University of Virginia Library

POEMS.

To his Book.

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

Elegy.

The unrewarded Lover.

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

Epigram.

Written in a Lady's Table-Book.

With what strange Raptures wou'd my Soul be blest,
Were but her Book an Emblem of her Breast?
As I from that all former Marks efface,
And, uncontroul'd, put new ones in their place;
So might I chase all others from her Heart,
And my own Image in the stead impart.
But, ah! how short the Bliss wou'd prove, if he
Who seiz'd it next, might do the same by me.

Elegy.

The Power of Verse.

While those bright Eyes subdue where-e'er you will,
And, as you please, can either save, or kill;
What Youth so bold the Conquest to design?
What Wealth so great to purchase Hearts like thine?
None but the Muse that Privilege can claim,
And what you give in Love, return in Fame.
Riches and Titles with your Life must end;
Nay, cannot even in Life your Fame defend:
Verse can give Fame, can fading Beauties save,
And, after Death, redeem'em from the Grave;
Embalm'd in Verse, through distant Times they come,
Preserv'd, like Bees, within an Amber Tomb.
Poets, (like Monarchs, on an Eastern Throne,
Restrain'd by nothing but their Will alone)
Here can cry up, and there as boldly blame,
And, as they please, give Infamy or Fame.
In vain the

Dido.

Tyrian Queen resigns her Life,
For the bright Glory of a spotless Wife,
If lying Bards may false Amours rehearse,
And blast her Name with arbitrary Verse.
While

Penelope.

one who all the absence of her Lord,
Had her wide Courts with pressing Lovers stor'd;
Yet by a Poet grac'd, in deathless Rhimes,
Stands a chaste Pattern to succeeding Times.
With pity then the Muses Friends survey,
Nor think your Favours there are thrown away;
Wisely like Seed on fruitful Soil they're thrown,
To bring large Crops of Glory and Renown.
For as the Sun that in the Marshes breeds
Nothing but nauseous and unwholesome Weeds;
With the same Rays on rich and pregnant Earth,
To pleasant Flowers, and useful Fruits gives birth.
So Favours cast on Fools, get only Shame;
On Poets shed, produce eternal Fame:
Their gen'rous Breasts warm with a genial Fire,
And more than all the Muses can inspire.

Jealousie.

Cure of Jealousie.

Sonnet.

Death.

Elegy.

To his false Mistress.

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

Upon the same Occasion.

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

The Antidote.

Upon a Favour offer'd.

The Reconcilement.

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

Dialogue Between a Lover and his Friend.

Friend.
Value thy self, fond Youth, no more
On Favours Mulus had before;
He had her first, her Virgin Flame;
You like a bold Intruder came
To the cold Relicks of a Feast,
When he at first had seiz'd the best.

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

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

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

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

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

Epigram.

LYCE.

Go, said old Lyce, senceless Lover, go,
And with soft Verses court the Fair; but know,
With all thy Verses, thou canst get no more
Than Fools without one Verse have had before.
Enrag'd at this, upon the Bawd I flew;
And that which most enrag'd me was, 'twas true.

The fair Mourner.

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

Epigram.

To his false Mistress.

Thou saidst that I alone thy Heart cou'd move,
And that for me thou wou'dst abandon Jove.
I lov'd thee then, not with a love defil'd,
But as a Father loves his only Child.
I know thee now, and tho' I fiercelier burn,
Thou art become the Object of my Scorn.
See what thy Falshood gets; I must confess
I love thee more, but I esteem the less.

Epigram.

Love and Jealousie.

How much are they deceiv'd who vainly strive,
By jealous Fears, to keep our Flames alive?
Love's like a Torch, which if secur'd from Blasts,
Will faintlier burn; but then it longer lasts.
Expos'd to storms of Jealousie and Doubt,
The Blaze grows greater, but 'tis sooner out.

Elegy.

The Petition.

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

Elegy.

Upon quitting his Mistress.

To his Mistress.

Against Marriage.

Epigram.

Chloe.

Chloe new-marry'd looks on Men no more;
Why then 'tis plain for what she lookt before.

Epigram.

Cornus.

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

Epigram.

Thraso.

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

Epigram.

Gripe and Shifter.

Rich Gripe does all his Thoughts and Cunning bend,
T'encrease that Wealth he wants the Soul to spend.
Poor Shifter does his whole Contrivance set
To spend that Wealth, he wants the Sense to get.
How happy wou'd appear to each his Fate,
Had Gripe his Humour, or he Gripe's Estate!
Kind Fate and Fortune, blend 'em if you can,
And of two Wretches, make one happy Man.

To Cælia, upon some Alterations in her Face.

Ah, Cælia! where are now the Charms,
That did such wondrous Passions move?
Time, cruel Time, those Eyes disarms,
And blunts the feeble Darts of Love.
What Malice does the Tyrant bear
To Womens Int'rest, and to ours?
Beauties in which the Publick share,
The greedy Villain first devours.
Who, without Tears, can see a Prince,
That Trains of fawning Courtiers had,
Abandon'd, left without defence?
Nor is thy hapless Fate less sad.
Thou who so many Fools hast known,
And all the Fools would hardly do,
Shou'dst now confine thy self to one!
And he, alas! a Husband too.
See the ungrateful Slaves how fast
They from thy setting Glories run;
And in what mighty Crowds they haste,
To worship Flavia's rising Sun!
In vain are all the practis'd Wiles,
In vain those Eyes wou'd Love impart;
Not all th'Advances, all the Smiles,
Can move one unrelenting Heart.
While Flavia, charming Flavia still,
By Cruelty, her Cause maintains;
And scarce vouchsafes a careless Smile
To the poor Slaves that wear her Chains.
Well, Cælia, let them waste their Tears,
But sure they will in time repine,
That thou hast not a Face like hers,
Or she has not a Heart like thine.

The Retirement.