nor more diversity of Airs than those  
Harmonious City-Music; such a Bliss;  
'Twere worth the while to marry but for this.  
Nor must you think the Joys should end so soon,  
There's yet a live-long-heavenly-hony-moon  
In Wedlock's pleasing Team, with equal Law,  
Thy courteous Yoke-fellow must ever draw,  
While Pictures of thy kind laborious Bride  
Shall still run softly bellowing by thy Side.  Courtine. 
Since my fair Pack so wondrously does please,  
Thy Shoulders lend, and be an Hercules:  
I feel a Load, a heavy Hell above,  
For the expected gaudy Heaven of Love:  
How thin would you those Tinsel Pleasures find  
With which sly jilting Nature bribe's Mankind?  
SATED FRVITION does the Bliss destroy,  
And the next Moment knows not the Tumultuous joy..  
Who can reflect without just Rage and Fright,  
And deep regret on such a mean Delight!  
Ye Gods, if these Loves highest Banquets be,  
Brutes can love more, and better far than we:  
This knew sly jove, who when he left the Skies,  
Chose rather any other Beast's Disguise,  
The Bull, nay th'improportionable Swan,  
Much more the lusty Ass▪ can rival Man,  
Who all their Pleasure in Possession find,  
Without the cursed Alloy, and Sting behind;  
As Nature prompts, promiscuously they rove,  
And hunt free joys, through every Field and grove,  
But in a Pound, what Brute would e'en make Love?  
Man, Man alone is damned to grinding still,  
And in the Prison of his Cage must Bill;  
Like a blind Stallion ever drudges on,  
And gets new Slaves for Wives to ride upon;  
Night-mared, like me, whom ghastly Sights pursue  
And scare with her lean Ghost, whom once I knew.  
That Sylvia's now no more, who big with Charms,  
Dropped a whole dower of Charms within your Arms;  
Loose hangs the Flower, lately so fresh and gay,  
And every Tempest bears new Leaves away:  
Unlovely now it flags, and overblown,  
And every Grace, and every Charm is gone;  
Her Tenderness is fond and awkward grows,  
And all her Female Art affected shows  
True Hag all o'er: Ugly she grows, and old,  
And knowing this, turns Jealous and a Scold;  
Fletcher's Wife-tamer durst not dare to love her,  
Xantippe was a Patient Grizel to her;  
Each Look, each Step I tread's by her surveyed;  
She haunts me like my Conscience, or my shade,  
Expects t'a Statue, I should constant prove,  
And daily damns my unperforming Love;  
When e'er for Quiets-sake she hooks me in,  
What Mummy looks so dreadful as her Face!  
Heavens, how she ruffles in her Buckram Skin,  
And frights my Soul away from the Embrace!  
So when from Gibbets and the Common-shore  
Th'Officious Devil has pimped, and brought his Friend a Whore,  
So shrieks the Wretch, when he next Morn has spied  
A ghastly Carcase rotting by his Side.  
Just such a Lot is mine; I drudge my Life  
Worse than, with Legion far, possessed with WIFE;  
Would Fate and Hell some higher ill provide,  
And club for any other Plague beside,  
I soon should easy and contented grow,  
In spite of Bolts above and Flames below:  
No— such luxurious Ease I ask in vain,  
And like poor Adam must alive remain,  
Whom vengeful Fate did to cursed Woman chain,  
In Judgement gave him an unkind Reprieve,  
And damned him to ten thousand Hells in Eve.   

Upon the D. of Buckingham's Retirement: By Madam Wharton, Jan. 1683.  
IF darkest Shades could cloud so bright a Mind,  
Or universal Knowledge be confined,  
Then should I fear what vainly you pursue,  
Exiling the offending World from you:  
Permit this Phrase, for their's the loss would be,  
To you, 'twere Gain of Ease and Liberty:  
For them alas! what is't I would not fear?  
If banished the rich World of Learning here,  
Within your Breast, where Knowledge is retired  
By vain Pursuits and false Explainers tired;  
Others bring dazzling Light, and leave us more  
Oppressed with Blindness than we were before:  
But gently by degrees, like dawning Day,  
The Mists that cloud the Mind you drive away.  
If you retire, what Damps of black Despair  
Must cloud the World (no longer made your Care?)  
Who could alas deep Mysteries unfold?  
Who could Instruct the Young or Cheer the Old?  
Who could like you in lively Colours paint  
Death's ghastly Face to each expiring Saint?  
'Tis you and only you can paint him fair,  
To those who Life & Pleasure make their Care.  
'Tis you make Ease less lovely seem than Pain  
'Tis you bring Heaven down to dying Men,  
And raise the drooping Minds to Heaven again;  
You chose Heaven's Saints, for still the mounting Soul  
Is crowned above whom you on Earth enrol.  
Quit not the World, because that Monarch's Brow  
So smooth to all, seems clouded o'er to you:  
His Anger, like the Wrath of Heaven, is slow,  
And all his Actions his Compassion show:  
Unjustice never can his Temper suit,  
Love, gentle Love, is his blessed Attribute:  
A Soul inclined to such a peaceful Charm,  
No fear of Danger could his Soul alarm:  
Plot upon Plot intended or devised,  
He smiled to see, looked over and despised.  
When every Subject at his Danger shook,  
His Thoughts flowed easily as a Summer's Brook:  
He pardoned still, and when unruly, they  
Forced him the Sword of Justice to display,  
Unwillingly he punished, to obey:  
I say, t'obey, for might he still command,  
Garlands of Peace would grow within his Hand;  
Then Love and Wit, in which he does excel,  
With Peace and Plenty, here would ever dwell.  
But now, alas, he rules a giddy Crowd,  
Who slight their Joys and tell their Grief aloud;  
As fond of Troubles as he is of Peace,  
So factious Slaves and constant Foes to ease,  
Still forcing Fears unnatural and base;  
At home distracted, and abroad despised,  
The Grief of Fools, and laughter of the Wise.  
But hold! too far, I have mistake my way,  
I would return, and yet what can I say?  
The Subject is so vast to which I'm brought,  
That I am lost in the Abyss of Thought;  
I would persuade, and yet I know not how  
To make that Theme to my weak Numbers bow,  
Exalt my humble Notions to your height,  
I'll plainly tell my Thoughts, raise you their Flight.  
Leave not the World, but near that Monarch rest,  
Who all that's just still harbours in his Breast,  
And when that Head so filled with boundless Thought  
To his enlarged Heart is nearer brought,  
What Wonders may we not expect should spring  
From such a Subject, and from such a King!   

To Damon, the most Inconstant and Faithless of his Sex: Being the first Copy of Verses made by a fair Lady, who is since dead.  
HAppy was I, O Love, when Innocent,  
And knew not what thy lawless Power meant!  
But since from Damon's Eyes thou'st shot thy Dart,  
Winged with his faithless Vows, into my Heart;  
Alas! away my happy Hours are flown,  
And I too plainly find I am undone!  
For by his Prayers and numerous Oaths betrayed  
Too easy, I thought all was true he said;  
So piteously he looked, and sighed much more,  
And with such wondrous feeling ardour swore!  
But like the rest of his false, perjured Kind,  
He soon discovered his base fickle Mind.  
Wilt Young Enjoyment, was all brisk and gay,  
How often didst thou, perjured Damon, say,  
That, had Alcmene, had such melting Charms,  
The happy Thunderer ne'er had left her Arms,  
But had prolonged the pleasing, blissful Night,  
Till darkened Mankind had forgot the Light.  
But thou art false, and therefore shouldst be scorned,  
And not with fruitless Tears and Sorrows mourned:  
But now my Scorn, alas! would please thee more  
Than all the Favours I bestowed before:  
Then let some other Pride thy Soul Torment,  
And make thee feel what I too late repent,  
The hopeless Pangs of a despairing Love,  
And all the Racks the restless guilty prove.   

Pet. Arbiter. Qui Pelago credit, magno se foenere tollit, etc.  
THe venturing Merchant in his mighty Gains  
Meets a Reward for his past Toil & Pains;  
The hardy Soldier who delights in Wars,  
Ventures for Plunder whilst he ventures Scars;  
The servile cringing Flatterer, we see  
Triumphant in his purple Luxury;  
The Cuckold-maker spends his Blood and Health  
In toilsome Pleasure to procure him Wealth;  
Discarded Eloquence alone does wait,  
Shivering with Cold, and ragged, out of Date;  
And whilst admired Baseness upwards flies,  
Worth unregarded and neglected Lies.   

A SONG: By Henry Cromwell, Esq;.  

I.  
A Beauteous Face, fine Shape, engaging Air,  
With all the Graces that adorn the Fair,  
If these could fail their so accustomed Parts,  
And not secure the Conquest of our Hearts:  
Sylvia has yet a vast reserve in store;  
At Sight we love, but hearing must adore.   

II.  
There falls continual Music from her Tongue,  
The Wit of Sapph, with her artful Song;  
From Sirens thus we lose the Power to fly,  
We listen to the Charm, and stay to die:  
Ah! lovely Nymph, I yield, I am undone,  
Your Voice has finished what your Eyes begun.    

Upon the Art of Love, a Book, sent to a Lady: By the same.  

I.  
IS Sylvia then to learn the Art of Love,  
Who with that Passion every Breast inspires?  
What pity 'tis she only should not prove  
What mighty Charms there are in soft Desires?  
Let her pursue the Dictates of her Heart,  
Nature's a Mistress better far than Art:   

II.  
But if by some unknown Indifference  
Her Eyes neglect the Conquests they have won,  
And whilst all yield to Love, without Defence,  
Sylvia can be insensible alone:  
Try then, my little Book, thy utmost Art,  
To make the Passage easy to her Heart.    

A SONG: By the same.  

I.  
HOw! mortal Hate! for what Offence?  
For too much Love or Negligence?  
The first, who is it that denies?  
The Fault of your Victorious Eyes,  
As 'tis of your severer Arms,  
I pay no more my Tribute to your Charms.   

II.  
Yet I in Silence still admire,  
Have gazed till I have stole a Fire;  
A mighty Crime in one you hate;  
Yet who can see and shun the Fate?  
Ah! let it then not mortal prove,  
Not but I'd die to show how much I love.    

The DECAY, A SONG: By W. C.  

I.  
SAy not Olinda, I despise  
the faded Glories of your Face,  
The languished Vigour, of your Eyes,  
and that once, only loved Embrace.   

II.  
In vain, in vain, my constant Heart,  
on aged Wings, attempts to meet  
With wont speed, those Flames you dart,  
it faints and flutters at your feet.   

III.  
I blame not your decay of Power,  
you may have pointed Beauties still,  
Though me alas, they wound no more,  
You cannot hurt what cannot feel.   

IV.  
On youthful Climes your Beams display,  
There, you may cherish with your Heat,  
And rise the Sun to gild their Day,  
To me benighted, when you set.    

A SONG:  By Mr. S—. 

I.  
NO more proud Woman boast  
Your Empire over Men,  
For all your Power now you have lost,  
And they're restored unto themselves again.   

II.  
They plainly now discern  
Those Tricks and all those Arts  
With which your Face and Eyes you arm,  
To Catch unguarded Hearts.   

III.  
And rather than submit  
To such Deceits, as these,  
They'll for a Mistress choose a Man o'Wit,  
Who better knows to please.    

By the same.  

I.  
THis proves, Clymene, what I said,  
Our Hearts o'th' hardest Rocks were made,  
Since mine, unwearyed still has born  
Your kill Rigour and your Scorn;  
Yet yours nothing could melt, or move,  
Not all my Tears, nor all the force o'Love.   

II.  
Long with my hourly Pains I strove,  
Pains which I fear will endless prove,  
Never more vainly to urge to you  
This Truth, for my repose too true;  
I am a Rock in Constancy,  
As you are one in Cruelty.    

SONG:  By Tho. Changed—. Esq. 

I.  
LOve's a Dream of mighty Treasure,  
Which in Fancy we possess;  
In the Folly lies the Pleasure,  
Wisdom ever makes it less:  
When we think, by Passion heated,  
We a Goddess have in Chase,  
Like Ixion we are cheated,  
And a gaudy Cloud embrace.   

II.  
Only happy is the Lover,  
Whom his Mistress well deceives,  
Seeking nothing to discover,  
He contented lives at ease:  
But the Wretch that would be knowing  
What the fair one would disguise,  
Labours for his own undoing,  
Changing Happy to be wise.    

SONG: By the same.  

I.  
LEt other Beauties boast in vain,  
How they a Heart ensnare,  
Which they by artful means obtain,  
And but preserve with Care:  
Whilst Cloe, with restless Power,  
Does all Mankind subdue,  
As are her Conquests every Hour,  
So are her Charms still new.   

II.  
Yet she for whom so many dye,  
Neglecting does surprise,  
As loathe the utmost Force to try  
Of her victorious Eyes.  
Her Influence she does moderate,  
And some in Pity spare,  
That Beauties of a Lower Rate  
May have a little Share.    

The Message, a SONG:  By W. C. 
GO, thou unhappy Victim, go  
Thou poor distracted Heart,  
Oppressed with all thy mighty woe,  
Thy endless Love, and Smart;  
Go to Aminta, tell thy Grief;  
Go to Aminta, beg Relief;  
Pray to that Cruel Fair,  
And let, oh let her hear  
The various Cries of thy Despair.  
In bleeding Wounds, and trembling Fears,  
In moving Sighs and melting Tears,  
Pant to her Eyes, and pierce her Ears.  
Ah! sure she cannot see,  
A Heart, so clad in Misery,  
And yet no Pity have;  
Oh no— she cannot— sure she will  
In tender Mercy save,  
Or else in rigid Mercy kill.   

By Henry Cromwell, Esq Martial. Epigram. De morte Festi, lib. 1. epig. 67.  Indignas premeret pestis cum tabida fauces, etc. 
NO sooner had the dire Disease began,  
But o'er his Face the spreading Mischief ran;  
Around him his lamenting Friends did lie,  
All Eyes were bathed in Tears— but his were dry;  
Firm in his Soul he was, and well resolved to die:  
Yet does he mean inglorious ways disdain,  
By Famine scorns to linger out in Pain,  
Or with vile poisonous Dregs his manly Visage slain:  
But, as he ever Honour's Course did run,  
In Death to finish what his Life begun,  
With Roman Courage did his Fate obey,  
Which ever led to Death the noblest way:  
By falling thus he has acquired a Name,  
Outvying Cato's in the List of Fame,  
For fear of Caesar forced to such an end;  
But thus he died, and yet was Caesar's Friend.   

A CATCH.  

I.  
LET the Woman be damned (a moderate Fate)  
Or die an old Maid, as grey as a Cat,  
That her Lover refuses for want of Estate.   

II.  
Let her, that sets Man, like a Beast to be sold,  
And above mettleed Flesh loves a Lump of dead Gold,  
Look green when she's young, and be poxed when she's old.   

III.  
But let those, that are wise contemn the dull Store,  
Wives chose by their Weight, will be weighty no more,  
If for Gold they will wed, for the same they will whore.    

A Letter from Hen. Cr. Esq. to Tho. Ch. Esq. For Women and against Wine.  
MY lovely Ch—, that takes Delight,  
To spend the silent Hours of Night  
With sparkling Wine, and sprightly Jest,  
And hates the lazy Thoughts of Rest,  
Unbending then with ease thy Cares,  
When drudging Cit to Shop repairs,  
Of thy weak Friend some Pity take,  
Who has not learned the Art to wake,  
Unskilled in offering at the Shrine  
Of thy dear Jovial God of Wine:  
Let him enjoy his little Punk,  
Be Clapped for Sin, but not be drunk:  
The Wretch that runs at every Whore  
Is often poxed, but can't give o'er,  
May well be thought a Slave to Passion,  
But yet he acts by Inclination,  
And Pleasures in one Moment gains  
To countervail an Age of Pains.  
Why should I by your Method live?  
Against my Genius vainly strive?  
This even common Sense destroys;  
This the wise Eunuch well disproves,  
Is't fit that I, who know no Joys,  
Should die, ye Gods, because she loves?  
Let Venus be at distance drawn,  
To make the nauseous Draught go down,  
As when I drank for redhaired Wench  
Substantial Bowls of lusty Punch.  
Or was there Interest in the Case,  
It might go down without Grimace,  
As lusty Stallion, who for Hire,  
Obliged to quench some Awkered Fire,  
Forces himself against Desire,  
And robs from Nature to supply her.  
No more will I pursue your Fashion,  
Nor ever drink by Obligation,  
But seek a softer Recreation.  
Thus though a different way we move,  
Your Passion Wine, mine for Love,  
Yet may we, as we change our Sphere,  
Like the Twin-Gods, meet once a Year.   

An Answer to the foregoing Letter, by Tho. Ch. Esq. for Wine.  
WHen lately with some special Friends,  
For Fops, and Fools to make amends,  
In Bow-street, at a certain House,  
We drank a notable Carouse;  
And whilst Mirth, and good Humour lasted,  
The Nights in Joys sublime we wasted;  
Against good Wine could I imagine,  
That you a satire would engage in?  
Good Wine, that raises us above  
The most transporting Thoughts of Love,  
Inspires us with great Wit and Sense;  
When Love does ever drain from thence.  
When by indulging over Night  
Much Wine has cloyed the Appetite,  
Next Day a Bumper will restore,  
Correct the Faults o'th' Day before,  
But, by Experience taught, I find,  
It ne'er was so with Womankind:  
Yet, Sir, I am not in defiance  
With the soft Sex, but in compliance,  
Would kindly take Commiseration  
On her that had for me a Passion;  
But like a Beau to fawn, and wait,  
Is that of all Things, that I hate.  
I use a Woman at my Leisure,  
Not make a Business of a Pleasure:  
But you, whom Female Chains can fetter,  
I never heard was treated better.  
Or may be of an Amorous League,  
You cannot bear the grand fatigue;  
Something of that I am afraid,  
I'll tell you what the World has said;  
My Dear, it's credibly reported,  
You want strong Vigour when you sport it:  
In vain you say soft things and tender,  
When 'tis a stiff thing, that must bend her:  
But yours is such a modest Devil,  
It is afraid to be uncivil;  
And when she wishes for the Blessing,  
You idly stand and praise her Dressing,  
The pretty Cornets on her Head,  
When you should throw her on the Bed,  
The fancied Colours of a Knot,  
When you should be upon the Spot:  
Then with her Fan, perhaps, you play,  
When you should cool her t'other way.  
These are the Reasons, as I guess,  
That makes you have such ill Success;  
But if by chance you have the Fortune  
To win the Lady you importune,  
'Tis one you pick up at Hypolito's,  
Whom for a Month or two you follow close,  
And though enjoyed by half the Town,  
Keeps you at Distance with a Frown,  
Till by persuasive Presents gained,  
The mighty Victory's obtained;  
And when you think yourself most happy,  
'Tis ten to one, the Jade will Clap you.  
Successively my Pleasures move,  
From Love to Wine, from Wine to Love:  
Kindly each other they relieve,  
And Change does double Pleasure give:  
Then against Wine be not inveterate,  
Because the other you are better at;  
But use them both, and the Delight  
Will prove your Friend is in the Right.   

A SONG, By Henry Cromwell, Esq.  

I.  
NO, no, I ne'er shall love thee less,  
For all thy fierce Disdain,  
So fast thy blooming Charms increase,  
Thy sparkling Eyes my Heart oppress,  
Each Glance renews my Pain.   

II.  
Yet must I, (Fate!) like busy Flies,  
Still to thy Brightness turn;  
Pursue thee with my restless Eyes,  
Till, as each flaming Blush does rise,  
Insensibly I burn.    

An Invitation to the Music Meeting: By the same.  

I.  
REturn, ah charming Nymphs! return  
To your once-loved forsaken Plains;  
Let us no more your Absence mourn,  
But soon resume our pleasing Strains;  
O'er all our useless Instruments unstrung,  
No more your shining Beauties shall be sung:   

II.  
Come all ye Shepherds to our Groves;  
'Tis here a Glance with ease imparts,  
To the fair Object of your Loves,  
The moving Stories of your Hearts;  
Our Songs and Strings shall favour the Design,  
And every Breast to Tenderness incline.    

VERSES by Madam Behn, never before printed.  
On a CONVENTICLE.  

BEhold that Race, whence England's Woes proceed,  
The Viper's Nest, where all our Mischiefs breed,  
There, guided, by Inspiration, Treason speaks,  
And through the Holy Bagpipe Legion squeaks.   

The Nation's Curse, Religion's ridicule,  
The Rabble's God, the Politicians Tool,  
Scorn of the Wise, and Scandal of the Just,  
The Villain's Refuge, and the women's Lust.    

VERSES designed by Mrs. A. Behn, to be sent to a fair Lady, that desired she would absent herself, to cure her Love. Left unfinished.  
IN vain to Woods and Deserts I retire,  
To shun the lovely Charmer I admire,  
Where the soft Breezes do but fann my Fire!  
In vain in Grotto's dark unseen I lie,  
Love pierces where the Sun could never spy.  
No place, no Art his Godhead can exclude,  
The Dear Distemper reigns in Solitude:  
Distance, alas, contributes to my Grief;  
No more, of what fond Lovers call, Relief  
Than to the wounded Hind does sudden Flight  
From the chaste Goddesses pursuing Sight:  
When in the Heart the fatal Shaft remains,  
And darts the Venom through our bleeding Veins.  
If I resolve no longer to submit  
Myself a wretched Conquest to your Wit,  
More swift than fleeting Shades, ten thousand Charms  
From your bright Eyes that Rebel Thought disarms:  
The more I struggled, to my Grief I found  
Myself in Cupid's Chains more surely bound:  
Like Birds in Nets, the more I strive, I find  
Myself the faster in the Snare confined.   

VENUS and CUPID.  VENUS. 
CVpid, my darling Cupid and my Joy,  
Thy Mother Venus calls come away, come away.  CUPID. 
Alas! I cannot, I am at Play.  VENUS. 
Fond Boy, I do command thee, haste;  
Thy precious Hours no longer waste:  
In Groves and Cottages you make abode,  
Too mean a Condescension for a God  
On barren Mountains idly play,  
For shame thou Wanton come away, come away!  
All useless lies thy Bow and Darts,  
That should be wounding heedless Hearts:  
The Swain that guards his Drove,  
Alas! no Leisure has for Love:  
His Flocks and Herds are all his Joy,  
Then leave the Shades and come away, come away.  CUPID. 
Alas, what would you have me do?  
Command and I'll Obedience show.  VENUS. 
Hie then to Cities and to Court,  
Where all the Young and Fair resort;  
There try thy Power, let fly thy Darts,  
And bring me in some noble Hearts,  
Worthy to be by thee undone,  
For here's no Glory to be won.  CUPID. 
Mistaken Queen, look down and see,  
What Trophies are prepared for thee,  
What glorious Slaves are destined me.  VENUS. 
Now, by myself, a Noble Throng;  
How Fair the Nymphs, the Swains how Young!  
No wonder if my little Love's  
Delight and play in Shades and Groves.  CUPID. 
Then, Mother, here I'll bend my Bow,  
And bring you wounded Hearts enough.  VENUS. 

My pretty Charming Wanton do.   

Chorus.  
'Tis thus we over Mortals reign,  
And thus we adoration gain  
From the proud Monarch to the humble Swain.    

The Old Man's Complaint: By Mr. Wells.  

AH, pity Love where e'er it grows!  
See how in me it overflows,  
In dripping Eyes and dropping Nose.   

So strange a thing is seldom seen;  
My Age is dull, my Love is keen;  
Above I'm grey, but elsewhere green.   

Aloof, perhaps I court and prate;  
But something near I would be at,  
Tho' I'm so old I scarce know what.    

The Maid's Answer.  

For Shame your Green-wood Fires then smother,  
You drop at one End, burn at tother,  
You'd have a Wife to spoil a Mother.   

I pity much your Eyes o'rflowing;  
But sure the World must needs be going,  
When Rheums and Rottenness run a woeing.   

Then let Age make you cease your chat;  
And since you have forgot what's what;  
Old Rats love Cheese, go construe that.    

Upon MARRIAGE: An Epigram: By Dr. N.  
UNhappy State! to thee, poor Man does owe  
The loss of Innocence and Being too.  
Marriage alone brought in the Tempter Eve,  
It was the Serpent Woman did deceive:  
The Mischief still continues she began,  
For every Woman is an Eve to Man.   

A SONG: By Mr. J. S. of the Middle Temple.  

ALL Thoughts of Freedom are too late,  
Not any new fair Lady's Art,  
Nor both the India's Wealth nor Fate  
Itself can disengage my Heart.   

Not, which kind Heaven forbid, your Hate  
And that which follows, proud Disdain  
My Passion could at all abate,  
But only make it last with Pain.   

Thus all my Quiet does depend  
On Hopes t'obtain a Smile from you;  
That so my Love, that knows no end,  
May last with equal Pleasure too.    

To SYLVIA, a SONG:  By C. G. 

I.  
SYlvia, could your Eyes but see  
The Wounds your kill Beauties give;  
A Lover you might read in me,  
Who, if you frown, disdains to live.   

II.  
But oh! the Artless fair ones know  
No more, than Tongues or Eyes persuade:  
Tongues that deceive, and Eyes that show  
Too often Love an Art is made,   

III.  
For a sincere and tender Passion:  
Ah! how severe and hard a Fate!  
That Faith's not known from Oaths for fashion,  
Nor naked Truth from gay Deceit.   

IV.  
Soft as your balmy Breathes my Flame,  
When struggling Love breaks out in Sighs;  
Immortal, as I'll make your Name,  
And as bewitching as your Eyes.   

V.  
But hold, fond Swain! Ah! tell no more!  
For Heaven and the heavenly fair  
Their Favours on the Happy shower,  
Leaving the Wretch still to Despair.    

To SYLVIA, the Meeting: By the same.  

I.  
GOds! when we meet how dull was I▪  
My Tongue, that used to move  
So glibly on the Theme of Love,  
Now, when 'twas real, lay motionless and still;  
Nor would it to fair Sylvia tell,  
The eager Pangs and Torments of my Mind:  
But like a false deceitful Friend,  
Officious in my Sun shine Day,  
Proffering his Service and his Coin,  
(When he was here I wanted none)  
But when I needed most, he proved most shy,  
Leaving me Speechless, when I'd most to say.  
My very Fancy, and my Thoughts were flown,  
So wholly was I lost in unexpected Joy.   

II.  
All extreme Joy in Silence reigns;  
As Grief, when in excess  
A fluent Tale proves either less,  
The lighter Wounds of Fortune are made known  
In formal Words, and mournful Tone:  
But when she deeper strikes her Dart,  
'Tis mute, and festers in the Heart.  
So lesser Joy is noisy, brisk, and gay,  
Flows in full Tides of Laugh, and Talk,  
Admits no silent Check or Balk:  
But when so great as mine, the Sense it chains.  
Imperfect Words! a Sigh! a soft Caress!  
A trembling Body, and a ravished Kiss,  
Was all the wondrous Language of m'unruly Joy.   

III.  
Ah! if your only Presence give  
Such elevated Bliss,  
What Raptures and what Ecstasies  
Have you, bright Sylvia, yet in store,  
For the blessed Man you love!  
Too mighty sure for Man's frail Sense to bear,  
Or to enjoy and live!  
If but a gentle Touch such Transports move,  
What must Divine Fruition prove!  
Encircled in those tender Arms,  
Dissolving with those melting Charms;  
And oh!— on that soft panting Bosom lie!  
Sylvia that Death, grant Heaven and you, I die.    

The beginning of the First satire of Persius imitated.  

The Prologue, to Dr. M—dly.  
'TIs true, nor is it worth denial,  
My Verse has never yet stood Trial  
Of Poetick-Smiths, that meet still,  
At Vrwin Toms, or Vrwin Will's;  
(For thus, Sir, Modern Revolution  
Has split the Wits, t'avoid Confusion,  
And set up Brother against Brother,  
That they mayn't clapperclaw each other.)  
That I should think myself a Poet,  
And vainly dare in Print to show it:  
I, who have never passed as yet  
The Test of the misjudging Pit,  
Nor i'th' Galleries tickled Crowd,  
Till they have clapped and laughed aloud:  
Nor from the tender Boxes e'er  
Yet have drawn one pitying Tear:  
Nor with Sir Courtly, Roundelays  
Have made to garnish out new Plays:  
Nor Virgil's great majestic Lines  
Melted into enervate Rhimes:  
Nor witty Horace, e'er did venture  
To burlesque into modern Banter:  
Nor gentle Ovid e'er did force  
To zounds a River for a Horse:  
Nor sharp Juvenal's stronger Verse,  
Perverted into Doggerel Farce:  
Nor ever durst as yet presume  
To venture on a mere Lampoon:  
Nor, in short, few Words being best,  
Ne'er yet could make a bawdy Jest.  
I'll tell you then, since you'll needs know it,  
Why I set up now for a Poet:  
'Tis not for what most of Us write,  
To fill my Purse, or show my Wit;  
But purely out of Affection,  
To fill up my Friend's Collection.  
Therefore, sweet Sir, in haste, adieu t'ye,  
For I'll adjourn now to my Duty.   

The beginning of the First satire of Persius imitated.  Poet. 
OH the preposterous Cares of Human kind!  
Which in each Action and each Wish we find!  Friend. 
Prithee that Cant give o'er, or who will read?  
You preach as solemnly, as 'twere your Trade.  P. 
Speak you to me?  F. 
To thee sayst? yes egad—  
Why surely, jack, thou 'rt absolutely mad,  
For none will on such formal Verses look,  
But damn the Author, and despise the Book.  P. 
None, say you Sir?  F. 
Or one or two at most;  
And is't not hard to've All your Labour lost?  
To have your Works on Bulks all dusty lie,  
And all your Thoughts for want of Readers die?  
Your precious Lines served up to Nocks, or Pie?  P. 
Mistake not, Friend, I chase not empty Fame,  
Nor write to please the Town, or get a Name.  
Let the Vain Herd of noisy Wits, and Beaux,  
To whom they please their worthless Praise dispose,  
It ne'er one Moment shall break my Repose.  
Or what care I, if th'undiscerning Town  
Prefer dull A— to me, or Perter Br— n;  
Let his tagged Nonsense, t'others Wild's of Wit,  
With Cits, and Boys still fond Applauses get:  
But you, my Friend, steer a securer Course,  
And by the common Judgement ne'er form yours.  
Most Men, by public Vogue condemn or praise,  
And never weigh the Merits of the Cause:  
Let not that balance you to either Side,  
By Wisdom's Nobler Rule your Sentence guide.  
Oh! that I could, spite of my beardless Youth,  
With a prevailing Force, now urge the Truth!  Fr. 
Stay but a while, till Reverend Age comes on,  
(Thy fleeting Years of Youth will soon be gone)  
Then will grey Hairs on all thou sayest print Aw,  
Authority with all thy Precepts go.  
A dictatorial Youth does Envy draw,  
Tho' from his Pen the noblest Truths do flow.  P. 
Oh! that's too long, I must before that Time  
Lash the vile Town with my Satyric Rhyme.  F. 
That must not be— pray take a Friend's Advice.  P. 
Prithee no more, indeed thou'rt overnice.  
I can no longer hold, nor silent, see  
Such numerous Pamphlets on each quarter fly,  
Some in Prose, and some in mightier Verse,  
Which each will daily to his Friends rehearse.  
Here a Pert Sot, with six months' Pains brings forth  
A strange, misshapen, and ridiculous Birth:  
A glimpse of Human Stamp it has, the rest  
Is Serpent, Fish, and Bird, but larger Beast:  
In that odd Monster Horace once designed,  
We may some Method and some meaning find,  
Tho' differing Parts, yet distinct Parts it had,  
Tail of Fish, Horse's Neck, a Human Head.  
Nor Head, nor Tail, nor any Part is here,  
Through the whole Lump no certain Forms appear:  
'Tis Chaos all— Mark how the jarring Seed  
Of ill agreeing things, perpetual Discord breed!  
Together huddled, now this, now that prevails,  
HOT Simile now, now COLD Winter's Tales!  
More ponderous GUESS, with lighter BANTER meets,  
With clashing Fury each the other greets;  
MOIST spreading Scandal, with DRY Dulness fights.  
But oh! 't requires, this Mortal Strife to end,  
A stronger Judgement, a diviner Mind,  
Than his; for whatsoever the World may think,  
Pudding's his Food, and drowsy Mum his drink:  
For read his Trifles, and scarce in one Line  
You'll find him guilty of the least Design.  
By the thick Fogs, which from his Diet rise,  
His Sense is smothered, and his Judgement dies.  
Well has he then the seven Sleepers graced  
By yearly Sacrifice, and annual Feast,  
For sure his Studies are but Sleep at best:  
And all the Town must needs be in a Dream,  
When such wild Rambling got him some poor Fame.  
But quitting now this poor Prose Pamphleteer,  
To mightier Verse, I must my Vessel steer.  
But here the Chiming Fops so numerous grow,  
And in such various Follies dressed they go,  
'Twould be an endless Task to lash'em all,  
And now I find my Muse grows something dull.  F. 
Enough for one time, sure is one such Fool.    

On Affairs abroad, and K. William's Expedition: By Mr. Durfey.  
CHurch-Scruples, and Jars,  
Plunge all Europe in Wars,  
English Caesar espouses our Quarrel,  
Predestined to stand,  
Against Lewis le Grand,  
And wear his now flourishing Laurel.  
The Cause that is best  
Now comes to the Test,  
For Heaven will no longer stand neuter,  
But pronounce the grand Doom,  
For old Luther, or Rome,  
And prevent all our Doubts for the future.  
'Twould turn a wise Brain  
To consider what Pain  
Fools take to become Politicians;  
Fops, Bullies and Cits,  
All set up for Wits,  
And ingeniously hatch new Divisions:  
Some show their hot Zeal  
For a new Common Weal,  
And some for a new Restauration;  
Thus we cavil and brawl,  
Till the Monsieur gets all,  
And best proves the Wit of the Nation:  
Though we Medicines apply,  
Yet the Fever swells high,  
First caused by a Catholic Riot,  
Which no Cure can gain,  
Till the breathing a Vein  
Corrects the mad Pulse into quiet.  
Yet what e'er disease on our Country may chance  
Let's drink to its healing condition,  
And rather wish Will. were Victor in France,  
Than Lewis were England's Physician.   

On my Lord Fairfax: By the late Duke of Buckingham.  

EPITAPH.  
Under this Stone doth lie,  
One born for Victory.   

ELEGY.  

FAirfax the valiant, and the only he,  
Who e'er for that alone a Conqueror would be;  
Both Sex's Virtues were in him combined,  
He had the fierceness of the manliest Mind,  
And all the meekness too of Womankind:  
He never knew what Envy was, or Hate;  
His Soul was filled with Worth, and Honesty,  
And with another thing besides, quite out of date  
Called Modesty.  
He ne'er seemed impudent but in the Field, a place  
Where Impudence itself dares seldom show its Face,  
Had any Stranger Spied him in a Room,  
With some of those whom he had overcome,  
And had not heard their Talk, but only seen  
Their Gesture and their Mien,  
They would have swore he had the vanquished been;  
For as they bragged, and dreadful would appear,  
Whilst they their own ill luck in war repeated;  
His Modesty still made him blush to hear,  
How often he had them defeated.   

II.  
Through his whole Life the part he bore  
Was wonderful and great;  
And yet it so appeared in nothing more  
Than in his private last Retreat;  
For 'tis a stranger thing to find,  
One Man of such a glorious Mind,  
As can despise the Power he hath got;  
Than Millions of those Polls and Braves,  
Those despicable Fools and Knaves,  
Who such a poother make,  
Through Dulness and Mistake,  
In seeking after Power, and get it not.   

III.  
When all the Nation he had won,  
And with Expense of Blood had bought  
Store great enough he thought,  
Of Fame and of Renown,  
He then his Arms laid down,  
With full as little Pride,  
As if he had been on the Enemy's Side.  
He neither Wealth nor Places sought,  
For others (not himself) he fought,  
He was content to know;  
For he had found it so,  
That when he pleased, to conquer he was able,  
And left the Spoil and Plunder to the Rabble.   

IV.  
He might have been a King,  
But that he understood,  
How much it is a meaner thing  
To be unjustly Great than honourably Good.  
This from the World did Admiration draw,  
And from his Friends both Love and Awe,  
Remembering what he did in Fight before.  
Nay, his Foes loved him too,  
As they were bound to do,  
Because he was resolved to fight no more.  
So blest of all he died, but far more blest were we,  
If we were sure to live till we could see  
A Man so great in War, in Peace so just as he.     
FINIS.