Matthew Prior. Dialogues of the Dead and Other Works ::

Wissin and Nature held a long Contest,
If She Created, or He Painted best;
With pleasing Thought the wond'rous Combat grew,
She still form'd Fairer, He still Liker drew.
In these Seven Brethren, they contended last,
With Art increas'd their utmost Skill they try'd,
And Both well pleas'd, they had Themselves, surpass'd,
The Goddess Triumph'd, and the Painter Dy'd.
That Both, their Skill to this vast Height did raise,
Be ours the Wonder, and be yours the Praise:
For here as in some Glass is well discry'd,
Only your self thus often multiply'd.

When Heaven had You and Gracious Anna made,
What more exalted Beauty could it add?
Having no nobler Images in Store,
It but kept up to these, nor could do more
Than Copy well, what it well fram'd before.
If in dear Burleigh's generous Face we see
Obliging Truth, and Handsom Honesty;
With all that World of Charms, which soon will move
Reverence in Men, and in the Fair-Ones love:
His every Grace, his fair Descent assures,
He has his Mother's Beauty, She has yours.

If ever Cecill's Face had every Charm
That Thought can Fancy, or that Heaven can Form;
Their Beauties all become your Beauty's Due,
They are all Fair, because they're all like You:
If every Ca'ndish great and charming Look,
From You that Air, from You the Charms they took.
In their each Limb your Image is exprest,
But on their Brow firm Courage stands confest;
There, their great Father by a strong Increase,
Adds Strength to Beauty, and compleats the Piece.
Thus still your Beauty in your Sons we view,
Wissin Seven-Times one great Perfection drew,
Whoever sate, the Picture still is You.
So when the Parent Sun with genial Beams,
Has Animated many goodly Gems;
He sees himself improv'd, while every Stone,
With a resembling Light, reflects a Sun.
So when great Rhea many Births had given,
Such as might govern Earth, and People Heaven;
Her Glory grew diffus'd, and fuller known,
She saw the Deity in every Son:
And to what God soe'er Men Altars rais'd,
Honouring the Off-spring, they the Mother prais'd.
In short-liv'd Charms let others place their Joys
Which Sickness blasts, and certain Age destroys:
Your stronger Beauty, Time can ne'er deface,
'Tis still renew'd, and stamp'd in all your Race.

Ah! Wissin, had thy Art been so refin'd,
As with their Beauty to have drawn their Mind,
Thro' circling Years thy Labours would survive,
And living Rules to fairest Virtue give
To Men unborn, and Ages yet to live;
'Twould still be wonderful, and still be new,
Against what Time, or Spight, or Fate could do,
'Till Thine confus'd with Nature's Pieces lie,
And Cavendish's Name, and Cecill's Honour Die.

Eldest Daughter of the Countess.

The Female PHAETON.

I

Thus Kitty , Beautiful and Young,
And wild as Colt untam'd;
Bespoke the Fair from whom she sprung,
With little Rage inflam'd.

II

Inflam'd with Rage at sad Restraint,
Which wise Mamma ordain'd;
And sorely vex'd to play the Saint,
Whilst Wit and Beauty reign'd.

III

Shall I thumb Holy Books, confin'd
With Abigails forsaken?
Kitty's for other Things design'd,
Or I am much mistaken.

IV

Must Lady Jenny frisk about,
And Visit with her Cozens?
At Balls must She make all the Rout,
And bring Home Hearts by Dozens?

V

What has she Better, pray, than I?
What hidden Charms to boast,
That all Mankind for her should Die,
Whilst I am scarce a Toast?

VI

Dearest Mamma, for once let me,
Unchain'd, my Fortune try;
I'll have my Earl, as well as She,
Or know the Reason why.

VII

I'll soon with Jenny's Pride quit score,
Make all her Lovers fall;
They'll grieve I was not loos'd before,
She, I was loos'd at all.

VIII

Fondness prevail'd, Mamma gave way;
Kitty at Heart's Desire,
Obtain'd the Chariot for a Day,
And set the World on Fire.

Lady Katherine Hyde: To whom, this, and the following Copy was sent, by the late Honourable Simon Harcourt, Esq;

The Judgment of VENUS.

I

When Kneller's Works of various Grace,
Were to fair Venus shown,
The Goddess spy'd in every Face
Some Features of Her own.

II

Just so, (and pointing with her Hand)
So shone, says she, my Eyes,
When from Two Goddesses I gain'd
An Apple for a Prize.

III

When in the Glass and River too,
My Face I lately view'd,
Such was I, if the Glass be true,
If true the Chrystal Flood.

IV

In Colours of this glorious kind
Apelles painted me;
My Hair thus flowing with the Wind,
Sprung from my Native Sea.

V

Like this, disorder'd, wild, forlorn ,
Big with Ten Thousand Fears,
Thee, my Adonis, did I mourn,
Ev'n Beautiful in Tears.

VI

But viewing Myra plac'd apart,
I fear, says she, I fear
Apelles, that Sir Godfrey's Art
Has far surpass'd Thine here.

VII

Or I, a Goddess of the Skies,
By Myra am outdone,
And must resign to her the Prize,
The Apple, which I won.

VIII

But soon as she had Myra seen
Majestically Fair,
The sparkling Eye, the Look serene,
The gay and easy Air.

IX

With Fiery Emulation fill'd,
The wond'ring Goddess cry'd,
Apelles, must to Kneller yield,
Or Venus, must to HYDE.

To the Picture of Lady Ranelaugh.

Picture of the Lady Salisbury.

Lady Jane Douglas, Sister to the Duke of Douglas.

SONG To his Mistress.

I

Whilst I am scorch'd with hot Desire,
In vain, cold Friendship you return;
Your Drops of Pity on my Fire,
Alas! but make it fiercer burn.

II

Ah! wou'd you have the Flame supprest
That kills the Heart it heals too fast,
Take half my Passion to your Breast,
The rest in Mine shall ever last.

AN ODE,

In Imitation of the Second Ode of the Third Book of Horace.

Written in the Year 1692.

[I]

How long, deluded Albion, wilt thou lie
In the Lethargic Sleep, the sad Repose,
By which thy close thy constant Enemy,
Has softly lull'd Thee to Thy Woes;

Or Wake degenerate Isle, or cease to own
What thy old Kings in Gallic Camps have done;
The Spoils They brought Thee back, the Crowns They won.
William, (so Fate requires) again is Arm'd;
Thy Father to the Field is gone:
Again Maria Weeps Her absent Lord;
For thy Repose content to rule alone.
Are Thy Enervare Sons not yet Alarm'd?
When William Fights dare they look tamely on,
So slow to get their Ancient Fame restor'd,
As nor to melt at Beauties Tears, nor follow Valour's Sword?

II.

See the Repenting Isle Awakes,
Her Vicious Chains the generous Goddess breaks:
The Fogs around Her Temples are Dispell'd;
Abroad She Looks, and Sees Arm'd Belgia stand
Prepar'd to meet their common Lords Command;
Her Lions Roaring by Her Side, Her Arrows in Her Hand;
And Blushing to have been so long withheld,
Weeps off her Crime, and hastens to the Field:
Hen[ce]forth her Youth shall be inur'd to bear
Hazardous Toil and Active War:
To march beneath the Dog-Star's raging Heat,
Patient of Summer's Drought, and Martial Sweat;
And only Grieve in Winter's Camps to find,
Its Days too short for Labours They design'd:
All Night beneath hard heavy Arms to Watch;
All Day to Mount the Trench, to Storm the Breach;
And all the rugged Paths to tread,
Where William and His Virtue lead.

III.

Silence is the Soul of War;
Deliberate Counsel must prepare
The Mighty Work which Valour must compleat:
Thus William Rescu'd, thus Preserves the State;

Thus Teaches Us to Think and Dare;
As whilst his Cannon just prepar'd to Breathe
Avenging Anger and Swift Death,
In the try'd Metal the close Dangers glow,
And now too late the Dying Foe
Perceives the Flame, yet cannot ward the Blow;
So whilst in William's Breast ripe Counsels lie,
Secret and sure as Brooding Fate,
No more of His Design appears
Than what Awakens Gallia's Fears;
And (tho' Guilt's Eye can sharply penetrate)
Distracted Lewis can descry
Only a long unmeasur'd Ruin nigh.

IV.

On Norman Coasts and Banks of frighted Seine,
Lo! the Impending Storms begin:
Britannia safely thro' her Master's Sea
Plows up her Victorious Way.
The French Salmoneus throws his Bolts in vain,
Whilst the true Thunderer asserts the Main:
'Tis done! to Shelves and Rocks his Fleets retire,
Swift Victory in vengeful Flames
Burns down the Pride of their Presumptuous Names.
They run to Shipwreck to avoid our Fire,
And the torn Vessels that regain their Coast
Are but sad Marks to shew the rest are lost:
All this the Mild, the Beauteous Queen has done,
And William's softer Half shakes Lewis' Throne:
Maria does the Sea command,
Whilst Gallia flies her Husbands Arms by Land,
So, the Sun absent, with full sway the Moon
Governs the Isles, and rules the Waves alone;
So Juno thunders when her Jove is gone.
Iö Britannia! loose thy Ocean's Chains,
Whilst Russel strikes the Blow Thy Queen ordains:
Thus Rescu'd, thus Rever'd, for ever stand,
And Bless the Counsel, and Reward the Hand,
Iö Britannia! thy Maria Reigns.

V.

From Mary's Conquests, and the Rescu'd Main,
Let France look forth to Sambre's armed Shore,
And boast her Joy for William's Death no more.
He lives; let France confess, the Victor lives:
Her Triumphs for his Death were vain,
And spoke her Terror of his Life too plain.
The mighty Years begin, the Day draws nigh,
In which That One of Lewis' many Wives,
Who by the baleful force of guilty Charms,
Has long enthrall'd Him in Her wither'd Arms,
Shall o'er the Plains from distant Tow'rs on high
Cast around her mournful Eye,
And with Prophetick Sorrow cry:
Why does my ruin'd Lord retard his Flight?
Why does despair provoke his Age to fight?
As well the Wolf may venture to engage
The angry Lyon's gen'rous Rage;
The rav'nous Vultur, and the Bird of Night,
As safely tempt the stooping Eagle's flight,
As Lewis to unequal Arms defy
Yon' Hero, crown'd with blooming Victory,
Just triumphing o'er Rebel rage restrain'd,
And yet unbreath'd from Battles gain'd.
See! all yon' dusty Fields quite cover'd o're
With Hostil Troops, and Orange at their Head,
Orange destin'd to compleat
The great Designs of lab'ring Fate,
Orange, the Name that Tyrants dread:
He comes, our ruin'd Empire is no more:
Down, like the Persian, goes the Gallick Throne,
Darius flies, young Ammon urges on.

VI.

Now from the dubious Battel's mingl'd Heat,
Let Fear look back, and stretch her hasty Wing ,
Impatient to secure a base Retreat:
Let the pale Coward leave his wounded King,
For the vile privilege to breathe,
To live with shame in dread of glorious Death.
In vain: for Fate has swifter Wings than Fear,
She follows hard, and strikes Him in the Rear,
Dying and Mad the Traytor bites the Ground,
His Back transfix'd with a dishonest Wound;
Whilst thro' the fiercest Troops, and thickest Press,
Virtue carries on Success;
Whilst equal Heav'n guards the distinguisht Brave,
And Armies cannot hurt, whom Angels save.

VII.

Virtue to Verse immortal Lustre gives ,
Each by the other's mutual Friendship lives:
Æneas suffer'd, and Achilles fought,
The Hero's Acts enlarg'd the Poet's Thought,
Or Virgil's Majesty, and Homer's Rage,
Had ne'er like lasting Nature vanquish'd Age:
Whilst Lewis then his rising Terror drowns
With Drum's Alarms, and Trumpet's Sounds,
Whilst hid in arm'd Retreats and guarded Towns,
From Danger as from Honour far,
He bribes close Murder against open War:
In vain you Gallic Muses strive
With labour'd Verse to keep his Fame alive;
Your mould'ring Monuments in vain ye raise
On the weak Basis of the Tyrant's Praise:

Your Songs are sold, your Numbers are Prophane,
'Tis Incense to an Idol giv'n,
Meat offer'd to Prometheu's Man,
That had no Soul from Heav'n.
Against his Will you chain your frighted King
On rapid Rhine's divided Bed;
And mock your Hero, whilst ye Sing
The Wounds for which he never bled;
Falshood does Poyson on your Praise diffuse,
And Lewis' Fear gives Death to Boileau's Muse.

VIII.

On its own Worth True Majesty is rear'd,
And Virtue is her own Reward,
With solid Beams and Native Glory bright,
She neither Darkness dreads, nor covets Light;
True to Her self, and fix'd to inborn Laws,
Nor sunk by Spite, nor lifted by Applause,
She from her settl'd Orb looks calmly down,
On Life or Death a Prison or a Crown.
When bound in double Chains poor Belgia lay,
To foreign Arms, and inward Strife a Prey,
Whilst One Good Man buoy'd up Her sinking State,
And Virtue labour'd against Fate;
When Fortune basely with Ambition join'd,
And all was conquer'd but the Patriot's Mind;
When Storms let loose, and raging Seas
Just ready the torn Vessel to o'erwhelm,
Forc'd not the faithful Pilot from his Helm;
Nor all the Syren Songs of future Peace,
And dazling Prospect of a promis'd Crown,
Cou'd lure his stubborn Virtue down;
But against Charms, and Threats, and Hell, He stood,
To that which was severely good;
Then, had no Trophies justify'd his Fame,
No Poet bless'd his Song with Nassau's Name,
Virtue alone did all that Honour bring,
And Heav'n as plainly pointed out the King,
As when he at the Altar stood,
In all his Types and Robes of Powr,

Whilst at his Feet Religious Britain bow'd,
And own'd him next to what we there Adore.

IX.

Say, Joyful Maeze, and Boyne's Victorious Flood,
(For each has mixt his Waves with Royal Blood)
When William's Armies past, did He retire,
Or view from far the Battel's distant Fire?
Could He believe His Person was too dear?
Or use His Greatness to conceal his Fear?
Could Pray'rs and Sighs the dauntless Hero move?
Arm'd with Heav'ns Justice and His People's Love,
Thro' the first Waves He wing'd his vent'rous Way
And on the Adverse Shore arose,
(Ten thousand flying Deaths in vain oppose)
Like the great Ruler of the Day,
With Strength and Swiftness mounting from the Seas:
Like Him, all Day He Toil'd; but long in Night
The God had eas'd His weary'd Light,
E're Vengeance left the stubborn Foes,
Or William's Labours found Repose,
When His Troops falter'd, stept not He between;
Restor'd the dubious Fight again,
Mark'd out the Coward that du[r]st fly,
And led the fainting Brave to Victory?
Still as She fled Him, did He not o'ertake
Her doubtful Course, still brought Her bleeding back?
By His keen Sword did not the Boldest fall?
Was He not King, Commander, Soldier, All—?
His Danger's such, as, with becoming Dread,
His Subjects yet unborn shall Weep to Read,
And were not those the only Days that e'er
The Pious Prince refus'd to hear
His Friends Advices, or His Subjects Pray'r.

X.

Where-e'er old Rhine his fruitful Water turns,
Or fills his Vassals Tributary Urns;
To Belgia's sav'd Dominions, and the Sea,
Whose righted Waves rejoice in William's Sway,

Is there a Town where Children are not Taught,
‘Here Holland Prosper'd, for here Orange Fought,
‘Thro’ rapid Waters, and thro’ flying Fire:
‘Here rush'd the Prince, here made whole France retire.—
By diff'rent Nations be this Valour blest,
In diff'rent Languages confest,
And then let Shannon speak the rest:
Let Shannon speak, how on her wond'ring Shore,
When Conquest hov'ring on his Arms did wait,
And only as'kd some Lives to bribe her o'er.
The God-like Man, the more than Conqueror,
With high Contempt sent back the specious Bait,
And scorning Glory at a Price too great,
With so much Pow'r such Piety did join,
As made a Perfect Virtue soar
A Pitch unknown to Man before,
And lifted Shannon's Waves o'er those of Boyne.

XI.

Nor do his Subjects only share
The Prosp'rous Fruits of his Indulgent Reign;
His Enemies approve the Pious War,
Which, with their Weapon, takes away their Chain:
More than his Sword, His goodness strikes his Foes,
They Bless his Arms, and Sigh they must oppose.
Justice and Freedom on his Conquests wait,
And 'tis for Man's Delight that He is Great:
Succeeding Times shall with long Joy contend,
If He were more a Victor, or a Friend:
So much his Courage and his Mercy strive;
He Wounds, to Cure; and Conquers, to Forgive.

XII.

Ye Heroes, that have Fought your Country's Cause,
Redress'd Her Injuries, or Form'd Her Laws,
To my Advent'rous Song just Witness bear,
Assist the Pious Muse, and hear her Swear,
That 'tis no Poet's Thought, no flight of Youth,
But solid Story, and severest Truth,

That William Treasures up a greater Name,
Than any Country, any Age can Boast:
And all that Ancient Stock of Fame
He did from His Fore-Fathers take,
He has improv'd, and gives with Int'rest back;
And in His Constellation does unite
Their scatter'd Rays of Fainter Light:
Above or Envy's Lash, or Fortune's Wheel,
That settl'd Glory shall for ever dwell,
Above the Roling Orbs and common Sky,
Where nothing comes that e're shall Die.

XIII.

Where roves the Muse? Where, thoughtless to return,
Is her short-liv'd Vessel born,
By Potent Winds too subject to be tost?
And in the Sea of William's Praises lost?
Not let Her tempt that Deep, nor make the Shore,
Where our abandon'd Youth She sees
Shipwreck'd in Luxury, and lost in Ease;
Whom nor Britannia's Danger can alarm,
Nor William's Exemplary Virtue warm:
Tell 'em howe're, the King can yet Forgive
Their guilty Sloth, their Homage yet Receive,
And let their wounded Honour live:
But sure and sudden be their just Remorse;
Swift be their Virtue's Rise, and strong its Course;
For tho' for certain Years, and destin'd Times,
Merit has lain confus'd with Crimes;
Tho' Fove seem'd Negligent of Human Cares,
Nor scourg'd our Follies, nor return'd our Pray'rs;

His Justice now Demands the Equal Scales,
Sedition is suppress'd, and Truth Prevails:
Fate its Great Ends by slow Degrees Attains,
And Europe is redeem'd, and William Reigns.

Angustam, amici, Pauperiem pati
Robustus acri Militiâ Puer
Condiscat, & Parthos feroces
Vexet eques metuendus bastâ.

Vitamque sub Dîo & trepidis agat
In rebus.

Est & fideli tuta silentio
Merces, &c.

—Illum ex mænibus hosticis
Matrona bellantis Tyranni
Prospiciens, &' adulta virgo
Suspiret, eheu! ne rudis agminum
Sponsus lacessat regius asperam
Tactu leonem quem cruenta
Per medias rapit ira Cædes.

Dulce & decorum est pro patriâ mori,
Mors & fugacem prosequitur Virum
Nec parcit imbellis Juventæ
Poplitibus timidoque tergo.

Virtus repulsæ nescia sordidæ
Intaminatis fulget honoribus
Nec ponit aut sumit secures
Arbitrio popularis auræ.

Virtus recludens immeritis Mori
Cælum, negatâ tentat iter viâ
Cœtusque vulgares & udam
Spernit humum fugiente penna,

—Sæpe Diespiter
Neglectus incesto addidit Integrum
Raro antecedentem Scelestum
Deseruit pede Pœna Claudo.

AN EPISTLE TO Sir Fleetwood Sheppard.

When Crowding Folks, with strange Ill Faces,
Were making Legs, and begging Places,
And some with Patents, some with Merit,
Tir'd out my good Lord Dorset's Spirit:
Sneaking, I stood, among the Crew,
Desiring much to speak with you.
I waited while the Clock struck thrice,
And Footman brought out fifty Lies;
Till Patience vext, and Legs grown weary,
I thought it was in vain to tarry:
But did opine it might be better,
By Penny-post to send a Letter.
Now, if you miss of this Epistle,
I'm balk'd again, and may go whistle.
My Business, Sir, you'll quickly guess,
Is to desire some little Place,
And fair pretensions I have for't,
Much Need, and very small Desert.
When e'er I writ to you, I wanted;
I always begg'd, you always granted,
Now, as you took me up when little,
Gave me my Learning, and my Vittle:
Askt for me, from my Lord, things fitting
Kind as I'd been your own begetting;

Confirm what formerly you've given,
Nor leave me now at Six and Sevens
As Sunderland has left Mun. Stephens.
No Family that takes a Whelp,
When first he laps and scarce can yelp,
Neglects or turns him out of Gate,
When he's grown up to Dogs Estate:
Nor Parish if they once adopt
The spurious Brats that Strowlers dropt,
Leave 'em when grown up Lusty Fellows,
To the wide World, that is, the Gallows:
No thank 'em for their Love, that's worse,
Than if they'd throttl'd 'em at Nurse,

My Uncle, rest his Soul, when Living,
Might have contriv'd me ways of Thriving;
Taught me with Cyder to replenish
My Vats or ebbing Tide of Rhenish.
So when for Hock I drew Prickt White-wine,
Swear't had the flavour, and was right Wine:
Or sent me with ten Pounds to Furni-
Vall's Inn, to some good Rogue-Attorney;
Where now by forging Deeds and cheating,
I'd found some handsome ways of getting.
All this you made me quit to follow
That sneaking Whey-fac'd God Apollo.
Sent me among a Fidling Crew
Of Folks, I'ad never seen nor knew,
Calliope, and God knows who.
To add no more Invectives to it,
You spoil'd the Youth to make a Poet.
In common Justice, Sir, there's no Man
That makes the Whore but keeps the Woman.
Among all honest Christian People
Whoe'er breaks Limbs, maintains the Cripple.

The sum of all I have to say,
Is, that you'd put me in some way,
And your Petitioner shall pray—
There's one thing more I had almost slipt,
But they may do as well in Post-script;

My Friend Charles Mountague's preferr'd,
Nor would I have it long observ'd,
That one Mouse eats while t'other's starv'd.

A SATIRE ON THE Modern Translators.

Odi imitatores servum pecus, &c.

Since the united Cunning of the Stage
Has balk'd the hireling Drudges of the Age:
Since Betterton of late so thrifty's grown,
Revives old Plays, or wisely acts his own:
Thumb'd Rider with a Catalogue of Rhimes,
Makes the compleatest Poet of our Times:
Those who with Nine Months Toil had spoil'd a Play,
In hopes of Eating at a full Third Day,
Justly despairing longer to sustain
A craving Stomach from an empty Brain,
Have left Stage-practice, chang'd their old Vocations,
Attoning for bad Plays, with worse Translations;
And like old Sternhold, with laborious Spite,
Burlesque what nobler Muses better write;
Thus while they for their Causes only seem
To change the Channel, they corrupt the Stream.
So breaking Vintners to increase their Wine,
With nauseous Drugs debauch the generous Vine
So barren Gypsies for recruit are said
With Strangers Issue to maintain the Trade;

But lest the fairer Bantling should be known,
A daubing Walnut makes him all their own.

In the Head of this Gang to Fohn Dryden appears,
But to save the Town-censure, and lessen his Fears,
Join'd with a Spark, whose Title makes me civil,
For Scandalum Magnatum is the Devil;
Such mighty Thoughts from Ovid's Letters flow,
That the Translation is a work for two;
Who in one Copy join'd, their Shame have shown,
Since Tate could spoil so many, tho' alone:
My Lord I thought so generous would prove,
To scorn a Rival in Affairs of Love:
But well he knew his teeming Pangs were vain,
Till Midwife Dryden eas'd his labouring Brain;
And that when part of Hudibras's Horse
Jogg'd on, the other would not hang an Arse;
So when fleet Jowler hears the joyful Hollow,
He drags his sluggish Mate, and Tray must follow.
But how could this learn'd Brace employ their time?
One constru'd sure, while t'other pump'd for Rhime:
Or it with these, as once at Rome, succeeds,
The Bibulus subscribes to Cæsar's Deeds:
This from his Partners Acts ensures his Name,
Oh Sacred Thirst of everlasting Fame!
That could defile those well-cut Nails with Ink,
And make his Honour condescend to think:
But what Excuse, what Preface can attone
For Crimes which guilty Bayes has singly done?
Bayes, whose Rose-Ally Ambuscade injoin'd
To be to Vices which he practis'd kind,
And brought the Venom of a spiteful Satire,
To the safe Innocence of a dull Translator.
Bayes, who by all the Club was thought most fit
To violate the Mantuan Prophet's Wit,
And more debauch what loose Lucretius writ.
When I behold the Rovings of his Muse,
How soon Assyrian Ointment she would lose
For Diamond Buckles sparkling at their Shoes.

When Virgil's height is lost, when Ovid soars,
And in Heroicks Canacè deplores
Her Follies louder than her Father roars,
I'd let him take Almanzor for his Theme;
In lofty Verse make Maximin blaspheme,
Or sing in softer Airs St. Catharine's Dream.
Nay, I could hear him damn last Ages Wit,
And rail at Excellence he ne'er could hit;
His envy should at powerful Cowley rage,
And banish Sense with Johnson from the Stage:
His Sacrelege should plunder Shakespear's Urn,
With a dull Prologue make the Ghost return,
To bear a second Death, and greater Pain,
While the Fiend's Words the Oracle prophane.
But when not satisfy'd with Spoils at home,
The Pyrate would to foreign Borders roam;
May he still split on some unlucky Coast,
And have his Works or Dictionary lost!
That he may know what Roman Authors mean,
No more than does our blind Translatress Behn.

The Female Wit, who next convicted stands,
Not for abusing Ovid's Verse, but Sands';
She Might have learn'd from the ill-borrow'd Grace,
(Which little helps the Ruin of her Face)
That Wit, like Beauty, triumphs o'er the Heart,
When more of Nature's seen, and less of Art:
Nor strive in Ovid's Letters to have shown
As much of Skill, as Lewdness in her own.
Then let her from the next inconstant Lover,
Take a new Copy for a second Rover:
Describe the Cunning of a Jilting Whore,
From the ill Arts her self has us'd before;
Thus let her write, but Paraphrase no more.

Rymer to Crambo Privilege does claim,
Not from the Poet's Genius, but his Name;
Which Providence in contradiction meant,
Tho' he Predestination could prevent,
And with bold Dulness translate Heav'ns Intent.

Rash man! we paid thee Adoration due,
That ancient Criticks were excell'd by you:
Each little Wit to your Tirbunal came
To hear their Doom, and to secure their Fame:
But for Respect you servilely sought Praise,
Slighted the Umpire's Palm to court the Poet's Bays;
While wise Reflections, and a grave Discourse,
Declin'd to Zoons a River for a Horse.
So discontented Pemberton withdrew,
From sleeping Judges to the noisy Crew;
Chang'd awful Ermin for a servile Gown,
And to an humble Fawning smooth'd his Frown,
The simile will differ here indeed;
You cannot versify, though he can plead.

To painful Creech my last Advice descends,
That he and Learning would at length be Friends;
That he'd command his dreadful Forces home,
Nor be a Second Hannibal to Rome.
But since no Counsel his Resolves can bow;
Nor may thy Fate, O Rome, resist his Vow;
Debarr'd From Pens as Lunaticks from Swords,
He should be kept from waging War with Words:
Words which at first like Atoms did advance
To the just Measure of a tuneful Dance,
And jumpt to form, as did his Worlds, by Chance.
This pleas'd the Genius of the vicious Town;
The Wits confirm'd his Labours with Renown,
And swear the early Atheist for their own.
Had he stopt here— but ruin'd by Success,
With a new Spawn he fill'd the burden'd Press,
Till as his Volumes swell'd, his Fame grew less.
So Merchants flatter'd with increasing Gain,
Still tempt the Falshood of the doubtful Main:
So the first running of the lucky Dice,
Does eager Bully to new Betts intice;
Till Fortune urges him to be undone,
And Ames-Ace loses what kind Sixes won.
Witness this Truth Lucretia's wretched Fate,
Which better have I heard my Nurse relate;

The Matron suffers Violence again,
Not Tarquin's Lust so vile, as Creech's Pen;
Witness those heaps his Midnight Studies raise,
Hoping to Rival Ogilby in Praise:
Both writ so much, so ill, a Doubt might rise,
Which with most Justice might deserve the Prize;
Had not the first. The Town with Cuts appeas'd,
And where the Poem fail'd, the Picture pleas'd.

Wits of a meaner Rank, I could rehearse,
But will not plague your Patience, nor my Verse:
In long Oblivion may they happy lie,
And with their Writings, may their Folly die.
Now, why should we poor Ovid yet pursue,
And make his very Book an Exile too,
In Words more barb'rous than the place he knew?
If Virgil labour'd not to be translated,
Why suffers he the only thing he hated?
Had he foreseen some ill-officious Tongue,
Wou'd in unequal Strains blaspheme his Song;
Nor Prayers, nor Force, nor Fame shou'd e'er prevent
The just Performance of his wise Intent:
Smiling h'had seen his Martyr'd Work expire,
Nor live to feel more cruel Foes, than Fire.

Some Fop in Preface may those Thefts excuse,
That Virgil was the Draught of Homer's Muse:
That Horace's by Pindar's Lyre was strung,
By the great Image of whose Voice he sung.
They found the Mass, 'tis true, but in their Mould
They purg'd the drossy Oar to current Gold:
Mending their Pattern, they escap'd the Curse;
Yet had they not writ better, they'd writ worse.
But when we bind the Lyric up to Rhime,
And lose the Sense to make the Poem chime:
When from their Flocks we force Sicilian Swains,
To ravish Milk-maids in our English Plains;
And wandring Authors, e'er they touch our Shore,
Must like our Locust Hugonots be poor;
I'd bid th' importing Club their Pains forbear,
And traffick in our own, tho' homely Ware,

Whilst from themselves the honest Vermin spin,
I'd like the Texture, tho' the Web be thin;
Nay, take Crown's Plays, because his own, for Wit;
And praise what Durfey, not Translating, writ.

A Satire upon the Poets, in Imitation of the Seventh Satire of Juvenal.

Et Spes & ratio studiorum, &c.

SIR,

All my Endeavours, all my Hopes depend
On you the Orphans, and the Muses Friend;
The only great good Man, who will declare
Virtue and Verse the object of his Care;
And prove a Patron in the worst of Times,
When hungry Bayes forsakes his Empty Rhymes,
Beseeching all true Cath'licks Charity,
For a poor prostitute which long did lie,
Under the Mortal Sins of Verse, and Heresy.
Shadwell, and starving Tate I cease to name,
Poets of all Religions are the same:
Recanting Settle brings the tuneful Ware,
Which wiser Smithfield damn'd to Sturbridge Fair;
Protests his Tragedies and Libels fail
To yield him Paper, Penny-loaves and Ale,
And bids our Youth by his Example fly
The Love of Politicks, and Poetry.
And all Retreats except New-Hall refuse
To shelter Durfey, and his Jocky Muse;
There to the Butler, and his Grace's Maid,
He turns, like Homer, Sonneteer for Bread;
Knows his just Bounds, nor ever durst aspire
Beyond the swearing Groom, and Kitchin fire.

Is there a Man to these Examples blind,
To clinking Numbers fatally design'd?
Who by his Parts would purchase Meat, and Fame,
And in new Miscellanies plant his Name;
Were my Beard grown, the Wretch I'd thus advise,
Repent, fond Mortal, and be timely wise;
Take heed, nor be by gilded Hopes betray'd,
Clio's a Jilt, and Pegasus a Jade;
By Verse you'l starve: John Saul cou'd never live,
Unless the Bellman made the Poet thrive;
Go rather in some little Shed by Pauls,
Sell Chevy-chase, or Baxter's Salve for Souls,
Cry Raree-Shows, sell Ballads, transcribe Votes,
Be Carr or Keach, or any thing but Oates.
Hold, Sir, some Bully of the Muses cries,
Methinks you're more Satyrical, than Wise;
You rail at Verse indeed, but rail in Rhyme,
At once encourage, and condemn the Crime.
True, Sir, I write and have a Patron too,
To whom my Tributary Songs are due;
Yet with your leave I'd honestly disswade
Those wretched Men from Pindus barren shade:
Who tho' they fire their Muse, and rack their Brains
With blustering Heroes, and with piping Swains,
Can no great patient giving Man engage
To fill their Pockets, and their Title-Page.
Were I, like these, unhappily decreed
By Penny Elegies to get my Bread,
Or want a Meal unless George Croom and I
Could strike a Bargain for my Poetry,
I'd damn my Works to wrap up Soap and Cheese,
Or furnish Squibs for City Prentices
To burn the Pope, and celebrate Queen Bess.
But on your Ruin stubbornly pursue,
Herd with the hungry little chiming Crew,
Obtain the empty Title of a Wit,
And be a free-cost, Noisy in the Pit;
Print your dull Poems, and before 'em place
A Crown of Laurel, and a meager Face.

And may just Heav'n thy hated Life prolong,
Till thou, blest Author, seest thy deathless Song,
The dusty Lumber of a Smithfield Stall,
And find'st thy Picture starch'd 'gainst Suburb Wall,
With Johnny Armstrong, and the Prodigal.
And to compleat the Curse—
When Age and Poverty comes faster on,
And sad Experience tells thou art undone.
May no kind Country Grammar-School afford
Ten Pounds a Year to pay for Bed and Board;
Till void of any fix'd Employ, and now
Grown useless to the Army and the Plow,
You've no Friend left, but trusting Landlady,
Who stows you on hard Truckle, Garret high,
To dream of Dinner, and curse Poetry.
Sir, Iv'e a Patron, you reply. 'Tis true,
Fortune and Parts you say may get one too:
Why faith e'en try, Write, Flatter, Dedicate,
My Lord's, and his Forefathers Deeds relate:
Yet know he'll wisely strive ten thousand ways,
To shun a needy Poets fulsom Praise;
Nay, to avoid thy Importunity,
Neglect his State, and condescend to be
A Poet, tho' perhaps a worse than Thee.

Thus from a Patron he becomes a Friend,
Forgetting to reward, learns to commend;
Receives your twelve long Months succesless Toil,
And talks of Authors, Energy, and Stile;
Damns the dull Poems of the scribling Town,
Applauds your Writings, and repeats his own,
Whilst thou in Complaisance oblig'd, must sit
T' extol his Judgment and admire his Wit;
And wrapt with his Essay on Poetry
Swear Horace writ not half so strong as He,
But that we're partial to Antiquity.
Yet this Authentick Peer perhaps scarce knows
With jingling sounds to tag insipid Prose,

And should be by some honest Manly told,
He'ad lost his Credit to secure his Gold.

But if thou'rt blest enough to write a Play,
Without the hungry hopes of kind third Day,
And he believes that in thy Dedication
Thou'lt fix his Name, not bargain for the Station,
My Lord his useless Kindness then assures,
And to the utmost of his Pow'r he's yours;
How fine your Plot, how exquisite each Scene!
And play'd at Court, would strangely please the Queen.
And you may take his Judgment sure, for he
Knows the true Spirit of good Poetry;
And might with equal Judgment have put in
For Poet-Laureat as Lord Chamberlain.
All this you see and know, yet cease to shun;
And seeing, knowing, strive to be undone.
So kidnapt Dutchess once beyond Gravesend,
Rejects the Councel of recalling Friend;
Is told the dreadful Bondage she must bear,
And sees unable to avoid the Snare.
So practic'd Thief oft taken ne'er afraid,
Forgets the Sentence, and persues the Trade.
Tho' yet he almost feels the Smoaking Brand,
And sad T. R. stands fresh upon his Hand.
The Author then, whose daring hopes would strive
With well-built Verse to keep his Fame alive,
And something to Posterity present,
That's very New and very Excellent;
Something beyond the uncall'd drudging Tribe,
Beyond what Bayes can write, or I describe;
Shou'd in substantial Happiness abound,
His Mind with Peace, his Board with plenty Crown'd.
No early Duns should break his Learned Rest,
No sawcy Cares his Nobler Thoughts molest,
Only the God within should shake his labouring Breast.

In vain we from our Soneteers require,
The Height of Cowley's and Anacreon's Lyre.

In vain we bid 'em fill the Bowl,
Large as their capacious Soul,

Who since the King was crown'd ne'er tasted Wine,
But write at sight, and know not where to dine.
In vain we bid dejected Settle hit
The Tragick Flights of Shakespear's towring Wit;
He needs must miss the Mark, who's kept so low,
He has not strength enough to draw the Bow.
Sedley, indeed, and Rochester might write
For their own Credit, and their Friends Delight,
Shewing how far they cou'd the rest outdo,
As in their Fortunes, in their Writings too.
But should Drudge Dryden this Example take
And Absaloms for empty Glory make,
He'd soon perceive his Income scarce enough,
To feed his nostril with inspiring Snuff;
Starving for Meat, not surfeiting on Praise,
He'd find his Brains as barren as his Bayes.

The Chief Character in Mr. Wycherley's plain Dealer.

There was a Time when Otway charm'd the Stage,
Otway the Hope, the Sorrow of our Age;
When the full Pit with pleas'd attention hung,
Wrapt with each accent from Castalio's Tongue.
With what a Laughter was his Soldier read!
How mourn'd they when his Jaffier struck, and Bled!
Yet this best Poet, tho' with so much ease,
He never drew his Pen but sure to please;
Tho' lightning were less lively than his Wit,
And Thunder-claps less loud than those o'th' Pit,
He had of's many Wants much earlier dy'd,
Had not kind Banker Betterton supply'd,
And took for Pawn the Embryo of a Play,
Till he could pay himself the next third Day.
Were Shakespear's self to live again, he'd ne'er
Deg'nerate to a Poet from a Player.
Now Carlisle in the new-rais'd Troop we see,
And chattering Mountfort in the Chancery;
Mountfort how fit for Politicks and Law,
That play'd so well Sir Courtly and Jack Daw.
Dance then attendance in slow Mulgrave's Hall,
Read Maps, or court the Sconces till he call;

One Actor's Commendation shall do more
Than Patron now, or Merit heretofore.
Some Poets I confess, the Stage has fed,
Who for Half Crowns are shown, for two Pence read;
But these not envy thou, but imitate,
Much rather starve in Shadwel's silent Fate,
Then new vamp Farces, and be damn'd with Tate.
For now no Sidneys will three hundred give,
That needy Spenser and his Fame may live;
None of our new Nobility will send
To the King's Bench, or to his Bedlam Friend .
Chymists and Whores by Buckingham were fed,
Those by their honest Labours gain'd their Bread;
But he was never so expensive yet,
To keep a Creature meerly for his Wit;
And Cowley from Hall-Clifden scarce could have
One grateful Stone, to shew the World his Grave.
Pembroke lov'd Tragedy and did provide
For Butcher's Dogs, and for the whole Bankside;
The Bear was fed, but Dedicating Lee,
Was thought to have a larger Paunch than he.
More I could say, but care not much to meet
A Crabtree Cudgel in a narrow Street.
Besides, your Yawning prompts me to give o'er:
Your humble Servant, Sir, not one word more.

Nat Lee.

FINIS.

[POEMS FROM THE New Collection, 1725]

Epitaph Extempore.

Heralds, and Statesmen, by your leave,
Here lye the Bones of Matthew Prior;
The Son of Adam and of Eve,
Can Bourbon, or Nassau, go higher?

THE Turtle and the Sparrow.

A TALE.

Behind an unfrequented Glade,
Where Eugh and Myrtle mix their Shade,
A Widow Turtle pensive sat,
And wept her murder'd Lover's Fate.
The Sparrow chanc'd that Way to walk,
(A Bird that loves to chirp and talk)
Besure he did the Turtle greet,
She answer'd him as she thought meet.
Sparrows and Turtles by the bye,
Can think as well as You or I:
But how they did their Thoughts express,
The Margin shows by T, and S.

My Hopes are lost, my Joys are fled,
Alas! I weep Columbo dead:
Come all ye winged Lovers, come,
Drop Pinks and Daisies on his Tomb:
Sing Philomel his Fun'ral Verse,
Ye pious Redbreasts deck his Herse:
Fair Swans extend your Dying-throats,
Columbo's Death requires your Notes:
For Him, my Friends, for Him I moan,
My dear Columbo, dead and gone.

Stretch'd on the Bier Columbo lies,
Pale are his Cheeks, and clos'd his Eyes;
Those Cheeks, where Beauty smiling lay;
Those Eyes, where Love was us'd to play:
Ah cruel Fate, alas! how soon
That Beauty and those Joys are flown!

Columbo is no more, ye Floods,
Bear the sad Sound to distant Woods;
The Sound let Echo's Voice restore,
And say, Columbo is no more.
Ye Floods, ye Woods, ye Echoes, moan
My dear Columbo, dead and gone.

The Driads all forsook the Wood,
And mournful Naiads round me stood,
The tripping Fauns and Fairies came,
All conscious of our mutual Flame,
To sigh for him, with me to moan,
My dear Columbo, dead and gone.

Venus disdain'd not to appear
To lend my Grief a Friendly Ear;
But what avails her Kindness now?
She ne'er shall hear my Second Vow:
The Loves that round their Mother flew,
Did in her Face her Sorrows view.
Their drooping Wings they pensive hung,
Their Arrows broke, their Bows unstrung;
They heard attentive what I said,
And wept with me, Columbo dead:
For Him I sigh, for Him I moan,
My dear Columbo, dead and gone.

'Tis Ours to Weep, great Venus said,
'Tis JOVE's alone to be Obey'd:
Nor Birds, nor Goddesses can move
The just Behests of Fatal JOVE;
I saw thy Mate with sad Regret,
And curs'd the Fowler's cruel Net:
Ah, dear Columbo, how he fell,
Whom Turturella lov'd so well!
I saw him bleeding on the Ground,
The Sight tore up my ancient Wound;
And whilst you wept, alas, I cry'd,
Columbo and Adonis Dy'd.

Weep all ye Streams, ye Mountains groan,
I mourn Columbo, dead and gone;
Still let my tender Grief complain,
Nor Day, nor Night that Grief restrain,

I said, and Venus still reply'd,
Columbo and Adonis Dy'd.

S.
Poor Turturella, hard thy Case,
And just thy Tears, alas, alas!

T.
And hast thou lov'd, and canst thou hear
With piteous Heart a Lover's Care?
Come then, wi[t]h Me thy Sorrows join,
And ease My Woes by telling Thine:
For Thou, poor Bird, perhaps may'st moan
Some Passerella dead and gone.

S.
Dame Turtle, this runs soft in Rhime,
But neither suits the Place nor Time;
That Fowler's Hand, whose cruel Care
For dear Columbo set the Snare,
The Snare again for Thee may set;
Two Birds may perish in One Net.
Thou shou'd'st avoid this cruel Field,
And Sorrow shou'd to Prudence yield.
'Tis sad to Die.

T.
It may be so;
'Tis sadder yet, to Live in Woe.

S.
When Widows use their canting Strain,
They seem resolv'd to wed again.

T.
When Wid'wers wou'd this Truth disprove,
They never tasted real Love.

S.
Love is soft Joy and gentle Strife,
His Efforts all depend on Life:
When he has thrown Two Golden Darts,
And struck the Lovers mutual Hearts;
Of his black Shafts let Death send One,
Alas! the pleasing Game is done,
Ill is the poor Survivor sped,
A Corps feels mighty cold in Bed.
Venus said right, nor Tears can move,
Nor plaints revoke the Will of JOVE.

All must obey the gen'ral Doom,
Down from Alcides to Tom Thumb.
Grim Pluto will not be withstood
By Force or Craft; Tall Robinhood,
As well as Little John, is dead.
(You see how deeply I am read)

With Fate's lean Tipstaff none can dodge,
He'll find you out where e'er you lodge.
Ajax to shun his gen'ral Pow'r,
In vain absconded in a Flower.
An idle Scene Tythonus acted,
When to a Grass-hopper contracted:
Death struck them in those Shapes again,
As once he did when they were Men.

For Reptiles perish, Plants decay,
Flesh is but Grass, Grass turns to Hay,
And Hay to Dung, and Dung to Clay.

Thus Heads extreamly nice, discover,
That Folks may Die, some Ten times over;
But oft by too refin'd a touch,
To prove Things plain, they prove too much.
What e'er Pythagoras may say,
(For each, you know, will have his Way)
With great Submission I pronounce,
That People Die no more than Once:
But Once is sure, and Death is Common
To Bird and Man including Woman.
From the Spread Eagle to the Wren,
Alas! no Mortal Fowl knows when;
All that wear Feathers first or last,
Must one Day perch on Charon's Mast;
Must lye beneath the Cypress Shades,
Where Strada's Nightingale was laid.
Those Fowl who seem Alive to sit,
Assembled by Dan Chaucer's Wit,
In Prose have slept Three Hundred Years,
Exempt from worldly Hopes and Fears,
And laid in State upon their Herse,
Are truly but embalm'd in Verse.
As sure as Lesbia's Sparrow I,
Thou, sure as Prior's Dove, must Die:
And ne'er again from Lethe's Streams
Return to Adda, or to Thames.

T.
I therefore weep Columbo dead,
My Hopes bereav'd, my Pleasures fled;

I therefore must for ever moan
My dear Columbo dead and gone.

S.
Columbo never sees your Tears,
Your Cries Columbo never hears;
A Wall of Brass, and one of Lead,
Divide the Living from the Dead.
Repell'd by this, the gather'd Rain
Of Tears beats back to Earth again,
In t'other the Collected Sound
Of Groans, when once receiv'd, is drown'd.
'Tis therefore vain one Hour to grieve
What Time it-self can ne'er retrieve,
By Nature soft, I know, a Dove
Can never live without her Love;
Then quit this Flame, and light another;
Dame, I advise you like a Brother.

T.
What, I to make a second Choice?
In other Nuptials to rejoyce?

S.
Why not my Bird?

T.
No Sparrow no,
Let me indulge my pleasing woe:
Thus sighing, coeing, ease my Pain,
But never wish nor love again:
Distress'd for ever let me moan
My dear Columbo, dead and gone.

S.
Our winged Friends thro' all the Grove
Contemn thy mad Excess of Love:
I tell thee, Dame, the t'other Day
I met a Parrot and a Jay,
Who mock'd thee in their mimick Tone,
And wept Columbo, dead and gone.

T.
Whate'er the Jay or Parrot said,
My Hopes are lost, my Joys are fled;
And I for ever must deplore
Columbo dead and gone.—

S.
Encore!
For Shame forsake this BION-style,
We'll talk an Hour, and walk a Mile.
Does it with Sense or Health agree,
To sit thus mopeing on a Tree?
To throw away a Widow's Life,
When you again may be a Wife.

Come on, I'll tell you my Amours;
Who knows but they may infl'ence Yours?
Example draws, where Precept fails,
And Sermons are less read than Tales.

T.
Sparrow, I take thee for my Friend,
As such will hear thee, I descend;
Hop on and talk, but honest Bird,
Take care that no immodest Word
May venture to offend my Ear.—

S.
Too Saint-like Turtle, never fear,—
By Method Things are best discours'd,
Begin we then with Wife the first:
A handsome, senseless, awkward Fool
Who wou'd not Yield, and cou'd not Rule:
Her Actions did her Charms disgrace,
And still her Tongue talk'd off her Face:
Count me the Leaves on yonder Tree,
So many diff'rent Wills had she,
And like the Leaves, as Chance inclin'd,
Those Wills were chang'd with every Wind:
She courted the Beau Monde To-night,
L'Assemblèe her supreme Delight.
The next she sat immur'd, unseen,
And in full Health enjoy'd the Spleen.
She censur'd that, she alter'd this,
And with great Care set all amiss;
She now cou'd chide, now laugh, now cry,
Now sing, now pout, all, God knows why:
Short was her Reign, she Cough'd and Dy'd,
Proceed we to my Second Bride;
Well Born she was, genteely Bred,
And Buxom both at Board and Bed,
Glad to oblige, and pleas'd to please,
And, as Tom Southren wisely says,
No other Fault had she in Life,
But only that she was my Wife.
O Widow-Turtle! every She,
(So Nature's Pleasure does Decree)
Appears a Goddess till enjoy'd,
But Birds, and Men, and Gods are cloy'd.

Was Hercules One Woman's Man?
Or Jove for ever Leda's Swan?
Ah! Madam, cease to be mistaken,
Few marry'd Fowl peck Dunmow-Bacon.
Variety alone gives Joy,
The sweetest Meats the soonest cloy:
What Sparrow, Dame? what Dove alive?
Tho' Venus shou'd the Char'ot drive,
But wou'd accuse the Harness-Weight,
If always Coupled to One Mate;
And often wish the Fetter broke,
'Tis Freedom but to Change the Yoke.

T.
Impious to wish to Wed again,
E'er Death dissolv'd the former Chain.

S.
Spare your Remark, and hear the rest,
She brought me Sons, but Jove be blest,
She Dy'd in Child-Bed on the Nest.

Well, rest her Bones, quoth I, she's gone:
But must I therefore lye alone?
What, am I to her Memory ty'd?
Must I not Live, because she Dy'd?
And thus I Logically said,
('Tis good to have a Reas'ning-Head)
Is this my Wife? Probatur, not;
For Death dissolv'd the Marriage-Knot:
She was, Concedo, during Life;
But, is a Piece of Clay, a Wife?
Again, if not a Wife, d'ye see,
Why then no Kin at all to me:
And he who gen'ral Tears can shed
For Folks that happen to be Dead,
May e'en with equal Justice mourn
For those who never yet were born.

T.
Those Points indeed you quaintly prove,
But Logick is no Friend to Love.

S.
My Children then were just pen feather'd:
Some little Corn for them I gather'd,
And sent them to my Spouse's Mother,
So left that Brood to get another.

And as Old Harry Whilome said,
Reflecting on Anne Bullen Dead,
Cocksbones, I now again do stand
The jolly'st Batchelor i'th' Land.

T.
Ah me! my Joys, my Hopes are fled;
My first, my only Love is Dead.
With endless Grief let me bemoan
Columbo's Loss. S. Let me go on.
As yet my Fortune was but narrow,
I woo'd my Cousin Philly Sparrow,
O'th' Elder House of Chirping-End,
From whence the younger Branch descend;
Well seated in a Field of Pease
She liv'd, extreamly at her Ease:
But when the Honey-Moon was past,
The following Nights were soon o'ercast,
She kept her own, could plead the Law,
And Quarrel for a Barley-Straw;
Both, you may judge became less kind,
As more we knew each other's Mind:
She soon grew sullen, I, hard-hearted,
We scolded, hated, fought, and parted.
To LONDON, blessed Town, I went,
She Boarded at a Farm in Kent:
A Magpye from the Country fled,
And kindly told me she was Dead:
I prun'd my Feathers, cock'd my Tail,
And set my Heart again to Sale.

My Fourth, a meer Coquet, or such
I thought her, nor avails it much,
If true or false, our Troubles spring
More from the Fancy than the Thing.
Two staring Horns, I often said,
But ill become a Sparrow's Head;
But then, to set that Balance even,
Your Cuckold-Sparrow goes to Heaven.
The Thing you fear, suppose it done,
If you enquire, you make it known.
Whilst at the Root your Horns are sore,
The more you scratch, they ake the more.

But turn the Tables and reflect,
All may not be, that you suspect:
By the Mind's Eye, the Horns, we mean,
Are only in Ideas seen,
'Tis from the inside of the Head
Their Branches shoot, their Antlers spread;
Fruitful Suspicions often bear them,
You feel 'em from the Time you fear 'em.
Cuckoo! Cuckoo! that Echo'd word,
Offends the Ear of Vulgar Bird;
But those of finer Taste have found
There's nothing in't beside the sound.
Preferment always waits on Horns,
And Houshold Peace the Gift adorns:
This Way, or That, let Factions tend,
The Spark is still the Cuckold's Friend;
This Way, or That, let Madam roam,
Well pleas'd and quiet she comes home.
Now weigh the Pleasure with the Pain,
The plus and minus, Loss and Gain,
And what La Fontaine laughing says,
Is serious Truth, in such a Case;
Who slights the Evil, finds it least,
And who does Nothing, does the best.
I never strove to rule the Roast,
She ne'er refus'd to pledge my Toast:
In Visits if we chanc'd [t]o meet,
I seem'd obliging, she discreet;
We neither much caress'd, nor strove,
But good Dissembling pass'd for Love.

T.
Whate'er of Light our Eye may know,
'Tis only Light it-self can show:
Whate'er of Love our Heart can feel,
'Tis mutual Love alone can tell.

S.
My pretty, amorous, foolish Bird,
A Moment's Patience, in one Word,
The Three kind Sisters broke the Chain,
She Dy'd, I mourn'd, and woo'd again.

T.
Let me with juster Grief deplore
My dear Columbo, now no more;

Let me with constan[t] Tears bewail.—

S.
Your Sorrow does but spoil my Tale.
My Fifth she prov'd a jealous Wife,
Lord shield us all from such a Life!
'Twas Doubt, Complaint, Reply, Chit-Chat,
'Twas This, To-day, To-morrow, That.
Sometimes forsooth, upon the Brook,
I kept a Miss; an honest Rook
Told it a Snipe, who told a Stear,
Who told it those, who told it her.
One Day a Linnet and a Lark
Had met me stroleing in the Dark;
The next, a Woodcock and an Owl
Quick-sighted, grave, and sober Fowl,
Wou'd on their Corp'ral Oath alledge,
I kiss'd a Hen behind the Hedge.
Well, Madam Turtle, to be brief,
(Repeating but renews our Grief)
As once she watch'd me, from a Rail,
Poor Soul! her Footing chanc'd to fail,
And down she fell, and broke her Hip,
The Fever came, and then the Pip:
Death did the only cure apply;
She was at quiet, so was I.

T.
Cou'd Love unmov'd these Changes view?
His Sorrows, as his Joys are true.

S.
My dearest Dove, One wise Man says,
Alluding to our present Case,
We're here To-day, and gone To-morrow:
Then what avails superfl'ous Sorrow?
Another full as wise as he,
Adds; that a Marry'd Man may see
Two happy Hours; and which are they?
The First and Last, perhaps you'll say;
'Tis true, when blithe she goes to Bed,
And when she peaceably lies Dead;
Women 'twixt Sheets are best, 'tis said,
Be they of Holland or of Lead.

Now cur'd of Hymen's Hopes and Fears,
And sliding down the Vale of Years,

I hoped to fix my future Rest,
And took a Widow to my Nest.
Ah Turtle! had she been like Thee,
Sober, yet gentle; wise, yet free;
But she was peevish, noisy, bold,
A Witch ingrafted on a Scold:
Jove in Pandora's Box confin'd
A Hundred Ills to vex Mankind;
To vex one Bird, in her Bandore
He hid at least a Hundred more:
And soon as Time that Veil withdrew,
The Plagues o'er all the Parish flew;
Her Stock of borrow'd Tears grew dry,
And Native Tempests arm'd her Eye,
Black Clouds around her Forehead hung,
And Thunder rattled on her Tongue.
We, Young or Old, or Cock or Hen,
All liv'd in Æolus's Den;
The nearest her, the more accurst,
Ill far'd her Friends, her Husband worst.
But JOVE amidst his Anger spares,
Remarks our Faults, but hears our Pray'rs.
In short, she Dy'd, why then she's Dead
Quoth I, and once again I'll wed.
Wou'd Heaven this Mourning Year was past,
One may have better Luck at last.
Matters at worst are sure to mend,
The DEVIL's Wife was but a Fiend.

T.
Thy Tale has rais'd a Turtle's Spleen,
Uxorious Inmate, Bird obscene,
Dar'st thou defile these Sacred Groves,
These silent Seats of faithful Loves?
Begone, with flagging Wings sit down
On some old Pent-house near the Town;
In Brewers-Stables peck thy Grain,
Then wash it down with puddled Rain:
And hear thy dirty Off-spring Squall
From Bottles on a Suburb-Wall.
Where Thou hast been, return again,
Vile Bird! Thou hast convers'd with Men;

Notions like these, from Men are giv'n,
Those vilest Creatures under Heav'n.

To Cities and to Courts repair,
Flatt'ry and Falshood flourish there:
There, all thy wretched Arts employ,
Where Riches triumph over Joy;
Where Passions do with Int'rest Barter,
And Hymen holds, by Mammon's Charter;
Where Truth by Point of Law is Parry'd,
And Knaves and Prudes are Six-Times Marry'd.

APPLICATION OF THE TURTLE and SPARROW.

O dearest daughter of two dearest friends,
To thee, my muse, this little tale commends;
Loving, and lov'd, regard thy future mate,
Long love his person, tho' deplore his fate.
Seem young, when old, in thy dear husband's arms,
For constant virtue has immortal charms;
And when I lie low sepulcher'd in earth,
And the glad year returns thy day of birth,
Vouchsafe to say e'er I cou'd write or spell,
The Bard, who from my cradle wish'd me well,
Told me I should the prating Sparrow blame,
And bid me imitate the Turtle's fame.

DOWN-HALL;

A BALLAD.

[_]

To the Tune of King John, and the Abbot of Canterbury.

I Sing not old Jason, who Travell'd thro' Greece,
To Kiss the fair Maids, and possess the rich Fleece:
Nor Sing I Æneas, who led by his Mother,
Got rid of One Wife, and went far for another,
Derry down, down, hey derry down.

Nor Him who thro' Asia and Europe did roam,
Ulysses by Name, who ne'er cry'd to go home;
But rather desir'd to see Cities and Men,
Than return to his Farms, and Converse with old Pen.

Hang Homer and Virgil; their meaning to seek,
A Man must have pok'd in the Latin and Greek;
Those who Love our own Tongue, we have Reason to hope,
Have read them Translated by Dryden and Pope.

But I Sing Exploits, that have lately been doen
By Two British Heroes, call'd Matthew and John:
And how they rid Friendly from fine London-Town,
Fair Essex to see, and a Place they call DOWN.

Now e'er they went out, you may rightly suppose,
How much they Discours'd, both in Prudence and Prose:
For before this great Journey was throughly concerted,
Full often they met; and as often they parted.

And thus Matthew said, look you here, my Friend John,
I fairly have Travell'd Years Thirty and One;
And tho' I still carry'd my Soveraign's Warrants,
I only have gone upon other Folks Errands.

And now in this Journey of Life, I wou'd have
A Place where to Bait, t'wixt the Court and the Grave;
Where joyful to Live, not unwilling to Die—
Gadzooks, I have just such a Place in my Eye.

There are Gardens so Stately, and Arbors so Thick,
A Portal of Stone, and a Fabrick of Brick.
The Matter next Week shall be all in your Pow'r;
But the Money, Gadzooks, must be Paid in an Hour.

For Things in this World, must by Law be made certain,
We Both must repair unto Oliver Martin;
For he is a Lawyer of worthy Renown.
I'll bring You to see; he must fix you at DOWN.

Quoth Matthew, I know, that from Berwick to Dover,
You have Sold all our Premisses over and over.
And now if your Buyers and Sellers agree,
You may throw all our Acres into the South-Sea.

But a word to the Purpose; To-morrow, dear Friend,
We'll see, what To-night you so highly commend.
And if with a Garden and House I am blest;
Let the Devil and Con—y go with the rest.

Then answer'd Squire Morley, pray get a Calesch,
That in Summer may Burn, and in Winter may Splash:
I love Dirt and Dust; and 'tis always my Pleasure,
To take with me much of the Soil which I Measure.

But Matthew thought better: for Matthew thought right,
And hired a Chariot so trim and so tight,
That extreams both of Winter and Summer might pass;
For one Window was Canvas, the t'other was Glass.

Draw up quoth Friend Matthew; pull down quoth Friend John,
We shall be both Hotter and Colder anon.
Thus Talking and Scolding, they forward did Speed;
And Ralpho pac'd by, under Newman the Sweed.

Into an old Inn, did this Equipage roll,
At a Town they call Hodsdon, the Sign of the Bull,
Near a Nymph with an Urn, that divides the High-way,
And into a Puddle throws Mother of Tea.

Come here my sweet Landlady, pray how do you do?
Where is Sisley so cleanly, and Prudence and Sue?
And where is the Widow that dwelt here below?
And the Hostler that Sung about Eight Years ago?

And where is your Sister so mild and so dear?
Whose Voice to her Maids like a Trumpet was clear,
By my Troth, She replies, you grow Younger, I think:
And pray Sir, what Wine does the Gentleman drink?

Why now let me Die, Sir, or live upon Trust,
If I know to which Question to answer you first.
Why Things since I saw you, most strangely have vary'd,
And the Hostler is Hang'd, and the Widow is Marry'd.

And Prue left a Child for the Parish to Nurse;
And Sisley went off with a Gentleman's Purse;
And as to my Sister so mild and so dear,
She has lain in the Church-yard full many a Year.

Well, Peace to her Ashes; what signifies Grief:
She Roasted red-Veal, and she Powder'd lean-Beef:
Full nicely she knew to Cook up a fine Dish;
For tough was her Pullets, and tender her Fish.

For that matter, Sir, be ye Squire, Knight, or Lord,
I'll give you whate'er a good Inn can afford:
I shou'd look on myself as unhappily Sped,
Did I yield to a Sister, or Living, or Dead.

Of Mutton, a delicate Neck and a Breast,
Shall Swim in the Water in which they were Drest:
And because You great Folks are with Rarities taken,
Addle-Eggs shall be next Course, tost up with rank-Bacon.

The Supper was Serv'd, and the Sheets they were laid;
And Morley most lovingly whisper'd the Maid.
The Maid was She handsome? why truly so, so:
But what Morley whisper'd, we never shall know.

Then up rose these Heroes as brisk as the Sun,
And their Horses like his, were prepared to Run.
Now when in the Morning Matt. ask'd for the Score,
John kindly had paid it the Evening before.

Their Breakfast so warm to be sure they did Eat:
A Custom in Travellers, mighty Discreet,
And thus with great Friendship and glee they went on
To find out the Place you shall hear of anon,
call'd Down, down, hey derry down.

But what did they talk of from Morning 'till Noon?
Why, of Spots in the Sun, and the Man in the Moon:
Of the Czar's gentle Temper, the Stocks in the City,
The wise Men of Greece, and the Secret-Committee.

So to Harlow they came; and hey, where are You all?
Show Us into the Parlor, and mind when I call:
Why, your Maids have no motion, your Men have no life;
Well Master, I hear you have Bury'd your Wife.

Come this very instant, take Care to provide
Tea, Sugar, and Toast, and a Horse, and a Guide.
Are the Harrison's here, both the Old and the Young?
And where stands fair Down, the delight of my Song?

O Squire, to the Grief of my Heart, I may say,
I have Bury'd Two Wives since you Travell'd this way;
And the Harrison's both may be presently here;
And DOWN stands, I think, where it stood the last Year.

Then Joan brought the Tea-pot, and Caleb the Toast;
And the Wine was froth'd-out by the Hand of my Host:
But we clear'd our Extempore Banquet so fast,
That the Harrison's both were forgot in the haste.

Now hey for Down-Hall; for the Guide he was got:
The Chariot was mounted; the Horses did trot;
The Guide he did bring us a Dozen Mile round:
But O! all in vain; for no Down cou'd be found.

O! thou Popish Guide, thou hast led us astray.
Says he; how the Devil shou'd I know the way?
I never yet travell'd this Road in my life:
[B]ut Down lyes on the left, I was told by my Wife.

Thy Wife, answer'd Matthew, when she went abroad,
Ne'er told Thee of half the bye-ways she had trod:
Perhaps She met Friends, and brought Pence to Thy House
But Thou shalt go home without ever a Souse.

What is this thing Morley, and how can you mean it?
We have lost our Estate here, before we have seen it.
Have Patience, soft Morley in anger reply'd:
To find out our way, let us send off our Guide.

O here I spy Down: cast your Eye to the West,
Where a Wind-mill so stately stands plainly Confest.
On the West reply'd Matthew, no Wind-mill I find:
As well Thou may'st tell me, I see the West-wind.

Now pardon me, Morley, the Wind-mill I spy;
But faithful Achates, no House is there nigh.
Look again, says mild Morley, Gadzooks you are blind:
The Mill stands before; and the House lyes behind.

O now a low ruin'd white Shed I discern,
Untyl'd and unglaz'd; I believe 'tis a Barn,
A Barn? why you rave: 'Tis a House for a Squire,
A Justice of Peace, or a Knight of our Shire.

A House shou'd be Built, or with Brick, or with Stone.
Why, 'tis Plaster and Lath; and I think, that's all One.
And such as it is, it has stood with great Fame,
Been called a Hall, and has given its Name
To Down, down, hey derry down.

O Morley, O Morley, if that be a Hall;
The Fame with the Building will suddenly fall—
With your Friend Jimmy Gibbs about Buildings agree,
My Business is Land; and it matters not me.

I wish you cou'd tell, what a duce your head ails:
I show'd you Down-Hall; did you look for Versailles?
Then take House and Farm, as John Ballet will let you:
For better for worse, as I took my Dame Betty.

And now, Sir, a word to the Wise is enough;
You'll make very little of all your Old Stuff:
And to build at your Age, by my Troth, you grow simple.
Are You Young and Rich, like the Master of Wimple?

If You have these Whims of Apartments and Gardens,
From Twice Fifty Acres you'll ne'er see five Farthings:
And in Yours I shall find the true Gentleman's Fate:
E'er you finish your House, you'll have spent your Estate.

Now let Us touch Thumbs, and be Friends e'er we part.
Here, John, is my Thumb; and here Matt, is my Heart.
To Halstead I speed; and You go back to Town.
Thus ends the First part of the Ballad of DOWN.
Derry down, down, hey derry down.

VERSES Spoke to the Lady Henrietta-Cavendish Holles Harley, In the LIBRARY of St. John's College, Cambridge

November the 9th, An. 1719.

Madam,

Since anna visited the Muses Seat,
(Around Her Tomb let weeping Angels wait)
Hail Thou, the Brightest of thy Sex, and Best,
Most gracious Neighbour, and most welcome Guest.
Not Harley's Self to Cam and Isis dear,
In Virtues and in Arts great Oxford's Heir,
Not He such present Honours shall receive,
As to his Consort We aspire to give.

Writings of Men our Thought to Day neglects,
To pay due Homage to the Softer Sex:
Plato and Tully We forbear to read,
And their great Followers whom this House has bred,
To study Lessons from Thy Morals given,
And shining Characters, impress'd by Heaven.
Science in Books no longer We pursue,
Minerva's Self in Harriet's Face We view;
For when with Beauty we can Virtue join,
We paint the Semblance of a Form Divine.

Their pious Incense let our Neighbours bring,
To the kind Mem'ry of some bounteous King,
With grateful Hand, due Altars let Them raise
To some good Knight's, or holy Prelate's Praise;
We tune our Voices to a nobler Theme,
Your Eyes We bless, your Praises We proclaim,
St. John's was founded in a Woman's Name:
Enjoin'd by Statute, to the Fair We bow;
In Spight of Time, We keep our antient Vow;
What Margaret Tudor was, is Harriet Harley now.

PROLOGUE TO THE ORPHAN.

Represented by some of the Westminster-Scholars at Hickford's Dancing-Room, the 2d of February, 1720.

[_]

Spoken by the Lord DUPLIN, who Acted CORDELIO.

What wou'd my humble Comrades have Me say?
Gentle Spectators, pray excuse the Play?
Such Work by hireling Actors shou'd be done,
Whom You may Clap or Hiss, for half a Crown:
Our generous Scenes for Friendship We repeat;
And if We don't delight, at least We treat.
Ours is the Damage, if We chance to blunder;
We may be ask'd whose Patent We act under.

How shall We gain you? A-la-mode de France?
We hir'd this Room; but none of Us can dance:
In cutting Capers We shall never please:
Our Learning does not lye below our Knees.

Shall We procure You Symphony and Sound?
Then You must Each subscribe Two hundred Pound.
There We shou'd fail too, as to Point of Voice:
Mistake Us not; We're no Italian Boys:
True Britons born, from Westminster We come;
And only speak the Style of ancient Rome.
We wou'd deserve, not poorly beg Applause;
And stand or fall by Freind's or Busby's Laws.

For the Distress'd Your Pity We implore:
If once refus'd, We trouble You no more,
But leave Our Orphan squawling at your Door.

THE CONVERSATION,

A TALE.

It always has been thought discreet,
To know the Company You meet;
And sure there may be secret Danger,
In talking much before a Stranger.
Agreed: What then? Then drink your Ale:
I'll pledge You, and repeat my Tale.

No Matter where the Scene is fixt:
The Persons were but odly mixt;
When Sober Damon thus began:
(And Damon is a clever Man)
I now grow Old; but still, from Youth,
Have held for Modesty and Truth:
The Men who by these Sea-marks steer,
In Life's great Voyage never Err:
Upon this Point I dare defy
The World: I pause for a Reply.

Sir, Either is a good Assistant:
Said One who sat a little distant:
Truth decks our Speeches and our Books;
And Modesty adorns our Looks:
But farther Progress We must take,
Not only born to Look and Speak:
The Man must Act. The Stagyrite
Says thus, and says extremely right:
Strict Justice is the Sov'raign Guide,
That o'er our Action shou'd preside:
This Queen of Virtues is confest,
To regulate and bind the rest.
Thrice Happy, if You once can find
Her equal Balance poize your Mind:
All different Graces soon will enter,
Like Lines concurrent to their Center.

'Twas thus, in short, these Two went on,
With Yea and Nay, and Pro and Con,
Thro' many Points divinely dark,
And Waterland assaulting Clarke;
'Till, in Theology half lost,
Damon took up the Evening-Post;
Confounded Spain, compos'd the North,
And deep in Politics held forth.

Methinks We're in the like Condition,
As at the Treaty of Partition:
That Stroke, for All King William's Care,
Begat another Tedious War:
Matthew, who knew the whole Intrigue,
Ne'er much approv'd That Mystic League.
In the vile Utrecht Treaty too,
Poor Man, He found enough to do:
Sometimes to Me he did apply;
But down-right Dunstable was I,
And told Him, where They were mistaken;
And counsell'd Him to save his Bacon:
But (pass His Politics and Prose)
I never herded with his Foes;
Nay, in his Verses, as a Friend,

I still found Something to commend:
Sir, I excus'd his Nut-Brown-Maid;
Whate'er severer Critics said:
Too far, I own, the Girl was try'd:
The Women All were on my Side.
For Alma I return'd Him Thanks:
I lik'd Her with Her little Pranks:
Indeed poor Solomon in Rhime
Was much too grave to be Sublime.

Pindar and Damon scorn Transition:
So on He ran a new Division;
'Till out of Breath he turn'd to spit:
(Chance often helps Us more than Wit)
T'other that lucky Moment took,
Just nick'd the Time, broke in, and spoke.

Of all the Gifts the Gods afford,
(If we may take old Tully's Word)
The greatest is a Friend; whose Love
Knows how to praise, and when reprove:
From such a Treasure never part,
But hang the Jewel on your Heart:
And, pray, Sir (it delights Me) tell;
You know this Author mighty well—
Know Him! d'ye question it? Ods-fish!
Sir, does a Beggar know his Dish?
I lov'd Him, as I told You, I
Advis'd Him—Here a Stander-by
Twitch'd Damon gently by the Cloak,
And thus unwilling Silence broke:
Damon, 'tis Time We shou'd retire:
The Man You talk with is Mat. Prior.

Patron thro' Life, and from thy Birth my Friend,
Dorset, to Thee this Fable let Me send:
With Damon's Lightness weigh Thy solid Worth;
The Foil is known to set the Diamond forth:
Let the feign'd Tale this real Moral give,
How many Damons, how few Dorsets Live.

COLIN's MISTAKES.

Written in Imitation of Spenser's Style.

Me ludit Amabilis
Insania.
Hor.

I

Fast by the Banks of Cam was Colin bred:
Ye Nymphs, for ever guard That sacred Stream,
To Wimpole's woody Shade his Way he sped:
Flourish those Woods, the Muses endless Theme!
As whilom Colin ancient Books had read,
Lays Greek and Roman wou'd he oft rehearse,
And much he lov'd, and much by heart he said
What Father Spenser sung in British Verse.
Who reads that Bard desires like Him to write,
Still fearful of Success, still tempted by Delight.

II

Soon as Aurora had unbarr'd the Morn,
And Light discover'd Nature's chearful Face;
The sounding Clarion, and the sprightly Horn
Call'd the blyth Huntsmen to the distant Chace.
Eftsoons They issue forth, a goodly Band;
The deep-mouth'd Hounds with Thunder rend the Air;
The fiery Coursers strike the rising Sand;
Far thro' the Thicket flies the frighted Deer;
Harley the Honour of the Day supports;
His Presence glads the Wood; His Orders guide the Sports.

III

On a fair Palfrey well equip't did sit
An Amazonian Dame; a scarlet Vest
For active Horsemanship adaptly fit
Enclos'd her dainty Limbs; a plumed Crest
Wav'd o'er her Head; obedient by her Side
Her Friends and Servants rode; with artful Hand
Full well knew She the Steed to turn and guide:
The willing Steed receiv'd her soft Command:
Courage and Sweetness in her Face were seated;
On Her all Eyes were bent, and all good Wishes waited.

IV

This seeing, Colin thus his Muse bespake:
For alltydes was the Muse to Colin nigh,
Ah me too nigh! Or, Clio, I mistake;
Or that bright Form that pleaseth so mine Eye,
Is Jove's fair Daughter Pallas, gracious Queen
Of liberal Arts; with Wonder and Delight
In Homer's Verse we read Her; well I ween,
That emu'lous of his Grecian Master's Flight,
Dan Spenser makes the fav'rite Goddess known;
When in her graceful Look fair Britomart is shown.

V

At Noon as Colin to the Castle came,
Ope'd were the Gates, and right prepar'd the Feast:
Apppears at Table rich yclad a Dame,
The Lord's Delight, and Wonder of the Guest.
With Pearl and Jewels was she sumptuous deckt,
As well became her Dignity and Place;
But the Beholders mought her Gems neglect,
To fix their Eyes on her more lovely Face,
Serene with Glory, and with Softness bright:
O Beauty sent from Heav'n, to cheer the mortal Sight!

VI

Liberal Munificence behind her stood;
And decent State obey'd her high Command;
And Charity diffuse of native Good

At once portrayes her Mind, and guides her Hand.
As to each Guest some Fruits She deign'd to lift,
And Silence with obliging Parley broke;
How gracious seem'd to each th' imparted Gift?
But how more gracious what the Giver spoke?
Such Ease, such Freedom did her Deed attend,
That every Guest rejoic'd, exalted to a Friend.

VII

Quoth Colin; Clio, if my feeble Sense
Can well distinguish Yon illustrious Dame,
Who nobly doth such gentle Gifts dispense;
In Latian Numbers Juno is her Name,
Great Goddess who with Peace and Plenty crown'd,
To all that under Sky breathe vital Air
Diffuseth Bliss, and thro' the World around
Pours wealthy Ease, and scatters joyous Chear;
Certes of Her in semblant Guise I read;
Where Spenser decks his Lays with Gloriana's Deed.

VIII

As Colin mus'd at Evening near the Wood;
A Nymph undress'd, beseemeth, by Him past:
Down to her Feet her silken Garment flow'd:
A Ribbon bound and shap'd her slender Waste:
A Veil dependent from her comely Head,
And beauteous Plenty of ambrosial Hair,
O'er her fair Breast and lovely Shoulders spread,
Behind fell loose, and wanton'd with the Air.
The smiling Zephyrs call'd their am'rous Brothers:
They kiss'd the waving Lawn, and wafted it to Others.

IX

Daisies and Violets rose, where She had trod;
As Flora kind her Roots and Buds had sorted:
And led by Hymen, Wedlock's mystic God,
Ten thousand Loves around the Nymph disported.
Quoth Colin; now I ken the Goddess bright,
Whom Poets sing: All human Hearts enthrall'd
Obey her Pow'r; her Kindness the Delight

Of Gods and Men; great Venus She is call'd,
When Mantuan Virgil doth her Charms rehearse;
Belphebè is her Name, in gentle Edmund's Verse.

X

Heard this the Muse, and with a Smile reply'd,
Which show'd soft Anger mixt with friendly Love:
Twin Sisters still were Ignorance and Pride;
Can we know Right, 'till Error we remove?
But Colin, well I wist, will never learn:
Who slights his Guide shall deviate from his Way.
Me to have ask'd what Thou coud'st not discern,
To Thee pertain'd; to Me, the Thing to say.
What Heavenly Will from human Eye conceals,
How can the Bard aread, unless the Muse reveals?

XI

Nor Pallas thou, nor Britomart hast seen;
When soon at Morn the flying Deer was chac't:
No Jove's great Wife, nor Spenser's Fairy-Queen
At Noon-tyde dealt the Honors of the Feast:
Nor Venus, nor Belphebè did'st Thou spy,
The Evening's Glory, and the Grove's Delight.
Henceforth, if ask'd, instructed right, reply,
That all the Day to knowing Mortals Sight
Bright Ca'ndish-Holles-Harley stood confest,
As various Hour advis'd, in various Habit drest.

[MISCELLANEOUS POEMS ETC., FROM THE COLLECTION OF DRIFT]

Considerations on part of the 88th Psalm.

A College Exercise. 1690.

I

Heavy, O Lord, on me thy judgments lie,
Accurst I am, while God rejects my cry.
O'erwhelm'd in darkness and despair I groan;
And ev'ry place is hell; for God is gone.
O! Lord, arise, and let thy beams controul
Those horrid clouds, that press my frighted soul:
Save the poor wand'rer from eternal night,
Thou that art the God of light.

II

Downward I hasten to my destin'd place;
There none obtain thy aid, or sing thy praise.
Soon I shall lie in death's deep ocean drown'd:
Is mercy there; or sweet forgiveness found?
O save me yet, whilst on the brink I stand;
Rebuke the storm, and waft my soul to land.
O let her rest beneath thy wing secure,
Thou that art the God of pow'r.

III

Behold the prodigal! to thee I come,
To hail my father, and to seek my home.
Nor refuge could I find, nor friend abroad,
Straying in vice, and destitute of God.
O let thy terrors, and my anguish end!
Be thou my refuge, and be thou my friend:
Receive the son thou didst so long reprove,
Thou that art the God of love.

ON THE TAKING OF NAMUR, 1692.

The town which Loüis bought, Nassau reclaims,
And brings instead of bribes avenging flames.
Now Loüis take thy titles from Above,
Boileau shall sing, and we'll believe thee Jove.
Jove gained his mistress with alluring gold,
But Jove like Thee was impotent and old:
Active and young he did like William stand,
And stunn'd the Dame, his Thunder in his Hand.

TO A CHILD of QUALITY, FIVE YEARS OLD, The AUTHOR Forty.

Written in 1704.

I

Lords, knights, and squires, the num'rous band,
That wear the fair miss Mary's fetters,
Were summon'd by her high command,
To show their passions by their letters.

II

My pen amongst the rest I took,
Lest those bright eyes that cannot read
Shou'd dart their kindling fires, and look,
The power they have to be obey'd.

III

Nor quality, nor reputation,
Forbid me yet my flame to tell,
Dear five years old befriends my passion,
And I may write till she can spell.

IV

For while she makes her silk-worms beds,
With all the tender things I swear,
Whilst all the house my passion reads,
In papers round her baby's hair.

V

She may receive and own my flame,
For tho' the strictest prudes shou'd know it,
She'll pass for a most virtuous dame,
And I for an unhappy poet.

VI

Then too alas! when she shall tear
The lines some younger rival sends,
She'll give me leave to write I fear,
And we shall still continue friends.

VII

For as our diff'rent ages move,
'Tis so ordain'd, wou'd fate but mend it,
That I shall be past making love
When she begins to comprehend it.

TWO RIDDLES.

1710.

Sphinx was a monster that would eat,
Whatever stranger she could get;
Unless his ready wit disclos'd
The subtle riddle she propos'd.

Oedipus was resolv'd to go,
And try what strength of parts would do:
Says Sphinx on this depends your fate;
Tell me what animal is that,
Which has four feet at morning bright,
Has two at noon, and three at night?
'Tis Man, said he, who weak by nature,
At first creeps, like his fellow-creature,
Upon all four, as years accrue,
With sturdy steps he walks on two:
In age, at length, grows weak and sick,
For his third leg adopts the stick.

Now in your turn, 'tis just methinks,
You should resolve me, Madam Sphinx,
What greater stranger yet is he,
Who has four legs, then two, then three;
Then loses one, then gets two more,
And runs away at last on four .

A Prime-Minister.

A FABLE.

Personam Tragicam forte vulpes viderat,
O quanta species, inquit, cerebrum non habet!
Phædr.

The Fox an actor's vizard found,
And peer'd, and felt, and turn'd it round:
Then threw it in contempt away,
And thus old Phædrus heard him say:
What noble part can'st thou sustain,
Thou specious head without a brain?

A SONG.
[_]

SET BY Mr ABEL.

[Reading ends in melancholy]

Reading ends in melancholy,
Wine breeds vices and diseases,
Wealth is but care, and love but folly,
Only Friendship truly pleases:
My wealth, my books, my flask, my Molly,
Farewel all, if Friendship ceases.

CONSUMMATION.

To a Friend.

When Jove lay blest in his Alcmæna's charms,
Three nights, in One, he prest her in his arms;
The sun lay set, and conscious nature strove
To shade her God, and to prolong his love.
From that auspicious night Alcides came,
What less could rise from Jove, and such a Dame?
May this auspicious night with that compare,
Nor less the joys, nor less the rising heir,
He strong as Jove, She like Alcmæna fair.

THE FORTUNE-TELLER.

To a YOUNG LADY in search of HER DESTINY.

You, Madam, may with safety go,
Decrees of destiny to know.
For at your birth kind planets reign'd,
And certain happiness ordain'd:
Such charms as your's are only given
To chosen favourites of heaven.

But such is my uncertain state,
'Tis dangerous to try my fate:
For I would only know from art,
The future motions of your heart,
And what predestinated doom
Attends my love for years to come;
No secrets else, that mortals learn,
My care deserve, or life concern;
But this will so important be,

I dread to search the dark decree:
For while the smallest hope remains,
Faint joys are mingled with my pains.
Vain distant views my fancy please,
And give some intermitting ease:
But should the stars too plainly show
That you have doom'd my endless woe,
No human force, nor art, could bear
The torment of my wild despair.

This secret then I dare not know,
And other truths are useless now.
What matters, if unblest in love,
How long or short my life will prove?
To gratify what low desire,
Should I with needless haste enquire,
How great, how wealthy, I shall be?
O! what is wealth or pow'r to me?
If I am happy, or undone,
It must proceed from You alone.

AN ENIGMA.

By birth I'm a slave, yet can give you a crown,
I dispose of all honours, my self having none.
I'm obliged by just maxims to govern my life,
Yet I hang my own master, and lie with his wife.
When men are a gaming, I cunningly sneak,
And their cudgels and shovels away from them take.
Fair maidens and ladies, I by the hand get,
And pick off their diamonds, tho' ne'er so well set.
For when I have comrades, we rob in whole bands,
Then presently take off your lands from your hands.
But this fury once over, I've such winning arts,
That you love me much more than you do your own hearts.

CUPID Turned STROLLER.

FROM ANACREON, ODE III.

At dead of night, when stars appear,
And strong Bootes turns the Bear;
When mortals sleep their cares away,
Fatigu'd with labours of the day,
Cupid was knocking at my gate;
Who's there, says I, who knocks so late?
Disturbs my dreams, and breaks my rest?
O fear not me a harmless guest,
He said, but open, open pray;
A foolish child, I've lost my way,
And wander here this moon-light night,
All wet and cold, and wanting light.
With due regard his voice I heard,
Then rose, a ready lamp prepar'd,
And saw a naked boy below,
With wings, a quiver, and a bow:
In haste I ran, unlockt my gate,
Secure and thoughtless of my fate;
I set the Child an easy chair
Against the fire, and dry'd his hair;
Brought friendly cups of chearful wine,
And warm'd his little hands with mine;
All this did I with kind intent;
But he, on wanton mischief bent
Said, dearest friend, this bow you see,
This pretty bow belongs to me:
Observe, I pray, if all be right,
I fear the rain has spoil'd it quite:

He drew it then, and strait I found
Within my breast a secret wound.
This done, the rogue no longer staid,
But leapt away, and laughing said,
Kind host adieu, we now must part,
Safe is my bow, but sick thy heart.

SNUFF.

AN EPIGRAM.

Jove once resolv'd (the Females to degrade)
To propagate their Sex without their aid.
His brain conceiv'd, and soon the pangs, and throws
He felt, nor could th' unnatural birth disclose:
At last when try'd, no remedy would do,
The God took Snuff, and out the Goddess flew.

DAPHNE and APOLLO.

IMITATED.

Nympha, Precor, Penei mane.—
Ovid. Met. Lib. I.

APOLLO.
Abate, fair fugitive, abate thy speed,
Dismiss thy fears, and turn thy beauteous head,
With kind regard a panting lover view,
Less swiftly fly, less swiftly I'll pursue;
Pathless alas, and rugged is the ground,
Some stone may hurt thee, or some thorn may wound.

DAPHNE.
(Aside.)
This care is for himself, as sure as death,
One mile has put the fellow out of breath;
He'll never do, I'll lead him t' other round,
Washy he is, perhaps not over sound.

APOLLO.
You fly, alas, not knowing who you fly,
Nor ill bred swain, nor rusty clown am I;
I Claros-isle, and Tenedos command—

DAPHNE.
Thank ye, I wou'd not leave my native land.

APOLLO.
What is to come, by certain arts I know:

DAPHNE.
Pish, Partridge has as fair pretence as you.

APOLLO.
Behold the beauties of my locks.

(Daph.)

A fig—
That may be counterfeit, a Spanish-Wig;
Who cares for all that bush of curling hair,
Whilst your smooth chin is so extremely bare.

APOLLO.
I sing.

(Daph.)

That never shall be Daphne's choice,
Syphacio had an admirable voice.

APOLLO.
Of ev'ry herb I tell the mystic pow'r,
To certain health the patient I restore,
Sent for, caress'd;

(Daph.)

Ours is a wholsome air,
You'd better go to town and practise there:
For me, I've no obstructions to remove,
I'm pretty well, I thank your father Jove,
And physic is a weak ally to love.

APOLLO.
For learning fam'd fine verses I compose,

DAPHNE.
So do your brother quacks and brother beaux,
Memorials only, and reviews write prose.

APOLLO.
From the bent yew I send the pointed reed,
Sure of its aim, and fatal in its speed.—

DAPHNE.
Then leaving me whom sure you wou'd n't kill,
In yonder thicket exercise your skill,
Shoot there at beasts, but for the human heart
Your cousin Cupid has the only dart.

APOLLO.
Yet turn, O beauteous maid, yet deign to hear
A love-sick Deity's impetuous pray'r;
O let me woo thee as thou wou'dst be woo'd,

DAPHNE.

First therefore don't be so extremely rude;
Don't tear the hedges down, and tread the clover,
Like a hobgoblin rather than a lover;
Next to my father's grotto sometimes come,
At ebbing tide he always is at home.
Read the Courant with him, and let him know
A little politics, how matters go
Upon his brother-rivers Rhine or Po.
As any maid or footman comes or goes
Pull off your hat, and ask how Daphne does:
These sort of folks will to each other tell
That you respect me; That, you know, looks well:
Then if you are, as you pretend, the God
That rules the day, and much upon the road,
You'll find a hundred trifles in your way,
That you may bring one home from Africa;
Some little rarity, some bird, or beast,
And now and then a jewel from the east,
A lacquer'd-cabinet, some China-ware,
You have them mighty cheap at Pekin-fair.
Next, Nota Bene, you shall never rove,
Nor take example by your father Jove.
Last, for the ease and comfort of my life,
Make me your, lord what startles you, your wife;
I'm now, they say, sixteen, or something more,
We mortals seldom live above fourscore;

Fourscore, y' are good at numbers, let us see,
Seventeen suppose, remaining sixty-three,
Aye, in that span of time, you'll bury me.
Mean time if you have tumult, noise, and strife,
Things not abhorrent to a marry'd life,
They'll quickly end you see, what signify
A few odd years to you that never die;
And after all y' are half your time away,
You know your business takes you up all day,
And coming late to bed you need not fear,
Whatever noise I make, you'll sleep, my dear.
Or if a winter-evening shou'd be long
E'en read you physic book, or make a song.
Your steeds, your wife, diachalon, and rhime,
May take up any honest God-head's time,
Thus, as you like it, you may love again,
And let another Daphne have her reign,
Now love, or leave, my dear: retreat, or follow,
I Daphne, this premis'd, take thee Apollo,
And may I split into ten thousand trees
If I give up, on other terms than these.

She said, but what the am'rous God reply'd,
So fate ordain'd, is to our search deny'd,
By rats alas! the manuscript is eat,
O cruel banquet which we all regret;
Bavius, thy labours must this work restore,
May thy good will be equal to thy pow'r.

PROLOGUE, SPOKEN BY Lord BUCKHURST, AT WESTMINSTER-SCHOOL,

At a Representation of Mr Dryden's CLEOMENES, The Spartan HERO.

At Christmas. 1695.

Pish, lord, I wish this Prologue was but Greek,
Then young Cleonidas would boldly speak:
But can Lord Buckhurst in poor English say,
Gentle spectators pray excuse the play?
No, witness all ye Gods of ancient Greece,
Rather than condescend to terms like these,
I'd go to school six hours on Christmas-day,
Or construe Persius while my comrades play.
Such work by hireling actors should be done,
Who tremble when they see a critic frown.
Poor rogues that smart like fencers for their bread,
And if they are not wounded are not fed.
But, Sirs, our labour has more noble ends,
We act our Tragedy to see our Friends:
Our gen'rous scenes are for pure love repeated,
And if you are not pleas'd, at least your treated.
The candles and the cloaths our selves we bought,
Our Tops neglected, and our Balls forgot.
To learn our parts we left our midnight bed,
Most of you snored whilst Cleomenes read;
Not that from this confession we would sue
Praise undeserv'd; we know our selves and you:
Resolv'd to stand or perish by our cause,
We neither censure fear, or beg applause,
For those are Westminster and Sparta's laws.

Yet if we see some judgment well inclin'd,
To young desert, and growing virtue kind,
That critic by ten thousand marks should know,
That greatest souls to goodness only bow;
And that your little Hero does inherit
Not Cleomenes more than Dorset's spirit.

[THE SECRETARY.]

Written at the HAGUE, In the year 1696.

While with labour assid'ous due pleasure I mix,
And in one day atone for the bus'ness of six,
In a little Dutch-chaise on a Saturday night,
On my left hand my Horace, a Nymph on my right.
No Memoire to compose, and no Post-Boy to move,
That on Sunday may hinder the softness of love;
For her, neither visits, nor parties of tea,
Nor the long-winded cant of a dull refugée.
This night and the next shall be her's, shall be mine,
To good or ill fortune the third we resign:
Thus scorning the world, and superior to fate,
I drive on my car in processional state;
So with Phia thro' Athens Pysistratus rode,
Men thought her Minerva, and him a new God.
But why should I stories of Athens rehearse,
Where people knew love, and were partial to verse,
Since none can with justice my pleasures oppose,
In Holland half drowned in int'rest and prose:
By Greece and past ages, what need I be try'd,
When the Hague and the present, are both on my side,
And is it enough, for the joys of the day;
To think what Anacreon, or Sappho would say.
When good Vandergoes, and his provident Vrough,
As they gaze on my triumph, do freely allow,
That search all the province, you'd find no man there is
So bless'd as the Englishen Heer SECRETARIS.

THE MICE

A TALE.

TO Mr ADRIAN DRIFT, in the Year 1708–9.

Two Mice (dear boy) of genteel fashion,
And (what is more) good education,
Frolic and gay, in infant years,
Equally shar'd their parents cares.
The sire of these two babes (poor creature)
Paid his last debt to human nature;
A wealthy widow left behind,
Four babes, three male, one female kind.
The sire b'ing under ground, and bury'd,
'Twas thought his spouse would soon have marry'd;
Matches propos'd, and num'rous suitors,
Most tender husbands, careful tutors,
She modestly refus'd; and show'd
She'd be a mother to her brood.

Mother, dear mother, that endearing thought,
Has thousand, and ten thousand, fancies brought;
Tell me, O! tell me (thou art now above)
How to describe thy true maternal love,
Thy early pangs, thy growing anxious cares,
Thy flatt'ring hopes, thy fervent pious pray'rs,
Thy doleful days, and melancholy nights,
Cloyster'd from common joys, and just delights:

How thou didst constantly in private mourn,
And wash with daily tears thy spouse's urn;
How it employ'd your thoughts, and lucid time,
That your young offspring might to honour climb;
How your first care by num'rous griefs opprest,
Under the burthen sunk, and went to rest;
How your dear darling, by consumption's waste,
Breath'd her last piety into your breast;
How you alas! tyr'd with your pilgrimage,
Bow'd down your head, and dy'd in good old age.
Tho' not inspir'd, O! may I never be
Forgetful of my pedigree, or thee,
Ungrateful howsoe'er, mayn't I forget
To pay this small, yet tributary debt,
And when we meet at God's tribunal throne,
Own me, I pray thee, for a pious son.

But why all this? is this your fable?
Believe me Matt, it seems a bauble,
If you will let me know th' intent on't,
Go to your Mice, and make an end on't.

Well then dear brother,—
As sure as Hudi's sword could swaddle,
Two Mice were brought up in one cradle,
Well bred, I think, of equal port,
One for the gown, one for the court:
They parted, (did they so an't please you)
Yes, that they did (dear Sir) to ease you;
One went to Holland, where they huff folk,
T' other to vent his wares in Suffolk.
(That Mice have travell'd in old times,
Horace and Prior tell in rhymes,
Those two great wonders of their ages,
Superior far to all the sages.)
Many days past, and many a night,
E'er they could gain each other's sight;
At last in weather cold (not sultry)
They met at the Three-Cranes in Poultry.
After much buss, and great grimace,
(Usual you know in such a case)

Much chat arose, what had been done,
What might before next summer's sun;
Much said of France, of Suffolk's goodness,
The gentry's loyalty, mobbs rudeness,
That ended; o'er a charming bottle,
They enter'd on this tittle tattle.

Quoth Suffolk, by preheminence
In years, tho' (God knows) not in sense;
All's gone dear brother, only we
Remain to raise posterity;
Marry you brother; I'll go down,
Sell nouns and verbs, and lie alone.
May you ne'er meet with feuds or babble,
May olive-branches crown your table,
Somewhat I'll save, and for this end,
To prove a brother, and a friend.
What I propose is just, I swear it,
Or may I perish by this claret.
The dice are thrown, chuse this or that,
('Tis all alike to honest Matt)
I'll take then the contrary part,
And propagate with all my heart.
After some thought, some Portugueze,
Some wine, the younger thus replies.

Fair are your words, as fair your carr'age,
Let me be free, drudge you in marr'age,
Get me a boy call'd Adrian,
Trust me, I'll do for't what I can.
Home went well pleas'd the Suffolk tony,
Heart-free from care, as purse from money,
Resolving full to please his taudy,
He got a spouse, and jerk'd her body;
At last when teeming time was come,
Out came her burthen from her womb,
It prov'd a lusty squalling boy,
(Doubtless the dad's and mammy's joy.)
In short, to make things square and even,
Adrian he nam'd was by Dick, Stephen.

100

Matt's debt thus paid, he now enlarges,
And sends you in a bill of charges,
A cradle (brother) and a basket,
(Granted as soon as e'er I ask'd it)
A coat not of the smallest scantling,
Frocks, stockings, shoes, to grace the bantling,
These too were sent, (or I'm no drubber)
Nay add to these the fine gum-rubber;
Yet these wo'nt do, send t' other coat,
For (faith) the first e'nt worth a groat,
Dismally shrunk, as herrings shotten,
Suppos'd originally rotten.
Pray let the next be each way longer,
Of stuff more durable, and stronger;
Send it next week, if you are able,
By this time, Sir, you know the fable;
From this, and letters of the same make,
You'll find what 'tis to have a name-sake.

Cold and hard times, Sir, here, (believe it)
I've lost my curate too, and grieve it,
At Easter, for what I can see,
(A time of ease and vacancy)
If things but alter, and not undone,
I'll kiss your hands, and visit London;
Molly sends greeting, so do I Sir,
Send a good coat, that's all, good b'ye Sir.

Your's entirely, MATTHEW.

Wednesday Night, 10 o'Clock, Feb. 16, 1708/9.

101

THE VICEROY.

A BALLAD.
[_]

TO The Tune of The Lady Isabella's Tragedy: Or: The Step-Mother's Cruelty.

Written in 1714.

I

Of Nero, tyrant, petty king,
Who hertofore did reign
In fam'd Hibernia, I will sing,
And in a ditty plain.

II

He hated was by rich and poor,
For reasons you shall hear,
So ill he exercis'd his pow'r,
That he himself did fear.

III

Full proud and arrogant was he,
And covetous withal,
The guilty he would still set free,
But guiltless men enthral.

IV

He with a haughty impious nod
Would curse and dogmatize,
Not fearing either man or God,
Gold he did idolize.

102

V

A patriot of high degree,
Who could no longer bear
This upstart Viceroy's tyranny,
Against him did declare.

VI

And arm'd with truth impeach'd the Don,
Of his enormous crimes,
Which I'll unfold to you anon,
In low, but faithful rimes.

VII

The articles recorded stand,
Against this peerless peer,
Search but the archives of the land,
You'll find them written there.

VIII

Attend, and justly I'll recite
His treasons to you all,
The heads set in their native light,
(And sigh poor Gaphny's fall.)

IX

That trait'rously he did abuse
The pow'r in him repos'd,
And wickedly the same did use,
On all mankind impos'd.

X

That he, contrary to all law,
An oath did frame and make,
Compelling the militia,
Th' illegal oath to take.

103

XI

Free-quarters for the army too,
He did exact and force,
On Protestants, his love to show,
Than Papists us'd them worse.

XII

On all provisions destin'd for
The camp at Limerick,
He laid a tax full hard and sore,
Tho' many men were sick.

XIII

The suttlers too he did ordain
For licences should pay,
Which they refus'd with just disdain,
And fled the camp away.

XIV

By which provisions were so scant,
That hundreds there did die,
The soldiers food and drink did want,
Nor famine cou'd they fly.

XV

He so much lov'd his private gain,
He could nor hear or see,
They might, or die, or might complain,
Without relief pardie.

XVI

That above and against all right,
By word of mouth did he,
In council sitting, hellish spite,
The farmer's fate decree.

XVII

That he, O! Ciel, without trial,
Straitway shou'd hanged be,
Tho' then the courts were open all,
Yet Nero judge wou'd be.

104

XVIII

No sooner said, but it was done,
The Borreau did his worst,
Gaphny alas! is dead and gone,
And left his judge accurst.

XIX

In this concise, despotic way,
Unhappy Gaphny fell,
Which did all honest men affray,
As truly it might well.

XX

Full two good hundred pounds a year,
This poor man's real estate,
He set'led on his fav'rite dear,
And Culliford can say't.

XXI

Besides, he gave five hundred pound
To Fielding his own scribe,
Who was his bail, one friend he found,
He ow'd him to the bribe.

XXII

But for this horrid murder vile,
None did him prosecute,
His old friend helpt him o'er the stile,
With Satan who'd dispute?

XXIII

With France, fair England's mortal foe
A trade he carry'd on,
Had any other don't, I trow,
To Tripos he had gone.

XXIV

That he did likewise trait'rously,
To bring his ends to bear,
Enrich himself most knavishly,
O thief without compare.

105

XXV

Vast quantities of stores did he
Embezzel and purloin,
Of the King's stores he kept a key,
Converting them to coin.

XXVI

The forfeited estates also,
Both real and personal,
Did with the stores together go,
Fierce Cerb'rus swallow'd all.

XXVII

Mean while the soldiers sigh'd and sobb'd,
For not one souse had they,
His Excellence' had each man fobb'd,
For He had sunk their pay.

XXVIII

Nero, without the least disguise,
The Papists at all times
Still favour'd, and their robberies
Look'd on as trivial crimes.

XXIX

The Protestants whom they did rob,
During his government,
Were forc'd with patience, like good Job,
To rest themselves content.

XXX

For he did basely them refuse
All legal remedy,
The Romans he still well did use,
Still screen'd their roguery.

XXXI

Succinctly thus to you I've told,
How this Viceroy did reign,
And other truths I shall unfold,
For truth is always plain.

106

XXXII

The best of Queen's he hath revil'd,
Before, and since her death,
He, cruel and ungrateful, smil'd
When she resign'd her breath.

XXXIII

Forgetful of the favours kind,
She had on him bestow'd,
Like Lucifer, his ranc'rous mind,
He lov'd nor Her nor God.

XXXIV

But listen Nero, lend thy ears,
As still thou hast them on;
Hear what Britannia says with tears,
Of Anna, dead and gone.

XXXV

“O! sacred be Her memory,
“For ever dear Her name,
“There never was, or e'er can be,
“A brighter, juster, Dame.

XXXVI

“Blest be My Sons, and eke all those,
“Who on Her praises dwell,
“She conquer'd Britain's fiercest foes,
“She did all Queens excel.

XXXVII

“All Princes, Kings, and Potentates,
“Ambassadors did send,
“All nations, provinces, and states,
“Sought Anna for their friend.

XXXVIII

“In Anna They did all confide,
“For Anna They could trust,
“Her royal faith they all had try'd,
“For Anna still was just.

107

XXXIX

“Truth, Mercy, Justice, did surround
“Her awful judgment-seat,
“In Her the Graces all were found,
“In Anna all compleat.

XL

“She held the sword and ballance right,
“And sought Her people's good,
“In clemency she did delight;
“Her reign not stain'd with blood.

XLI

“Her gracious goodness, piety
“In all her deeds did shine,
“And bounteous was her charity,
“All attributes divine.

XLII

“Consummate wisdom, meekness all,
“Adorn'd the words she spoke,
“When they from Her fair lips did fall,
“And sweet her lovely look.

XLIII

“Ten thousand glorious deeds to crown,
“She caus'd dire war to cease,
“A greater Empress ne'er was known,
“She fix'd the world in peace.

XLIV

“This last and Godlike-act atchiev'd,
“To Heav'n She wing'd Her flight,
“Her loss with tears all Europe griev'd,
“Their strength, and dear delight.

XLV

“Leave we in bliss this heav'nly Saint,
“Revere ye just Her urn,
“Her virtues high and excellent,
“Astrea gone we mourn.

108

XLVI

“Commemorate my Sons the day,
“Which gave great Anna birth,
“Keep it for ever, and for aye,
“And annual be your mirth.”

XLVII

Illustrious George now fills the throne,
Our wise, benign, good king,
Who can his wond'rous deeds make known?
Or his bright actions sing?

XLVIII

Thee, fav'rite Nero, he has deign'd,
To raise to high degree,
Well Thou thy honours hast sustain'd,
Well voucht Thy ancestry.

XLIX

But pass—These honours on Thee laid,
Can they e'er make thee white,
Don't Gaphny's blood, which thou hast shed,
Thy guilty soul affright?

L

O! is there not, grim mortal tell,
Places of bliss and wo?
O! is there not a Heav'n, a Hell?
But whither wilt Thou go?

LI

Can nought change thy obdurate mind?
Wilt Thou for ever rail?
The prophet on Thee well refin'd,
And set thy wit to sale.

LII

How Thou art lost to sense and shame,
Three countries witness be,
Thy conduct all just men do blame,
Lib'ra nos Domine.

109

LIII

Dame Justice waits Thee well I ween,
Her sword is brandish'd high,
Nought can thee from Her vengeance screen,
Nor can'st Thou from Her fly.

LIV

Heavy Her ire will fall on Thee,
The glitt'ring steel is sure,
Sooner or later, all agree,
She cuts off the impure.

LV

To Her I leave Thee, gloomy Peer,
Think on Thy crimes committed,
Repent, and be for once sincere,
Thou ne'er wilt be De-Witted.

Sabbati 16. die Decembris 5 Gulielmi & Mariæ 1693.

UPON THIS PASSAGE IN SCALIGERIANA.

Les Allemans ne ce soucient pas quel Vin ils boivent pouveu que ce soit Vin, ni quel Latin ils parlent pouveu que ce soit Latin.

When you with High-Dutch Heeren dine,
Expect false Latin, and stumm'd Wine,
They never Taste who always Drink,
They always Talk who never Think.

110

Nell and John.

An Epigram.

I

When Nell, given o'er by the doctor, was dying,
And John at the chimney stood decently crying,
'Tis in vain said the Woman, to make such ado,
For to our long home, we must all of us go.

II

True, Nell, reply'd John, but what yet is the worst
For us that remain, the best always go first;
Remember, dear wife, that I said so last year,
When you lost your white heifer, and I my brown mare.

Bibo.

An Epigram.

When Bibo thought fit from the world to retreat,
As full of Champagne, as an egg's full of meat;
He wak'd in the boat, and to Charon he said,
He wou'd be row'd back, for he was not yet dead.
Trim the boat, and sit quiet, stern Charon reply'd,
You may have forgot, you were drunk when you dy'd.

Gabriel and his Wives.

An Epigram.

I

O death how thou spoil'st the best projects of life,
Said Gabriel, who still as he bury'd One wife,
For the sake of her family marry'd her cousin;

II

And thus in an honest collateral line,
He still marry'd on till his number was Nine,
Full sorry to die till he made up his Dozen.

111

Silvia.

An Epigram.

Her time with equal prudence Silvia shares,
First writes her Billet-doux, then says her pray'rs,
Her mass and toilet; vespers, and the play;
Thus God and Ashtaroth divide the day:
Constant she keeps her Ember-week, and Lent,
At Easter calls all Israel to her tent:
Loose without band, and pious without zeal,
She still repeats the sins she would conceal;
Envy her self from Silvia's life must grant,
An artful woman makes a modern saint.

Richard and Nelly.

An Epigram.

Quoth Richard in jest, looking wistly at Nelly,
Methinks child you seem something round in the belly:
Nell answer'd him snapishly, How can that be?
My husband has been more than two years at sea.
Thy husband! quoth Dick, why that matter was carry'd
Most secretly, Nell, I ne'er thought thou wer't marry'd.

CUPID IN AMBUSH.

It oft to many has successful been,
Upon his arm to let his mistress lean,
Or with her airy fan to cool her heat,
Or gently squeeze her knees, or press her feet.
All public sports to favour young desire,
With opportunities like this conspire;
Ev'n where his skill, the Gladiator shows,
With human blood, where the Arena flows.

112

There oftentimes love's quiver-bearing-Boy,
Prepares his bow and arrows to destroy:
While the spectator gazes on the fight,
And sees 'em wound each other with delight.
While he his pretty mistress entertains,
And wagers with her who the conquest gains;
Slily the God takes aim and hits his heart,
And in the wounds he sees he bears his part.

Nannette.

A Song.

I

Haste my Nannette, my lovely maid,
Haste to the bower, thy swain has made.

II

For thee alone I made the bower,
And strew'd the couch with many a flower.

III

None but my Sheep shall near us come,
Venus be prais'd, my sheep are dumb.

IV

Great God of love, take thou my crook,
To keep the wolf from Nannette's flock.

V

Guard thou the sheep, to her so dear,
My own, alas! are less my care.

VI

But of the wolf, if thou'rt afraid,
Come not to us to call for aid.

VII

For with her swain my love shall stay,
Tho' the wolf strole, and the sheep stray.

113

The Priest and the Shepherd.

An Imitation OF A GREEK EPIGRAM.

When hungry wolves had trespass'd on the fold,
And the robb'd shepherd his sad story told;
“Call in Alcides, said a crafty priest,
“Give him one half, and he'll secure the rest.”
No, said the shepherd, if the Fates decree,
By ravaging my flock to ruin me;
To their commands I willingly resign,
Pow'r is their character, and patience mine:
Tho', troth to me, there seems but little odds,
Who prove the greatest robbers, wolves or Gods?

ON A FART, LET IN THE HOUSE of COMMONS.

Reader I was born, and cry'd;
I crack'd, I smelt, and so I dy'd.
Like Julius Cæsar's was My death,
Who in the senate lost his breath.
Much alike entomb'd does lie
The noble Romulus and I;
And when I dy'd, like Flora fair,
I left the Common-Wealth my heir

114

On Hall's Death.

An Epigram.

Poor Hall caught his death standing under a spout,
Expecting till midnight, when Nan would come out;
But fatal his patience, as cruel the Dame,
And curst was the Weather that quench'd the Man's flame.
“Who e'er thou art that reads these moral lines,
“Make love at home, and go to bed betimes.”

Prometheus.

An Epigram.

Prometheus forming Mr Day,
Carv'd something like a man in clay.
The mortal's work might well miscarry;
He that does heav'n and earth controul,
Has only pow'r to form a soul,
His hand is evident in Harry.
Since One is but a moving clod,
T'Other the lively form of God,
'Squire Wallis, you will scare be able,
To prove all poetry but fable.

THE WANDERING PILGRIM.

HUMBLY ADDRESSED TO Sir Thomas Frankland, Bart. Post-Master, and Pay-Master-General to Queen Anne.

I

Will Piggot must to Coxwould go,
To live, alas! in want,
Unless Sir Thomas say No, no,
Th' Allowance is too scant.

115

II

The gracious Knight full well does weet,
Ten farthings ne'er will do,
To keep a man each day in meat,
Some bread to meat is due.

III

A Rechabite poor Will must live,
And drink of Adam's ale,
Pure-Element, no life can give,
Or mortal soul regale.

IV

Spare diet, and spring-water clear,
Physicians hold are good;
Who diet's thus need never fear,
A fever in the blood.

V

Gra'mercy, Sirs, y'are in the right,
Prescriptions All can sell,
But he that does not eat can't sh***
Or piss if good drink fail.

VI

But pass—The Æsculapian-Crew,
Who eat and quaff the best,
They seldom miss to bake and brew,
Or lin to break their fast.

VII

Could Yorkshire-Tyke but do the same,
Than He like Them might thrive,
But Fortune, Fortune, cruel Dame,
To starve Thou do'st Him drive.

VIII

In Will's Old master's plenteous days,
His mem'ry e'er be blest;
What need of speaking in his praise,
His goodness stands confest.

116

IX

At His fam'd gate stood Charity,
In lovely sweet array,
Ceres, and Hospitality,
Dwelt there both night and day.

X

But to conclude, and be concise,
Truth must Will's voucher be,
Truth never yet went in disguise,
For naked still is She.

XI

There is but One, but One alone,
Can set the Pilgrim free,
And make him cease to pine and moan,
O! Frankland it is Thee.

XII

O! save him from a dreary way,
To Coxwould he must hye,
Bereft of thee he wends astray,
At Coxwould he must dye.

XIII

O! let him in thy hall but stand,
And wear a porter's gown,
Duteous to what Thou may'st command,
Thus William's wishes crown.

THE ADVICE OF VENUS.

Thus to the Muses Spoke the Cyprian-Dame;
Adorn my altars, and revere my name.
My Son shall else assume his potent darts,
Twang goes the bow, my Girls, have at your hearts.

117

The Muses answer'd,—Venus we deride,
The Vagrant's malice, and his Mother's pride.
Send him to Nymphs who sleep on Ida's shade,
To the loose dance, and wanton masquerade:
Our thoughts are setled, and intent our look,
On the instructive verse, and moral book;
On female idleness his pow'r relies,
But when he finds us studying-hard he flies.

CUPID TURNED PLOWMAN.

FROM THE GREEK OF MOSCHUS.

His lamp, his bow, and quiver, laid aside,
A rustic wallet o'er his shoulders ty'd:
Sly Cupid always on new mischief bent,
To the rich field, and furrow'd tillage went.
Like any Plowman toil'd the little God,
His tune he whistled, and his wheat he sow'd;
Then sat and laugh'd, and to the skies above
Raising his eye, he thus insulted Jove.
Lay by your hail, your hurtful storms restrain,
And, as I bid you, let it shine or rain.
Else you again beneath my yoke shall bow,
Fell the sharp goad, and draw the servile plow,
What once Europa was Nannette is now.

118

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

AN EPIGRAM.

H.
O with what woes am I opprest!

W.
Be still you senseless Calf:
What if the Gods should make you blest?

H.
Why then I'd sing and laugh:
But if they won't, I'll wail, and cry.

W.
You'll hardly laugh, before you die.

TO FORTUNE.

ANOTHER.

Whilst I in Prison on a Court look down,
Nor beg thy favour, nor deserve thy frown,
In vain malicious Fortune, hast thou try'd,
By taking from my state to quell my Pride:
Insulting Girl, thy present rage abate;
And would'st thou have me humble, make me Great.

CHAST FLORIMEL.

I

No, I'll endure ten thousand deaths,
E'er any farther I comply;
O! Sir, no man on earth that breathes,
Had ever yet his hand so high.

119

II

O! take your sword and pierce my heart,
Undaunted see me meet the wound;
O! will you act a Tarquin's part?
A second Lucrece you have found.

III

Thus to the pressing Corydon,
Poor Florimel, unhappy maid,
Fearing by love to be undone,
In broken, dying, accents said.

IV

Delia, who held the conscious door,
Inspir'd by truth and brandy, smil'd,
Knowing that sixteen months before,
Our Lucrece had her second child.

V

And, hark ye, Madam, cry'd the bawd,
None of your flights, your high-rope dodging;
Be civil here, or march abroad;
Oblige the 'Squire, or quit the lodging.

VI

O! have I, Florimel went on,
Have I then lost my Delia's aid?
Where shall forsaken virtue run,
If by her friends she is betray'd?

VII

O! curse on empty friendship's name;
Lord, what is all our future view?
Then, dear destroyer of my fame,
Let my last succour be to you.

VIII

From Delia's rage, and Fortune's frown,
A wretched love-sick maid deliver;
O! tip me but another Crown,
Dear Sir, and make me Your's for ever.

120

PARTIAL FAME.

I

The sturdy Man if he in love obtains,
In open pomp and triumph reigns;
The subtil Woman if she should succeed,
Disowns the honour of the deed.

II

Tho' He for all his boast, is forc'd to yield,
Tho' She can always keep the field,
He vaunts His Conquest, She conceals Her Shame;
How Partial is the voice of Fame?

A SONG.
[_]

SET BY Mr PURCEL.

[Whither would my passion run]

I

Whither would my passion run,
Shall I fly Her, or pursue Her?
Losing Her I am undone,
Yet would not gain Her to undo Her.

II

Ye tyrants of the human breast,
Love and Reason! cease your war,
And order Death to give me rest;
So each will equal triumph share.

121

NON PAREIL.

In Praise of Phyllis.

I

Let others from the town retire,
And in the fields seek new delight;
My Phillis does such joys inspire,
No other objects please my sight.

II

In Her alone I find whate'er
Beauties a country-landscape grace;
No shades so lovely as Her hair,
Nor plain so sweet as is Her face.

III

Lilies and roses there combine,
More beauteous than in flow'ry field;
Transparent is Her skin, so fine,
To this each crystal stream must yield.

IV

Her voice more sweet than warbling sound,
Tho' sung by nightingale or lark,
Her eyes such lustre dart around,
Compar'd to them the sun is dark.

V

Both light and vital heat they give,
Cherish'd by Them my love takes root,
From Her kind looks does life receive,
Grows a fair plant; bears flow'rs, and fruit.

VI

Such fruit, I ween, did once deceive
The common parent of mankind;
And made transgress our mother Eve:
Poison it's core, tho' fair it's rind.

VII

Yet so delicious is it's taste,
I cannot from the bait abstain,
But to th' inchanting pleasure haste,
Tho' I were sure 'twou'd end in pain.

122

UPON HONOUR.

A FRAGMENT.

Honour, I say, or honest Fame,
I mean the substance, not the name;
(Not that light heap of tawdry wares,
Of Ermin, Coronets, and Stars,
Which often is by merit sought,
By gold and flatt'ry oft'ner bought.
The shade, for which Ambition looks,
In Selden's or in Ashmole's books:)
But the true glory which proceeds,
Reflected bright from honest deeds,
Which we in our Own breast perceive,
And Kings can neither take nor give.

THE OLD GENTRY.

I

That all from Adam first began,
None but ungodly Woolston doubts,
And that His son, and His son's son,
Were all but plowmen, clowns, and louts.

II

Each when his rustic pains began,
To merit pleaded equal right,
'Twas only who left Off at noon,
Or who went On to work till night.

123

III

But coronets we owe to crowns,
And favour to a court's affection,
By nature we are Adam's sons,
And sons of Anstis by election.

IV

Kingsale, eight hundred years have roll'd,
Since thy forefathers held the plow,
When this shall be in story told,
Add, That my kindred do so now.

V

The man who by his labour gets
His bread, in independant state,
Who never begs, and seldom eats,
Himself can fix, or change his fate.

THE INCURABLE.

AN EPIGRAM.

Phillis you boast of perfect health in vain,
And laugh at those who of their ills complain:
That with a frequent fever Cloe burns,
And Stella's plumpness into dropsy turns.
O! Phillis, while the patients are nineteen,
Little, alas! are their distempers seen.
But Thou for all Thy seeming health art ill,
Beyond thy lover's hopes, or Blackmore's skill;
No lenitives can thy disease asswage,
I tell Thee, 'Tis incurable—'tis Age.

124

THE Insatiable PRIEST.

I

Luke Preach-Ill, admires what we laymen can mean,
That thus by our profit and pleasure are sway'd;
He has but three livings, and would be a Dean,
His wife dy'd this year, He has marry'd His maid.

II

To suppress all His carnal desires in their birth,
At all hours a lusty young hussy is near;
And to take off His thought from the things of this earth,
He can be content with two thousand a year.

DOCTORS Differ.

AN EPIGRAM.

When Willis of Ephraim heard Rochester preach,
Thus Bently said to him, I pr'ythee, dear brother,
How lik'st Thou this Sermon? 'Tis out of My reach,
His is One way, said Willis, and Ours is Another.
I care not for carping, but this I can tell,
We preach very sadly, if he preaches well.

PONTIUS AND PONTIA.

I

Pontius, (who loves you know a joke,
Much better than he loves his life)
Chanc'd t'other morning to provoke
The patience of a well-bred wife.

125

II

Talking of you, said he, my dear,
Two of the greatest wits in town,
One ask'd, If that high fuzz of hair
Was, bona fide, all your Own.

III

Her own, most certain, t'other said,
For Nan, who knows the thing, will tell ye,
The hair was bought, the money paid,
And the receipt was sign'd Ducailly.

IV

Pontia, (that civil prudent She,
Who values wit much less than sense,
And never darts a repartee,
But purely in Her own defense)

V

Reply'd, These friends of your's, my dear,
Are given extremely much to satire,
But pr'ythee husband, let one hear,
Sometimes less wit, and more good-nature.

VI

Now I have one unlucky thought,
That wou'd have spoil'd your friend's conceit;
Some hair I have, I'm sure, unbought,
Pray bring your brother-wits to see't.

Cautious Alice.

So good a Wife doth Lissy make,
That from all company She flieth.
Such virtuous courses doth She take,
That She all evil tongues defieth.
And for her dearest Spouse's sake,
She with His brethren only lieth.

126

TO A POET of Quality, PRAISING THE Lady HINCHINBROKE.

I

Of thy judicious Muse's sense,
Young Hinchinbroke so very proud is,
That Sacharissa, and Hortense,
She looks, henceforth, upon as Doudies.

II

Yet She to One must still submit,
To dear mamma must pay Her duty,
She wonders praising Wilmot's wit,
Thou shou'dst forget His Daughter's beauty.

The PRATER.

An Epigram.

Lysander talks extremely well;
On any subject let him dwell,
His tropes and figures will content Ye:
He should possess to all degrees
The art of talk, he practises
Full fourteen hours in four and twenty.

127

TRUTH TOLD AT LAST.

AN EPIGRAM.

Says Pontius in rage, contradicting his Wife,
“You never yet told me one Truth in your life:”
Vext Pontia no way could this Thesis allow,
“You're a Cuckold, say's she, do I tell you Truth now?”

AN ENIGMA.

Form'd half beneath, and half above the earth,
We Sisters owe to art our second birth:
The Smith's and Carpenter's adopted Daughters,
Made on the land, to travel on the waters.
Swifter they move, as they are straiter bound,
Yet neither tread the air, or wave, or ground:
They serve the poor for use, the rich for whim,
Sink when it rains, and when it freezes swim.

TWO BEGGARS Disputing their Right to an Oyster they had Found; a Lawyer thus decides the Cause.

Blind Plaintiff, lame Defendant, share
The friendly Laws impartial care.
A Shell for Him, A Shell for Thee,
The Middle is the Lawyer's-Fee.
So Judge's Word decrees the People's Right,
And Magna Charta is a Paper-Kite.

128

A FRENCH SONG.

I

Why thus from the Plain does my Shepherdess rove,
Forsaking Her swain, and neglecting His love?
You have heard all my grief, you see how I die,
O! give some relief to the swain whom you fly.

II

How can you complain, or what am I to say,
Since my dog lies unfed, and my sheep run astray;
Need I tell what I mean, that I languish alone,
When I leave all the Plain, you may guess 'tis for One.

HUMAN LIFE.

What trifling coil do we poor mortals keep;
Wake, eat, and drink, evacuate, and sleep.

A CASE STATED.

I

Now how shall I do with my love and my pride,
Dear Dick give me counsel, if Friendship has any,
Pr'ythee purge, or let blood, surly Richard reply'd,
And forget the Coquet in the arms of your Nanny.

129

II

While I pleaded with passion how much I deserv'd,
For the pains and the torments for more than a year;
She look'd in an Almanack, whence she observ'd,
That it wanted a fortnight to Bartlemew-Fair.

III

My Cowley, and Waller, how vainly I quote,
While my negligent judge only Hears with her Eye,
In a long flaxen-wig, and embroider'd new coat,
Her spark saying nothing talks better than I.

FOR My own Monument.

I

As Doctors give physic by way of prevention,
Matt alive and in health, of his Tomb-Stone took care,
For delays are unsafe, and his pious intention
May haply be never fulfill'd by his Heir.

II

Then take Matt's word for it, the Sculptor is paid,
That the Figure is fine, pray believe your own eye,
Yet credit but lightly what more may be said,
For we flatter our selves, and teach marble to lye.

III

Yet counting as far as to Fifty his years,
His virtues and vices were as other men's are,
High hopes he conceiv'd, and he smother'd great fears,
In a life party-colour'd, half pleasure, half care.

130

IV

Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave,
He strove to make int'rest and freedom agree,
In public employments industrious and grave,
And alone with his friends, Lord how merry was he.

V

Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot,
Both fortunes he try'd, but to neither would trust,
And whirl'd in the round, as the wheel turn'd about,
He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust.

VI

This verse little polish'd, tho' mighty sincere
Sets neither his titles nor merit to view,
It says that his relics collected lie here,
And no mortal yet knows too if this may be true.

VII

Fierce robbers there are that infest the highway,
So Matt may be kill'd, and his bones never found,
False witness at court, and fierce tempests at sea,
So Matt may yet chance to be hang'd, or be drown'd.

VIII

If his bones lie in earth, roll in sea, fly in air,
To Fate we must yield, and the thing is the same,
And if passing thou giv'st him a smile, or a tear,
He cares not—yet pr'ythee be kind to his Fame.

TO My Lord HARLEY.

EXTEMPORE.

Pen, ink, and wax, and paper send,
To the kind Wife, the lovely Friend;
Smiling bid Her freely write,
What her happy thoughts indite;
Of Virtue, Goodness, Peace, and Love,
Thoughts which Angels may approve.

M. P.

131

A LETTER TO The Honourable LADY Miss Margaret-Cavendish-Holles-Harley.

My noble, lovely, little Peggy,
Let this, my First-Epistle, beg ye,
At dawn of morn, and close of even,
To lift your heart and hands to heaven:
In double beauty say your pray'r,
Our father first, then notre pere;
And, dearest Child, along the day,
In ev'ry thing you do and say,
Obey and please my Lord and Lady,
So God shall love, and Angels aid, Ye.

If to these Precepts You attend,
No Second-Letter need I send,
And so I rest Your constant Friend,

M. P.

TRUTH AND FALSHOOD.

A TALE.

Once on a time, in sun-shine weather,
Falshood and Truth walk'd out together,
The neighb'ring woods and lawns to view,
As opposites will sometimes do.

132

Thro' many a blooming mead They past,
And at a brook arriv'd at last.
The purling stream, the margin green,
With flowers bedeck'd, a vernal scene,
Invited each itin'rant maid
To rest a while beneath the shade;
Under a spreading beach They sat,
And pass'd the time with female chat;
Whilst each her character maintain'd;
One spoke her thoughts; the Other feign'd.

At length, quoth Falshood, Sister Truth,
For so She call'd Her from Her youth,
What if to shun yon sult'ry beam,
We bathe in this delightful stream;
The bottom smooth, the water clear,
And there's no prying shepherd near?—
With all my heart, the Nymph reply'd,
And threw Her snowy robes aside,
Stript her self naked to the skin,
And with a spring leapt headlong in.
Falshood more leisurely undrest,
And laying by Her tawdry vest,
Trick'd her self out in Truth's array,
And cross the meadows tript away.

From this curst hour, the Fraudful Dame,
Of sacred Truth usurps the name,
And with a vile, perfidious mind,
Roams far and near to cheat mankind;
False sighs suborns, and artful tears,
And starts with vain, pretended fears;
In visits, still appears most wise,
And rolls at church Her saint-like-eyes.
Talks very much, plays idle tricks,
While rising-stock Her conscience pricks,
When being, poor thing, extremely gravell'd,
She secrets ope'd, and all unravell'd.
But on She will, and secrets tell
Of John and Joan, and Ned and Nell,

133

Reviling ev'ry One She knows,
As fancy leads, beneath the rose.
Her tongue so voluble and kind,
It always runs before Her mind;
As times do serve She slily pleads,
And copious tears still shew Her needs,
With promises as thick as weeds.—
Speaks pro and con, is wond'rous civil,
To-day a Saint, to-morrow Devil.

Poor Truth She stript, as has been said,
And naked left the lovely Maid,
Who scorning from Her cause to wince,
Has gone stark-naked ever since;
And ever Naked will appear,
Belov'd by All who Truth revere.

Nelly's Picture.

A SONG.

I

Whilst others proclaim
This Nymph, or that Swain,
Dearest Nelly, the lovely, I'll sing;
She shall grace ev'ry verse,
I'll her Beauty rehearse,
Which lovers can't think an ill thing.

II

Her eyes shine as bright
As stars in the night,
Her complexion's divinely fair;
Her lips red as a cherry,
Wou'd a Hermit make merry,
And black as a coal is her hair.

134

III

Her breath like a rose,
It's sweets does disclose,
Whenever you ravish a kiss;
Like iv'ry inchas'd,
Her teeth are well plac'd,
An exquisite beauty she is.

IV

Her plump breasts are white,
Delighting the sight,
There Cupid discovers her charms;
O! spare then the rest,
And think of the best:
'Tis heaven to dye in her arms.

V

She's blooming as May,
Brisk, lively, and gay,
The Graces play all round about her;
She's prudent and witty,
Sings wond'rously pretty,
And there is no living without her.

PROLOGUE FOR DELIA's PLAY.

The Royal Mischief. A Tragedy.

Ladies, to You with pleasure we submit,
This early offspring of a Virgin-Wit.
From your good nature nought our Authress fears,
Sure you'll indulge, if not the Muse, her Years,

135

Freely the praise she may deserve bestow,
Pardon, not censure, what you can't allow;
Smile on the work, be to her merits kind,
And to her faults, whate'er they are, be blind.

Let Critics follow Rules, she boldly writes
What Nature dictates, and what Love indites.
By no dull forms her Queen and Ladies move,
But court their Heroes, and agnize their love.
Poor Maid! she'd have (what e'en no Wife would crave)
A Husband love his Spouse beyond the grave:
And from a second-marriage to deter,
Shews you what horrid things Stepmothers are.
Howe'er, to Constancy the Prize she gives,
And tho' the Sister dies the Brother lives.
Blest with success, at last, he mounts a throne,
Enjoys at once his Mistress and a Crown.
Learn, Ladies, then from Lindaraxa's fate,
What great rewards on virtuous Lovers wait.
Learn too, if Heav'n and Fate should adverse prove,
(For Fate and Heav'n don't always smile on love)
Learn with Zelinda to be still the same,
Nor quit your First for any Second flame,
Whatever fate, or death, or life, be given,
Dare to be true, submit the rest to Heaven.

AMARYLLIS.

A PASTORAL.

It was the fate of an unhappy Swain
To love a Nymph, the glory of the plain;
In vain he daily did his courtship move,
The Nymph was haughty, and disdain'd to love.
Each morn as soon as the Sun's golden ray
Dispers'd the clouds, and chaced dark night away,

136

The sad despairing Shepherd rear'd his head
From off his pillow, and forsook his bed.
Strait he search'd out some melancholy shade,
Where he did blame the proud disdainful Maid,
And thus with cruelty did her upbraid:
Ah! Shepherdess will you then let me dye;
Will nothing thaw this frozen cruelty:
But you, lest you should pity, will not hear,
You will not to my suff'rings give ear;
But adder-like to listen you refuse
To words, the greatest charm that man can use.
'Tis now noon-day, the Sun is mounted high,
Beneath refreshing shades the beasts do lie,
And seek out cooling rivers to asswage,
The Lion's sultry heat, and Dog-Star's rage:
The Oxen now can't plow the fruitful soil,
The furious heat forbids the reaper's toil.
Both beast and men for work are now unfit,
The weary'd Hinds down to their dinner sit;
Each creature now is with refreshment blest,
And none but wretched I, debarr'd of rest,
I wander up and down thro' desart lands,
On sun-burnt mountain-tops, and parched sands.
And as alone, restless I go along,
Nothing but eccho answers to my Song.
Had I not better undergo the scorn
Of Jenny? is it not more easy borne?
The cruelty of angry Kate? altho'
That She is black, and you as white as snow.
O! Nymph don't, too much, to your beauty trust,
The brightest steel is eaten up with rust:
The whitest blossoms fall, sweet roses fade,
And you, tho' handsom, yet may dye a maid.
With Thee I could admire a country life,
Free from disturbance, city noise, or strife:
Amongst the shady groves and woods we'd walk,
Of nothing else but love's great charms we'd talk,
We would pursue, in season, rural sports,
And then let knaves and fools resort to courts;
I could, besides, some country-presents find,

137

Could they persuade you, but to be more kind:
But since with scorn you do those gifts despise,
Another Shepherdess shall gain the prize.
O! Amaryllis, beauteous Maid, observe,
The Nymphs themselves are willing Thee to serve,
See where large baskets full of flowers they bring,
The sweet fair product of th' indulgent spring.
See there the Pink, and the Anemony,
The purple Violet, Rose, and Jessamy.
See where they humbly lay their presents down,
To make a chaplet thy dear head to crown.
See where the beasts go trooping drove by drove,
See how they answer one another's love:
See where the Bull the Heifer does pursue,
See where the Mare the furious Horse does woo:
Each Female to her Male is always kind,
And Women, only cruel Women blind,
Contradict that for which they were design'd.
So Corydon loves an ungrateful Fair,
Who minds not oaths, nor cares for any prayer.
But see the Sun his race has almost run,
And the laborious Ox his work has done.
But I still love without the thought of ease,
No cure was ever found for that disease,
But Corydon, what frenzy does thee [seize].
Why dost thou lie in this dejected way?
Why doest thou let thy Sheep and Oxen stray?
Thy tuneful Pipe, why dost Thou throw away.
Had not you better dispossess your mind
Of Her who is so cruel and unkind;
Forget Her guile, and calm those raging cares,
Take heart again, and follow your affairs,
For what altho' this Nymph does cruel prove,
You'll find a thousand other Maids will love.

138

CUPID's Promise.

PARAPHRASED.

I

Soft Cupid, wanton, am'rous Boy,
The other day mov'd with my lyre,
In flatt'ring accents spoke his joy,
And utter'd thus his fond desire.

II

O! raise thy voice, One Song I ask,
Touch then th' harmonious string,
To Thyrsis easy is the task,
Who can so sweetly play and sing.

III

Two kisses from my mother dear,
Thyrsis thy due reward shall be,
None, none, like Beauty's Queen is fair,
Paris has vouch'd this Truth for me.

IV

I strait reply'd, Thou know'st alone
That brightest Cloe rules my breast,
I'll sing thee Two instead of One,
If Thou'lt be kind, and make me blest.

V

One Kiss from Cloe's lips, no more
I crave, He promiss'd me success,
I play'd with all my skill and power,
My glowing passion to express.

VI

But O! my Cloe, beauteous Maid,
Wilt thou the wisht reward bestow?
Wilt Thou make good what Love has said,
And by Thy grant, His power show?

139

Lamentation for DORINDA.

Farewel ye shady walks, and fountains,
Sinking vallies, rising mountains:
Farewel ye crystal streams, that pass
Thro' fragrant meads of verdant grass:
Farewel ye flowers, sweet and fair,
That us'd to grace Dorinda's hair:
Farewel ye woods, who us'd to shade
The pressing youth, and yielding maid:
Farewel ye birds, whose morning song
Oft made us know we slept too long:
Farewel dear bed, so often prest,
So often above others blest,
With the kind weight of all her charms,
When panting, dying, in my arms.
Dorinda's gone, gone far away,
She's gone, and Strephon cannot stay:
By sympathetic ties I find
That to Her sphere I am confin'd;
My motions still on Her must wait,
And what She wills to me is fate.

She's gone, O! hear it all ye bowers,
Ye walks, ye fountains, trees, and flowers,
For whom you made your earliest show,
For whom you took a pride to grow.
She's gone, O! hear ye nightingales,
Ye mountains ring it to the vales,
And eccho to the country round,
The mournful, dismal, killing sound:
Dorinda's gone, and Strephon goes,
To find with Her his lost repose.

But ere I go, O! let me see,
That all things mourn Her loss like me:

140

Play, play, no more ye spouting fountains,
Rise ye vallies, sink ye mountains;
Ye walks, in moss, neglected lie,
Ye birds, be mute; ye streams, be dry.
Fade, fade, ye flowers, and let the rose
No more it's blushing buds disclose:
Ye spreading beach, and taper fir,
Languish away in mourning Her;
And never let your friendly shade,
The stealth of other Lovers aid.
And thou, O! dear, delightful bed,
The altar where Her maidenhead,
With burning cheeks, and down cast eyes,
With panting breasts, and kind replies,
And other due solemnity,
Was offer'd up to love and me.
Hereafter suffer no abuse,
Since consecrated to our use,
As thou art sacred, don't profane
Thy self with any vulgar stain,
But to thy pride be still display'd,
The print her lovely limbs have made:
See, in a moment, all is chang'd,
The flowers shrunk up, the trees disrang'd,
And that which wore so sweet a face,
Become a horrid, desart place.
Nature Her influence withdraws,
Th' effect must follow still the cause,
And where Dorinda will reside,
Nature must there all gay provide.
Decking that happy spot of earth,
Like Eden's-Garden at it's birth,
To please Her matchless, darling Maid,
The wonder of her Forming-Trade;
Excelling All who e'er Excell'd,
And as we ne'er the like beheld,
So neither is, nor e'er can be,
Her Parallel, or Second She.

141

On Absence.

TO LEONORA.

If absence so much racks my Charmer's heart,
Believe that Strephon's bears a double smart,
So well he loves, and knows thy love so fine,
That in his Own distress he suffers Thine:
Yet, O forgive him, if his thoughts displease,
He would not, cannot wish Thee more at ease.

What need you bid me think of pleasures past?
Was there one joy, whose image does not last?
But that One; most extatic, most refin'd,
Reigns fresh, and will for ever in my mind,
With such a power of charms it storm'd my soul,
That nothing ever can it's strength controul.
Not sleep, not age, not absence can avail,
Reflection, ever young, must still prevail.
What influence-divine did guide that hour,
Which gave to minutes the Almighty Power,
To fix (whilst other joys are not a span)
A pleasure lasting as the life of man.

TO LEONORA.

ENCORE.

I

Cease, Leonora, cease to mourn,
Thy faithful Strephon will return.
Fate at thy sighs will ne'er relent,
Then grieve not, what we can't prevent;
Nor let predestinating tears,
Increase my pains, or raise thy fears.

142

II

'Tis but the last long winter night,
Our Sun will rise to morrow bright,
And to our suff'ring passion bring
The promise of eternal Spring,
Which thy kind eyes shall ever cheer,
And make that Season all our Year.

ON A PRETTY MADWOMAN.

I

While mad Ophelia we lament,
And Her distraction mourn,
Our grief's misplac'd, Our tears mispent,
Since what for Her condition's meant
More justly fits Our Own.

II

For if 'tis happiness to be,
From all the turns of Fate,
From dubious joy, and sorrow free;
Ophelia then is blest, and we
Misunderstand Her state.

III

The Fates may do whate'er they will,
They can't disturb her mind,
Insensible of good, or ill,
Ophelia is Ophelia still,
Be Fortune cross or kind.

IV

Then make with reason no more noise,
Since what should give relief,
The quiet of Our mind destroys,
Or with a full spring-tide of joys,
Or a dead-ebb of grief.

143

The Torment of ABSENCE.

I

What a tedious day is past!
Loving, thinking, wishing, weeping:
Gods! if this be not the last,
Take a life not worth my keeping.

II

Love, ye Gods, is Life alone!
In the length is little pleasure:
Be but ev'ry day Our-Own,
We shall ne'er complain of measure.

THE NEW-YEAR'S GIFT TO PHYLLIS.

I

The circling months begin this day,
To run their yearly ring,
And long-breath'd time which ne'er will stay,
Refits his wings, and shoots away,
It round again to bring.

II

Who feels the force of female eyes,
And thinks some Nymph divine,
Now brings his annual sacrifice,
Some pretty boy, or neat device,
To offer at Her shrine.

144

III

But I can pay no offering,
To show how I adore,
Since I had but a heart to bring
A downright foolish, faithful thing,
And that you had before.

IV

Yet we may give, for custom sake,
What will to both be New,
My Constancy a Gift I'll make,
And in return of it will take
Some Levity from You.

Coy Jenny.

A SONG.

I

For God's-sake—nay, dear Sir,
Lord, what do You mean?
I protest, and I vow Sir,
Your ways are obscene.

II

Pray give over, O! fie,
Pish, leave of your fooling,
Forbear, or I'll cry,—
I hate this rude doing.

III

Let me die if I stay,
Does the Devil possess You;
Your hand take away,
Then perhaps I may bless You.

145

TO CELIA.

AN EPIGRAM.

You need not thus so often pray,
Or in devotion spend the day,
Since without half such toil and pain,
You surely Paradise will gain.
Your Husband's impotent and jealous,
And Celia that's enough to tell us
You must inhabit Heaven herea'ter,
Because you are a Virgin-Martyr.

Upon a FRIEND, WHO HAD A Pain in his Left-Side.

I

Lay not the Pain, so near your heart,
On chance, or on disease,
So sensible, so nice a smart,
Is from no cause like these.

II

Your Friends, at last, the truth have found,
Howe'er you tell your story,
'Twas Celia's eyes that gave the Wound,
And they shall have the Glory.

147

THE EXAMINER. 7 SEPTEMBER 1710

148

To the Earl of Godolphin.

Whilst weeping Europe bends beneath her Ills,
And where the Sword destroys not, Famine kills;
Our Isle enjoys, by your successful Care,
The Pomp of Peace amidst the Woes of War.
So much the Public to your Prudence owes,
You think no Labours long for our Repose:
Such Conduct, such Integrity are shown,
There are no Coffers empty but your own.
From mean Dependance Merit you retrieve;
Unask'd you offer, and unseen you give.
Your Favour, like the Nile, Increase bestows,
And yet conceals the Source from whence it flows:
So pois'd your Passions are, we find no Frown,
If Funds oppress not, and if Commerce run.
Taxes diminish'd, Liberty entire,
Those are the Grants your Services require.
Thus far the State-Machine wants no Repair,
But moves in matchless Order by your Care:
Free from Confusion, settled and serene,
And, like the Universe, by Springs unseen.
But now some Star, sinister to our Prayers,
Contrives new Schemes, and calls you from Affairs.
No Anguish in your Looks, nor Cares appear,
But how to teach the unpractis'd Crew to Steer.
Thus, like some Victim, no Constraint you need,
To expiate their Offence, by whom you bleed.

Ingratitude's a Weed in every Clime,
It thrives too fast at first, but fades in Time.
The God of Day, and your own Lot's the same,
The Vapours you have rais'd, obscure your Flame.
But though you suffer, and a while retreat,
Your Globe of Light looks larger as you set.

153

[MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, FROM THE COLLECTION OF EVANS, INCLUDING TWENTY-FOUR SONGS.]

I.
[_]

SET BY Mr. DE FESCH.

[Strephonetta, why d' ye fly me]

Strephonetta, why d' ye fly me,
With such rigour in your eyes?
Oh! 'tis cruel to deny me,
Since your charms I so much prize.

But I plainly see the reason,
Why in vain I you pursu'd;
Her to gain 'twas out of season,
Who before the chaplain woo'd.

II. PARTING WITH FLAVIA.
[_]

SET BY Mr. SMITH.

Come, weep no more, for 'tis in vain;
Torment not thus your pretty heart:
Think, Flavia, we may meet again,
As well as, that we now must part.

You sigh and weep: the Gods neglect
That precious dew your eyes let fall:
Our joy and grief with like respect
They mind; and that is, not at all.

We pray, in hopes they will be kind,
As if they did regard our state:
They hear; and the return we find
Is, that no prayers can alter Fate.

154

Then clear your brow, and look more gay,
Do not yourself to grief resign;
Who knows but that those powers may
The pair, they now have parted, join?

But, since they have thus cruel been,
And could such constant lovers sever;
I dare not trust, lest now they're in,
They should divide us two for ever.

Then, Flavia, come, and let us grieve,
Remembering though upon what score;
This our last parting look believe,
Believe we must embrace no more.

Yet, should our sun shine out at last;
And Fortune, without more deceit,
Throw but one reconciling cast,
To make two wandering lovers meet;

How great then would our pleasure be,
To find Heaven kinder than believ'd;
And we, who had no hopes to see
Each other, to be thus deceiv'd!

But say, Heaven should bring no relief,
Suppose our sun should never rise:
Why then what's due to such a grief,
We've paid already with our eyes.

III.
[_]

SET BY Mr. DE FESCH.

[Let perjur'd fair Aminta know]

Let perjur'd fair Aminta know,
What for her sake I undergo;
Tell her, for her how I sustain
A lingering fever's wasting pain;
Tell her, the torments I endure,
Which only, only she can cure.

155

But, oh! she scorns to hear, or see,
The wretch that lies so low as me;
Her sudden greatness turns her brain,
And Strephen hopes, alas! in vain:
For ne'er 'twas found (though often try'd)
That pity ever dwelt with pride.

IV. TO PHILLIS.
[_]

SET BY Mr. SMITH.

Phillis, since we have both been kind,
And of each other had our fill;
Tell me what pleasure you can find,
In forcing nature 'gainst her will.

'Tis true, you may with art and pain
Keep-in some glowings of desire;
But still those glowings which remain
Are only ashes of the fire.

Then let us free each other's soul,
And laugh at the dull constant fool,
Who would Love's liberty controul,
And teach us how to whine by rule.

Let us no impositions set,
Or clogs upon each other's heart;
But, as for pleasure first we met,
So now for pleasure let us part.

We both have spent our stock of love,
So consequently should be free;
Thyrsis expects you in yon' grove;
And pretty Chloris stays for me.

156

V.
[_]

SET BY Mr. DE FESCH.

[Phillis, this pious talk give o'er]

Phillis, this pious talk give o'er,
And modestly pretend no more;
It is too plain an art:
Surely you take me for a fool,
And would by this prove me so dull,
As not to know your heart.

In vain you fancy to deceive,
For truly I can ne'er believe
But this is all a sham;
Since any one may plainly see,
You'd only save yourself with me,
And with another damn.

VI.
[_]

SET BY Mr. SMITH.

[Still, Dorinda, I adore]

Still, Dorinda, I adore;
Think I mean not to deceive ye:
For I lov'd you much before,
And, alas! now love you more,
Though I force myself to leave ye.

Staying, I my vows shall fail;
Virtue yields, as love grows stronger;
Fierce desires will prevail;
You are fair; and I am frail,
And dare trust myself no longer.

157

You, my love, too nicely coy,
Lest I should have gain'd the treasure,
Made my vows and oaths destroy
The pleasing hopes I did enjoy
Of all my future peace and pleasure.

To my vows I have been true,
And in silence hid my anguish,
But I cannot promise too
What my love may make me do,
While with her for whom I languish.

For in thee strange magick lies,
And my heart is too, too tender;
Nothing's proof against those eyes,
Best resolves and strictest ties
To their force must soon surrender.

But, Dorinda, you're severe,
I most doating, thus to sever;
Since from all I hold most dear,
That you may no longer fear,
I divorce myself for ever.

VII.
[_]

SET BY Mr. DE FESCH.

[Is it, O Love, thy want of eyes]

Is it, O Love, thy want of eyes,
Or by the Fates decreed,
That hearts so seldom sympathize,
Or for each other bleed?

If thou would'st make two youthful hearts
One amorous shaft obey;
'Twould save thee the expence of darts,
And more extend thy sway.

158

Forbear, alas! thus to destroy
Thyself, thy growing power;
For that which would be stretch'd by joy,
Despair will soon devour.

Ah! wound then, my relentless fair,
For thy own sake and mine;
That boundless bliss may be my share,
And double glory thine.

VIII. A TWO PART SONG.
[_]

SET BY Mr. SMITH.

[Why, Harry, what ails you? why look you so sad?]

Why, Harry, what ails you? why look you so sad?
To think and ne'er drink, will make you stark-mad.
'Tis the mistress, the friend, and the bottle, old boy!
Which create all the pleasure poor mortals enjoy;
But wine of the three's the most cordial brother,
For one it relieves, and it strengthens the other.

IX.
[_]

SET BY Mr. DE FESCH.

[Morella, charming without art]

Morella, charming without art,
And kind without design,
Can never lose the smallest part
Of such a heart as mine.

Oblig'd a thousand several ways,
It ne'er can break her chains;
While passion, which her beauties raise,
My gratitude maintains.

159

X.
[_]

SET BY Mr. SMITH.

[Since my words, though ne'er so tender]

Since my words, though ne'er so tender,
With sincerest truth exprest,
Cannot make your heart surrender,
Nor so much as warm your breast:

What will move the springs of nature?
What will make you think me true?
Tell me, thou mysterious creature,
Tell poor Strephon what will do.

Do not, Charmion, rack your lover
Thus, by seeming not to know
What so plainly all discover,
What his eyes so plainly show.

Fair-one, 'tis yourself deceiving,
'Tis against your Reason's law[s]:
Atheist-like (th' effect deceiving)
Still to disbelieve the cause.

XI.
[_]

SET BY Mr. DE FESCH.

[Love! inform thy faithful creature]

Love! inform thy faithful creature
How to keep his fair-one's heart;
Must it be by truth of nature?
Or by poor dissembling art?

Tell the secret, shew the wonder,
How we both may gain our ends;
I am lost if we're asunder,
Ever tortur'd if we're friends.

160

XII. [Since, Moggy, I mun bid adieu]

Since, Moggy, I mun bid adieu,
How can I help despairing?
Let Fate its Rigour still pursue,
There's nought more worth my caring.

'Twas she alone could calm my soul,
When racking thoughts did grieve me;
Her eyes my troubles could control,
And into joys deceive me.

Farewel, ye brooks; no more along
Your banks mun I be walking:
No more you'll hear my pipe or song,
Or pretty Moggy's talking.

But I by death an end will give
To grief, since we mun sever:
For who can after parting live,
Ought to be wretched ever.

XIII.
[_]

SET BY Mr. SMITH.

[Once I was unconfin'd and free]

Once I was unconfin'd and free,
Would I had been so still!
Enjoying sweetest liberty,
And roving at my will.

But now, not master of my heart,
Cupid does so decide,
That two she-tyrants shall it part,
And so poor me divide.

Victoria's will I must obey,
She acts without controul:
Phillis has such a taking way,
She charms my very soul.

161

Deceiv'd by Phillis' looks and smiles,
Into her snares I run:
Victoria shews me all her wiles,
Which yet I dare not shun.

From one I fancy every kiss
Has something in 't divine;
And, awful, taste the balmy bliss,
That joins her lips with mine.

But, when with t'other I embrace,
Though she be not a queen,
Methinks 'tis sweet with such a lass
To tumble on the green.

Thus here you see a shared heart,
But I, mean while, the fool:
Each in it has an equal part,
But neither yet the whole.

Nor will it, if I right forecast,
To either wholly yield:
I find the time approaches fast,
When both must quit the field.

XIV. [Some kind angel, gently flying]

Some kind angel, gently flying,
Mov'd with pity at my pain,
Tell Corinna, I am dying,
Till with joy we meet again.

Tell Corinna, since we parted,
I have never known delight:
And shall soon be broken-hearted,
If I longer want her sight.

Tell her how her lover, mourning,
Thinks each lazy day a year;
Cursing every morn returning,
Since Corinna is not here.

162

Tell her too, not distant places,
Will she be but true and kind,
Join'd with time and change of faces,
E'er shall shake my constant mind.

XV.
[_]

SET BY Mr. DE FESCH.

[Farewel, Amynta, we must part]

Farewel, Amynta, we must part;
The charm has lost its power,
Which held so fast my captiv'd heart
Until this fatal hour.

Hadst thou not thus my love abus'd,
And us'd me ne'er so ill,
Thy cruelty I had excus'd,
And I had lov'd thee still.

But know, my soul disdains thy sway,
And scorns thy charms and thee,
To which each fluttering coxcomb may
As welcome be as me.

Think in what perfect bliss you reign'd,
How lov'd before thy fall;
And now, alas! how much disdain'd
By me, and scorn'd by all.

Yet thinking of each happy hour,
Which I with thee have spent,
So robs my rage of all its power,
That I almost relent.

But pride will never let me bow,
No more thy charms can move:
Yet thou art worth my pity now,
Because thou hadst my love.

163

XVI. LES ESTREINES.
[_]

SET BY Mr. SMITH.

Accept, my love, as true a heart
As ever lover gave:
'Tis free (it vows) from any art,
And proud to be your slave.

Then take it kindly, as 'twas meant,
And let the giver live:
Who, with it, would the world have sent,
Had it been his to give.

And, that Dorinda may not fear
I e'er will prove untrue,
My vows shall, ending with the year,
With it begin anew.

New Years day 1700/1.

XVII.
[_]

SET BY Mr. DE FESCH.

[Nanny blushes when I woo her]

Nanny blushes when I woo her,
And, with kindly-chiding eyes,
Faintly says, I shall undo her,
Faintly, O forbear! she cries.

But her breasts while I am pressing,
While to her's my lips I join,
Warm'd she seems to taste the blessing,
And her kisses answer mine.

Undebauch'd by rules of honour,
Innocence with nature charms;
One bids, gently push me from her,
T'other, take me in her arms.

164

XVIII.
[_]

SET BY Mr. SMITH.

[Since we your husband daily see]

Since we your husband daily see
So jealous out of season,
Phillis, let you and I agree
To make him so with reason.

I'm vext to think, that every night
A sot, within thy arms,
Tasting the most divine delight,
Should sully all your charms.

While fretting I must lie alone,
Cursing the powers divine,
That undeservedly have thrown
A pearl unto a swine.

Then, Phillis, heal my wounded heart,
My burning passion cool;
Let me at least in thee have part
With thy insipid fool.

Let him, by night, his Joys pursue,
And blunder in the dark;
While I, by day, enjoying you,
Can see to hit the mark.

XIX. ADVICE TO A LADY.
[_]

Set by Mr. C. R.

Phillis, give this humour over,
We too long have time abus'd;
I shall turn an errant rover,
If the favour's still refus'd.

165

Faith! 'tis nonsense out of measure,
Without ending thus to see
Women forc'd to taste a pleasure
Which they love as well as we.

Let not pride and folly share you,
We were made but to enjoy;
Ne'er will age or censure spare you,
E'er the more for being coy.

Never fancy Time's before you,
Youth, believe me, will away;
Then, alas! who will adore you,
Or to wrinkles tribute pay?

All the swains on you attending
Show how much your charms deserve;
But, miser-like, for fear of spending,
You amidst your plenty starve.

While a thousand freer lasses,
Who their youth and charms employ,
Though your beauty their's surpasses,
Live in far more perfect joy.

XX.
[_]

SET BY Mr. DE FESCH.

[Since by ill fate I'm forc'd away]

Since by ill fate I'm forc'd away,
And snatch'd so soon from those dear arms;
Against my will I must obey,
And leave those sweet endearing charms.

Yet still love on; and never fear,
But you and constancy will prove
Enough my present flame to bear,
And make me, though in absence, love.

For, though your presence fate denies,
I feel, alas! the killing smart;
And can with undiscerned eyes,
Behold your picture in my heart.

166

XXI.
[_]

SET BY Mr. DE FESCH.

[Touch the lyre, on every string]

Touch the lyre, on every string,
Touch it, Orpheus, I will sing,
A song which shall immortal be;
Since she I sing 's a deity:
A Leonora, whose blest birth
Has no relation to this earth.

XXII.
[_]

SET BY Mr. DE FESCH.

[In vain, alas! poor Strephon tries]

In vain, alas! poor Strephon tries
To ease his tortur'd breast;
Since Amoret the cure denies,
And makes his pain a jest.

Ah! fair-one, why to me so coy?
And why to him so true,
Who with more coldness slights the joy,
Than I with love pursue?

Die then, unhappy lover! die;
For, since she gives thee death,
The world has nothing that can buy
A minute more of breath.

Yet, though I could your scorn outlive,
'Twere folly; since to me
Not love itself a joy can give,
But, Amoret, in thee.

167

XXIII.
[_]

SET BY Mr. DE FESCH.

[Well! I will never more complain]

Well! I will never more complain,
Or call the Fates unkind;
Alas! how fond it is, how vain!
But self-conceitedness does reign
In every mortal mind.

'Tis true they long did me deny,
Nor would permit a sight;
I rag'd; for I could not espy,
Or think that any harm could lie
Disguis'd in that delight.

At last, my wishes to fulfil,
They did their power resign;
I saw her; but I wish I still
Had been obedient to their will,
And they not unto mine.

Yet I by this have learnt the wit,
Never to grieve or fret:
Contentedly I will submit,
And think that best which they think fit,
Without the least regret.

XXIV.
[_]

Set by Mr. C. R.

[Chloe beauty has and wit]

Chloe beauty has and wit,
And an air that is not common;
Every charm does in her meet,
Fit to make a handsome woman.

But we do not only find
Here a lovely face or feature;
For she's merciful and kind,
Beauty's answer'd by good-nature.

168

She is always doing good,
Of her favours never sparing,
And, as all good Christians should,
Keeps poor mortals from despairing.

Jove the power knew of her charms,
And that no man could endure 'em,
So, providing 'gainst all harms,
Gave to her the power to cure 'em.

And 'twould be a cruel thing,
When her black eyes have rais'd desire,
Should she not her bucket bring,
And kindly help to quench the fire.

TO THE REV. DR. FRANCIS TURNER, BISHOP OF ELY WHO HAD ADVISED A TRANSLATION OF PRUDENTIUS.

If poets, ere they cloath'd their infant thought,
And the rude work to just perfection brought,
Did still some god, or godlike man invoke,
Whose mighty name their sacred silence broke:
Your goodness, Sir, will easily excuse,
The bold requests of an aspiring Muse;
Who, with your blessing would your aid implore,
And in her weakness justify your power.—
From your fair pattern she would strive to write,
And with unequal strength pursue your flight;
Yet hopes, she ne'er can err that follows you,
Led by your blest commands, and great example too.

Then smiling and aspiring influence give,
And make the Muse and her endeavours live;
Claim all her future labours as your due,
Let every song begin and end with you:

169

So to the blest retreat she'll gladly go,
Where the Saints' palm and Muses' laurel grow;
Where kindly both in glad embrace shall join,
And round your brow their mingled honours twine;
Both to the virtue due, which could excel,
As much in writing, as in living well.—
So shall she proudly press the tuneful string,
And mighty things in mighty numbers sing;
Nor doubt to strike Prudentius' daring lyre,
And humbly bring the verse which you inspire.

A PASTORAL.

TO DR. TURNER, BISHOP of ELY; ON HIS DEPARTURE FROM CAMBRIDGE.

DAMON.
Tell, dear Alexis, tell thy Damon, why
Dost thou in mournful shades obscurely lie?
Why dost thou sigh, why strike thy panting breast?
And steal from life the needful hours of rest?
Are thy kids starv'd by winter's early frost?
Are any of thy bleating stragglers lost?
Have strangers' cattle trod thy new-plough'd ground?
Has great Joanna, or her greater shepherd frown'd.

ALEXIS.
See my kids browze, my lambs securely play:
(Ah! were their master unconcern'd as they!)
No beasts (at noon I look'd) had trod my ground;
Nor has Joanna, or her shepherd, frown'd.

DAMON.
Then stop the lavish fountain of your eyes,
Nor let those sighs from your swoln bosom rise;
Chase sadness, friend, and solitude away;
And once again rejoice, and once again look gay.

170

ALEXIS.
Say what can more our tortur'd souls annoy,
Than to behold, admire, and lose our joy;
Whose fate more hard than those who sadly run,
For the last glimpse of the departing sun?
Or what severer sentence can be given,
Than, having seen, to be excluded Heaven?

DAMON.
None; shepherd, none—

ALEXIS.
Then cease to chide my cares!
And rather pity than restrain my tears;
Those tears, my Damon, which I justly shed,
To think how great my joys; how soon they fled;
I told thee, friend, (now bless the shepherd's name,
From whose dear care the kind occasion came,)
That I, even I, might happily receive
The sacred wealth, which Heaven and Daphnis give:
That I might see the lovely awful swain,
Whose holy crosier guides our willing plain;
Whose pleasing power and ruling goodness keep
Our souls with equal care as we our sheep;
Whose praise excites each lyre, employs each tongue:
Whilst only he who caus'd, dislikes the song.
To this great, humble, parting man I gain'd
Access, and happy for an hour I reign'd;
Happy as new-form'd man in paradise,
Ere sin debauch'd his inoffensive bliss;
Happy as heroes after battles won,
Prophets entranc'd, or monarchs on the throne;
But (oh, my friend!) those joys with Daphnis flew:
To them these tributary tears are due.

DAMON.
Was he so humble then? those joys so vast?
Cease to admire that both so quickly past.
Too happy should we be, would smiling fate
Render one blessing durable and great;

171

But (oh the sad vicissitude!) how soon
Unwelcome night succeeds the chearful noon;
And rigid winter nips the flowery pomp of June!
Then grieve not, friend, like you, since all mankind
A certain change of joy and sorrow find.
Suppress your sigh, your down-cast eyelids raise,
Whom present you revere, him absent praise.

THE REMEDY WORSE THAN THE DISEASE.

I sent for Ratcliffe; was so ill,
That other doctors gave me over:
He felt my pulse, prescrib'd his pill,
And I was likely to recover.

But, when the wit began to wheeze,
And wine had warm'd the politician,
Cur'd yesterday of my disease,
I dy'd last night of my physician.

EPIGRAM, EXTEMPORE.

I stood, Sir, patient at your feet,
Before your elbow-chair;
But make a bishop's throne your seat,
I'll kneel before you there.

One only thing can keep you down,
For your great soul too mean;
You 'd not, to mount a bishop's throne,
Pay homage to the Queen.

172

EPIGRAM ON BISHOP ATTERBURY.

Meek Francis lies here, friend: without stop or stay,
As you value your peace, make the best of your way.
Though at present arrested by Death's caitiff paw,
If he stirs, he may still have recourse to the law.
And in the King's-bench should a verdict be found,
That by livery and seisin his grave is his ground,
He will claim to himself what is strictly his due,
And an action of trespass will straightway ensue,
That you without right on his premises tread,
On a simple surmise that the owner is dead.

ON BISHOP ATTE[R]BURY'S BURYING THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM, MDCCXX.

“I have no hopes,” the Duke he says, and dies;
“In sure and certain hopes,” the Prelate cries:
Of these two learned Peers, I pr'ythee, say, man,
Who is the lying Knave, the Priest or Layman?
The Duke he stands an infidel confest,
“He's our dear brother,” quoth the lordly priest.
The Duke though Knave, still “Brother dear,” he cries;
And who can say, the Reverend Prelate lies?

173

LINES WRITTEN UNDER THE PRINT OF TOM BRITTON, the Small-coal-man, PAINTED BY Mr. WOOLASTON.

Though doom'd to small-coal, yet to arts ally'd,
Rich without wealth, and famous without pride;
Musick's best patron, judge of books and men,
Belov'd and honour'd by Apollo's train:
In Greece or Rome sure never did appear
So bright a genius, in so dark a sphere:
More of the man had artfully been sav'd,
Had Kneller painted, and had Vertue grav'd.

WRITTEN IN LADY HOWE'S OVID'S EPISTLES.

However high, however cold, the fair,
However great the dying lover's care,
Ovid, kind author, found him some relief,
Rang'd his unruly sighs, and set his grief;
Taught him what accents had the power to move,
And always gain'd him pity, sometimes love.
But, oh! what pangs torment the destin'd heart,
That feels the wound, yet dares not shew the dart!
What care could Ovid to his sorrows give,
Who must not speak, and therefore cannot live!

174

AN EPISTLE, MDCCXVI.

I Pray, good Lady Harley, let Jonathan know,
How long you intend to live incognito.

Your humble servant, Elkanah Settle.

ANOTHER EPISTLE.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

I Pray, Lady Harriot, the time to assign
When she shall receive a turkey and chine;
That a body may come to St. James's, to dine.

TRUE'S EPITAPH.

If wit or honesty could save
Our mouldering ashes from the grave,
This stone had still remain'd unmark'd,
I still writ prose, True still have bark'd.
But envious Fate has claim'd its due,
Here lies the mortal part of True;
His deathless virtues must survive,
To better us that are alive.

His prudence and his wit were seen
In that, from Mary's grace and mien,
He own'd the power, and lov'd the Queen.
By long obedience he confest
That serving her was to be blest.—
Ye murmurers, let True evince
That men are beasts, and dogs have sense!

175

His faith and truth all Whitehall knows,
He ne'er could fawn or flatter those
Whom he believ'd were Mary's foes:
Ne'er skulk'd from whence his sovereign led him,
Or snarl'd against the hand that fed him.—
Read this, ye statesmen now in favour,
And mend your own, by True's behaviour!

EPIGRAM.

To Richmond and Peterburgh, Matt gave his letters,
And thought they were safe in the hands of his betters.
How happen'd it then that the packets were lost?
These were Knights of the Garter, not Knights of the Post.

UPON Playing at OMBRE, WITH TWO LADIES.

I know that Fortune long has wanted sight,
And therefore pardon'd, when She did not right;
But yet till then it never did appear,
That as She wanted Eyes, She could not Hear.
I begg'd, that She would give me leave to lose,
A thing She does not commonly refuse:
Two Matadores are out against my game,
Yet still I play, and still my Luck's the same:
Unconquer'd in Three suits it does remain;
Whereas I only ask in One to gain;
Yet She still contradicting, Gifts imparts;
And gives success in ev'ry suit—but Hearts.

176

ON MY BIRTH-DAY.

I.

I my dear, was born to day,
So all my jolly comrades say;
They bring me music, wreaths, and mirth,
And ask to celebrate my birth:
Little, alas! my comrades know
That I was born to pain and wo;
To thy denial, to thy scorn,
Better I had ne'er been born,
I wish to die ev'n whilst I say,
I, my dear, was born to day.

II.

I, my dear, was born to day,
Shall I salute the rising ray?
Wellspring of all my joy and woe,
Clotilda, thou alone dost know.
Shall the wreath surround my hair?
Or shall the music please my ear?
Shall I my comrades mirth receive,
And bless my birth, and wish to live?
Then let me see great Venus chace
Imperious anger from Thy face;
Then let me hear Thee smiling say,
Thou, my dear, wer't Born to Day.

271

POEMS FROM THE LONGLEAT MSS.

272

To Madam K. P.

A Pastoral Dialogue.

DAMON.
See Strephon see what a refulgent ray
Dispells yon Clouds, and gilds the rising day
The smiling Feilds their early Treasures bring
And warbling Birds proclaim the coming spring
Young tender Plants and swelling buds appear
Whilst Nature smiling seems to bless the Year
Lively the Nymphs and sportive are their Swains
All sorrows Banish'd from the cheerful Plains
Save only what Thy troubl'd Soul contains
Then tell me Strephon, prythee tell me why
Dost Thou in mournful shades obscurely lye?
Why dost Thou sigh, why strike Thy panting breast
And steal from life the needful hours of rest?
Are thy Kids starv'd by rig'rous Winter's frost?
Are any of thy bleating straglers lost?
Have Strangers Cattle trod thy new Plow'd ground
Or (what is worst) has great Joanna frown'd.

STREPHON.
On yonder Hills my bleating straglers play
(Ah! were their Master unconcern'd as they)
No beasts (at Noon I look'd) had trod my ground
Nor have I lost my Kids, nor has Joanna frown'd.

DAMON.
Then stop the lavish fountains of your Eyes
Nor let those Sighs from your swoln bosom rise,
Send all these melancholy thoughts away
And once again rejoice, and once again look gay.

STREPHON.
Ah Damon what can add to Sorrows more
Then thoughts of happyness enjoy'd before?
What more disturbs the slighted Lovers breast
Then sad remembrance how he has been bless'd
What kind reception once his Passion found
And how he flourish'd e'er his fair one frown'd

273

What more the wretched Exil's soul annoys
Then recollection of his former Joys?
Or what severer Sentence can be giv'n
Then having seen to be excluded Heav'n.

DAMON.
None Shephard none—

STREPHON.
—then cease to chide my Cares
And rather pitty then restrain my Tears,
Those tears, my Damon, which I justly shed
To think how great my Joys, how soon they fled;
I told the[e], Friend (when I forsook those Sheep
Which Thou the while with equal care didst keep)
That I wou'd visit fair Celinda's Shrine
And pay those Vows which gratitude enjeyn
Since then how happy did thy Strephon live
Happy ------
In all kind Heav'n or kinder She cou'd give
Happy as new form'd Man in Paradice
E'er Sin debauch'd his inoffensive bliss
Happy as Heroes after Battles won
Prophets entranc'd or Monarchs on their Throne.
Then chide not if I sometimes drop a Tear
When I remember how I triumph'd there
And with past pleasures present woes compare.

DAMON.
But were those pleasures so extremely vast?
Wonder not then that they so quickly past.
Too happy shou'd we be wou'd smiling Fate
Render one blessing durable and great
But (Ah! the sad Vicisitude) how soon
Unwelcome Night succeeds the chearful Noon
And rigid Winter nips the flow'ry pomp of June.
Then grieve not Friend, like The[e] since all Mankind
A certain change of Joy and sorrows find
Come give thy anxious Soul its wonted peace
And from this Hour let all sad troubles cease
Suppress thy Sighs, those down cast Eyelids raise
Tune thy neglected Harp, and sing the Goddess' praise.

274

To a Lady Sleeping.

Still Sleep stil fold those lovely Arms
Stil be free from noise and harms
Whilst all the Gods of Love defend Thee
(The Gods of Love which stil attend thee)
Whilst around in humble state
A Thousand wanton Angels wait
Whilst Gods officiously find
Pleasing Dreams to charm thy mind,
Dreams of things (if such there are)
Like yourself Serene and fair,
And when You open those bright Eyes
When Morpheus with the wel-cloath'd Vision flyes
May You that happyness renew
And all the pleasures of your Dream prove true.

Charity never faileth.

1 Cor: xiii. 8.

I.

Say would'st Thou gain eternal Praise,
Go foolish Man thy great designs pursue,
Go, try ten thousand ways
Thy Toil like Sisyphus each hour renew
Yet know that after all Thy Pain
Like him thou dost but roll a heavy Stone in vain.

II.

Rush, if thou wilt into the Camp, and try
To purchace Fame by Victory,
Let Fortune stil against thy foes conspire
Still on Thee, her Darling wait
And kindly seem to make her great,
Great as thy soaring wishes can require

275

Yet when thy Troops return with Conquest crown'd
Thy recompence is only shouts and noise
(The Rabbles unintelligible voice)
And scarce a Lawrel-leaf for every wound.

III.

But say the Senate should thy Service own
And to thy Memory with comely Pride
Erect a shining Pyramide
By this Thou canst not be for ever known,
The Marble will decay, the Polish'd Iron rust,
And both will be as soon as Thou art, Dust.

IV.

Then throw your Sword and Gauntlet by
Change your Armour for a Gown
Read all the Secrets of Philosophy
And thus endeavor to obtain renown,
Yet here thy Study will prove vain
No glory can'st Thou hence obtain
Since Men the mighty Stagyrite disdain.

V.

Should'st Thou invoke the Muses then, and try
If honor can be gain'd by Poetry,
Alas! no glory will from hence arise
Tho (which is much improbable) thy Rhimes
Affect the Squeamish Criticks of these times
What they Admire their Children may dispise
Homer is Censur'd, Ennius quite thrown by,
Then how short-liv'd will be thy Praise
Like what thou labour'est for, a sprig of Bayes
'Twill with its Transitory Master Dye.

VI.

Hard fate! can nothing then secure our Name
From Envys cruel rage
And the devouring Teeth of Age
Can nothing Purchace everlasting Fame?

276

Yes, Charity will do't, 'tis This alone
Will make its Author always known
The Charitable Man shal live
Without what needless Art can give
And every Tongue his Acts rehearse
Tho no Man built his Tomb, or sung his Praise in Verse.

VII.

Old Time and Envy shal his glory view
Each vainly striving to pursue
Whilst looking back he sees them fly behind
And scapes the fatal Gulph which swallows all Mankind
Nay even in that dreadful Day
When all Men else to Rocks and Caverns run
And desperately strive an angry God to shun
When time it self shal be no more
Who fed the Orphan, and reliev'd the Poor
Shal with undaunted Courage stay
And Ten times more receive, then e'er he gave away.

There be Those that leave Their Names behind them.

Ecc: 44. 8.

In Praise of the Lady Margaret Foundress of St John's.

I.

If gilded flaggs and heaps of polish'd Stone
Can make the Deads memorial known
If from the well-cutt brass will long appear
The Just the Gener'ous the Good lies here
How long will Margaretta's Name be prais'd,
Who spent her Wealth another way
Who built what never will Decay
Who Living Pillars of Her Glory rais'd?

277

CHORUS.
Margaretta's Name shal live
And lasting Tribute of just Fame receive
Long as the Sacred Walls she founded stand,
The Pride, the light, the glory of our Land.
Long as the learned Youth shal flourish there
Inspir'd with Thoughts of Heav'n and Her.
Shal press with pleasing force the grateful String
And thanks and Praises to their Godess sing.

II.

If charitable Acts alone
Best make their Pious Authors known
If to the chearful Giver Men shal raise
Lasting Monuments of praise
How long shal Margaretta's Name
Grace the bright Rolls of Piety and Fame?

CHORUS.
Long as Three Nations gratefully shal show
The mighty Thanks they to her goodness owe
Long as the sacred Page shal be Carress'd
Which tells Us Charity and She are bless'd.

III.

If Charitable Acts alone
Can for a Multitude of Sins attone
If at that great that dreadful day
Beyond which Time shal be no more
Who cherish'd Orphans and reliev'd the Poor
With holy Confidence shal stay
And see his Sins and Sorrows wash'd away
What then shal be to Margaretta giv'n?

CHORUS.
One of the best the brightest Seats in Heav'n
With Saints and Marty'rs she shal live
Encircl'd round with lasting Joy
Which no mischance, no Sorrow can destroy
Which Man desires, and God alone can give.

278

Many Daughters have done well, But Thou Excellest them all.

Prov: 31. 29.

As spoken in a Vision to the Lady Margaret Foundress of St John's.

T'was night, the Drousy Diety began
To chain with sleep the buisy thoughts of Man,
When free from Noise and troubles of the Day
Our --- Poet in those flow'ry Meadows lay
Where reverent Cham cuts out its famous way
When loe! O strange, an unexpected light
Dispers'd the Native darkness of the Night
And rais'd at once his wonder and delight
But how, how welcome did that light appear
Which usher'd in a form all Heav'nly fair
A Form which lately left its Mansh'on there.
A Woman proper, beautiful and fine
Her garb was Noble and her Mein divine
Majestick greatness Triumph'd in her face
And every Limb had its peculiar grace
With sober Pace the lovely Ghost drew near
Her smiling seem'd to Chide his useless fear
At length he knows the venerable Shade
Runs to meet that of which he was afraid
And thus with reverence Thrice bowing said
Hail mighty Patroness! Hail great and Good!
Hail doubly fam'd for Virtue and for blood!
Hail Thou, whose Acts shou'd I presume to show
I shou'd blasphem by Epithets too low.
Hail St or Princess royal or Divine
Hail wonder of our Sex and Fame of Thine
Be Thou my Muse vouchsafe to look on me
The meanest of thy learned Progeny
Inspire my Soul that I may sing Thy fame
And raise a work eternal as my Theam

279

Inspire my Soul that I may loudly tell
How far Thou dost all Woman kind Excell
How Thou bless'd Shade—
When York had Lancaster so long withstood
And Englands face was stain'd with English blood
Did'st bless the Nation with a Godlike Son
Who recompenc'd the Ills their Arms had done
Who made all Faction all Rebellion cease
And gave Us Plenty, Liberty, and Peace.
You heard each Tongue with joy your glory sing
Each bless the Parents of so good a King
With all the Praises Gratitude cou'd bring.
But thought the Gift not worthy yet of You
Unless with Peace You gave Us Learning too
Then, then indulgently both paps you drew
And rais'd Two fabricks which shal ever be
Great Monuments of Piety and Thee—

Fain wou'd the cheerful Poet have gon on
To Sing the Works her Charity had done
But She who did like Heav'n her Gifts dispence
Without the Hopes of any recompence
Seem'd by a frown to chide his saucy Eloquence
And moving from him with a graceful Pace
Ascended to that bright that happy Place
Where Saints like Her enjoy an everlasting Peace.

On the Coronation.

I.

No 'tis in vain; what limits shal controll
The rovings of my active Soul?
That Soul which Scorns to be to place confin'd,
And leaves its dull Companion earth behind.
Whilst fancy with unbounded flight
Enjoys that object of delight
Which Envious distance wou'd conceal from sight.
Giving Poets to partake
(Like those Deities they make)
Of infinite Ubiquity.

280

II.

Thus methinks I see the barge
Pleas'd with the sacred weight of its Majestic charge
Old Argo with a weight less glorious fraught
The treasure from impov'rish'd Colchos brought
And Hellespont now vanquish'd must confess
His burthen meaner and his triumph less
Since richer Thames does James and Mary bear
He great as Jove She as Europa fair.
They come! Joy doubles strength to every Oar
Resounding Ecchoes fill the crowded Shoar
The waves with an unusual pride
Pay homage to the Lord
Of our Asserted Main
And calmly as they glide
Auspitiously afford
An Omen of his Reign.

III.

See glorious as the Eastern Sun
Our Monarch from the Waters rise
Whilst Crowds like Zealous Persians run
To own the blessing of their Sacrifice
He comes, religious Shouts proclaim him near
James and Hosannah bless each ear,
Delighted Heav'n confirms the mighty Joys
And in glad sounds reflects the Image of the Voice.

IV.

Triumphant Cæsar in less glory rode
When heighten'd from a Victor to a God
When captiv'd Monarchs trembl'd by his side
And by their Shame encreas'd his Pride
No private Sorrows here allay
The common transports of the happy Day
But in each exalted breast
Of happyness and James possess'd
Is evidently shown
His Peoples blessings greater then his own
And he that gives the Triumph triumphs least.

281

V.

Now fancy to the Altar bring
Second to what we there adore, the King.
By the anointing Prelate mett
And rising where the mighty Brother sett,
But Oh! forbid the Omen heavn,
Protect the blessing You have giv'n,
Late he ascends, long may he fill the Throne
And for the Nations bliss defer his own
Whilst Marys charms unbend the care
Of that rich load his sacred temples wear
(Herself the brightest Jewel there).

Not Writing to K. P.

So from Divinity and things above
The Zealots thoughts have sometimes chanc'd to rove
Till on his life he does with grief reflect
Compares heav'ns goodness with his own neglect.
Abhors his crime and vows he'l now begin
With double Penitence to clear his Sin
Then sighing trembling doubting he draws near
His Piety stil vanquish'd by his fear.
Till heav'n beholds and Pittys what he feels
And with glad Omens his wish'd Pardon Seals
Pleas'd with the truth of his repent[a]nce more
Then with his constant Pray'rs and drudging Zeal before.

282

Arria and Petus out of Martial.

Paraphrase.

With Roman constancy and decent pride
The dying Matron from her wounded side
Drawing forth the guilty blade
To her lov'd Lord the fatal gift convey'd
But then in streams of blood and sorrow drown'd
Pardon she crys an unbecoming Tear
(The Womans weakness will appear)
Yet think not tis that I repent the Deed
Or that my firm resolves give ground
Witness just Heav'n 'tis nothing that I bleed
But that You must, there Petus, there's the Wound.

To the Countess of Dorset walking in a Garden.

Yes I did stubernly believe
The place no added Beauty cou'd receive
'Till bright Dorinda's passing by
Convinc'd my Infidelity.

Where e'er She came new Glories fell
The dullest Plant grew Sensible
Its willing branches every Tree
By grateful instinct spread
And round the fair Divinity
Cast the glad shade of its protecting head.

283

The opening Flowers where e'er She went
Diffus'd their tributary scent
Crowding beneath her beauteous feet
Officiously they bow'd
With pleas'd Humility to meet
The fresher beauties of their sacred Load.

Nature seem'd to serve and woo
As she wou'd make her Queen of Seasons too
The Sun for her prolongu'd the Day
Kindly stop'd his setting light
She went, that only cou'd engage his stay
And all was gloomy, all was Night.

Ah shou'd the God returning show
The wonders he has seen below
The amazing Truth his am'rous Sire wou'd move
Make him confess
His Thunder less
Then are the Shafts of Love
Descending his transform'd Divinity
He'd to your bosom pour
And Poets once might hope to see
An other Golden Shower.

To the E. of D. upon His Marriage.

The scorching Dogstar and the Suns fierce ray
Conspir'd with mingl'd flames to vex the day
When by young Damon Lycidas was laid
Beneath a spacious Oaks obliging shade
And thus with harmless strife the emulous Shepherds plaid.

284

DAMON.
Let this bless'd day our fruitless Quarrels end
Soften the Rival to the friend
And make our kindness not our skil contend.

LYCIDAS.
Begin, raise Thou thy tuneful Voice
So may my Muse approve thy happy choice.

DAMON.
May Venus so my choice approve
As I begin with mighty things and Love.
When first Heav'ns Eldest offspring Light,
Sprang from the fertile Womb of solid night;
What made the melancholy discord cease
And charm'd the warring Elements to peace?
From what great cause what brooding influence came
This well proportion'd frame?
From Thee, blest Queen of Harmony and Love;
Thou greatest pow'r on Earth, thou brightest star above.

LYCIDAS.
When Loves great Dictates were obey'd,
And Heav'ns last noblest Master Piece was made
To make the new form'd Monarch truly blest
And in one richer Gift compleat the rest
What secret pow'r unlock'd his pregnant side,
To the soft Yoak bow'd his delighted mind
Taught the unpractic'd Lover to be kind
And bless the wound whilst he embrac'd the Bride
'Twas Thou Almighty King of Heav'n and Love
That Govern'st all below, and blesse'st all above.

DAMON.
'Twas Love subdu'd the noble Daphnis heart
Love gave the welcome happy wound,
And with this triumph all his Conquest crown'd
Whilst Daphnis blest the wound and met the Dart
Pleas'd with the grateful bondage more
Then with his early spoyls, and boasted Liberty before.

285

LYCIDAS.
'Twas Love subdu'd the fair Dorinda's breast
Love to her heart a secret warmth convey'd
With pleasing Pain surpris'd the wond'ring Maid
And kindly for her Joys disturb'd her rest.
Whilst Daphnis stronger charms with Love's conspire
To make her own the Diety and fan the growing fire.

DAMON.
But thy rude Music Swain, my ruder Tongue
The glories they shou'd reach wou'd wrong,
For Daphnis Love
Shou'd only prove
The Theam of Daphnis' Song.

LYCIDAS.
Nor can the Joys of Angells be exprest
Nor know we ought of Heav'n above yon Skies
Which yet we bless with Pray'rs and please with Sacrifice.

DAMON.
Lett's then the hasty Sun arrest
Time will stay till they are blest;

LYCIDAS.
Nay rather blame the Suns too hasty flight
Bid him withdraw his tedious light
And kindly send the wish for night.

DAMON.
May Daphnis wound her with a lure,

LYCIDAS.
And may Dorinda's flames endure
Like Vesta's fires ------

DAMON.
------ for these like them are pure.

LYCIDAS.
Let Heaven its utmost Care employ
To make Their life but one continu'd Joy.

286

DAMON.
Let Nature all her Tribute bring
To make their Year but one continu'd Spring.

LYCIDAS.
With softest Violetts strow her bed,

DAMON.
With freshest Myrtill crown his head.

LYCIDAS.
With Hymens Tree Apollo's joyn,
And round his brow their mingl'd honors twine
Their mingl'd honors sure to him are due
Who with the Nymph has gain'd the Lawrel too.

DAMON.
The Joys of Harvest crown their Cares,
And stil encrease their Plenty with their Years.

LYCIDAS.
The Joys of Vintage swell their Bowers,
And if they overflow, o'erflow on Ours:

DAMON.
Fly swift the smiling Hours, let each glad Morn
The fruitful pleasures of the last return.

LYCIDAS.
Fly smiling Hours, let each succeeding Night
Improve the transports of the first delight.

DAMON.
In glad Procession let each rolling Year
See the joyful Mother bear
A beauty Second only to her own.

LYCIDAS.
Or if the kinder Gods conspire to crown
Her stronger wishes with a Son
His Parents great Perfections let him share
And prove her Beauty's, and his Virtue's Heir.

287

Journey to Copt-Hall.

Thirty Six Miles—too far to walk a foot
And Pegasus, God knows, will never do't:
Yet I will on—It is decree'd,
I'l hire a more substantial Steed.
Accoutrement of Sword and Coat
Useless Ornament I vote.
Thus borrowing Whip and Cordibeck,
Proceed we next to Tick for Hack.

With Faith I'l pay, and six pence earnest
I got my Quondam Coach-horse harnest:
I mount, and great as Hudibrass,
With unarm'd kick urge on my horse;
Whilst he by instinct stil approaches
His old acquaintance of the Coaches:

With whipping constant as his trott,
My Beast and I to Eppin gott,
From whence, with loss of Whip and Leather,
I brought my sober Machin heither.
I came I say,—what once to see again
My Horse I'd pardon, and renew my Pain.

Here well-set Simile might shine
Of Pilgrimage to Power divine,
Of zealous Persian who wou'd run
To gaze on beams of distant Sun;
But th'are abus'd by franctic Lee
And sung to Stuttring Durfey's Ge sol re.

Well then—to Supper admirable
I sit, near Mahon grave and head of Table
Methodically She carves Cunney
Whilst Frenchman talks of blood and mony
Diff'rent Discourses crown the Meal
Much of Religion past and much of Veal
But one thing spoilt my appetite
Monsieur till ten from Candle-light
Extended Three Prodigious Lies—Good night.

288

On Mr Fleetwood Shephards Killing the French K***

To the E. of D*****

To F. S.

The joyful Slaves, whom your report set free
From Taxes, wooden Shoes, and Slavery;
Their Neighbours too, who by the Bully scar'd,
His Warlike Bombs and Politic Rats bane fear'd;
All that have trembling shook at his Alarms,
Dutch-Men and Protestants that felt his Arms,
And wisely hop'd, his less Religious Son
Wou'd tolerate the Mass or Alcoran:
Last, German Bishops, who began to think,
They now might see less Fighting, and more drink:
All these their humblest Thanks to S****** send,
France's Deliv'erer, and the Muses Friend.
S********* the glory of whose lasting Name
Shal crack Time's Iron Teeth and swel the cheeks of fame
S******** whose mighty Monarch-murthering word
Rivals the force of St Raviliac's Sword
Say, (for Thou knowest,) thou hero-heart'ning Muse!
What wou'd his presence, what his Arms produce?
Whose bare Report has nobler Mischiefs done,
Then Oates's Mustard Balls, or Pickerin's gun:
That at more distance kills, and Ecchoes louder,
Than Aurum fulminans or German Powder?

289

Say, how at Paris, free from zealous fear,
S********* and Reformation shal appear:
Brutus at Rome less honor'd than he there!
How the swift Bumpers shal with joy go round,
Whilst every Bowl with S********'s Name is crown'd;
And to his health the Mawdlin Protestants
Shal first drink Bourdeaux dry, then beggar Nantz.

Advice to the Painter, Upon the defeat of the Rebels in the West, and the Execution of the late D. of Monmouth.

—Pictoribus atque Poetis
Quidlibet—

Since by just Flames the guilty Piece is lost,
The noblest Work thy fruitless Art could boast;
Renew thy faithful Pains a second time,
From the Duke's Ashes raise the Prince of Lime,
And make thy Fame eternal as his Crime.

The Land (if such it may be counted) draw,
Whose Interest is Religion, Treason Law;
Th' ingrateful Land, whose Treacherous Sons are Foes
To the kind Monarchy by which they rose,
And by instinctive Hatred dread that Pow'r,
Join'd in our King and in their Conqueror.

Amidst the Councils of this black Divan,
Draw the misled, aspiring, wretched Man,
His Sword maintaining what his Fraud began.
Draw Treason, Sacrilege, and Perfidy,
The curst Achitophel's kind Legacy;
Three direful Engins of a Rebel's hate,
Fit to perform the blackest work of Fate.

290

But lest their horrid Force too weak shou'd prove,
Add tempting Woman's more destructive Love:
Give the Ambitious Fair—
All Nature's Gifts refin'd by subtlest Art,
Too able to betray that easy Heart,
And with more charms than Helen's to destroy
That other Hope of our mistaken Troy.

The Scene from Dulness, and Dutch Plots bring o'er,
And set the hopeful Parracide ashore,
Fraught with the Blessings of each boorish Friend,
And the kind helps their Pray'rs and Brandy lend,
With those few Crowns—
Some English Jews, and some French Christians send.

Next in thy darkest Colours paint the Town,
For old Hereditary Treason known,
Whose Infant Sons in early mischiefs bred,
Swear to the Cov'nant they can hardly read;
Brought up with too much Charity to hate
Ought but their Bible, and their Magistrate.

Here let the gawdy Banner be display'd,
While the kind Fools invoke their Neighbours Aid
T' adore that Idol they themselves have made,
And Peasants from neglected Fields resort
To fill his Army, and adorn his Court.

Near this, erected on a Drum unbrac'd,
Let Heaven's and James's Enemy be plac'd,
The Wretch that hates, like false Argyle, the Crown,
The Wretch that, like vile Oates, defames the Gown,
And through the Speaking-Trumpet of his Nose
Heav'n's sacred Word profanely does expose,
Bidding the large-ear'd Rout with one accord
Stand up and fight the Battel of the Lord.

Then nigh the Pageant Prince (alas too nigh!)
Paint [Gray] with a Romantick Constancy,
Resolv'd to Conquer, or resolv'd to Fly;

291

And let there in his Guilty Face appear
The Rebel's Malice and the Coward's Fear,
That future Ages in thy Face may see
Not his Wife falser to his Bed, than to all Parties he.

Now let the curst Triumvirate prepare
For all the baneful Ills of horrid War;
Let zealous Rage the dreadful Work begin,
Back'd with the sad variety of Sin;
Let Vice in all its numerous shapes be shown,
Crimes which to milder Brennus were unknown,
And innocent Cromwel wou'd have blush'd to own.
Their Arms from pillag'd Temples let 'em bring,
And rob the Deity to wound the King.

Excited then by their Camp-Priest's long Pray'r
Their Country's Curses, and their own Despair,
While Hell combines with its vile Offspring Night,
To hide their Treachery, or secure their Flight,
The watchful Troops with cruel hast come on,
Then shout, look terrible, discharge, and run.

Fal'n from his short-liv'd Pow'r and flatter'd Hopes,
His Friends destroy'd by Hunger, Swords, and Ropes;
To some near Grove the Western Monarch flies,
In vain the innocent Grove her Shade denies.
The Juster Trees—
Who when for refuge Charles and Virtue fled,
By grateful Instinct their glad Branches spread,
And round the Sacred Charge cast their inlarged Head,
Straight when the outcast Absalom comes nigh,
Drop off their fading Leaves, and blasted dy.
Nor Earth her self will hide her Guilty Son,
Tho he for refuge to her Bowels run.
Rebellious Corah to her Arms she took
When Heav'n, and Israel his old Cause forsook;
But now provok'd by a more just disdain,
She shrinks her frighted Head, and gives our Rebel back again.

292

Now Artist, let thy juster Pencil draw
The sad effects of necessary Law.
In painted Words, and speaking Colours tell
The dismal Exit this sham Prince befel;
On the sad Scene the glorious Rebel place,
With Pride, and Sorrow strugling in his Face;
Describe the Pangs of his distracted Breast
(If by thy Labours Thought can be exprest)
Shew with what difference two vast Passions move,
And how the Hero with the Christian strove.

Then place the Sacred Prelate by his side,
To raise his Sorrow, and confound his Pride
With the dear dreadful Thoughts of a God crucify'd.
Paint, if thou canst, the Heavenly Words that hung
Upon the Holy Mens perswasive Tongue,
Words sweet as Moses writ, or Asaph sung;
Words whose prevailing Influence might have won
All but the haughty harden'd Absalon.

At distance round their weeping Mother, place
The too unmindful Fathers beauteous Race;
But like the Grecian Artist, spread a Veil
O'er the sad Beauties of fair Annabel.

No Art, no Muse those Sorrows can express,
Which would be render'd by Description less.

Here close the dismal Scene, conceal the rest
That the sad Orphans Eyes will teach us best;
Thy guilty Art might raise our ill-tim'd Grief too high,
And make us, while we pity him, forget our Loyalty.

The Duke's Picture burnt at Cambridg.

Holland.

Lady Harr. Wentworth.

Taunton.

Ferguson.

[The lead taken of the Cathedral of Wells to make Bullets.]

Taken in a Ditch.

[Bishop of Ely.]

[Dutchess.]

293

To the Bishop of Rochester Upon His Account of the Whiggish Conspir[a]cy by His late Majesty's order.

My Lord,

With humble hopes Your goodness will excuse
The hasty Zeal of an Aspiring Muse.
I with unequal steps Your pace persue
And thought I trod Securely following You
Repenting now like Phaeton too late
I feebly sink beneath the glorious weight
And find the Work for all but You too great.

The hand that rivall'd Heav'n took thence it's fire
E'er He the senseless Machine cou'd Inspire
And the rash Author wou'd Attempt in vain
(Unless he borrow'd Your Diviner Pen)
To imitate or Praise with equal flight
What only Charles cou'd Dictate only You cou'd write.

If Troubles past by repetition please
Tho meaner Tongues Your grateful Tale express
What Joys, what raptures, must those Ills create
Which bravely, as he conquer'd, You relate.
Our Joys, without our Sufferings, had been less
And for Your Remedy the wound we bless
So, did not Catilines defeated rage
Your much lov'd Tully's daring Pen engage
His Rome wou'd want one Glory of his tongue
The World a Masterpiece, and Fame a Song.

294

God is Love.

I.

Almighty Power!
Whom Angells Hymns, men's Prayers adore.
For whom no Speech, no thought cou'd frame
A comprehensive Name;
Till Thou from Heav'n vouchsafst a ray,
Thy glory and our knowledge to improve;
Thou mixt Thy beams with our exalted Clay,
And we, enlightened, learn to call thee Love.

II.

All was in Chaos and confusion laid
Till by Loves creating word
The melancholy Mass was stir'd
And the commanded Elements with hasty joy obey'd.
Then peaceful Sphears with wond'rous Music roll'd,
Time his harmonious course began,
The circling Years in glad procession ran,
Order and beauty blest the New-born World.
And every object strove to prove
That all was made and all preserv'd by love.

III.

When Heav'ns last noblest Masterpiece was made
Love, pow'rful love, unlockt his pregnant side
And kindly thence call'd forth the blushing Bride
Love to his heart a secret was convey'd
And made him bless the wound --- court the Maid
Love did the willing Souls unite
Whilst he became her strength She his delight
This happy Pair more truly One
Then when both Sexes lay in Adams side alone.

295

IV.

Thus they liv'd and thus they Lov'd
Each smiling Hour their bliss improv'd
But when for knowledge and Sins sake they stray'd
When God and love were disobey'd
By God and love the mild decree was giv'n
Which threw them down from Paradise and rais'd them up to Heav'n.

V.

Exalted Lyre thy tuneful sinews move
Teach Man divinity and love
Forgetfull Man in Bethlems poor abode
Behold new born Eternity
And hear the Thunderers voice chang'd to an Infants cry
Nourish'd like Thee with circulating blood
Compound like Thee with limbs and cloath'd with skin
Like Thee in every thing, but Sin.

VI.

Then cast (if Tears restrain not) cast thy Eye
Up to the dismal top of frighted Calvary
See whom thy Pray'rs so oft invok'd
To whom thy fatlings fell, thy Altars smoak'd
See to the fatal Cross he's ty'd
The thorns his temples wound, the spear his side:
And to compleat his glorious Miserys,
Imperious Love, what wou'dst thou more? he Dyes.
What wou'dst Thou more? Thy Deity we own
By thy mysterious Power alone
The World was fram'd, Man sav'd, God crucified.

To the E. of Dorset on the Birth of His Son.

I.

Wake Goddess wake Thy drousy Lyre
Let the neglected Chords to louder Strains be strung,
And raise Thy voice, and swell thy numbers higher,
No common Theme requires Thy Song

296

For loe! from old Eternities glad Womb
The promis'd day, the glorious Birth is come:
'Tis come; the noble Babe securely lies
On his fair Mothers joyful breast;
(Happy his Age whose Infancy enjoys
A Seat of Plenty and a Heav'n of rest.)
But Oh! what Clouds of glory, clouds of light
Too strong for feeble Mans external Eye
Roll round the noble Babe, and mock my drowned sight:
That Light, that glory I wou'd see;
Hear, Goddess, hear thy Votary
The meanest of thy Sons inspire
Come to my breast, and with Thy pow'rful ray
Drive dimm humanity away
Wake, Goddess, wake thy Lyre.

II.

Hark the quicken'd Lyre awaks
Each willing string melodious tremblings makes:
And see! the appeas'd Air, and opening sky
Proclaim the Goddess nigh.
She's here, I feel the generous rage within
Enliven each extended vein.
I feel the kind the cruel Goddess roll
All through each part of my exalted Soul
And prest with Joy and pain'd with extacy
Loe! what mighty things I see.

III.

Mids't a fair Troop of smiling Deities:
Grave Janus with Majestic pace draws near
The sacred place where the blest Infant lies
Janus with pleasing Care and easy Joy
Does all his happy Eyes imploy
The lovely Babe to view
Employs 'em all, and thinks them all too few.
Pleas'd and ravish'd with the sight
He wings the coming Hours with new delight
No more looks backward now, but here
From this blest Birth dates the enobl'd Year.

297

IV.

Jocund Hymen next appears
His fragrant head with chearful joy he rears
With freshest wreaths his hair was bound
With brightest flames his torch was crown'd
Onward he came and coming smil'd
And saw and kist and blest the happy Child
He saw and kist and blest, and laugh'd aloud
Whilst all the little lovely crowd
Who with officious Joy stood hov'ring by
Laugh'd aloud with Him, and blest the Augury.

V.

Wanton and gay came Venus by
Venus saw Dorinda's Son
Smil'd and took him for her own
And much She wou'd have said of flames and darts
Of sighing Maids and yeilding hearts
But Pallas with majestic gravity
Reprov'd the light discourse, and know she crys
This Child is born to nobler Victories
Arms and the dusky field shal be his care
'Tis he shal lead the gene'rous Britain forth
To hazardous encounter and hard war
He shal renew his fam'd forefathers worth
And bid the wond'ring Soldier imitate
His Virtue and be great.
She said, and reverently low deprest
Her armed head down to the Lovely Child
The lovely Child with Ominous gallantry
Threw his young Arms around her glittring Crest
And claspt it to him close and smil'd
Whilst all the greater Gods that waited by
Bow'd to the Babe, and blest the Augury.

With mild Magnificence and humble State
See Jove himself vouchsafes to wait.

298

A Hymn to the Spring.

I

Fairest Child of flowing time,
Earths refreshment, Heav'ns delight,
Beauties honor, Natures prime
Joy of our Soul, and glory of our sight!
O bridle in the posting hours;
Thy too precipitated course restrain,
Cast out thy blossoms, spread thy flow'rs,
Augment our pleasure, and prolong thy reign.
For t'were impiety to wish Thee gone,
Tho Summer next and all her fruits come on.

II

All, thy absent Deity
With repeated Pray'rs implore;
All rejoice, thy Presence nigh,
Behold thy Miracles, and bless thy Pow'r.
The Farmer from thy looks receives
The blooming promise of a fruitful Year:
The Lover from thy bounty weaves
An early Honor for his Mistress' hair:
The sullen Warrior smiles, to see thee spread
The future Pride of his ennobled head.

III

Senseless as the Year we lye,
'Till kind spring's enlivening fires
Wakens our activity,
Improves our Joys, and heightens our desires.
For thee ev'n Venus we'l despise
Thou brighter Queen of Harmony and Love!
And Thee too born above the skies
Without a fictious Metaphor we'l prove:
For what is Heav'n but bright recesses, where
A constant Spring inriches all the Year?

299

A Session of the Poets
[_]

(imperfect).

Since the King like a venterous Gamster at Loo
Threw by his old Courtiers, and took in for new
Till by shuffling and drawing the cards were so mix't
That those which Won this deal were laid aside next
The Sons of the Muses began to repine
That who e'er was turn'd out John Dryden kept in
So, Numerous and Noisy to Phœbus they came
To ask why of All the Knaves he shou'd be Pam.

John Dryden appear'd at the head of the Gang,
And with a low bow and learned Harangue
He said with Submission he thought t'wou'd be hard
If he of the Bays shou'd at length be debar'd
Who so well had writ and so frankly declar'd.
Declaring says Phœbus, concerns not this court;
They that set you at work let 'em e'en pay you for't
Whats Religion to Us, tis well known that many
Have manag'd the Place well without having Any.
For matter of Writing 'tis frankly confest
If we'l take your bare word for't You do it much best.

[OMITTED] next thing that advances
Is the Priest to the Sacrifice honest St Francis
Ochanti, Huy Hannon, Rozarno, Tzinzummey
Bloody hands, blazing Comets, Priests devils and Mummy
Sure this will engage You? Apollo says No
All these pritty tricks Lee in Bedlam can show
Why then (tho Despina and Tamerlane fail)
I'm my Lord Dorsets Friend, I hope that may prevail,
Apollo bow'd low at the name, and declar'd
What a just Veneration he had for my Lord.
But heark'yee Sir Knight, says the God, that wont do
For if he had the Bays whom his honor best knew
W. R. has fairer pretences than You.

300

Old Waller came next, and handsomly pleaded
That none writ so neat and so calmly as he did
That with very much Wit he no anger exprest
Nor sharpen'd his Verse with a Venemous Jest.
And granting all this, said Apollo, old Friend
'Twil signify little to'th' business in hand
For as he that's dubb'd Hero, must first to the Wars
And bring home sore bruises and hazardous scars
So, he that wou'd rise and be prov'd a true Bays
(To be fitted in every respect to the Place)
Must be damn'd for his plays and for Satyr Sustain
To beatings at least in a little By-Lane.

Next little Tom Durfey demanded the Bays
For the sense of his Songs and the Plot of his Plays
A double pretence which I'l vow very Strong
But I've heard says Apollo a Scurrilous Song
In which You've affronted my friend Mrs. Long
And heark-yee Squire Durfey the Man that refuses
Respect to the Sex is no friend to the Muses.

Next Maidwel who young Poetasters can bring
As some do tame Blackbirds, to Whistle and Sing
His Tropes and his Figures most finely employs
To purchace the Wreath for himself and his Boys
For if he that Taught best had most right to the Laurel
Old Busby not he must determine the Quarrel
Apollo inform'd him he shou'd be most glad
If from his own Works any Plea cou'd be made
But at present he thought his pretences but bad.

From the Island of Love with a Shipload of Verse
Comes Afra and asks the Court leave to Rehearse
Enjoyment and Raptures and pretty Devises
Enamell'd on Watches for Damon and Isis
The Poetess Sung: at length swore She'd prove
That She and Jack Hoyle taught the whole Age to Love
And on with't She ran, nor had ended till now
But Phœbus reprov'd her, and gave her to know
That her Tongue went too fast, and her Love watch too Slow.
[OMITTED] If e'er he was found
To chuse words for any thing else but the sound.

301

The next that put in for't was little Jo Crown
He swore his Sir Courtly had ravish'd the Town.
Then Shadwel too sweated amain in the Praise
Of the language and Plot of his Squire of Alsace
They both were put by, So were two or three more
That fell short of the Lawrel the Session before
For they cou'd no more their Pretensions repeat
Than a horse thats once distanc'd may run second heat.

With a bundle of Poetry Settle was there
Some brought from the Play-house, and some from the Fair.
But Apollo assur'd him, he never wou'd chuse
The Laurel from such Demi Poets as those
Who write Treason in Verse, and recant but in Prose.

Sir Ch:**** that can write and better Translate
Was likewise Deny'd it for he'd an Estate
And from Homer to D****n it never was known
That the Laureat had three Pence a Year of his own.

Tom Wicherly challeng'd the Bays as his Due
And brought the plain Dealer to prove his words true.
I own says Apollo the Strength of Your Plea
But e'er You've the Place, there's one rub in Your way
The Test my Dear Friend, You must certainly take
Wou'd to God we cou'd get it repeal'd for your Sake.

After these a whole Gang with ill looks and hard Names
Thrust up to Apollo and forc'd in their Claims.

To a Friend on his Marriage.

Chamont was absent, and remembrance brought
Him and past blessings thick upon my thought;
Those but my Tortures now, whilst my vext heart
Beat quick and throb'd, and sought its nobler part
Nor wou'd have rest, uneasy still Alone
I scorn'd the Wretch My self, my Worth was gon.
In Company I strove for ease in Vain,
Whilst Mirth in others but increas'd my Pain.
Med'cines from Books as vain I often took,
They that writt best but told me how you spoke

302

In vain I saw: each object thrô my Eye
Touch'd my Soul quick with something stil of Thee
My Friend and I sat there, we that way mov'd
These read, these Talk'd, and every where we Lov'd.
But when 'twas said thou n'er must hope to see
That Friend return to things below and Thee.
Happy He triumphs, happy has possest
A Seat of Glory and a Heav'n of rest
'Twas base to Sigh and grew a Crime to moan
So much I Prize Your Bliss beyond my own.

Theseus stil lov'd, and stil desir'd his Friend
Whilst great Alcides yet on Earth remain'd:
But when the Hero to his Heav'n arriv'd,
Most the Youth wanted him, yet least he griev'd
Pleas'd that the Friend was in the God improv'd,
He learn'd to Worship what before he lov'd.
Accept my first Oblation, thy own heart,
(For Friendship shal be forc'd to let it part)
'Tis Love demands it, and I will resign:
Honoria gave her own, and merits Thine,
And to return it thus I triumph more
Then keeping it from all the Sex before.
Accept my Wishes too; meet all the Charms
The Muses gave, in Dear Honoria's Arms.

[Herself a Muse more Noble than the Nine
For when we harmony it self wou'd paint
Art does but in One graceful figure join
The Lovely Woman and the Pious Saint.]
May all thy Hours in glad Procession pass
Kind as her look and soft as her Embrace
And every Hour new Pleasures may'st thou find
All fair and Lovely as thy Mistress' Mind
And sure that's very lovely, very fair
Nothing but Heav'n and You, my friend, are there.
May all her future Minutes happy prove
As are Thy Numbers when Thou writst of Love
How strangely happy these well beauty knew
She fled Apollo but she ran to You

303

May smiling Peace and gentle Concord spread
Their blooming Sweets around thy spotless Bed
And may Mankind with pleasing wonder see
Successive Hopes of Thy great Progeny
'Till Dear Chamonts and Virgils labours Dye.

Letter to J****

My little Wid: to you I send
Or as my Doctress or my Friend
Hoping these Lines may find You S*****g
As I am at this present writing
I yesternight read Nendicks bills
Believ'd his lies and took his Pills
No sooner was the Rascall swallow'd
Ah J***y can you guess what follow'd?
I'l swear I thought I shou'd have quicken'd,
And from that moment fondly reckon'd.
At last my Physic like your Marriage
Brought nothing forth but a Miscarriage.
When I had suffer'd as I tell Yee
Those plaguey wamblings in my Belly
Backwards I much Dismist, and after
Indeed I scarse cou'd hold my Water.
Faith J**e those Pills are past enduring
That work at once by Stool and Urine;
I shou'd not, were you here, intreat Yee
To give me liberty to beat Yee;
For gentle walking will alone
Bring neighbor Nendick kindly down.
Thus having Thirty times I think
Drank your dear health in posset drink
I Answer to my Billet doux Require
And rest
Sweet J**e
Your filthy Friend
M. Pr***r.

304

To Dr F********* in a Letter to Beverley disswading him from drinking Waters.

To clear the Brain or purge the thought
Your Waters are not worth a Groat,
The Spaw it self cou'd never do't
Unless Your Brain lay in your Gutt.
Your Costive fancy if You'd stir up,
Add to your Waters Pills or Syrrup.
So your loose Muse may chance to store yee
With Arguments a Posteriori
You (like the Spaniard) may be writing
Some handsom Tract of easy Sh****g,
Or making some clean Returnello
Of who Sh***s white or who Sh***s yellow.
But if some labour you design
Like all its Breth'ren fair and fine
Lay by your Element and rather
Drink (by my Lords good leave) Forefather.
When Jove his Godhead purg'd with water
He got some Sneaking Fountain Daughter.
But for the Offspring of his brain
His head ak'd much, and he cry'd Alass!
Twas Wine that brought the generous pain
The God drank hard, and out sprang Pallas.
To her pale Sons, insipid Isis
The draught of her own Stream advises;
But well We know, our Alma-Mater
Holds Claret wholsomer than Water:
And by her Caudle and her Cup
Bids Sitt up late, and drink all up.

305

[Inspired Wit.]

If ever I had any Wit t'was when I had the Honor to be with Your Lordship, and then too it was not mine by Nature but inspiration.

So when the meanest Priest comes near the Cell
Where the pleas'd Deity vouchsafes to dwell
Farewell Humanity, a Nobler ray
Descends and drives Him from Himself away
With mighty Joy his sacred Silence breaks
And much the God inspires, and much the Prophet speaks.

Epistle to Lord ---.

That with much Wealth and large encrease, My Lord,
Your happy Granaries are amply stor'd;
That You can boast a Noble race, and show
United Honors Center'd all in You;
That in all Turns of State Your word has stood,
To Your own Honor, and Your Countries Good;
That You so sing, that since great Strephons death
No daring brow claims ev'n the Second wreath:
Yet these Perfections, were my thoughts declar'd,
Nor ask that praise, nor merit that reward,
As that One good, which ev'en Your Foes confess
(If any such there can be) You Possess.
A real Judgment, and a Solid Mind
Expert to use these blessings in their kind,
As Prudence dictates, and as God design'd.

'Tis true, I think not an impartial dole
Of Sense distributed to every Soul;
So that no Two, but can exactly say,
Each had his Measure, tho a diff'rent way:
Yet potent Nature frankly has bestow'd
Such various gifts amongst the mingl'd Crowd,

306

That I believe, the dullest of the kind,
Wou'd he but Husband and Manure his Mind,
Might find some Exce'llence there, which well-improv'd
At home might make him Pleas'd, in public Lov'd.

Some with grave Judgment can decide the Cause,
And govern Nations and Establish Laws.
Others in rougher Policy Excell,
Manage their Troops and wage the Battel well.
With useful Science, some, and wholsom rules,
Improve our Virtues, and exalt our Souls.
And some search cunning Nature, and declare
How all things did, and why they thus appear.
Some know to bound the Earth; and some to Guide
The lab'ring Bark above th' impetuous Tyde.
Some can with Art alure the trembling string,
And happy wonders in apt Measures Sing.
Others can form the Hero or the Saint,
In breathing Stone, or animated Paint.
Thus some may profit us, and some may please;
All may have diff'rent Honors, diff'rent ways.

Some have large Wealth and may receive the guest
Others have Wit and Mirth to crown the feast.

Then all that Vice, and those absurdities,
Which every moment every body sees,
Arise, (might I declare my thoughts,) from this;
Not that Men want, but use their Parts amiss:
Not One in Twenty their own Tallents know,
The Ox wou'd champ the bitt, the War horse plough;
The Coward Sieges and Campaigns recites,
The Cripple dances, and the Coxcomb writes.

[1.] Is there a Man, on whom indulgent fate
Has smil'd, and thrown a competent Estate?
With Sense enough to use the blessing right,
To his own Pleasure, and his Friends delight.
On he shal run, where Nature never mean't,
Nor friends, nor force, nor Bedlam, shal prevent.
Perhaps his Whim runs to Divinity,
Not Pulton then, not Casuist ABC,
Or their new Converts, troublesome as he.

307

Perhaps to Law; his Cases then shal tire
A City Orphan, or a Norfolk Squire;
His unintelligible Talk shal put
A Widow, or a real Lawyer, out.
Take heed (crys all the Country) come not near!
'Tis Term-time at his Table all the Year.

[2.] Is there another, with such moderate Sence
As just suffices not to give offence?
Tis odds but he shal Print his Poetry,
Thô such perhaps as Higden writes or I:
Nestles amongst the Criticks in the Pitt,
And talks at Will's, and wou'd be thought a Wit.

(1) No Ancient Piece, much harder than the rest,
That by Translation scorns to be exprest,
But all those People who to Phillis chime,
And make admiring and desiring Rhime,
With Emu'lous Labour turn and tumble it,
And heads forthwith are scratch'd, and nailes are bitt.

No happy Picture, whose rich features show
Vandyke! Thy labour, or Thine, Angelo!
But whilst the Dawbers with joint pains combine
To rival each inimitable line,
The great Original comes forth a Sign.

Painters and Poets any thing may dare—
I grant You, Sir, but with a previous care
Of what their Strength denys, & what t'wil bear.
Who, after Waller sings the Holland-fight,
Tells but how Ill 'tis possible to write:
& who wou'd throughly show his want of Skill,
From Lely draws my Lady Cleveland ill.

Well; most their business, their Discourse, their Cloaths,
Their very Vice, unfit for them will chuse.
The Squire from Mother sent unfleg'd and raw,
To learn good breeding and to read the Law,
Though he has little else to justify
His parts, but Innocence and modesty,
Quitts these as soon as possibly he can,
And swears, and drinks, and fain wou'd be —

308

The rough Tarpaulin when he home has brought
Health, Strength, and Treasure, every thing but Thought:
Must needs turn Spark forsooth; and to be known
Keeps very High, is jilted, and Undon.

The Land-Commander, whose ill favor'd face
Might make him rail at Love, and break his glass;
If he 'as been once in France, affects to go
Odly ill-drest, and spruce as any Beau,
Ogles, and Combs, and Bows, and does not doubt
To raise his Fortunes by the Pettycoat.

The Awkerd City Spark, who shou'd not Swear
But sneaking Shop-Oaths to put off bad Ware,
Nor drink but at the chusing of the May'r,
Getts very drunk, and with it very rude:
Some Suit their Inclinations, and are lewd;
On Vice, in him, 'tis Saucy to intrude.
Vice (Says the Moralist, and wou'd dispute)
With no Mans Nature realy can Suit.
It may Deceive us thô, Sir; but in these
It looks so ill, it scarse appears to please.

But to my Theme—I firmly still aver
Tis not through want of parts, but want of care,
To use those Parts aright, so many err.
They wont spare time to weigh the good or ill,
We blame their Intellect, the fault lyes in their will.

I know a hopeful Youth about the Town,
Whose Friends and Parts design'd him for the Gown;
His body was but weak, his quiet mind
To gentle peace seemed happily inclin'd:
Yet Thoughtless he, and erring in this Care,
Of his own strength is fall'n in love with War;
Herds with the Fighters, and with pleasure feels
A long Toledo jarring at his Heels:
Talks ill of Sieges rais'd, and Armys led,
And wears his Cravat string, and Breeches red.
I met the Youth, and truly, far from spight,
Told him his Tallent never was to fight—
He frown'd, and said, “Nor Yours perhaps to Write.”

309

To My Lady Exeter, on New Years day.

Her Birth-Day.

I

Great God of Time, whose early care
Ordain'd the first-born of the Year
To wait the gentle Anna's birth
O stil that happy Care employ
And stil let all her Minutes fly
All wing'd with Peace, & crown'd with Myrtle.
With softest Slumbers bless her Nights
And wake her still to new Delights
Bless all her Days and bid the Year
To show'r its blessings all on Her.

II

If Autumn blasts or Winter Storms
O turn on us the threaten'd harms.
From all that ill her beauties guard
For her let Spring diffuse its flowers
And Harvest spread its richer Stores
With all thats good her cares reward.
O let delight and Plenty spread
Their blooming Sweets around her Head
O let the Seasons all desire
To Shower their Blessings all on Her.

III

In the dear Lord of her Desires
Bless her, for all his Joys are hers:
Bless him Secure from noise and harms
And O when Love appoints the Day
Enrich it with thy Noblest ray
And bring him safe[ly] to her Arms
O let her all those Blessings know
That Men can ask or Gods bestow
Let Love and Heav'n and Earth conspire
To Shower their Blessings all on her.

310

[Answer to an] Orange.

Good People, I pray
Throw the Orange away,
'Tis a very sour Fruit, and was first brought in Play,
When good Judith Wilk
In her Pocket brought Milk,
And with Cushions and Warming-Pans labour'd to bilk
This same Orange.

When the Army retreats,
And the Parliament sits,
To vote our King the true use of his Wits;
'Twill be a sad means,
When all he obtains
Is to have his Calf's Head dress'd with other Mens Brains,
And an Orange.

The Sins of his Youth
Made him think of one Truth,
When he spawl'd from his Lungs, and bled twice at the Mouth,
That your fresh sort of Food
Does his Carcase more good,
And the damn'd thing that cur'd his putrify'd Blood
Was an Orange.

This hopeful young Son
Is surely his own,
Because from [an] Orange it cry'd to be gone:
But the Hereticks say,
He was got by Dada,
For neither King nor the Nuncio dare stay
Near an Orange.

311

Since Lewis was cut
From his Breech to the Gut,
France fancies an Openarse delicate Fruit:
We wiser than so,
Have two Strings to our Bow,
For we've a good Queen [that's] an Open[arse] too,
And an Orange.

Till Nanny writ much
To the Rebels the Dutch,
Her Mother, good Woman, ne'er ow'd her a Grutch:
And the Box on the Ear
Made the Matter appear,
That the only foul Savour the Queen could not bear
Was an Orange.

An honest old Peer,
That forsook God last year,
Pull'd off all his Plaisters, and arm'd for the War:
But his Arms would not do,
And his Aches throb'd too,
That he wish'd his own Pox, and his Mistress's too
On an Orange.

Old Tyburn must groan,
For Jefferies is known
To have perjur'd his Conscience to marry his Son;
And [Devonshires] Cause
Must be try'd by the Laws,
And Herbert must taste a most damnable Sauce
With an Orange.

Pen, Lob, and a score
Of those honest Men more,
Will find this same Orange exceedingly sour;
The Queen to be seiz'd,
Will be very ill pleas'd,
And so will King Pippin, too dry to be squeez'd
By an Orange.

312

Song
[_]

Set by Mr K.

[Love has often threaten'd War]

I

Love has often threaten'd War
Beauty led up all the Fair
Yet stil my heart repell'd the Harms
Their cruelty intended
But when my Cælia took up Arms
Unable to resist her Charms
The Fort no longer I defended.

II

Strength and Wisdom useless prove,
Once to see her is to Love;
Others in Time a heart may gain
By Treaty or Perswasion,
Their Conquests They by Siege obtain;
You o'er my heart were born to reign
And bravely took it by Invasion.

Song
[_]

Set by Messrs Pickering and Tudway.

[Love I confess I thought Thee but a Name]

Love I confess I thought Thee but a Name
The Painters fancy and the Poets Theme,
The Old Wives Tale, the wishing Virgins dream
But if indeed Thou art a God
Supreme in Goodness and in Pow'r
Now make it clearly understood
And I'l repent and I'l adore.
Or use thy Mercy, and withdraw the dart
Gently! Ah! gently, from my fester'd heart;
Or strike the weapon thrô my Cælia's breast
And be Thy Godhead by thy Pow'r exprest.
For whilst I follow and my Cælia flies
Whilst I entreat and She denys
I own my Self a harden'd Atheist stil
And must deny thy Power, or blame thy Will.

313

[Great Nassau rise from Beauty]

[_]

To Mr K---s Tune of the Prince's march.

Great Nassau rise from Beauty
Leave Maria's softer Charms
Call the Soldier to his Duty
Bid the Trumpet sound Alarms
To renown Love excites Thee
O prepare
Sudden War
Mary's injur'd Cause invites Thee
Love and Mary bless thy Arms.

Great Nassau rise to Glory
Rise to Save our sinking State
Truth and Justice march before Thee
Vi[c]tory behind shal wait.
Death and Hell n'er shal vex Thee
Faith and Laws
Back thy Cause
All our Isle with Joy expects Thee
March to Conquer and be great.

Sound to France, spread Thy Banner
Hoist thy Sails and plow the Main
Guarded by Success and Honor
Vindicate thy own again
Fortune laughs Fate is willing
To Advance
Thee o'er France
Court the Hours whilst yet they'r smiling
March to Overcome and Reign.

314

Cælia.

Were Cælia Absent and remembrance brought
Her and past Pleasures thick upon my thought
With Bacchus' Liquors I'd Loves flames defeat
He'd soon leave flut'ring, if his Wings were wet.
Else to my Books I'd dedicate my Days,
Forget my Daphne whilst I sought the Bays.
Or shou'd all other Cures successless prove
To some kind Present She my Suit I'd move
Burns are expell'd by fire and Love by Love
But when I want my Friend, when my vext heart
Beats short, and pants and seeks its nobler part
That absent one not millions can attone
Amidst a Multitude I'm stil Alone
My mind like Telephus's hurt is found.
The cause that gave can only Cure the wound.

The same Varied.

Were C[æ]lia absent and remembrance brought
Her and past raptures thick upon my thought
The next kind She might meet my rais'd desire
And beastly Lust quench Loves disabl'd Fire.
But when I want my Friend, when my vex't heart
Beats short, and pants and seeks its nobler part
For the sad Ill no medi'cine can be found
'Tis You that made, 'tis You must cure the Wound.

315

A Hymn to Venus, upon a Marriage.

I.

Almighty pow'r of Harmony and Love
That Governst all below and blessest all above
At whose command this well proportion'd frame
From the dark womb of empty Chaos came
Whose smile bid wild confusion cease
And charm'd the jarring Elements to peace,
Who life and joy to th' earliest beings gave
And stil with new supplies defeats the conquest of the Grave
Marriage I sing be thou my Muse
To thy young Prophets Soul infuse
Such vigorous heat such active fire
As tun'd thy dear Anacreons Lyre
That my officious Song may prove
Noble as was our Lovers first desire
Sweet as their Courtship lasting as their Love.

II.

Yes Venus your Divinity we own
Your pow'r and goodness equally are shown,
Since this happy pair you join
Forsake Cythera's crouded shrine
Victims of vulgar hearts disclaim
Nor seek new Conquests but the last m[ai]ntain
Your last which has outdone
All other glories which your Cupids won
Since yielding to your Godhead Jove
Confest his Thunder less then were the Shafts of Love
Go let your darlings useless arms be broke
Let his torch languish in enactive Smoak
His little Deity must now dispair
To see such Lovers at his Altars crown'd
Or vanquish with an equal wound
So great an Hero, and a Bride so fair.

316

III.

On these may all your Blessings flow
On these your choicest Gifts bestow
Let all their after minutes prove
Kind as is your kindest Dove
And soft as down upon the wings of love:
Still with their years encrease their joy
Stil be their raptures full yet never cloy
Whilst each succeeding Night
Improves the Transport of the last delight
In glad procession may each rolling Year
See the joyful Parent bear
A Beauty second only to her own
Or if the smiling Gods conspire to crown
Her stronger Wishes in a Son,
His Fathers Soul as Image let him share
And prove his Honors & his Virtues Heir.

A Fable.

In Æsop's Tales an honest Wretch we find,
Whose Years and Comforts equally declin'd;
He in two Wives had two domestick Ills,
For different Age they had, and different Wills;
One pluckt his black Hairs out, and one his Grey,
The Man for Quietness did both obey,
Till all his Parish saw his Head quite bare,
And thought he wanted Brains as well as Hair.

The Moral.

The Parties, hen-peckt W—m, are thy Wives,
The Hairs they pluck are thy Prerogatives;
Tories thy Person hate, the Whigs thy Power,
Tho much thou yieldest, still they tug for more,
Till this poor Man and thou alike are shown,
He without Hair, and thou without a Crown.

317

A new Answer to an Argument against a Standing-Army.

Would they who have nine years look'd sour
Against a French and Popish Power,
Make Friends with both in half an hour?
This is the time.

Would they directly break the Sword
By which their Freedom was restor'd,
And put their Trust in Lewis Word?
This is the time.

Would they leave England unprotected,
To shew how well they are affected,
And get themselves next bout elected?
This is the time.

Would they preserve their Wives and Pullets
Against the Soldiers Lusts and Gullets,
And break our Guns to save our Bullets?
This is the time.

Would they oblige a Winter-Sea
Their prudent Orders to obey,
And keep a standing Wind in pay?
This is the time.

Would they but say what they're pursuing,
Whom they're advancing, whom undoing,
What pack of Knaves shall prove our Ruin?
This is the time.

A-God's Name let 'em shew their Games,
And fix to one of these Extreams,
A Commonwealth, or else King James;
For now's the time.

318

[A Prophecy.]

Thy King (O may I call him by that Name?
But he shal be the last that e'er shal bear it).

No Man more heartily shal hate his Wife
Then he shal Thee; nor fly with more impatience
Into a yielding Mistress' dear Embraces
Then he to Belgia's shore, Belgia thy Rival
In Empire and in Interest. She shal Triumph,
Shal to the farthest East send forth
New Colonies and build her proud Abodes
On Ganges and in India, She shal have Treaties
Made for Her sake alone and Kingdom given.

Thy Miters shal be worn by Men at best
Stupid and Ignorant, scarce capable
To guide a Parish Flock, by others famous
For Rapes, and Outlaw'd from their Native Country
For having by Vile Treasons giv'n up
The Masters that had fed them, Fools and Madmen
Shal Prophecy false dreams, that take distemper
For Revelation
And comment Blasphemy on sacred Scripture
These, these shal Rule thy Clergy.

Thou shalt have Priests immerst in Lust & Gluttony
And Bishops Three times Married, thy Cathedrals
The Seats where Prayer and Hospitality
Shou'd dwell, shal be the Taverns of the Land,
Where drunken bowles incessantly go round
In leud debauch and midnight Dice are Hurl'd,
The Beds wherein the weari'd Pilgrim us'd
To ease his crippled Limbs, he now shal find
Possess'd with Women, Nurses, She Attendants
And a dishonest Brood of ugly Children.

319

Ballad.

[The Factions which Each other claw]

The Factions which Each other claw
By joint consent have both undone Thee
Thou like the Goat in Moses Law
Hast all the Nations Sins upon Thee.

Whilst H** upon thy Faults descants
H***** and M******* shal join
Not one but roars at Irish grants
But all forget You past the Boyne.

Five hundred Hams all pleas'd all proud
That they their Fathers Shame discover
But not one Japhet in the Crowd
To draw the Decent Mantle over.

What in Thy Government is right
To So****r's Name shal stand recorded
The Lawrels Thou hast gain'd in fight
Let O*****d's Merit be rewarded.

Thy Ministry supports the Throne,
With prudence O*****d all disasters:
What proves successful is their own,
And what Miscarrys is their Masters.

Twas by a House of Commons wrought
That Priests and Papists shan't Alarm ye
But twas His Majestys own fault
That we have neither Fleet nor Army.

[A Ballad of Vigour.]

The Crown once again
Its Rights shal maintain
And the Nation shal make a good Figure
For our Glorious Redeemer
Tells Harley and Seymour
Tis time They shou'd Act with great vigor.

320

When the Hands of the Pages
Find how sad a thing Age is
In our little dispirited Fr:—
Tis likely his Brains
New fire shou'd retain
And He'l act with abundance of Vigor

His Majesty's Actions
Shal soon suppress Factions
And by May he shal Paris beleaguer
For without Troops or Pence
Without Counsels or Sense
The King has a fancy for Vigor.

Whilst He lays his concerns on
The shoulders of Vernon
His Credit will surely grow bigger
And if Sunderland comes
Sound Trumpet beat Drums
No doubt but We'l act with great Vigor.

Albemarle leads the way
Drest like Mars in a play
With Cassie as fierce as a Tyger
And Miremont the Prince
Shal his Country convince
That His Majesty's Fav'rites have Vigor.

Vice Chamberlain Bartie
Is in the Court Partie
Lord Cuts for the Combat is eager
And for Jore and Laloe
Grand Loüis shal know
What it is to be given to Vigor.

But if Whigs get the better
You'l see how He'l fetter
And Hamstring our Royal Intreguer
If the Tory prevails
In comes little W****,
And have We not acted with Vigor?

321

Seneca, Troas. Act 2d.

The Chorus Translated.

Is it a Truth, or but a well told Lye
That Souls have being, when their Bodies Dye.
When the sad Wife has clos'd her Husbands Eyes
And pier[c]'d the ecchoing Vaults with doleful crys,
Is not the Husbands life entirely fled,
His Soul extinguish'd as the Body dead;
Or does that other part of Him remain
Stil chain'd to Life, and stil condemn'd to Pain?
No no, before Our Friends officious Care,
Can light the Torch and solemn rites prepare,
Our breath is mix'd, and lost, with common air.
As far as East or West extended go,
As far as Sun-beams gild or Waters flow,
All beings have a destin'd space to run,
And all must Perish, as they all begun.
The Sun, the Moon, and every Sign above
Fix'd by strong Fate, in destin'd Courses move
Like Us for certain Periods they endure,
Their life much longer, but their end as sure.
As smoke which rises from the kinling Fires
Is seen this moment, and the next expires;
As empty Clouds by rising winds are tost,
Their fleeting forms scarce sooner found, then lost,
So vanishes our State, so pass our days,
So life but opens now, and now decays
The Cradle and the Tomb alas! too nigh
To live is scarce distinguish'd from to Dye
After Death nothing is, and very Death,
It self is nothing, 'tis but want of breath,
The utmost Limit of a narrow span,
An end of Motion which with life began.
Death shows us only what we know was near,
It cures the Misers wish, and checks the Cowards fear,

322

Where shalt Thou be when thou art laid in Earth
Where we'rt Thou timorous thing, before thy birth?
Disolv'd in Chaos, on the formless Mass,
Of what may be contending with what was,
Old Night and Death extend their noxious Pow'r,
O'er all the Man, the Body they devour,
Nor spare the Soul, a Kingdom in the dark
Furies that Howl three headed Dogs that bark
Are empty Rumors form'd in Childrens Schools
The Tales of Pedants, and the Dreams of Fools.

Translated from the Original French.

While soft She Parly'd with becoming grace,
And courteous smiles adorn'd her lovely face;

Who heard her speak Himself might soon deceive;
And fondly hope she felt the wound she gave:
But, Oh! great Love Thy Votarie's must take care
To Serve Thee well, but trust Thee not too far.

[Reality and Image.]

For instance, when You think You see a
Fair Woman, 'tis but her Idea:
If You her real Lips Salute,
Or but their shade, will bear dispute.
“Look there (say You) I see a Horse”—
Lord Sir how Idly you discourse?
“I see a Horse, I'm sure thats true.”
I say the Devil a Horse see You;

323

You see a Horse's Image, lain
In Miniature upon your brain;
But what you take for fourteen Hand,
Is less than half a grain of Sand.
Things must be stated by their Nature;
The less cant comprehend the greater:
Now, if your Groom wou'd n'er be able
To set old Crop into the Stable,
Unless (pray mind) the Door at least
Was something larger than the beast:
The Fellow sure wou'd never be
Devoid of Sense to that Degree,
As to desire, much less to try,
To thrust his Nagg into your Eye.

Verses Intended for Lock and Montaigne.

Lock, wou'd the Human understanding show;
In vain he squanders Thought & Time and Ink.
People themselves most certainly must know,
Better than He cou'd tell, how they can think?

I fancy things may quickly be agreed,
If once for All we state our notions right;
And I (thank gracious Heav'n) need never read
One line that Thou, Friend Lock, did'st ever write.

Sic argumentum pono: if my head
Had been exactly made, and fill'd like Thine,
I shou'd have known what ever thou had'st said,
Tho in Thy work I had not read a line.

And if again, pray mind, Thy head and Mine
Are form'd and stuff'd quite diff'rent from each other;
I n'er shal understand one single line,
Thô I shou'd read thy Folio ten times over.

Written at Down-Hall.

324

Fragments Written At Down-Hall.

For when your Judge becomes your Foe
Think nor to give nor ward the blow
The danger prudently to shun
Forbear to plead and learn to run
What good can Culprits staying do
When Laws explain'd by Pow'r pursue?
Avails it [a]ught what you can say
If all the Bench resolves the Nay?
When Truth out-voted comes too late
What does She but Prevaricate?
The Circumstances change the case,
'Tis now no Tryal but a race,
What signifies Achilles speed
But to be rid in time of need?
When angry Paris aim'd the Dart
Against the Heroes Mortal part
Instead of Fighting, had he fled,
His Heel might have secur'd his Head.

To her loose dress She calls some foreign Aid
That shows the wanton fears to dye a Maid
Some flow'ry Honor from the neighbo'ring field
Or Emblem taken from her Lovers Shield
Yet when her fine degrees thy Column rise
Their secret charms illude our captive Eyes
With too much Science we admire Thee wrought
Yet praise thy Beauty while we own thy Fault.

The Plowshares now deform the martial plain
Raking the Sculls of the once glorious Slain.

325

Still craving yet stil Roger cry'd
I'll live to-Morrow but to-Night he dy'd
Strange the delusion of his hopes and fears
While that he Starv'd himself to cram his heirs.

Stil base to those who meant Thee well
Ungrateful stil to those that rais'd Thee.
Forget my too officious Zeal
And pardon Me if I have prais'd Thee.

Fragments for Alma.

Stil like to keep their fancy up
No more can drink yet kiss the Cup
* * * those who have weak heads
Their Answer from their fitts provide
And wear their Logic by their side.

Blind Folks shall know You by Your walk
And Dumb and Deaf shal see You talk.

All this says Richard is but Nonsense
For whats the Will without the Conscience
That mighty Pow'r by whom the thought
Is from Kings Bench to Chancery brought
What Seat for her have You assign'd
When She may view and sway the mind.

Dear Dick at Surgeons Hall they tell Y[e]
There are two Regions in the belly
The Diaphragma (You love Greek)
The Midriff as the Vulgar speak
Lyes between both that thou may'st know
How far the bounds of either go
As in the Tennis-court the Nett
Determines either Parties bett
Or Berwick whilom did distinguish
The Limitts between Scots and English.

326

For hark You, Richard, shou'd we put
The Conscience lower towards the Gut
It wou'd remain inept and quiet
And stil go downward with our Diet
Hence the Desires She wou'd Produce
Wou'd all be Sordid Base & Loose.

Now place her in a higher part
Amid'st the Region of the heart
From thence so many Conduits lead
Directly upward to the head
That mounting by too swift advances
And bursting in ten thousand fancys
She wou'd from Neighborhood of place
Be always flying in your face
And fire your Brain with so much Heat
That You wou'd neither Sleep nor Eat
For Dick Your Conscience—

Yet happy Human race my Friend
Did here the sickly madness end.
But Mitis troubl'd half the nation
About his Offsprings Education;
And urg'd by some unhappy fate
Gave him Two Thirds of his Estate
To settle the sad Wretch in Mariage
(This of his life the Sole Miscariage)
Yet Hopeful counts his Fathers Years,
And blames the Sloth of Clotho's Sheers;
That thus protracts the long wish'd death;
Of whom? the Man who gave him breath,
Say this, and the ill jesting Calf
Replyes ye with an impious laugh
His Mother help'd, and he cou'd spare
Her too, from all this Worldly care:
Were She, good Soul, but once in Heav'n
Her Jointure wou'd set matters even.
Wou'd Fate this double Blessing give
A happy Orphan he shou'd Live.

327

Hence Frantic Att-all's endless rage
Hates the Recess requir'd by Age
[OMITTED]* * * * * *
Most People live by Drink and Diet,
He feeds on other Mens disquiet.
Eternal Watch the Madman keeps
When e'er he knows his Neighbor Sleeps.
Scar'd with his own injurious Deed
He thinks it safest to proceed.
Hears jingling Chains and Clinking Fetters
And wou'd impose 'em on his Betters
Which does the Bedlam fear the most
H***** Alive or G*****y's Ghost
Leave him as God and Man has done
And let the Muse go gently on.

With the Image of his own ill deed
Frighted he must to worse proceed
Hearing the Clinck of Chains & Fetters
He hopes to put them on his Betters.

And make Him say what just they please
As Statesmen do with Witnesses.

Further tis easy to produce
People who make the proper use
Of others Limbs, for Instance now
The General (Poets thus Allow
And Socrates) gain the Price of War
The Lawrel hides his want of Hair.

Besides, Dear Dick, tho You and I
With ipse dixet shou'd comply
He never will obtain his Ends
On many of our Gresham friends;
Who with Authority dispense
And in its Place have setl'd sense.

328

Besides a Man must never put
His Oar into anothers Boat.
Are there not Bells in every Steeple
To Summon in the Docile People?
And Deans and Prebends, whose great Care
Some Two and Fifty times a Year
Shou'd to their Parish gravely read?
But if They send them in their stead
Some Curate who can hardly spell,
This some conceive does e'en as well.

The World was 200 Year in the Dark following Aristotle.

Till great Des-Cart and his Sectators
Light up their Philosophic papers
Which say th' Aristotelians again
Were but Jack-a-lents by which men
Thinking they saw mistook their way
More then before.

Fragments.

Odd is the Justice of that Land
Which only lopps the Thiefs right-hand:
The left, before inur'd to Robb,
Is each new Sessions in your Fobb.
In Britain We with wiser care
Chastise a Limb that has no pair;
And when You hang him by the Neck
E'en trust him for a Second Trick.

But that of which he was bereft
Alas, had n'er a fellow left.

329

Anaxarchus being upon the Torture in hopes of some discovery bitt off his Tongue and spit it into the Tyrants face—The Tongue thus separated from the dear root

Thus wounded and thus spit
Express'd more Wisdom Sense and Wit
Then Homer Sung or Plato writ.

Virtue and Love instruct me well
What to Conceal and what to tell.

Yet Distanc'd and Undone by those
Whom sure thou did'st Excell in Prose
When thou thy long mistake did'st see
And los'd from Prison came to me
Say did I not receive thee say
As thou had'st never gone astray.

To make thy Fortune fair Amends
In raising Thee Twelve Hundred friends
By which succeeding Age may see
Who Lov'd the Muse and Pardon'd Thee.

I saw a Thousand ill look'd foes
Their Daggers to thy breast oppose.

And if the Motion by the Sense you prove
The Ship stands still the Shoars & Cities move.

And be the Wretch thy Pitty or delight
Yet Swim or sink I'll hold the rudder right.

[OMITTED] I'll have a Dart
Shal strike him to the heart
Else let me n'er to Heav'n soar
Nor e'er on Earth do Mischief more.

Who e'er a serious view will take
Of that learn'd book the Almanack
Will find a figur'd Man Pierc'd thrô
With sundry Darts from head to toe

330

Just so at least a Year stood I
Smote breast and back and hip and Thigh
Full twenty Foes around me came
And each at me took several Aim
Against some part each took
One at my head with Malice Stroke
T'other ram'd Perjury at my throat
This with Sophisticated reason
Shot at my hand for writing Treason
Against Them All I stood.

We bid the Men stand and deliver their Purses
And tying their Hands up we laugh at their Curses.

To Florimel.

Careless and Young O Florimel
Thou little Think'st of whats to come
O it wou'd fright Thee shou'd I tell
What soon must be Thy Countries Doom.

Written under a Picture painted by Mr Howard.

Invocation to Fortune.

Assist my Cause with Honour, Justice, Truth,
And Thou great Fortune wont to favor Youth
For me Thy Godhead by Thy Mercy prove
Chain cruel rage, and aid afflicted Love
Great Heavens Decrees undaunted let me try
And live with Empire or with Virtue dye.

331

True Statesmen.

True Statesmen only Love or Hate
What Lessens them, or makes them great.
With wond'rous kindness each Ascends,
Supported by his Shouldring Friends:
And fleering Criticks sometimes Note
His dirt imprinted on his Coat.

Some Lords like Wife and Husband Squable
For this fine thing, for that blew bauble,
But soon the present folly ends
And common Intrest makes them Friends.
Whilst yet Erinnis rages high
And Paper Darts in Pamphlets fly
He whose hot head wou'd interpose
Is sure to have his share of blows
But in the reconciling feast
When all the bustle proves a Jest
Where matters are adjusted fairly,
And [OMITTED] sweetly kisses H*****y
The little Agents of the Plott
The understrappers are forgot
And if the Doctor uninvited
Afraid to fancy he was slighted
Comes in, his Labours he may spy
Fix'd to the bottom of a Pye
Or find how those reward his trouble
That light their Pipes with Dear T** D*****

Be not the Bully of the Nation
Nor foam at mouth for Moderation
Take not thy Sentiments on trust
Nor be by others Notions just
To Church and Queen and Laws be hearty
But hate a Trick and scorn a Party
And if thou ever has't a voice
Tho it be only in the Choice
Of Vestry Men or grey-Coat-Boys

332

Vote right thô certain to be blam'd
And rather Starve than be asham'd
This Method I shou'd fancy best
You may think otherwise. I rest.

Simile.

The worthless Cypher, when alone,
Is in himself much less then one;
But plac'd behind more Cunning Men,
Exalts each figure up to Ten:
And when Two thoughtless Noughts have blunder'd,
The Knave before becomes a Hundred.

So rise, by Aid of worthless Fools,
The Men who know to use their Tools.

The Courtier.

Fragment.

Our Courtiers traffick for their fame
Like Nymphs for what I need not name
If this and that time they hold out
It is their Virtue? Yes no doubt
In short they happen to despise
The Lover now and now the Price
But be the Youth Gallant, the Sum
Sufficient, what reply they—Mum
Nature and Intrest must prevail
And flesh and blood you know are frail.

To charm the fair to cheat the Wise
To lure us to the Proffer'd Vice
'Tis all but coming to our Price.

333

Fragments.

For K------n------tt call'd White, and Bu***t Gil. show,
That Doctors may change as Preferment may go
And Twenty Years hence for ought You and I know
Twil be Hoadly the high & Sacheverel the Low.
Who knows how each Author may alter his mind
As they or the Text other Comments may find.

Grey hairs the blossom of Old age appear
To show that Death the fruit of Time is near.

When thy fair Soul ascends her Native Skys
Lillys and Roses from thy Dust shal rise.

One commonly talks most when one has least to say.

And giving You both Yea and Nay
Talks most when he has least to say.

Beauty.

Howe'er confess'd O Queen of Love Thy pow'r
It acts precarious to the coming Hour
And as with certain wings Old Saturn flies
It blossoms flourishes decays and Dies.

Pursu'd by time the pow'r of beauty flies
Arises flourishes Decays and dies.

In its midd Empire darts precarious rays
By distance bounded and confin'd to place.

Tho joyful Health and blooming Youth combine
To lay the Gift on Cythereas shrine
Far as the Nymph can look, she only reigns,
The Youth must see her Charms, to feel her Chains.

Sickness can spoil and absence can remove
The fond Ideas that arise from Love.

334

Whilst yet it flourishes with fullest grace
Tis bound by distance and confin'd to place
Tho joyful health and blooming Youth combine
To bring the sacred flame to Cupids Shrine.

Narcissus.

O happy Youth what can destroy
The long Excesses of thy Joy
For nothing in the whole Creation
Will prove a Rival to thy Passion.

On the Marchioness of Caermarthen.

[OMITTED] future time shal say
How Harleys Daughter studious past the day
While four-fold to the Patriot Father She restor'd
Blessings, which from him She at Morn implor'd.

Virgils Georgic 4 Verse 511 Qualis ------ implet

Translated.

So Philomel beneath the Poplar shade
Mournful bewails her Brood whom the rough hind
Finding has taken Callow from the Nest
All night she weeps and sitting on the branch
Often repeats her Melancholly song
And fills the Country with her sad complaint.

335

Answer to the Female Phaeton.

As Almoner in Holy Week
Dealing good George's Cloth and bread
Sends forth his Officers to seek
The People who stand most in need.

So Thou director great in Wit
Amongst Us Authors rule'st the roast
Distributing as Thou think'st fit
To those that seem to want the most

Thou didst to me a Bard half starv'd
A plenteous Dole of Fame provide
And gav'st Me what I n'er deserv'd
Something of Phaeton and Hyde.

Respect and Memory O look back
Recall the beauteous Mothers Youth
Curl thou hast put me on the Wrack
And now believe I tell thee truth

That bright great good Nymph such I found
Such! how? durst I? cou'd Kneller tell:
How many Years hid I the Wound
Which forc'd by Curl I now reveal!

The Mothers beauties as I lov'd
And thought She rul'd by Right Divine
I saw the Daughters Charms improv'd
I courted — in the Legal Line

When I saw J*** what can they mean
Said I that e'er can think of Kitty
As Kath'arine grew and pleas'd my view
Poor Charlotte I beheld with pitty

Next Charlotte comes and on They run
Like Banco's offspring in Mackbeth
All to the Rebells of their Throne
Denouncing Anger wrath and Death

336

If beauteous Hyde can thus supply
Her everlasting Store of Darts
Come on I cry'd we all must dye
Tho every Man had twenty Hearts

What e'er may to my charge be laid
In public Prints or Secret Whispers
I'll tell thee all I ever said
Of Jinny or her beauteous Sisters.

In these I [OMITTED] the Graces three
All beautifull all like their Mother
And Each the reigning Toast shal be
Why? because Each is likest t' Other

If You three Sister Roses view
From that which is the fullest blown
The beauties of the other Two
Without much forecast may be known

Soft April, blooming May, bright J[u]ne
Do each in diff'rent Charms appear
Yet with succeeding Pleasures crown
The Joys and Honors of the Year

But Phaeton or Kittys Act
Has set our Amorous World on fire
If Similes are not quite exact
Why must they needs be made by Prior?

Alas By adding to my fame
Oh gentle Curl, thou hast undone me
Making me richer than I am
Thou draws't my Creditors upon Me

From Blanket and Purgation free,
Thou long shal't live and we'el be friends,
Put out my Name & We'el agree
Make me at least this smal Amends.

Then Curl for Mine and for Truths Sake
They righteous Printing Press employ
To prove I never did mistake
A Lady for a Boy.

337

In a Window in Lord Villiers house.

1696.

In Vain by Druggs and rules of Art
Poor Ratcliff wou'd my Lungs ensure
They lye too near a wounded heart
Whose sickness Death alone can cure.

To a Painter (fragments).

In foreign Lands my Poetry stands dumb
Thy Pictures speak and Act where e'er they Come.

But narrow bounds the English Muse can boast
Confin'd and fetter'd to her Native Coast.

On foreign Shoars she sullen stands & Dumb
Larger her Sisters pace [OMITTED]

[OMITTED] at Paris and at Rome
She speaks the Tongue and always is at home.

The pride of Babel that confin'd our Tongue
To narrow bounds confines the Poets Song
The Painters meaning thrô the Earth may fly
For Babels Curse affected not the Eye.

Unequal is our Labour & our fame
Whilst Men talk different but they see the same.

But Thou may'st go to Athens or to Rome
And in each Region think Thyself at Home.

Shou'd adverse Fortune banish Me or Pope
What cou'd our Pens from France or Holland hope?
With cruel je n'entens pas we shou'd meet,
Or soft veracht et ik verstaen ye neet.

338

A Prologue intended to the Play of Chit Chat, but never finished.

The ugly Beau too partial to his Glass,
As more he looks, and better likes his face,
In every place is certain to appear
Abroad I mean—but there are None such here.
'Tis much the same with those who trade in verse
Fondly they write, then saucily rehearse,
By frequent Repetition bolder grown
First tire their Friends and after plague the Town.
This from Our Author I am bid to say
As some Excuse for his First coup d'Essay
When next he dares his Cens'uring Pen to draw
E'en leave him to the Letter of the Law:
With gentle Stripes Correct the young beginner,
And hang him if he proves a Harden'd Sinner.
What he attempts to paint is Human life,
A good Man injur'd by a Modern wife;
While neither Sense or kindness have the charms
To keep the Cocquet from the Coxcombs arms.
Had the wrong'd Husband been deseas'd and Old
Or to her play deny'd the needful gold,
The Lady might have done as She thought fit,
And these lose Scenes perhaps had n'er been writ.
But in the flower and vigour of His Age
To Cuckold him, creates so just a rage
It is a very Scandal — to the Stage.

Now à propos to what we nam'd, these Scenes:
Some will be asking what the Author means.
Loose and irregular they are 'tis true,
But pray reflect it is your Lives he drew.
A well laid Plot, close order, clear design
Shou'd all conspire to make the Dramma Shine
His Plot he hopes will pardon every fault
'Tis what wou'd puzzle Machiavels own thought
'Tis such pray find it out ---
As Alberoni to his Pupil taught.

339

Follow these Steps, ye learn'd in State Intreagues!
Who deal in Politicks and Powder'd Wiggs.
E'er yet quite form'd, your Schemes are all reveal'd,
But here ------
The action's done, but yet the Plot conceal'd.
For the design, 'tis twenty several facts,
First dropt in Scenes, then shuffl'd into Acts.
He builds his Schemes in the Lucretian way;
Atoms their motions into forms convey:
And Chance may rule in wit, as well as play.
One thing he bids me beg in his Defence,
That none may Praise or blame that have not Sense.
Take not poor Culprits just request amiss;
It reaches None of You—pray freely Clap or Hiss.

Prelude to a Tale from Boccace in blank Verse.

To the Ds of Shrewsbury Frederick &c:

What Bocace with superior Genius Cloath'd
In Tuscan dress, and ludicrous Fontaine
(Modern Anacreon) well has imitated
In Gallic Style, Himself inimitable:
How e'er unequal to the glorious Task,
Yet of the noblest Heights and best Examples,
Ambitious, I in English Verse attempt.
But not as heretofore, the line prescrib'd
To equal cadence, and with semblant Sounds
Pointed, (so Modern Harmony advises)
But in the Ancient Guise, free, uncontroll'd,
The Verse, compress'd the Period, or dilated,
As close discourse requires, or fine description.
Such Homer wrote; such Milton imitated;
And Shrewsb'ury, candid Judge of Verse, approves.

340

What Shrewsb'ury may approve, to whom pertains it?
But to the Lady, loving Shrewsbury best,
And best by Him belov'd? To Thee, fair Matron!
The warm debate I bring and soft recital
Of constant Passion, and rewarded friendship.
Weak the Performance haply, yet the work
Beneath Thy feet I lay; and bless'd in this,
As Thou good Princess, in each part of Life:
That I but act what Thy great Lord commands.

As Dorset's smile benign, and fair Example,
In pleasing Rhime indulg'd my Infant Years;
(O be his Memory ever wept and Honor'd!)
May Shrewsb'ury's will prescribe my Elder Muse
A diff'rent course, Great, bounteous Adelida!
Be Thou my Friend, my gentle Intercessor,
That thy great Lord with his Illustrious Name
May shield the Goddess from the Darts of Censure
Unwounded, and assure her future flight
With equal favour and successive goodness.

How e'er again reflecting, She must blame
Her own Ambition, that with vain Attempt
Wou'd bring Thee [a]ught from Paris or from Rome,
Transfer'd and Habited in English dress:
When Thou, great Mistress! in Italian sounds,
Canst breathe Thy thought, not Petrarch's Laura sweeter:
When thou in Gallic Style can well indite,
So well, the famous Scudery's learned Sister.
Or Faber's Daughter might attentive learn.
Yet Thou hast right, fair Dame, to claim the Song
In British sounds; amongst her best lov'd daughters
Britannia Numbers Thee, by Twofold Title
To her endear'd: Partner of Talbots bed,
And right descended from the race of Dudley.
And well hast Thou with correspondent Grace
Answer'd thy gentle Mother's Love endearing,
To form her Accents, and to speak her language:
In Womanhood, industrious to Reclaim
By Study and by Art the legal Portion

341

Which Fortune to Thy Infancy deny'd.
And well hast Thou Achiev'd the Task; Thy care
By subtil Mem'ory aided; and Thy Lessons,
Practis'd with Wit, and perfected by Judgment.
But Love, fair Dame (and Thou with Pride may'st own
The grateful Impulse) constant o'er Thy toyle
Presided; Well we learn, when He is Master.

Not harsh, I hope fair Judge thou wilt avow
The British tongue, thô sometimes charg'd with words
Saxon and Danish, when the Manly Sounds
Break from the Potent lipps of Finch or Harcourt.
Our Language, semblant to our Native Streams,
O'er little Flints and scatter'd Pebbles rolling
Its curled Wave, unequal not unpleasing
The Surface. But, O Mercury! O Venus!
(For I attest You Both) when the fair Sex,
When Buckingham, or Grafton, (kind comperes
And faithful Friends to that Illustrious Dame
Who claims my Song) when They (or beauteous Cloe
My Hope, my Joy,) emit their Natal Sound;
Softer than Down from Venus fav'rite birds,
Or flakes of feather'd Snow, the Accents fall!

Exalt Thy Thought my Muse! when our great Sov'raign
Disparts Her comely Lipps, August Pronouncing
The Speech; 'tis sweet as Morning fumes which rise
From Sharon's Rose; grateful as Arabs gums,
By Cædar fir'd, and curling from the Altar:
Our Dread at Once and our Delight! She guides
And charms the Senate; from her silver voice
Pou'ring her fierce Forefather's diction, temper'd
With Heav'nly Mildness and Angelic Grace.
We then, disdainful of our Modern Rivals,
Provoke the Latian or the Greek; resigning
But to the Sacred Hebrew. Agrippina,
Or great Andromache by Homer aided,
Speaks with less height, and Majesty of Style,
Than British Anna. With resembling Prevalence
Pleads Hester, and victorious Deborah Sings.

342

Around the Throne the Nations to their Queen
Obedient stand, and bid Her Live for Ever!

Illustrious Patroness, excuse the Prelude,
And Thou Calliope begin the Song. [OMITTED]

In Florence heretofore (who knows not Florence
Beautiful Sov'raign of Etrurias Cities)
Liv'd Frederic from a Noble race Descended
With fair Revenues blest and large Estate.
His Years were just arriv'd to perfect Manhood
Well limb'd his Body and his Person comely
His Mind with all those open Virtues bright
Which an Indulgent Mothers previous Hope
Can figure for her best lov'd Infants Age.
Unmarri'd yet (his Marriage is my Story)
On Frederic therefore every Eye was cast
What e'er he did was Talk'd: he went or came
The public Care: The P:--- the G***:
Illustrious Houses courted his Alliance
And every noble Virgin sighing wisht
Her Father might succeed, but O in vain
Propose the Parents, or the Daughters Hope:
Clitia, so Venus destins, must alone
Gain Frederic's Love; and Love must rule his Fortune.
Rich Young She was a Widow, of One Son
The Mother and the Tutoress: Frederic courts Her
Courts her but How? With Presents, with Expence
Surpassing all his Rivals, of that sort
How many gather, where the prevalent charms
[At] once of Beauty and of Wealth Attract
From Homer's time to ours stand fair recorded.
The Tilt and Tournament, so Gallantry
Ancient allow'd, and Frederic well Excell'd
In Feats of Arms and Manly Exercises
Took up the Dance delightful: Clitia Seated
Sublime, commands the sports. Clitia's Device
Portray'd on Frederics Shield declares her Champion.

343

Music the splendid Ball and costly banquet
First fruits to hopeful Love by all his Zealots
Offer'd employ the softer Hours of Night,
Queen of the Feast reigns Clitia, Clitia's Name,
Adorns the Song, and at her Health alone
Breathes the shrill Hautboy, and the Clarion sounds. [OMITTED]

The Mem'ory of kind Frederic and good Clitia
They drink, and tell the Story of the Hawk.

She sigh'd she wept and gave the Year to Mourning
As Decency requir'd, but mighty Love
Had erst possess'd her heart, that Monarch God
Admits no rival Pow'r, his Ardent flames
Dispel the little damps which sorrow casts
Upon the Soul, nor suffers others Tears
To fall adown the Cheek, but those alone
Which his Attendant Cares and fears create.

But where Necessity obliges, Patience
Lessens the Ill, and grief is born away
Upon the wings of Time.

Not Snow melts faster on the craggy mount
The Alp, or Appen[n]ine, when Sol in Spring
Arising cheers the World, not Waves and winds
Subside more sudden, when great Neptune rears
His awful Trident, and commands a Calm
Then in one moment fell from Clitia's breast
The coldness of Disdain, the Widows Pride
And Prudery of the Sex.

Here since Great Maro dos not doubt to Sing
Cayeta Nurse to his eternal Hero
Let poor good Thestylis my Muse be mention'd
Not without praise:
Fresh Flowers upon her Grave were strew'd by Clitia's hand.
And on her Tombstone stand Engrav'd her Virtue
Gracious acknowledgments of faithful Service.

344

[OMITTED] and all that chain of mad expence
Whose extreme link is ruin, Lands are Sold
And Mortgages contracted, false Trustees
Greedy She Wins, and Frederick willing Loses.

And Faithless Stewards join to wrong the Master
[OMITTED] and profit by those Negligences
Which 'twas their only Service to retrieve.

[OMITTED] for not the Noble Matron
Whose Womb bore pensive Frederic lov'd him better
Then did old Thestylis whose breast had fed him.

[OMITTED] as he now has fed
His darling Hawk, and in his Garden water'd
The Rose and Jess'mine or with careful hand
Propt the Figg-tree luxuriant from the danger
Of its own weight, or view'd
The little promise of his future Vintage cluster'd grapes
Half purple round the verdant Elm encircled
His little hopes of Vintage.

For better then my Self thee Thee I love
My Self how can I name having prefer'd
My Ease to Thine, having in Lux' and wealth
Securely slept, while Thou perchance hast Wak'd
With fear of Debts alarm'd and shame of want.

O to Thy Arms receive that Penitent
That never shal again repent of [a]ught
But of too late Conversion O my Frederic
Mine wilt Thou be, receive Thy Clitia Thine
And be our next Endeavor join'd to save
The lingring life of him, . . . .
And Thou wilt grant I next to Thee shou'd Love
My Son.

345

[_]

Brouillon of a Poem Begun at Wimpole in August 1721. Transcribed from the Authors Papers since his Death.

PREDESTINATION.

A POEM.

Apostles teach, and Holy books declare,
That 'tis in God we move, and live, and are:
In him we all begin, continue, end,
And all our Actions on his help depend.
I therefore must eternally have laid
In Nothings bosom, and Oblivions shade,
Among existing Beings not confest,
(For nothing by no words can be exprest)
Unless obedient to his High command,
Call'd by his word, and Plastor'd by his hand,
And from his breath receiving Vital flame,
I had begun to be the thing I am.

Then the same pow'rfull, constant, heav'nly Aid
Must stil prese[r]ve the Creature it had made.
For shou'd that Aid one Moment be deny'd;
Dissolv'd and lost, I shou'd again subside
Into the sad Negation where I lay,
Before I swell'd the Womb, or saw the Day.

Form'd by his Will, assisted by his Powr,
From the great period of my Native hour
Forward I hasten thro this path of life,
Nor with false pleasure smooth no violent Strife
Why was I then of my sole guide bereft?
And why to errour and amazement left?

346

Collected to my self I sadly find
Ten thousand doubts divide my anxious mind.
The potent bias of my crooked will
I found averse to good, and prone to ill;

Whence rises this depravity of thought
Was it from mine or my forefathers fault?
Shal I descend and say that Death and Sin
Did from ill judging Adams crime begin
Or tracing them from springs perhaps too high
To good and Ill give Coeternity?

Say did the Godhead infinitely wise
Create all good? then whence did ill arise?
Do two great Pow'rs their adverse strength employ
This to preserve, and t'other to Destroy?

Wou'd God set free what Deemon cou'd enslave?
Cou'd Sin annoy what Sanctity wou'd save?
Of this no further Mortal man can know,
Than as from Scripture God has deign'd to show.
Here too we find the mighty Probleme laid
In Mystic darkness, and Prophetic shade:
Pen'd by the Poets rage and breast enlarg'd,
Adorn'd with Emblems, and with figures charg'd;
Form'd to the Lyre, and fitted to be Sung
To proper measures of the Hebrew Tongue;
By time corrupt, at first however pure;
And by Translation render'd more obscure;
By Sects eluded, and by Scholes perplext,
Till in the Comment we involve the Text.

E'er Time was bid his measures to begin,
E'er Angels knew to praise, or man to sin,
(Say Austin's words transfer'd to Calvins school,)
God fix'd one firm unalterable rule.
The word was fated which th' Almighty spoke
Nor can his future Will that will revoke.
All things determin'd by this Solemn Doom,
And settled in the order they must come.

347

Select to pleasures, or condemn'd to pains;
Man only Executes what God ordains.
Is God subservient to his own Decree?
Is that Omnipotent which is not free?
Providence then in her continual course
Must stil be stopt by some superior force:
Then upon strict enquiry will be found,
That God himself by his own Act is bound;
That in a like dependence, he and Man
Must own a Pow'r which neither can restrain?
Then those Elect by this eternal doom
Must have been Sav'd, thô it had never come;
And the reprov'd in vain for Mercy call
To him who came to free and save us All.
Vain therefore prudent thought, and previous care
Useless our Alms, and foolish is our Pray'r:
And with superfluous babling we have said,
“Give us this day our Father! dayly bread”;
If what we ask by fixt decree of Heav'n
Was giv'n before, or never can be giv'n.

Now what is Man? a reas'nable Machine,
A puppet danc'd upon this Earthly Scene,
An instrument in Gods o'erbearing hand,
Mov'd by his Pow'r and forc'd by his command.
Cou'd destin'd Judas long before he fell
Avoid the terrors of a future Hell?
Cou'd Paul deny, resist, or not embrace
Obtruded Heav'n, and efficacious Grace?

Yet is the great Apostle heard to say,
“Does not the Potters hand dispose the Clay?
“And shal the Vase his makers Art upbraid,
“If or to honour or Destruction made?”
'Tis true; but view we then the different State
Of beings living and inanimate:
Incapable of Sense and void of mind,
The passive Vessel cou'd no pleasure find,
Thô plac'd above where Saints and Angels reign;
And damn'd to Hell beneath, cou'd feel no Pain.
Nor in his action is that Agent free

348

Who must fulfill immutable decree.
Allow we freedom to the whirling Stone,
Which in the Battel from the sling is thrown?
Allow we freedom to the flying reed,
From the drawn Bow elanc'd with violent speed?
If these attain, or if they lose their Aim,
Their rectitude or Error is the same:
Who blames their fault, or celebrates their fame?
Now scale our Deeds and let the Plummet fall
Betwixt the senseless and the rational.
If Both alike by primitive decree
Are bound to Act, and if what is must be;
For Slain Goliah to young Davids praise
Can we in justice greater triumph raise,
Than to the chosen Pebble, which he took
Among the thousand from the Neighb'ring brook?
Or greater Crime impute to furious Saul,
Than to his Jav'elin struck against the Wall?

Far other sure with Human Mind it fares
Now raised to pleasures now deprest with Cares.

Possess we not free liberty of Will
How are our Acts imbu'd with good or ill
Allow Gods promises and threatnings made
E'er the foundations of the World were laid;
They were contingent, and conditional;
From Adams Choice proceeded Adams fall.
By Cains free action Abells blood was spilt,
His Punishment must presuppose his Guilt.
And Abra'ms faith on Isaac doom'd to dye
Was founded on the Patriarchs piety.
When Judah breaks Jehovahs great command,
He turns his wrathful Viols on the land:
When of her Sins in Ashes she repents,
The weeping Priest attones and God relents.
Our Deed is form'd and guided by our thought,
And equal to our Duty or our fault.
By means however hid from human eyes
Gods future threatnings and his Mercy rise.
While yet we reconcile free Will to fates
To solve this doubt we greater doubts create:

349

That God regards the simple Act alone,
Making Omnipotence by Prescience known;
And leaves to Us by Impulse from within,
To Cloath that Act with Duty, or with Sin.

But does he then his previous will suspend,
And does his Science on our Deed attend?
If this way acting, we the sequel draw,
We act as God permitted and foresaw:
But if our Act be otherways employ'd,
Is his permission and prevision voy'd?
Has he, as human means may change the Scene,
In other guise permitted or foreseen;
And left the Slacken'd Reins of Providence
To the mad guidance of our feeble sense?

Say rather, that he Will'd what he foresaw;
That his volition is his Creatures law:
For God (excuse the saying) cou'd not see
Contingences which never were to be.
And if they were to be, that very sight
Brought them from Nothing into future light
Permitting their Existence, fix'd their fate;
And to forsee, was to Predestinate.

Well then Man Wills and from that Will proceed
The stains and Colours of his sinfull deed
The Son whom he destroy'd he might have sav'd
And freed the Captive whom his hand enslav'd.

As rolling down the Rocks the waters bring
The last and hue of their original spring;
So from our Will, that fountain of our Deed,
The stains and Colours of our Acts proceed.

Against Gods Spirit here we fight
Had leave to cho[o]se but wou'd not use it right
Our ill produc'd and we must suffer Woe
But had we merit or Perfection, No.
In vain You cite this Liberty of Will
Free to do good, but more inclin'd to ill.

350

Almighty Lord the way, the door, [the] light,
O let me stil find favor in thy sight
Excuse my going wrong or set me right.

O Soveraign! great Three in One! O God and Man!
Who set those Measures which I dare not Scan;
If I have leave to chuse, I beg that choice
Guided at least by thy Assistant Voice.
If I must pursue a Destin'd way
Direct my Footsteps for thou can'st not stray
From dang'rous doubts my wandering Soul retrieve
I cannot Argue, grant me to believe!
Lifeless I lay, thou wak'st me into Sense;
Frailty is mine, and Thine Omnipotence.

Dare we reply or frighted stand we Mute
Shall Man, assertion dire! to God impute
Or Ignorance, or Mutability,
Or want of Pow'r to finish his Decree?

While God does in his hand Sustain
This last great Link of this eternal Chain.

So run the close Meanders of our mind
By this first Cause stil secretly inclin'd
This guidance of our thought
To this high power be brought
[OMITTED] and backward we must run
To that high Origin where all begun.

Nor can we justly say that we Possess
A Will which we can Govern as we please.

Who reasons thus his sense in terms confounds
Speaks one Idea in two different sounds.

Before we grant or Answer let us bring
Our pow'r of thinking to its pristin spring.

Trace we this Thought to its Original
Let Heav'n be justify'd in Adams fall.

351

All was settl'd by Gods primeval Will.

Nor do I ask whence Sin came, but it was such that to Save the World from it the Son of God must Dye.

Could the Heathen by the dictates of Nature obtain Salvation, where was the necessity of Christs coming, and if they could not, how happens it that they were not called to pertake the benefit of His passion.

Nor matters it that God gave a free Will to Man since by his Prescience he had ordered that Man could not employ that free will otherwise then he had forseen Man should employ it.

If we had not freedom of Will there would be neither Good or ill in our Actions. There would be no occasion for a Judgement, nor Punishment, nor reward.

Now if we have not Liberty of Will
How are our Deeds imbu'd with good or ill.

[OMITTED] is it in Our Choice
To love or hate to weep or to rejoice?
Are not the Texture of our Actions wrought
By something inward that directs our thought
And we perceive delight and suffer pain
Which we can neither quicken nor restrain?

Now change the Scene my friends & let us see
How are our Actions & our Motions free.

Whence else a Dying Saviors grief & fame
And dire Convulsion of this general frame
That shook the Earth, made frighted Nature groan.
And the great Fathers will that must be done.

[OMITTED] some middle means
Which Man but hardly comprehends
[OMITTED] and let us see
How destin'd Sentence and free Will agree.

That with spontaneous Liberty we move
In vain the adverse Sect desires to prove
From inward Power and Nature of the Soul
Which Natures God can alter or controll.

352

If God does Universal Vows reject
Or only justifys his own Elect
Or those in Climes remote who never heard
His Word reveal'd are from his Anger Spar'd.

By time and Age its Notions are disrang'd
By passions short and by distemper chang'd
Nor let us vaunting fancy we are free
That we can mend or alter Heavn's decree.

Or with our little Arms go up to fight
With Omnipresence & with Infinite
Our Operations by his Will were wrought
And when he gave he fixt the Pow'r of thought.

All matters particles, all Motions laws,
Cou'd not produce so great a Second cause.
Attoms, how ever sep'rate or combin'd,
Cou'd not compose or animate the mind.
That with spontaneous Liberty we move,
In vain the adverse sect desires to prove,
From inward Pow'r and Nature of the Soul
Which Natures God can alter or controll.
Earth cou'd not form it then from heav'n it came
A part it self of the Celestial flame
Let Christians sanctify the Heathen chain
And that Prometheus which their Poets feign
Was Gods great Spirit enlight'ning passive Earth
And kindling Human action into birth
If then its vigor from Heav'n proceed
By Heav'n its force and measure is decreed
That First who did this Second cause produce
Proportions it to each recipients use
Tis Sisyphus' Stone returning stil
If God who gave the freedom form'd the Will
To form it and incline it was the same
You grant the thing while you dispute the Name.

As running Streams their parted Waters spread
Adown the hill or thrô the flow'ry Mead
Here rising bold and Turbulent in waves
There sunk in Sand or sunk in Rocky Caves

353

The human Eye may still collect and bring
To their first Murmur and Original spring:
So from the various action of our mind
To pleasure better or to grief enclin'd
Glitt'ring in Courts and shining bright in Arms
Fond of Mans praises & of Womans charms
Or flying Crowds desiring more to dwel
In the thick Woods or Melancholy Cell.

Pursue this Search to its Original:
Allowing Heav'ns Decree and Adams fall
A new Alliance and firm Covenant made
By God to be requir'd, by Man Obey'd:
Faith and Repentance on the Mortal side
The two great knots by which the Bond is ty'd
And on the part of God the human race
Assisting Mercy and preventing Grace.
Yet how can we believe or how repent
Unless the influence first from Heav'n is sent?
Strong the Condition to our bounded view
Contracted seemingly and sign'd by Two
To perfect which unable one attends
While t'other furnishes the Total means.

Again whilst Grace is Gods immediate Gift
To Heav'n in vain my Voice and heart I lift
To ask th' Almighty's Tutelary Care
Except this Grace prevents my very Prayer.
Now of this Gift if once I stand posses't
Yee Angels am I not for ever blest?
Tell me can Satan take what God has giv'n
Or all Hells darkness quench the light of Heav'n?
What after this do I implore or Crave
And need I ask what I already have?
What light of Comment can these Clouds remove
Backward and forward I uncertain rove
Thrô Labyrinths wander and in Circles prove
If the Creator call'd me forth to birth
Wou'd he, I ask, his helpless Creature leave
Thus wand'ring dark, thus groveling low on Earth
That I might Sin, he punish or forgive.

354

Before we Grant or Answer let us bring
Our pow'r of Thought to its primæval spring. [OMITTED]

The deep decrees the fatalist replyes
Of an eternal God supremely Wise
As firmly fixt are permanently sure
Thro endless chains of Ages shal endure.
Made before heav'n and Earth the word shal last
Unchangeable when heav'n and Earth are past.
Allow free will that Sentence is destroy'd
A Covenant Seal'd which after Acts may void
A Casual Fabric built upon the sand
Which can nor winds nor falling rains withstand
But yields inflex'd and sapp'd by human pray'rs
Blown down with Sighs and wash'd away by tears.

Or trace your steps thro the determin'd way
Or from the Christian Principles You stray
The Godhead thô with all perfection crown'd
Inclin'd to Mercy is by justice bound
Else whence the wond'rous kind necessity
That to Absolve poor Adam Christ must Dye
Whence the old stains imprest on human race
The heav'nly means that must those stains efface
And Nature lost redeem'd by saving Grace. [OMITTED]

Hence the long Series of Events to come
And four Monarchic Empires stated doom
Else future knowledge of Three thousand Years
The Psalmists raptures and the Prophets tears
The unveil'd Mysteries to a world restor'd
Forseen by Angels and by Men ador'd;
Hence the great Object of our future hope
And blessings following in that bitter Cup
Which God incarnate loving and belov'd
How'ever yielding beg'd might be remov'd
When prest with Agonies the suffering Son
Said Father not my will but Thine be done.

355

[Fragment from Britanicus.]

Who would prevail o'er Men must first Observe
Their Darling passion of their hearts, and thence
Govern their Ductile reason, in Britanicus
The power of Love prevails the Dazl'd Lover.

To Cloe.

There's all Hell in her Heart, and all Heaven in her eye
He that sees her must love, he that loves her must Dye.

Epigram.

My Lord there's a Christ'ning the Officer said,
The Gossips are ready, the Cushions are laid:
What, without my leave ask'd? said the Prelate inflam'd
Go lock up My Font, let the Infant be damn'd.

356

Translation of an Epitaph upon Gilbert Glanville Bishop of Rochester as written in Rochester Cathedral.

Gilbertus Glanville whose heart was as hard as an Anvil
Always litigious who shou'd have been highly religious
Full fraught with Law suits he to that Court aptly descended
Where quiet appears not, and quarrels never are ended.

From Ronsard's Franciade Book the IVth Folio 465.

On yonder Guilty Plain, long Seasons hence
Perhaps a thousand Years, Helmets and Shields,
And plated harnois shal be found, sad marks
Of memorable War, with sudden wonder
Appal'd the Villager lab'ring the Glebe
Shal hear his Plow-Share crash on buried Armour,
And throw up bones of Horses slain in Battle.

[Fragments in Prose and Verse.]

Who e'er forsakes Old Mother Church
And of new Doctrines makes profession
Will find himself soon left ith Lurch
Or cited to the Quarter Session.

I learn to think no Precept strange
That Convocation can propose
Nor ever wish nor seek for change
Except in Mistresses & Cloaths.

357

A less desert may gain a People's trust
But Thou and Aristides were too just
And whilst Thy Mind had ev'rywhere its Home
They were most banish'd who were nearest Rome.

Like a true Irish Marlin that misses her flight
Little Nanny sat Pensive & Sullen all night,
The Jack-Daw escap'd her, the loss was not great,
She may yet take a Woodcock, & that's better meat.

The God of Love was but a Boy
What Amrous Cares did P[s]yches Mind employ
And yet the God of Love was but a Boy.

Even Chast Diana mindless of her way
Stop'd on the hill where Young Endymion lay
Lay by the Stream or Slumber'd in the Wood
And rose next Day as late as e'er She cou'd.
Diana too forsoo[k] her other Cares
To teach Endymion to Observe the Stars
Stopt on the Mountain where the Lover lay
And rose But very little before Day.

Early in Life We learn the Mighty Rule
Taught by Old Bess the Foundress of our School
Neither to Flatt'ry, nor to Frowns to bend
To Scorn our Foe, but Dye to Serve our Friend.

The same Man in Place and at Court or turned out and removed from thence has a different way of Voting and speaking, as some Pictures that in another Light she[w] a quite different figure. On one side it is a Pope, on the other side a Devil, here it is a Magistrate, and there a Monkey.

Everybody Commends Modesty, Few Practice it, and None get by it.

358

We often yield to Importunity, and do good to those who do not Deserve it, meerly for our own Ease. This kind of Generosity is at best Blameable, and shews Us rather the Weakness of our Tempers than the goodness of Our Inclinations.

Regards no Judges Frown, nor Courtiers fawn
Contemns the Knave tho hid in Furrs or Lawn
Not covetous of Praise nor fearing blame
With Honour Dyes, but will not live with Shame.

Act Honestly however blam'd
And rather Dye than be asham'd.

Broghil did Cowleys thankful Muse commend
And is not Broghils Grandson Prior's Friend?
Roscommons Verse indulg'd poor Drydens Pride
While to the Patrons Voice the Bard reply'd.
Roscommon writes to that unerring Hand
Muse—slay the Bull that spurns the yellow sand.
Sheffield great Buckingham Illustrious Name
Old in Policy and in Civil Fame
Transferr'd his Lawrel to his Pupil Pope
The Patrons goodness pass'd the Poets hope.

Let Reason then her Arts imploy
Let her convince Thee doubtful Maid
That Venus is the Queen of Joy
And Thou art gentle when Obey'd.

Let reason therefore leave the breast
Which vainly we wou'd Strive to hold
And try his strength in Cælia's breast
Severe and disengaged and Cold.

There bid her all her Arts imploy
And showing Thy eternal Slave
Convince her Victors may destroy
But Legal Sov'raigns always save.

359

Thou arm'st thy Self in Cælias Eyes
Great Love when reason wou'd rebell
And ev'ry time I dare be wise
Thy rage more terrible I feel.

Repeated thoughts present the ill
Which seeing I must stil endure
They tell me Thou hast Darts to kill
And Wisdom has no Pow'r to Cure.

Avails it [a]ught to see the Ill
Which seeing I must stil endure
To know that Love has Darts to kill
While Wisdom wants the Pow'r to Cure.

O Dear to God and Man O Prince approv'd
And try'd by Heav'n, by Earth Confest and lov'd
Oh for our good Ascend thy Native Seat:
In Thee let Judah once again be great.
Let the glad Oyle from thy Anointed head,
Upon a bleeding Nation's wounds be Shed,
Pardon & Rule, let kindness grace thy Pow'r
The Throne on Mercy founded Stands Secure.

Song.

[Let Us my Dear my life be Friends]

Let Us my Dear my life be Friends
Forget all fears and troubles past
Our Pleasure on this Hour depends,
And hence for ever may it last.

Stil to improve each opening Day
Be all our future thought imploy'd
And let our Faithful Tombstone say
That we liv'd, & lov'd, and Joy'd.

Nor more e'er let our Tombstone say
Then that we Liv'd, and lov'd, & Joy'd.

Since all indeed was done by Fate
We vainly of the Events complain
Our Sorrows why Shou'd we relate
If Mem'ory but renews the Pain?

360

Those ills that were before too great
We stil augment whilst we complain
Our Sorrows why shou'd we relate
If Memory but renews the Pain.

Mankind whose various Action strives
Each others blessing to destroy
Wou'd smile malicious if our Lives
Knew any Interval of Joy.

[Jinny the Just.]

Releas'd from the noise of the Butcher and Baker
Who, my old Friends be thanked, did seldom forsake her
And from the soft Duns of my Landlord the Quaker

From chiding the Footmen and watching the Lasses,
From Nell that burn'd Milk, and Tom that broke Glasses
(Sad mischiefs thro which a good housekeeper passes!)

From some real Care but more fancy'd vexation
From a life party Colour'd half reason half passion
Here lies after all the best Wench in the Nation

From the Rhine to the Po, from the Thames to the Rhone
Joanna or Janneton, Jinny or Joan
Twas all one to her by what name She was known

For the Idiom of words very little She heeded
Provided the Matter She drove at succeeded
She took and gave Languages just as She needed

So for Kitching and Market, for bargain & Sale
She paid English or Dutch or french down on the Nail
But in telling a Story she sometimes did fail

Then begging Excuse as She happen'd to Stammer
With respect to her betters but none to her Grammer
Her blush helpt her out and her Jargon became her

361

Her Habit and Mein she endeavor'd to frame
To the different Gout of the place where She came
Her outside stil chang'd, but her inside the same

At the Hague in her Slippers & hair as the Mode is
At Paris all Falbalow'd fine as a Goddess
And at censuring London in smock sleeves and Bodice

She order'd Affairs that few People cou'd tell
In what part about her that mixture did dwell
Of Vrough or Mistress, or Medemoiselle

For her Sirname and race let the Heraults e'en Answer
Her own proper worth was enough to advance her
And he who lik'd her, little valu'd her Grandsire.

But from what House so ever her lineage may come
I wish my own Jinny but out of her Tomb,
Tho all her Relations were there in her Room

Of such terrible beauty She never cou'd boast
As with absolute Sway o'er all hearts rules the roast
When J— bawls out to the Chair for a Toast

But of good Household Features her Person was made
Nor by Faction cry'd up nor of Censure afraid
And her beauty was rather for Use than Parade

Her Blood so well mix't and flesh so well Pasted
That tho her Youth faded her Comliness lasted
The blew was wore off but the Plum was well tasted

Less smooth then her Skin and less white than her breast
Was this pollisht stone beneath which she lyes prest
Stop, Reader and Sigh while thou thinkst on the rest.

With a just trim of Virtue her Soul was endu'd
Not affectedly Pious nor secretly lewd
She cut even between the Cocquet and the Prude.

Her Will with her Duty so equally stood
That seldom oppos'd She was commonly good
And did pritty well, doing just what she wou'd.

362

Declining all Pow'r she found means to perswade
Was then most regarded when most she Obey'd
The Mistress in truth when she seem'd but the Maid

Such care of her own proper Actions She took
That on other folks lives She had no time to look
So Censure and Praise were struck out of her Book

Her thought stil confin'd to its own little Sphere
She minded not who did Excell or did Err
But just as the matter related to her

Then too when her Private Tribunal was rear'd
Her Mercy so mix'd with her judgment appear'd
That her Foes were condemn'd & her friends always clear'd

Her Religion so well with her learning did suite
That in Practice sincere, and in Controverse Mute
She shew'd She knew better to live then dispute

Some parts of the Bible by heart She recited
And much in historical Chapters delighted
But in points about Faith She was something short sighted

So Notions and modes She refer'd to the Schools
And in matters of Conscience adher'd to Two Rules
To advise with no Biggots, and jest with no Fools

And scrupling but little, enough she believ'd
By Charity ample smal sins She retriev'd
And when she had New Cloaths She always receiv'd

Thus stil whilst her Morning unseen fled away
In ord'ring the Linnen and making the Tea
That she scarce cou'd have time for the Psalms of the Day

And while after Dinner the Night came so soon
That half she propos'd very seldom was done
With twenty god bless Me's how this day is gone

While she read and Accounted & payd & abated
Eat and drank, Play'd & Work't, laught & Cry'd, lov'd & hated,
As answer'd the end of her being Created.

363

In the midst of her Age came a cruel Desease
Which neither her Julips nor recepts cou'd appease
So down dropt her Clay, may her Soul be at peace

Retire from this Sepulchre all the Prophane
You that love for Debauch or that marry for gain
Retire least Ye trouble the Manes of J—

But Thou that know'st Love above Intrest or lust
Strew the Myrtle and Rose on this once belov'd Dust
And shed one pious tear upon Jinny the Just

Tread soft on her Grave, and do right to her honor
Let neither rude hand nor ill Tongue light upon her
Do all the smal Favors that now can be done her

And when what Thou lik't shal return to her Clay
For so I'm perswaded she must do one Day
What ever fantastic J**** Asgil may say

When as I have done now, thou shalt set up a Stone
For something however distinguisht or known
May some Pious Friend the Misfortune bemoan
And make thy Concern by reflexion his own.

364

FRAGMENTS FROM PRIOR'S LETTERS, ETC.

FROM A LETTER TO THE EARL OF DORSET.

Hague 14/4 May, 94.

Spare Dorsett's sacred life, decerning fate,
And death shall march thro' courts and camps in state,
Emptying his quiver on the vulgar great;
Round Dorsett's board lett peace and plenty dance,
Far off lett famine her sad reign advance,
And war walk deep in blood thro' conquered France.
Apollo thus began the mystic strain,
The muses' sons all bow'd and sayd Amen.

ON THE DEATH OF QUEEN MARY.

From the Lexington Papers, 1851. In a Letter from Prior to Lord and Lady Lexington, 1 March, 1695.

‘Written on Scheveling Sands, with the point of my sword.’

Number the sands extended here;
So many Mary's virtues were:
Number the drops that yonder roll;
So many griefs press William's soul.

WRITTEN IN THE LIBRARY, [Wimpole] Dec. 2, 1720. M.P.

Fame counting thy books, my dear Harley, shall tell,
No man had so many and knew them so well.

365

POEMS ATTRIBUTED TO PRIOR

366

AN ANSWER TO THE Curious MAID. A TALE.
[_]

Of doubtful attribution.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

To Cloe's Lap all Men must yield;
Against this Part there is no shield.
Late Miscel.

Thy Muse, O Bard! that Wonders tell,
Fair CLOE's Charms Below Reveals;
The Blissful Seat all Men Adore,
When felt; when seen, that strikes no more:
Tho' thus thy Muse Displays the Place,
Full oft Review'd in Shining Glass;
Yet still Neglects thy vent'rous Lyre,
The Greatest Joys which Youths inspire.

As Lab'rors in the Oozy Mine,
Must deep Descend, (as Lakes of Brine)
In Caverns dark, thro' Veins below,
Thro' Mazes, Turnings, Windings go,
Earth's Treasures far beneath unbind,
The Gold and Silver Oar to find;
So must each Swain his Courage prove,
Within, to seek the Joys of Love.

When Ships at Sea, in Storms are tost,
By furious Gales in Tempest lost;
When foaming Waves disturb the Main;
Below the Waters move Serene;
Thus Ruff to view tho' CLOE's Pride,
Within the greatest Charms reside.

367

'Tis no One Toy that wins the Swain,
That gives to Youthful DAMON Pain;
The Eyes like Stars, and shining Hair,
The globous Breasts our Youths Ensnare;
Fine Ivory Limbs conceal'd, Surprize;
The Vale, and Mount, and Snowy Thighs,
Of Beauteous CLOE ne'er employ'd
In Love, nor Ever Once Enjoy'd;
He's more than Man that These can view,
And not the Game of Love persue.

When panting Breast to Breast is join'd,
We Feast on Raptures unconfin'd,
Vast and Luxuriant, such as prove,
The Immortality of Love.

Love's Pallace fills each Breast with Fire,
This Damon moves with strong Desire:
As Lillies fair the Banks adorn,
And Violets in the Bosom worn;
As near some purling Streams are seen,
The spreading Boughs of Willow Green;
As Trees that grace the verdant Plain,
And Hills compleat the Rural Scene;
As Noble Mansions furnish'd round,
With Hangings fair and Fringe abound;
So CLOE gay has pow'rful Charms,
To set off what the Lover warms.

No single Joy the Swain excites,
'Tis All the Female that invites;
Her Sense, her Wit, her Beauties all,
By which the Youthful Lovers fall.

As Warriors in the Martial Field,
Make stubborn Foes to Conduct yield;
By various Arts and Toils prevail,
When Canons loud and Mortars fail;
Thus when their Charms Below are vain,
By others Females Conquest gain.

FINIS.

368

THE LYON AND THE FOX.
[_]

Of doubtful attribution.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

A lyon by his valiant Deeds preferr'd,
Was made the shepherd of a stately Herd;
And carefully defends his Flock from Foes,
Tho' pow'rful Enemies their Peace oppose;
And they who offer any Injury
Soon feel his Fury and are sure to die;
The Trust he bore he did so well discharge,
His Mistress daily did his Pow'r enlarge:
For each good Deed She bore so much regard,
That each great Act ne'er mist a great Reward.

Whilst he abroad thus serviceable were,
Reynard at Home did no less Glory share
With Prudence manag'd mystick State Affairs,
As skill'd in them as th' other was in Wars.
He with such Faithfulness discharg'd his Trust,
Esteem'd by all to be both Wise and Just;
And in his Service so successful Prov'd,
His Mistress Him next to the Lyon lov'd:
Which when the Lyon saw he angry grew
Being now grown Great he was grown haughty too.
A Partner in Glory he wou'd not allow,
And strives to work the Fox's overthrow.
As wicked Men do never want pretence,
When they wou'd wrong unspotted Innocence.
So He wou'd Treason lay upon his Head,
And make him bleed for what another did:
He wou'd against all Reason and all Laws,
First have him flea'd, and then he'd tell the Cause.

369

The Fox had Truth and Justice on his side,
And all his Actions this base Deed denied.
He soon his former Lustre did regain,
And wipes away the Lyons Fatal stain:
He patiently puts up the Injury;
But in a proper time reveng'd will be.
The haughty Lyon now was grown so great,
He ne'er expected any Change of State:
And the Allowance that his Mistress gave,
He thought too little, He still more wou'd have;
And watchful Reynard by his Subtilty,
Did soon perceive the Lyons Roguery;
Informs his Mistress, that what She allows
He on himself, not on Her Flock bestows,
Which He not only said, but prov'd it too,
And justly did procure his Overthrow.

THE MORAL.

A Man in Pow'r shou'd always cautious be
In off'ring any one an Injury;
Lest fickle Fortune shou'd Reduce his State,
And bring him Low, and make the other Great;
When of his help perhaps he'll stand in need,
If not, He's able to revenge the Deed.

FINIS.

370

An EPISTLE from the Elector of BAVARIA to the FRENCH King, after the Battle of Ramillies.
[_]

Of doubtful attribution.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

If yet, great Sir, your heart can comfort know,
And the returning sighs less frequent flow;
If yet your ear can suffer Anna's fame,
And bear, without a start, her Marlbro's name;
If half the slain o'er wide Ramillia spread,
Are yet forgot, and in your fancy dead:

Attend, and be yourself, while I recite
(Oh! that I only can of losses wri[t]e!)
To what a mighty sum our ills amount,
And give a faithful, tho' a sad account.

Let not Bavaria be condemn'd unheard,
Nor, 'till examin'd, have his conduct clear'd;
Charge not on me alone that fatal day,
Your own commanders bore too great a sway.
Think! Sir, with pity think! what I have lost,
My native realms and my paternal coast,
All that a firm confed'rate could bestow,
Ev'n faith and fame, if you believe the foe.
Think what a heavy load o'erwhelms my breast,
With its own sorrows and with yours opprest;
After one battle lost, and country gone,
Vanquish'd again, alas! and twice undone.

Oh! where shall I begin? what language find
To heal the raging anguish of your mind?
Or if you deign a willing ear to lend,
Oh! where will my disastrous story end?

Conquest I often promis'd, I confess,
And who from such a pow'r could promise less?
There Gallia's force, and here Bavaria's shines,
Th' experienc'd houshold fills our crowded lines;
Already had our tow'ring thoughts o'er thrown
The Belgian host, while we survey'd our own,

371

Destroy'd their provinces with sword and flame,
Let in their seas, and sack'd their Amsterdam;
Already had we shar'd the fancy'd spoil,
(Imaginary trophies crown'd our toil)
Batavian standards at this temple gave,
In that the British crosses doom'd to wave,
A rural seat assign'd each captive chief,
In flow'ry gardens to assuage his grief,
And by his Arts, and first escape prepar'd,
On Marlbro had bestow'd a double guard.

Paris impatient for the conquer'd foe,
Hasten'd the tuneful hymn and solemn show;
Triumphal chariots for the victor stay'd,
And finish'd arches cast a pompous shade;
With nicest art the bards had dress'd their lays,
Of nothing fearful but to reach our praise;
But all our hopes and expectation crost,
What lines have we? what fame has Boileau lost?

Your army now, fixt on its high designs,
Rush forth like vernal swarms, and quit their lines;
Eager the Dyle they pass to seek the fight,
Judoina's fields with sudden tents are white,
The foe descends, like torrents from the hills,
And all the neighb'ring vale tumultuous fills:
Preluding cannons tell th' approaching storm,
And working armies take a dreadful form.

Soon your victorious arms, and stronger force,
Tore all the left, and broke the Belgian horse;
Their scatter'd troops are rally'd to the fight,
But only rally'd for a second flight:
As when high heav'n on some aspiring wood,
Which in close ranks, and thickest order stood,
Pours its collected stores of vengeance down,
Cedars are seen with firs and oaks o'erthrown,
Long ravages and intervals of waste!
So gor'd their lines appear'd, and so defac'd.
The third attack had ended all the war,
Sunk their whole force, and sav'd your future care,
Had Marlbro, only Marlbro, not been there.

As some good genius flies, to save the realms

372

Which, in his absence born, a plague o'erwhelms,
Through op'ning squadrons did the hero haste,
And rais'd their drooping courage as he past.

Amidst the routed Belgians he arriv'd,
Turn'd the pursuit, the fainting fight reviv'd,
Supply'd each rank, fill'd ev'ry vacant space,
And brought the battle to its former face.

With trembling hearts we see our fate decreed;
Where Marlbro fights how can a foe succeed?
To reach his life our boldest warriors strive,
On him the storm with all its thunder drive;
He stems the war, and half encompass'd round
Still clears his way, and still maintains his ground:
Amaz'd I saw him in such dangers live,
And envy'd him the death I wish'd to give.

But how our rising pleasure shall I tell?
The thund'ring steed, and the great rider, fell:
We thank'd kind heav'n, and hop'd the victor slain,
But all our hopes, and all our thanks were vain:
Free from the guilt of any hostile wound
Alive he lay, and dreadful on the ground.

As when a lion in the toils is cast,
That uncontroul'd had laid the country waste,
Th' insulting hinds surround him, who before
Fled from his haunts, and trembled at his roar;
So round beset the mighty Briton lies,
And vulgar foes attempt the glorious prize.
'Till fresh battalions to his succour brought,
Contending armies for the hero fought;
The wanted steed some friendly hand prepar'd,
And met a fatal, but a great, reward:
A glorious death; of his lov'd lord bereft,
The pious office unperform'd he left.

The rescu'd chief, by the past danger warm'd,
Our weaken'd houshold with new fury storm'd:
While all around to our admiring eyes
Fresh foes, and undiscover'd squadrons, rise.
The boasted guards that spread your name so far,
And turn'd where-e'er they fought the doubtful war,
With heaps of slaughter strow'd the fatal plain,

373

And did a thousand glorious things in vain;
Broke with unequal force such numbers die,
That I my self rejoic'd to see them fly.
But oh! how few preserv'd themselves by flight!
Or found a shelter from th' approaching night!
Thousands fall undistinguish'd in the dark,
And five whole leagues with wide destruction mark.

Scarce at Ramillia did the slaughter end,
When the swift victor had approach'd Ostend;
Took in whole states and countries in his way,
Brussels, nor Ghent, nor Antwerp gain'd a day;
Within the compass of one circling moon,
The Lis, the Demer, and the Scheld his own.
What in the foe's, and what in William's hand,
Did for an age the power of France withstand;
Tho' each campaign the crowded nations drain'd,
And the fat soil with blood of thousands stain'd;
Those forts and provinces does Marlbro gain
In twice three suns, and not a soldier slain;
None can suspend the fortune of their town,
But who their harvest and their country drown;
Compell'd to call (his valour to evade)
The less destructive ocean to their aid.

Oh! were our loss to Flandria's plains confin'd!
But what a train of ills are still behind?
Beyond the Adige Vendome feels the blow,
And Villars now retires without a foe,
The fate of Flanders spreads in Spain the flame,
And their new monarch robs of half his fame;
But France shall hear in some late distant reign,
And unborn Lewis curse Ramillia's plain.

Whither, oh! whither shall Bavaria run?
Or where himself, or where the victor shun?
Shall I no more with vain ambition roam,
But my own subjects rule in peace at home?
Thence an abandon'd fugitive I'm driv'n,
Like the first guilty man by angry heav'n
From his bless'd mansions, where th' avenging lord
Still guards the passage with a brandish'd sword,
Or shall I to Brabantia's Courts retire,

374

And reign o'er distant provinces for hire?
Shall I with borrow'd government dispense,
A royal servant and another's prince?
These countries too (oh my hard fate!) are lost,
And I am banish'd from a foreign coast;
Now may I fight secure of future toils,
Of no new countries a third battle spoils.

Oh, Tallard! once I did thy chains deplore,
But envy now the fate I mourn'd before;
By bondage bless'd, protected by the foe,
You live contented with one overthrow;
Her captive, Britain kindly kept away
From the disgrace of the last fatal day.

How does my fall the haughty victor raise,
And join divided nations in his praise;
Grateful Germania unknown titles frames,
And Churchill writes amongst her sov'reign names.
Part of her states obey a British lord,
Small part! of the great empire he restor'd.
From the proud Spaniard he extorts applause,
And rivals with the Dutch their great Nassaus.
In ev'ry language are his battles known,
The Swede and Pole for his, despise their own.
A thousand sects in him their safety place,
And our own saints are thank'd for our disgrace.
England alone, and that some pleasure gives,
Envies herself the blessings she receives.

My grief each place renews where-e'er I go,
And ev'ry art contributes to my woe;
Ramillia's plain each painter's pencil yields,
Bavaria flies in all their canvas fields:
On me, young poets their rude lays indite,
And on my sorrows practise how to write;
I in their scenes with borrow'd passion rage,
And act a shameful part on ev'ry stage.

In Flandria will the tale be ever told,
Nor will it grow, with ever telling, old:
The lisping infants will their Marlbro raise,
And their new speech grow plainer in his praise;
His story will employ their middle years,

375

And in their latest age recall their fears,
While to their children's children they relate
The business of a day, their country's fate:
Then lead them forth, their thoughts to entertain,
And shew the wond'ring youth Ramillia's plain;
'Twas here they fought, the houshold fled that way,
And this the spot where Marlbro prostrate lay.

Here they, perhaps, shall add Bavaria's name,
Censure his courage, and his conduct blame:
'Tis false, 'tis false, I did not basely yield,
I left indeed, but left a bloody field:
Believe not, future ages, ne'er believe
The vile aspersions which these wretches give;
If you too far my injur'd honour try,
Take heed, my ghost, it will, it shall, be nigh,
Rise in his face, and give the slave the lie.

Why should the stars thus on Britannia smile,
And partial blessings crown the fav'rite isle?
Holland does her for their great founder own;
Britannia gave to Portugal a crown:
Twice by her queens does proud Iberia fall;
Her Edwards and her Henrys conquer'd Gaul:
The Swede her arms from late oppression freed,
And if he dares oppress, will curb the Swede.
She, from herself, decides her neighbours fates,
Rescues by turns, by turns subdues their states;
In the wide globe no part could nature stretch
Beyond her arms, and out of Britain's reach:
Who fear'd, she e'er could have Bavaria seen?
Such realms, and kingdoms, hills, and seas between?
Yet there,—oh sad remembrance of my woe!
Distant Bavaria does her triumphs show.
Proud state! must Europe lie at thy command,
No prince without thee rise, without thee stand!
What share? what part is thine of all the spoil?
Thine only is the hazard and the toil.
An empire thou hast sav'd and all its states,
Iberia's realms have felt severer fates:
What wou'dst thou more? still do thy arms advance?
Heav'n knows what doom thou hast reserv'd for France!

376

From whose wise care does all the treasure rise,
That slaughter'd hosts and shatter'd fleets supplies?
From whence such boundless conquest does she reap,
Purchas'd with all her boasted millions cheap?

O bless'd! oh envy'd Queen! that does command
At such a time, in such a happy land;
Great in her armies and her pow'rful fleet!
Great in her treasures! in her triumphs great!
But greater still! and what we envy most,
That can a Marlbro for her subject boast!

Oh, Gallia! from what splendors art thou hurl'd!
The terror once of all the Western World;
Thy spreading map each year did larger grow,
New mountains still did rise, new rivers flow;
But now surrounded by thy ancient mounds,
Dost inward shrink from thy new-conquer'd bounds.
Why did not nature, far from Marlbro's worth,
In distant ages bring her Louis forth?
Each uncontroul'd had conquer'd worlds alone,
Happy! for Europe, they together shone.

Cease! Louis, cease! from wars and slaughter cease!
Oh! sue at last, 'tis time to sue, for peace!
Urge nor too far your twice unhappy fate,
Nor Marlbro's stronger arm confess too late:
Who never camps or rough encounters saw,
Can no just image of the hero draw:
He must, alas! that Marlbro truly knows
Face him in battle, and whole armies lose.
Believe me, Sir, on my unwilling breast,
Fate has his virtues one by one imprest:
With what a force our Schellemberg he storm'd!
And Blenheim's battle with what conduct form'd!
How great his vigilance; how quick his thought;
What his contempt of death, Ramillia taught.
These nature cool for peace and counsel forms,
For battle those with rage and fury warms;
But to her fav'rite Britain does impart
The coolest head at once and warmest heart;
So does Sicilia's lofty mountains show
Flames in her bosom, on her head the snow.

377

My youth with flatt'ring smiles did Fortune crown,
The more severely on my age to frown?
Of Pleasure's endless stores I drank my fill,
Officious Nature waited on my will;
The Austrian rescu'd, and the Turk o'erthrown,
Europe and Asia fill'd with my renown:
Blasted are all my glories and my fame,
Lost is my country and illustrious name;
The titles from their present lord are torn,
Which my great ancestors so long had borne;
No native honours shall my offspring grace,
The last Elector with a num'rous race.
Half my unhappy subjects lost by wars,
The rest for a worse fate the victor spares:
Were they for this entrusted to my care?
This the reward the brave, the faithful share?
My sons lament, in distant dungeons thrown,
Unacted crimes, and follies not their own;
But oh! my consort!—my o'erflowing eyes
Gush forth with tears, and all my sorrows rise,
While the dear tender exile I bemoan;
Oh royal bride! oh daughter of a throne!
Not thus I promis'd when I sought thy bed,
Thou didst the brave, the great Bavaria wed:
Curst be ambition! curst the thirst of pow'r!
And curst that once-lov'd title Emperor!

Excuse, great Sir, the ravings of a mind,
That can so just a cause for sorrow find;
My words too rudely may a monarch greet
For oh! was ever grief like mine discreet!
No suff'rings shall my firm alliance end,
An unsuccessful, but a faithful friend.

378

An Apology to a Lady, who told me, I cou'd not love her heartily, because I had lov'd others.
[_]

Of doubtful attribution.

In Imitation of Mr. Waller.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Fair Sylvia, cease to blame my Youth
For having lov'd before;
So Men, e'er they have learnt the Truth,
Strange Deities adore.
My Youth ('tis true) has often rang'd,
Like Bees o'er gawdy Flow'rs;
And many thousand Loves has chang'd,
Till it was fixt in yours.
For, Sylvia, when I saw those Eyes,
'Twas soon determin'd there;
Stars might as well forsake the Skies,
And vanish into Air,
If I from this great Rule do err,
New Beauties to explore;
May I again turn Wanderer,
And never settle more.

Against Modesty in Love.
[_]

Of doubtful attribution.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

For many unsuccessful Years
At Cynthia's Feet I lay;
And often bath'd 'em with my Tears,
Despair'd, but durst not pray.
No prostrate Wretch before the Shrine
Of any Saint above,
E'er thought his Goddess more divine,
Or paid more awful Love.
Still the disdainful Dame look'd down
With an insulting Pride;
Receiv'd my Passion with a Frown,
Or toss'd her Head aside.
When Cupid whisper'd in my Ear,
Use more prevailing Charms,

379

Fond, whining, modest Fool, draw near,
And clasp her in your Arms.
With eager Kisses tempt the Maid,
From Cynthia's Feet depart;
The Lips he warmly must invade,
Who wou'd possess the Heart.
With that I shook off all my Fears,
My better Fortune try'd;
And Cynthia gave, what she for Years
Had foolishly deny'd.

On a young Lady's going to Town in the Spring.
[_]

Of doubtful attribution.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

One Night unhappy Celadon,
Beneath a friendly Myrtle's Shade,
With folded Arms and Eyes cast down,
Gently repos'd his Love-sick Head:
Whilst Thyrsis sporting on the neighb'ring Plain,
Thus heard the discontented Youth complain.

Ask not the Cause why sickly Flow'rs
Faintly recline their drooping Heads;
As fearful of approaching Show'rs,
They strive to hide them in their Beds,
Grieving with Celadon they downward grow,
And feel with him a Sympathy of Woe.

Chloris will go, the cruel Fair,
Regardless of her dying Swain
Leaves him to languish, to despair,
And murmur out in Sighs his Pain.
The fugitive to fair Augusta flies,
To make new Slaves, and gain new Victories.

So restless Monarchs, tho' possess'd
Of all that we call State or Pow'r,
Fancy themselves but meanly blest,
Vainly ambitious still of more.
Round the wide World impatiently they roam,
Not satisfy'd with private Sway at home.

380

When the Cat's away, The Mice may play.
[_]

Of doubtful attribution.

A FABLE,

Humbly inscribd to Dr. Sw------t.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

In Domibus Mures avido dente omnia captant:
In Domibus Fures avida mente omnia raptant.

A Lady once (so Stories say)
By Rats and Mice infested,
With Gins and Traps long sought to slay
The Thieves; but still they scap'd away,
And daily her molested.

Great Havock 'mongst her Cheese was made,
And much the loss did grieve her:
At length Grimalkin to her Aid
She call'd (no more of Cats afraid)
And begg'd him to relieve her.

Soon as Grimalkin came in view,
The Vermin back retreated;
Grimalkin swift as Lightning flew,
Thousands of Mice he daily slew,
Thousands of Rats defeated.

Ne'er Cat before such Glory won,
All People did adore him:
Grimalkin far all Cats out-shone,
And in his Lady's Favour none
Was then preferr'd before him.

Pert Mrs. Abigail alone
Envy'd Grimalkin's Glory:
Her favourite Lap Dog now was grown
Neglected, him she did bemoan,
And rav'd like any T[or]y.

She cannot bear, she swears she won't,
To see the Cat regarded,
But firmly is resolv'd upon 't,
And vows, that, whatsoe'er comes on 't,
She'll have the Cat discarded.

381

She Begs, she Storms, she Fawns, she Frets,
(Her Arts are all employ'd)
And tells her lady in a Pett,
Grimalkin cost her more in Meat
Than all the Rats destroy'd.

At length this Spiteful Waiting-maid
Produc'd a Thing amazing;
The Favourite Cat's a Victim made,
To satisfy this prating Jade,
And fairly turn'd a-grazing.

Now Lap Dog is again restor'd
Into his Lady's Favour;
Sumptuously kept at Bed and Board,
And He (so Nab has given her word)
Shall from all Vermin save Her.

Nab much exults at this Success,
And, overwhelm'd with Joy,
Her Lady fondly does caress,
And tells her Fubb can do no less,
Than all Her Foes destroy.

But vain such Hopes; The Mice that fled
Return, now Grim's discarded;
Whilst Fubb till Ten, on Silken Bed,
Securely lolls his drowsy Head,
And leaves Cheese unregarded.

Nor Rats, nor Mice the Lap Dog fear,
Now uncontrol'd their Theft is:
And whatsoe'er the Vermin spare,
Nab and her Dog betwixt them share,
Nor Pie, nor Pippin left is.

Mean while, to cover their Deceit,
At once, and slander Grim;
Nab says, the Cat comes out of spight
To rob her Lady every Night,
So lays it all on him.

382

Nor Corn secure in Garret high,
Nor Cheesecake safe in Closet;
The Cellars now unguarded lye,
On ev'ry Shelf the Vermin Prey,
And still Grimalkin does it.

The Gains from Corn apace decay'd,
No Baggs to Market go:
Complaints came from the Dairy-maid,
The Mice had spoil'd her Butter Trade,
And eke her Cheese also.

With this same Lady once there liv'd
A trusty Servant Maid,
Who, hearing this, full much was griev'd,
Fearing her Lady was deceiv'd,
And hasten'd to her Aid.

Much Art she us'd for to disclose
And find out the Deceit;
At length she to the Lady goes,
Discovers her Domestick Foes,
And opens all the Cheat.

Struck with the Sense of Her Mistake,
The Lady discontented,
Resolves again Her Cat to take,
And ne're again Her Cat forsake
Least she again repent it.

A FABLE OF THE WIDOW AND HER CAT.
[_]

Of doubtful attribution.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

A widow kept a favourite Cat,
At first a gentle Creature;
But when he was grown Sleek and Fat,
With many a Mouse, and many a Rat,
He soon disclos'd his Nature.

383

The Fox and He were friends of old,
Nor cou'd they now be parted;
They Nightly slunk to rob the Fold,
Devour'd the Lambs, the Fleeces sold,
And Puss grew Lion-hearted.

He scratch'd her Maid, he stole the Cream,
He tore her best lac'd Pinner;
Nor Chanticleer upon the Beam,
Nor Chick, nor Duckling 'scapes, when Grim
Invites the Fox to Dinner.

The Dame full wisely did Decree,
For fear he shou'd dispatch more,
That the false Wretch shou'd worry'd be;
But in a saucy manner He
Thus Speech'd it like a L[echme]re:

“Must I, against all Right and Law,
“Like Pole-Cat vile be treated?
“I! who so long with Tooth and Claw
“Have kept Domestick Mice in awe,
“And Foreign Foes defeated!

“Your Golden Pippins, and your Pies,
“How oft have I defended?
“'Tis true, the Pinner which you prize
“I tore in Frolick; to your Eyes
“I never Harm intended.

“I am a Cat of honour.”—“Stay,”
Quo' She, “no longer parley;
“Whate'er you did in Battle slay,
“By Law of Arms became your Prey,
“I hope you won it fairly.

“Of this, we'll grant you stand acquit,
“But not of your Outrages:
“Tell me, Perfidious! Was it fit
“To make my Cream a Perquisite,
“And Steal, to mend your Wages?

384

“So flagrant is Thy insolence,
“So vile Thy Breach of Trust is,
“That longer with Thee to Dispense,
“Were want of Pow'r, or want of Sense:
“Here, Towzer!—Do Him Justice.”

A Paraphrase on the French.
[_]

Of doubtful attribution.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

In Grey-hair'd Celia's wither'd Arms
As mighty Lewis lay,
She cry'd, if I have any Charms,
My Dearest let's away.

For you, my Love, is all my Fear,
Hark how the Drums do Rattle:
Alas, Sir! what shou'd you do here
In dreadful Day of Battle?

Let little Orange stay and fight,
For Danger's his Diversion;
The Wise will think you in the Right,
Not to expose your Person:

Nor vex your Thoughts how to repair
The Ruins of your Glory:
You ought to leave so mean a Care
To those who Pen your Story.

Are not Boileau and Corneile paid
For Panegyrick Writing?
They know how Heroes may be made
Without the help of Fighting.

When Foes too saucily approach,
'Tis best to leave them fairly:
Put Six good Horses in your Coach,
And carry me to Marly.

Let Bouflers, to secure your Fame,
Go take some Town, or buy it;
Whilst you, great Sir, at Nostredame,
Te Deum sing in quiet.

University of Virginia Library

DIALOGUES OF THE DEAD AND OTHER WORKS IN PROSE AND VERSE

A SUPPLEMENT TO Mr. Prior's POEMS. Consisting Of such Pieces as are Omitted in the late Collection of his Works, and Others, now first Published, from his Original Manuscripts, in the Custody of his Friends.

To the Right Honourable the Countess Dowager of DEVONSHIRE, ON A Piece of Wissin's; Whereon were all her Grandsons Painted.

The Female PHAETON.

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

The Judgment of VENUS.

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

SONG To his Mistress.

I

II

AN ODE,

In Imitation of the Second Ode of the Third Book of Horace.

[I]

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

AN EPISTLE TO Sir Fleetwood Sheppard.

A SATIRE ON THE Modern Translators.

A Satire upon the Poets, in Imitation of the Seventh Satire of Juvenal.

[POEMS FROM THE New Collection, 1725]

Epitaph Extempore.

THE Turtle and the Sparrow.

A TALE.

APPLICATION OF THE TURTLE and SPARROW.

DOWN-HALL;

A BALLAD.

VERSES Spoke to the Lady Henrietta-Cavendish Holles Harley, In the LIBRARY of St. John's College, Cambridge

PROLOGUE TO THE ORPHAN.

Represented by some of the Westminster-Scholars at Hickford's Dancing-Room, the 2d of February, 1720.

THE CONVERSATION,

A TALE.

COLIN's MISTAKES.

Written in Imitation of Spenser's Style.

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

[MISCELLANEOUS POEMS ETC., FROM THE COLLECTION OF DRIFT]

Considerations on part of the 88th Psalm.

A College Exercise. 1690.

I

II

III

ON THE TAKING OF NAMUR, 1692.

TO A CHILD of QUALITY, FIVE YEARS OLD, The AUTHOR Forty.

I

II

III

A SONG.
[_]

SET BY Mr ABEL.

A BALLAD.
[_]

TO The Tune of The Lady Isabella's Tragedy: Or: The Step-Mother's Cruelty.