A Very Heroical EPISTLE FROM MY Lord ALL-PRIDE to DOL-COMMON.  
The ARGUMENT.  
Dol-Common being forsaken by my Lord All-pride, and having written him a most lamentable Letter, his Lordship sends her the following answer.  
IF you're deceived, it is not by my cheat,  
For all disguises are below the great.  
What Man or Woman upon earth can say  
I ever used 'em well above a day?  
How is it then that I inconstant am?  
He changes not, who always is the same.  
In my dear self, I centre every thing,  
My Servants, Friends, my Mistress, and my King,  
Nay Heaven and earth to that one point I bring.  
Well-mannered, honest, generous and stout,  
(Names by dull Fools to plague mankind found out)  
Should I regard, I must myself constrain,  
And 'tis my maxim to avoid all pain.  
You fond look for what none e'er could find  
Deceive yourself, and then call me unkind;  
And by false reasons would my falsehood prove,  
For 'tis as natural to change as Love.  
You may as justly at the Sun repine  
Because alike it does not always shine.  
No glorious thing was ever made to stay,  
My Blazing Star but visits and away;  
As Fatal too, it shines as those i'th' skies,  
'Tis never seen but some great Lady dies.  
The boasted favour you so precious hold  
To me's no more than changing of my gold.  
What e'er you gave, I paid you back in bliss,  
Then where's the obligation, pray, of this?  
If heretofore you found grace in my eyes,  
Be thankful for it, and let that suffice.  
But Women Beggarlike, still haunt the door  
Where they've received a Charity before.  
O happy Sultan! whom we barbarous call,  
How much refined art thou above us all!  
Who envies not the joys of thy Serrail!  
Thee, like some God, the trembling crowd adore,  
Each man's thy slave, and Womankind thy Whore.  
Methinks I see thee underneath the shade  
Of golden Canopies supinely laid;  
Thy crouching slaves all silent as the night,  
But at thy nod all active as the light.  
Secure in solid Sloth thou there dost reign,  
And feelest the joys of love without th● pain.  
Each Female courts thee with a wishing eye,  
While thou with awful pride walkest careless by.  
Till thy kind pledge at last mark's out the Dame  
Thou fanciest most to quench thy present flame.  
Then from thy bed submissive she retires,  
And thankful for th● grace no more requires▪  
No loud reproach, nor fond unwelcome sound  
Of women's tongues thy sacred ear dares wound.  
If any do, a nimble Mute strait tye's  
The true love knot, and stops her foolish cries.  
Thou fearest no injured Kinsman's threatening blade,  
Nor Midnight ambushes by Rivals laid.  
While here with aching hearts our joys we taste  
Disturbed by Swords like Damocles his feast,   

Epigram upon my Lord All-pride.  
Bursting with pride the loathed Impostu●e swel's,  
Prick him he shed's his venom strait and smell's,  
But is so lewd, a Scribbler that he writes  
With as much force to nature as he fights.  
Hardened in shame, 'tis such a baffled Fop  
That every Schoolboy whips him like a Top.  
And with his arm and heart his brain's so weak,  
That his starved fancy is compelled to rake  
Among the excrements of others wit  
To make a stinking meal of what they shit.  
So Swine for nasty meat to dunghills run,  
And toss their gruntling Snouts up when they've done.  
Against his stars the Coxcomb ever strives,  
And to be something they forbid contrives.  
With a red Nose, splay-foot, and goggle eye,  
A plowman's looby mien, face all awry,  
A filthy breath, and every loathsome mark  
The Punchinello set's up for a Spark.  
With equal self-conceit he takes up arms,  
But with such vile success his part perform's,  
That he burlesque's the trade, and what is best  
In others, turns like Harlequin tojest.  
So have I seen at Smithfield's wondrous fair  
(When all his Brother Monsters flourish there)  
A lubbard Elephant divert the Town  
With making legs and shooting off a gun.  
Go where he will he never finds a Friend,  
Shame and derision all his steps attend,  
Alike abroad, at home, i'th' Camp and Court  
This Knight o'th' burning pestle makes us sport.   

Printed in the Year, 1679.