University of Virginia Library

To Madam JANE BARKER, On Her Incomparable POEMS.

Soon as some envious Angel's willing hand
Snatch'd Great Orinda from our happy Land;
The Great Orinda, whose Seraphick Pen
Triumph'd o'er Women, and out-brav'd ev'n Men:
Then our Male-Poets modestly thought fit,
To claim the honour'd Primacy in Wit;
But, lo, the Heiress of that Ladies Muse,
Rivals their Merits, and their Sence out-do's;
With swifter flights of fancy wings her Verse,
And nobler Greatness valiant Acts reherse.
Her Modish Muse abhors a constant dress,
Appears each day in fineries afresh:
Sometimes in pompous Grandeur she do's nobly stalk,
Then clad in tragick Buskins do's Majestick walk;
She swells in blushing Purple, or looks big in Arms,
Proclaims destructive Wars, & triumphs in Alar'ms;
Denounces fall of States, and fate of greatest Kings,
Ruin of mighty Monarchs, and of mighty Things.
Sometimes her angry Muse, fill'd with Satyrick rage,
Lashes the frantick follies of a froward Age;
Then whips, and fiery Serpents ev'ry Verse entwine,
And sharpest-pointed Vengeance fills each threatning line.
Sometimes her kinder Muse do's softly sing
Of native joys, which in the Country spring:
Then,
Noiseless as Planets, all her Numbers move,
Or silent breathings of a sleeping Dove;
Soft as the Murmur of a gentle Air,
Or Mid-nights whispers 'twixt an Amorous pair.
A genuine sweetness through her Verses flow,
And harmless Raptures, such as Shepherds know;
She fills each Plain, each Wood, each shady Grove,
With wearied Echoes of repeated Love.
Bald and Bombastick equally you shun,
In ev'n paces all your Numbers run,
Spencer's aspiring fancy fills your Soul,
Whilst lawfull Raptures through your Poems rowl,
Which always by your guidance do submit,
To th' curb of Judgment, and the bounds of Wit.
When in a Comick sweetness you appear,
Ben Johnson's humour seems revived there.
When lofty Passions thunder from your Pen,
Methinks I hear Great Shakespear once again.
But what do's most your Poetry commend?
You ev'n begin where those great Wits did end.
Your infant fancy with that height is crown'd,
Which they with pains and cost (when old) scarce found.
Go on, Dear Madam, and command our praise,
Our freshest Laurels, and our greenest Bays.

To the Ingenious Mrs. BARKER, On Her Excellent POEMS.

To the Ingenious AUTHOUR, Mrs. JANE BARKER, ON HER POEMS.

To Mrs. JANE BARKER, On Her Ingenious POEMS.

To the Incomparable GALÆCIA, On the Publication of Her POEMS.

An Invitation to my Friends at Cambridge.

To Mr. HILL, on his Verses to the Dutchess of YORK, when she was at Cambridge.

What fitter Subject could be for thy Wit?
What Wit for Subject could there be more fit
Than thine for this, by which thou'st nobly shew'd
Thy Soul with Loyal Sentiments endew'd?
Not only so, but prov'd thy self to be
Mirrour of what her Highness came to see:
VVho having seen the Schools of Art, the best
She found concenter'd in thy matchless Breast;
And doubtless when she saw the eager joys
Of Ears no less ambitious than their Eyes,
She did conclude their coming was not there
To see her only, but thy Wit to hear:
Thine whose ascent shall learned Cambridge grace,
And shew it's no such foggy level place
As most affirm; for now the VVorld shall know
That

Wood. Author of another Speech

Woods and Hills of wit in Cambridge grow,
VVhose lofty tops such pleasing Umbrage make,
As may induce the Gallants to forsake
Their dear-lov'd Town, to gather in this place
Some witticisms of a better race,
Than what proceed from swearing Criticks, who
Kick Tavern Boys, and Orange-Wenches wooe,
Are Machavillians in a Coffee-house,
And think it wit a poor Street-Whore to chouse;
And for their Father Hobbs will talk so high,
Rather than him they will their God deny:
And lest their wit should want a surer proof,
They boast of crimes they ne're were guilty of.
Thus hellish cunning drest in Masquerade
Of Wit's disguise, so many have betray'd,
And made them Bondslaves, who at first did fly
Thither Wit's famine only to supply.
But now I hope they'll find the task too great,
And think at last of making a retreat:
Since here's a Pisgah-Hill whereon to stand
To take a prospect of Wit's holy Land,
Flowing with Milk of Christian innocence,
And Honey of Cic'ronian Eloquence.

To my Cousin Mr. E. F. on his Excellent PAINTING.

To my Reverend Friend Mr. H****.

on his Presenting me The Reasonableness of Christianity, and The History of King CHARLES the First, &c.

Good Sir, if I could my Resentments shew
In words, how much I am oblig'd to you,
I wou'd invoke some Muse to teach me how
T' express my gratitude in number now;
But, Sir, the kindness which to me you shew'd,
Transcends the bounds of finite gratitude:
What number then, alas, can there be fit
To cypher kindness which is infinite?
And such is that which teaches us to know
God and our selves, and what we ought to do:
For whilst I in your Parish spent my Youth,
I gain'd the knowledge of all saving Truth;
And when my Exit was by fate design'd,
To shew, you'd not impos'd upon my Mind
(In its Minority, what Reason might
In its mature and full-grown vigour slight)
You kindly gave me in Epitome.
The Reasonableness of Christianitie.
Which shews there's no necessity to make
Us discard Reason when our Faith we take.
For God, who knew how apt we were to slide
From Faith, if we'd no reason for our Guide,
Made all his Precepts, which on Faith were fix'd,
To be with reason, and our int'rest mix'd;
For howsoe'er by some they're understood,
I'm sure it is our int'rest to be good:
And lest Example should be wanting to
Excite us to what Precepts bid us do,
He always gave us some, whose Virtues did
Exalt good deeds, and wicked ones forbid;
Whose Christian strength was able to subdue
The busie World, Flesh, and the Devil too.
'Mongst whom there's none more Eminently good
Than he who seal'd the Truth with's Royal Blood;
Who prov'd himself by's Royal Sufferings
The best of Men, as well as best of Kings:
As David was Christ's Sire, and Servant, so
Charles was his Brother, Son and Servant too.
Much might be said to call our Wonder forth,
And fall much short of his transcendent VVorth;
For he so far all praises do's surpass,
That who speaks most, speaks short of what he was.
For nothing can his matchless worth express,
Nor characterize his mighty Soul, unless
VVisdom her self assume religious dress.
Thanks then, Good Sir, to you, for giving me
This compleat Mirrour of Christianitie.

To Mr. G. P. my Adopted Brother;

on the nigh approach of his Nuptials.

Dear Brother,

Thy Marry'ng humour I dare scarce upbraid,
Lest thou retort upon me Musty Maid;
Yet prithee don't its joys too much esteem,
It will not prove what distance makes it seem:
Bells are good musick, if they're not too nigh,
But sure 'ts base living in a Belfery.
To see Lambs skip o're Hills is pretty sport,
But who wou'd justle with them in their Court?
Then let not Marriage thee in danger draw,
Unless thou'rt bit with Love's Tarantula;
A Frenzy which no Physick can reclaim,
But Crosses, crying Children, scolding Dame:
Yet who would such a dang'rous Med'cine try,
Where a disease attends the remedy;
Whilst Love's Diaryan it assays to cure,
It introduces Anger's Calenture.
Ah, pity thy good humour should be spoil'd,
The glory of thy wit and friendship soil'd:
From Married Man wit's Current never flows,
But grave and dull, as standing Pond, he grows;
Whilst th' other like a gentle stream do's play,
With this World's pebbles, which obstruct his way.
What should I talk, this and much more you know
Of all the troubles you must undergo.
Yet if we'll eat Tythe-pig, we must endure
The punishment to serve the Parson's Cure.

A VIRGIN LIFE.

Since, O ye Pow'rs, ye have bestow'd on me
So great a kindness for Virginity,
Suffer me not to fall into the Pow'rs
Of Mens almost Omnipotent Amours;
But in this happy Life let me remain,
Fearless of Twenty five and all its train,
Of slights or scorns, or being call'd Old Maid,
Those Goblings which so many have betray'd:
Like harmless Kids, that are pursu'd by Men,
For safety run into a Lyon's Den.
Ah lovely State how strange it is to see,
What mad conceptions some have made of thee,
As though thy Being was all wretchedness,
Or foul deformity i'th' ugliest dress;
Whereas thy Beauty's pure, Celestial,
Thy thoughts Divine, thy words Angelical:
And such ought all thy Votaries to be,
Or else they're so, but for necessity.
A Virgin bears the impress of all good,
In that dread Name all Vertue's understood:
So equal all her looks, her mien, her dress,
That nought but modesty seems in excess.
And when she any treats or visits make,
'Tis not for tattle, but for Friendship's sake;
Her Neighb'ring Poor she do's adopt her Heirs,
And less she cares for her own good than theirs;
And by Obedience testifies she can
Be's good a Subject as the stoutest Man.
She to her Church such filial duty pays,
That one would think she'd liv'd i'th' pristine days.
Her Closet, where she do's much time bestow,
Is both her Library and Chappel too,
Where she enjoys society alone,
I'th' Great Three-One—
She drives her whole Lives business to these Ends,
To serve her God, enjoy her Books and Friends.

To my Friend EXILLUS,

on his persuading me to Marry Old Damon.

When Friends advice with Lovers forces joyn,
They'll conquer Hearts more fortify'd than mine:
For mine lyes as it wont, without defence,
No Guard nor Art but its own innocence;
Under which Fort, it could fierce storms endure,
But from thy Wit I find no Fort secure.
Ah, why would'st thou assist my Enemy,
Who was himself almost too strong for me?
Thou with Idolatry mak'st me adore,
And homage do to the proud Conquerour.
Now round his Neck my willing Arms I'd twine,
And swear upon his Lips, My Dear, I'm thine,
But that his kindness then would grow, I fear,
Too weighty for my weak desert to bear.
I fear 'twou'd even to extreams improve,
And Jealousie, they say, 's th' extream of Love;
That after all my kindness to him shown,
My little Neddy, he'll not think't his own:
Ev'n thou my Dear Exillus he'll suspect,
If I but look on thee, I him neglect:
Not only He-friends innocent as thou,
But he'll mistrust She-friends and Heav'n too.
Thus best things may be turn'd to greatest harm,
As saying th' Lord's Prayer backward proves a charm.
Or if not thus, I'm sure he will despise,
Or under-rate the easie-gotten prize.
These and a thousand fears my Soul possess,
But most of all my own unworthiness;
Like dying Saints, I wish for coming joys,
But humble fears that forward wish destroys.
What shall I do then? hazard the event?
You say, Old Damon's, all that's excellent.
If I miss him, the next some Squire may prove,
Whose Dogs and Horses shall have all his love;
Or some debauch'd pretender to lewd wit,
Or covetous, conceited, unbred Citt.
Thus the brave Horse, who late i'th' Coach did neigh,
Is forc'd at last to tug a nasty Dray.

To Dr. R. S. my indifferent Lover, who complain'd of my Indifferency.

You'd little reason to complain of me,
Or my unkindness or indiff'rency,
Since I by many a circumstance can prove,
That int'rest was the motive of your love;
But Heav'n it self doth ever hate th' address,
VVhose crafty Motive's only interess;
No more can honest Maids endure to be,
The objects of your wise indiff'rency.
Such wary Courtship only should be shown
To cunning jilting Baggages o'th' Town:
For faithfull Love's the rhetorick that persuades,
And charms the hearts of silly Countrey Maids.
But when we find your Courtship's but pretence,
Love were not Love in us, but impudence.
At best I'm sure it needs must prove to us
(VVhat e're you think on't) most injurious.
For had I of that gentle nature been,
As to have lov'd your Person, Wit, or Mien,
How many sighs and tears it would have cost,
And fruitless expectations by the Post,
Saying he is unkind; oh, no, his Letter's lost;
Hoping him sick, or lame, or gone to Sea,
Hope any thing but his inconstancy.
Thus what in other Friends cause greatest fear,
To desp'rate Maids, their only comforts are.
This I through all your Blandishments did see,
Thanks to ill nature that instructed me:
Thoughts of your sighs, would plead sometimes for you,
But second thoughts again would let me know,
In gayest Serpents strongest Poysons are,
And sweetest Rose-trees sharpest prickles bear:
And so it proves, for now it do's appear,
Your Flames and Sighs only for Money were.
As Beggers for their gain turn Blind and Lame;
On the same score a Lover you became:
Yet there's a kindness in this false Amour,
It teaches me ne'er to be Mistress more.
Thus Blazing Comets are of good portent,
If they excite the People to repent.

On the DEATH of my Dear Friend and Play-fellow, Mrs E. D. having Dream'd the night before I heard thereof, that I had lost a Pearl.

I dream'd I lost a Pearl, and so it prov'd;
I lost a Friend much above Pearls belov'd:
A Pearl perhaps adorns some outward part,
But Friendship decks each corner of the heart:
Friendship's a Gem, whose Lustre do's out-shine
All that's below the heav'nly Crystaline:
Friendship is that mysterious thing alone,
Which can unite, and make two Hearts but one;
It purifies our Love, and makes it flow
I'th' clearest stream that's found in Love below;
It sublimates the Soul, and makes it move
Towards Perfection and Celestial Love.
We had no by-designs, nor hop'd to get
Each by the other place amongst the great;
Nor Riches hop'd, nor Poverty we fear'd,
'Twas Innocence in both, which both rever'd.
Witness this truth ye Wilsthorp-Fields, where we
So oft enjoyd a harmless Luxurie;
Where we indulg'd our easie Appetites,
With Pocket-Apples, Plumbs, and such delights.
Then we contriv'd to spend the rest o'th' day,
In making Chaplets, or at Check-stone play;
When weary, we our selves supinely laid
On Beds of Vi'lets under some cool shade,
VVhere th' Sun in vain strove to dart through his Rays;
Whilst Birds around us chanted forth their Lays;
Ev'n those we had bereaved of their young,
VVould greet us with a Querimonious Song.
Stay here, my Muse, and of these let us learn,
The loss of our deceased Friend to Mourn:
Learn did I say? alas, that cannot be,
We can teach Clouds to weep, and Winds to sigh at Sea,
Teach Brooks to murmur, Rivers to o're-flow,
VVe can add Solitude to Shades of Yeaugh.
VVere Turtles to be witness of our moan,
They'd in compassion quite forget their own:
Nor shall hereafter Heraclitus be,
Fam'd for his Tears, but to my Muse and Me;
Fate shall give all that Fame can comprehend,
Ah poor repair for th' loss of such a Friend.

The Prospect of a LANDSKIP,

Beginning with a GROVE.

Sitting by a Rivulet.

I.

Ah lovely stream, how fitly may'st thou be,
By thy immutability,
Thy gentle motion and perennity,
To us the Emblem of Eternity:
And to us thou do'st no less
A kind of Omnipresence too express.
For always at the Ocean thou
Art always here, and at thy Fountain too;
Always thou go'st thy proper Course,
Spontaneously, and yet by force,
Each Wave forcing his Precursor on;
Yet each one runs with equal haste,
As though each fear'd to be the last.
With mutual strife, void of contention,
In Troops they march, till thousands, thousands past.
Yet gentle stream, thou'rt still the same,
Always going, never gone;
Yet do'st all Constancy disclaim,
Wildly dancing to thine own murmuring tunefull Song;
Old as Time, as Love and Beauty young.

II.

But chiefly thou to Unity lay'st claim,
For though in thee,
Innumerable drops there be,
Yet still thou art but one,
Th' Original of which from Heav'n came:
The purest Transcript thereof we
I'th' Church may wish, but never hope to see,
Whilst each Pretender thinks himself alone
The Holy Catholick Church Militant;
Nay, well it is if such will grant,
That there is one elsewhere Triumphant.

III.

But gentle stream, if they,
As thou do'st Nature, would their God obey;
And as they run their course of life, would try
Their Consciences to purify:
From self-love, pride, and avaricy,
Stubbornness equal to Idolatry;
They'd find opinion of themselves,
To be but dang'rous sandy Shelves,
To found or build their Faith upon,
Unable to resist the force
Of Prosperity's swelling violent sorce,
Or storms of Persecution:
Whose own voracity (were't in their power)
Wou'd not only Ornaments devour,
But the whole Fabrick of Religion.

IV.

A HILL.

Oh that I cou'd Verses write,
That might express thy praise,
Or with my Pen ascend thy height;
I thence might hope to raise
My Verse upon Fame's soaring wing,
That it might so advance,
As with Apollo's Lyre to Sing,
And with the Spheres to Dance.[OMITTED]

[_]

This was never Finished.

To Sir F. W. presenting him Cowley's first Works.

When vacant hours admit you to peruse,
The mighty Cowley's early Muse;
Behold it as a bud of wit, whose growth
O're-tops all that our Isle brought forth:
And may it still above all others grow,
Till equall'd, or out-done by you.

To Ovid's Heroines in his Epistles.

To my Honourable Unkle Colonel C*** after his Return into the Low-Countries.

Dear Sir, the joys which range through all your Troops,
Express'd by Caps thrown up, and English Whoops,
Were the old marks of Conquest, which they knew
They should obtain, when they obtained you;
As being the Soul, which animation gave
To all their Valours, and to all their brave
Atchievements, by which your honour'd Name
Shall be Eternaliz'd in th' Book of Fame:
Though we partakers of your Glories are,
And of your Joys by sympathy do share;
Yet Absence makes the pleasure but in part,
And for your safety, Fear our joys do's thwart:
Fear, which by you's the worst of Sins esteem'd,
At best is a Mechanick Passion deem'd;
Yet when your danger she presents to us,
She's then both good and meritorious.
Think then how we're excited by this Fear,
To mourn your Absence, though your Worth revere:
Besides, methinks 'tis pity that you shou'd,
For sordid Boors, exhaust your Noble Blood.
Think then, dear Sir, of making your return,
And let your Presence Britain's Isle adorn.

On the Apothecary's Filing my Bills amongst the Doctors.

I hope I shan't be blam'd if I am proud,
That I'm admitted 'mongst this Learned Croud;
To be proud of a Fortune so sublime,
Methinks is rather Duty, than a Crime:
Were not my thoughts exalted in this state,
I should not make thereof due estimate:
And sure one cause of Adam's fall was this,
He knew not the just worth of Paradise;
But with this honour I'm so satisfy'd,
The Antients were not more when Deify'd:
For this transcends all common happiness,
And is a Glory that exceeds excess.
This 'tis, makes me a fam'd Physician grow,
As Saul 'mongst Prophets turn'd a Prophet too.
The sturdy Gout, which all Male power withstands,
Is overcome by my soft Female hands:
Not Deb'ra, Judith, or Semiramis
Could boast of Conquests half so great as this;
More than they slew, I save in this Disease.
Mankind our Sex for Cures do celebrate,
Of Pains, which fancy only doth create:
Now more we shall be magnified sure,
Who for this real torment find a Cure.
Some Women-haters may be so uncivil,
To say the Devil's cast out by the Devil;
But so the good are pleas'd, no matter for the evil
Such ease to States-men this our Skill imparts,
I hope they'll force all Women to learn Arts.
Then Blessings on ye all ye learned Crew,
Who teach me that which you your selves ne'er knew.
Thus Gold, which by th' Sun's influence do's grow,
Do's that i'th' Market Phœbus cannot doe.
Bless'd be the time, and bless'd my pains and fate,
Which introduc'd me to a place so great.
False Strephon too I now could almost bless,
Whose crimes conduc'd to this my happiness.
Had he been true, I'd liv'd in sottish ease;
Ne'er study'd ought, but how to love and please:
No other flame my Virgin Breast had fir'd,
But Love and Life together had expir'd.
But when, false wretch, he his forc'd kindness paid,
With less Devotion than e'er Sexton pray'd.
Fool that I was to sigh, weep, almost dye,
Little fore-thinking of this present joy:
Thus happy Brides shed tears they know not why.
Vainly we blame this Cause, or laugh at that,
Whilst the Effect with its how, where and what,
Is an Embryo i'th' Womb of Time or Fate.
Of future things we very little know,
And 'tis Heav'ns kindness too that it is so.
Were not our Souls with Ignorance so buoy'd,
They'd sink with fear, or over-set with pride.
So much for Ignorance there may be said,
That large Encomiums might thereof be made.
But I've digress'd too far, so must return,
And make the Medick Art my whole concern;
Since by its Aid I've gain'd this mighty place
Amongst th' immortal Æsculapian Race;
That if my Muse will needs officious be,
She too to this must be a Votary.
In all our Songs its Attributes reherse,
Write Recipes (as Ovid Law) in Verse;
To measure we'll reduce Febrifick heat,
And make the Pulses in true measure beat:
Asthma and Phthisick shall chant lays most sweet,
The Gout and Rickets too shall run on feet:
In fine, my Muse, such Wonders we will doe,
That to our Art Mankind their ease shall owe;
Then praise and please our selves in doing so:
For since the Learn'd exalt and own our Fame,
It is no Arrogance to do the same,
But due respects and complaisance to them.

To my Unkind STREPHON.

When last I saw thee, thou did'st seem so kind,
Thy Friendship & thy Mirth so unconfin'd.
Thy Mind serene, Angelical thy Face,
Wit and good humour ev'ry part did grace;
That nought unkind appear'd to my dull sence,
To cloud the Glories of Love's Excellence.
Thus e're the Sun his leave of us he takes,
Behind the Trees a glorious Landskip makes;
So in thy Mien those Glories did appear,
To shew it seems Friendship was setting there:
But now't's obscured, whether it descends
Into the Ocean of more worthy Friends;
Or that it do's to State or bus'ness move,
Those Regions of th' Antipodes of Love,
I know not, only it withdraws its light,
Exposing of our Microcosm to night:
A night all clad in Sorrows, thickest Air,
Yet no less cold than those that are most clear:
But as when heat by cold contracted is,
Grows stronger by its Antiperistatis;
So shall my Passion in this frigid state
Grow strong in fervent love, or torrid hate;
But should I frown, or scorn, or hate, 'twould be
But laughter and divertisement to thee:
Then be thou still unkind, I am resolv'd
I'th' like unkindness ne'er to be involv'd;
But those whom Frowns and Anger cannot move,
It is but just to persecute with Love,
Like good Old Romans, although banish'd I
Shall still retain my first integrity.
But what should make thee thus to banish me,
Who always did do, and will honour thee;
Unless thou'rt like those jealous Romans grown,
And falsly fear I should erect a Throne
Within thy Breast, and absolutely prove
My self the mighty Monarch of thy Love:
No sure, thy Judgment never could be wrought,
To think that I should harbour such a thought;
Thou could'st not think I aim'd at such a state,
Who in thy Breast had no Confederate;
Nor Worth wherewith the Nobles to engage,
Nor Wealth to stifle the Plebeian Rage:
Nor had I Troops of Beauties at Command,
For Grief long since those Forces did disband:
Besides, thou know'st I always did despise,
In Love, those Arbitrary tyrannies:
Nor do I less abhor the Vulgar croud
Of sordid Passions, which can bawl so loud
For Liberty, that they thereby may grace
Pride, Lust, or Av'rice, with a Tribune's place;
But might I chuse, Love's Regiment should be,
By Friendship's noble Aristocracy.
But now, alas, Love's Powers are all deprest,
By th' pow'rfull Anarchy of Interest:
But although Hell and Earth therein combin'd,
I little thought what now too well I find,
That ever Strephon could have been unkind.

To my Friend Mr. S. L.

ON HIS Receiving the Name of Little Tom King.

Fear not, dear Friend, the less'ning of thy Fame,
Because here's Little fix'd upon thy Name;
Thy matchless Worth, alas, is too well known,
To suffer damage by detraction.
Nor can the Splendour of thy glorious Rays
Gain Augmentation by our worthless praise;
But as the faithfull Diamonds luster's shown,
Whether set on Foils, or in the Fire thrown;
So art thou Little King, whose Worth cross Fate,
By no Vicissitude can vitiate:
So sweet thy Humour, so genteel thy Mien;
So wise thy Actions, all thy Thoughts serene;
That Envies self, who do's all praise regret,
Must own in thee Virtue and Wisdom's met;
For were't thou really such as is thy Name,
I'm sure thy Wisdom wou'd adorn the same;
And to the silly World it shou'd be shown,
That Virtue cou'd add Splendour to a Throne.

Necessity of Fate.

To my Honoured Friend, Mr. E. S---t.

Oh had I any Charms of equal Powers,
To lay those spirits which are rais'd by yours;
I would employ them all, rather than now
Suffer my babbling Rhimes to trouble you:
But ah! alas my Spells are all too weak,
To keep a silence which you urge to break;
Though I remember justly where and when
I promis'd ne'er to trouble you agen;
And when I spoke, I meant my words for true,
But those Resolves were cancell'd at review
Of your obliging Lines, which made me know
Silence to be the greater fault o'th' too:
For where Perfection do's in triumph sit,
'Tis rude to praise, but sinfull to omit.
I often read your Lines, and oft admire,
How Eloquence and Fancy do conspire,
With Wit and Judgment to make up a Quire,
And grace the Musick of Apollo's Lire.
But that which makes the Musick truly sweet,
Virtue and Innocence in Chorus meet:
So smooth, so gentle all your Writings are,
If I with other Authors them compare,
Methinks their Modish Wit to me do's shew,
But as an Engyscope to view yours through:
Nor do your Writings only smoothly glide,
Whilst your whole life's like some impetuous tide;
But both together keep a gentle pace,
And each other do each other grace.
There's very few like you that do possess
The Stoicks strictness, Poets gentleness.
I much admire your Worth, but more my Fate,
That worthless I thereof participate;
Ev'n so the Sun disdains not to dispence
On meanest Insects his bright influence;
But gives them animation by his Rays,
Which they requite, like me, with worthless praise;
Which now I'm sure's grown troublesome to you,
But you must bear that fate which others do:
For those that needs will taste of Parents joys,
Must too indure the plague of Cradle-noise.

On my Mother and my Lady W**** who both lay sick at the same time under the Hands of Dr. Paman.

In Commendation of the Female Sex.

Out of SCIPINA.

Ah Beauteous Sex, to you we're bound to give
Our thanks for all the Blessings we receive;
Ev'n that we're Men, the chief of all our boast
Were without you, but a vast blessing lost.
In vain would Man his mighty Patent show,
That Reason makes him Lord of all below;
If Woman did not moderate his rule,
He'd be a Tyrant, or a softly fool.
For e'er Love's documents inform his Breast,
He's but a thoughtless kind of Houshold Beast.
Houses, alas, there no such thing wou'd be,
He'd live beneath the umbrage of a Tree:
Or else usurp some free-born Native's Cave;
And so inhabit, whilst alive, a Grave:
Or o'er the World this Lordly Brute wou'd rove,
Were he not taught and civiliz'd by Love.
'Tis Love and Beauty regulate our Souls,
No rules so certain as in Venus Schools:
Your Beauty teacheth whatsoe'er is good,
Else good from bad had scarce been understood.
What's eligible by your smiles we know,
And by your frowns refuse what is not so.
Thus the rough draught of Man you have refin'd,
And polish'd all the Passions of his mind.
His Cares you lessen, and his Joys augment;
To both extreams set the just bounds Content.
In fine, 'tis you to Life its relish give,
Or 'twere insipid, not worth while to live:
Nay more, we're taught Religion too by you:
For who can think that such Perfections grew
By chance? no, 'twas the divine Pow'rs which thus
Chose to exhibit their bright selves to us:
And for an Antepast of future bliss,
Sent you their Images from Paradise.

To my BROTHER, whilst he was in France.

Dear Brother, So far as you advance
Your knowledge, by your Journey into France;
So far and more I'm sure I backward go,
For I can't say As in præsenti now;
Nor ever shall (I am so much concern'd
For your dear safety) whilst you are return'd.
Nothing at present wonted pleasure yields,
The Birds nor Bushes, or the gaudy Fields;
Nor Osier holts, nor Flow'ry banks of Glen;
Nor the soft Meadow-grass seem Plush, as when
We us'd to walk together kindly here,
And think each blade of Corn a Gem did bear.
Instead of this, and thy Philosophy,
Nought but my own false Latin now I see;
False Verse, or Lovers falsest of the three:
Ev'n thoughts of formor happiness augment
My Griefs, and are my present punishment;
As those who from a state of Grandeur fall,
Find adverse Fate hard to dispence withall.
Had Devils never Heaven seen,
Their Hell a smaller Curse had been.

On the DEATH of my Brother.

Come Sorrow, come, embrace my yielding heart,
For thou'rt alone, no Passion else a-part;
Since of my Dear by Death I am bereft,
Thou art the faithfull'st Lover I have left;
And so much int'rest thou hast got in me,
All thoughts of him prove only Pimps to thee:
If any joy seem to accost my Soul,
One thought of him do's presently controle
Those fawning Rivals; all which steal away,
Like wand'ring Ghosts at the approach of day.
But hold, fond Grief, thou must forbear a while,
Thy too too kind Caresses, which beguile
Me of my Reason,—retire whilst I
Repeat the Life, the Death, the Elogy,
Of him my Soul ador'd with so much pride,
As makes me slight all worldly things beside;
Of him who did by his fraternal Love,
More noble Passions in my Bosome move,
Than e'er cou'd be infus'd by Cupid's Darts,
Or any feign'd, adulterate, sordid Arts;
Of him whose blooming Youth pleas'd each Man's Eye,
And tempted Women to Idolatry;
Of him whose growing Art made Death afraid,
He shou'd be vanquish'd, and his Throne betray'd:
'Cause with success, and yet no less applause,
He rescu'd many from the Tyrant's jaws:
At last the Tyrant raging full with spight,
Assaults his Enemy with all his might;
And for his Second brings a Feavour too;
In this Attacque what could our Champion doe?
He bravely fights, but forc'd at last to yield,
Nature, his Second, having lost the Field:
Many bring in their Aid, but 'tis too late,
Grim Death had gotten a Decree from Fate;
Which retrograded all that great supply,
Whose pow'rfull Arms makes Death and Feavers fly.
But why, great Fate! would'st thou so cruel be,
Of Joy at once to rob the World and Me!
What joys so e'er we to our selves propose,
Fate still will frustrate, or at least oppose;
'Tis her Ambition sure to let us know,
She has the Regiment of all below.
If it be so, command some mournfull Muse
T' inspire my Soul, and then my Heart infuse
With Essence of some Dirges, that I may
His Matchless worth to all the World display.
Nor Fate, nor Muse will help us now, I find,
All flee the Wretched, ev'n as Ships the Wind.
My Dear, had'st thou to me bequeath'd thy Wit,
Thy Character had long ago been writ
I'th' most sublime and lasting Verse,
That e'er Adorn'd the greatest Hero's Herse.
But were thy great Entomium writ by me,
'Twou'd be the ready way to lessen thee:
Therefore I must desist from that design,
And the attempt to better hands resign;
Only repeat what mournfully was said,
As in thy cold and narrow Bed was't laid
By the Apollo's of thy noble Art,
(Who seem'd to grudge me in their grief a part)
Alas, he's gone who shou'd have liv'd to be
An honour to our Great Society.
“Alas, he's gone who shou'd supply the place
“Of some of us, when time has left no space
“Betwixt us and the Grave; but now we see
“How they're deceiv'd, who hold no vacancy:
“And all the Gallant Æsculapian Crew,
“Whose great Example from Spectators drew
“Such floods of tears, that some mistook their aim,
“And thought a real show'r from Heav'n came.
But I, as if the Fountain of this Source,
With Handkerchiefs strove to retard the course;
But all in vain, my real loss was great,
As many thought, whose Words I here repeat:
“I cannot blame you for lamenting so,
“Since better friend no friend did e'er forego;
“A publick Sorrow for this loss is due,
“The Nation surely, Madam, mourns with you.

On the same.

A Pindarique ODE.

Part of the XIX. PSALM.

Coming from---in a Dark Night.

To my Dear Cousin Mrs. M. T.

after the Death of her Husband and Son.

Dear Coz. I hope by this time you have dry'd,
At least set bounds to th' almost boundless tide
Of flowing Tears: I'm sure my wish is so,
Which Love and Int'rest does oblige me to;
For you can bear no Sufferings alone,
All yours are mine by participation;
And doubtless all your Friends, in some degree,
Must bear a share, if they can love like me:
Then if not for your own sake, yet for ours,
And in submission to th' Eternal Powers,
Not only dry your Eyes, but chear your Brow,
And lend us Joys, and we'll repay them you.
Rouse up your Soul, and shew your self indu'd
With Mothers Prudence, Fathers Fortitude;
In other Vertues you have equall'd them,
In these strive to out-doe your worthy Stem;
For here Ambition can't excessive be,
Neither esteemed pride or vanity:
(For when we to the top of Vertue climb,
We're sure in no mistake, much less a crime.)
But by this brave attempt you shall subdue
Cross Fate, which otherwise wou'd conquer you.
But after all that can be said on this,
I am not ignorant how hard it is
To conquer Passions, and our selves subdue;
Though advis'd by Friends, and assisted too
By the prevailing Powers of Grace from Heav'n,
Still Counsel's harder to be took than giv'n:
Not that I thought your Griefs profuse, but knew
Much to a Son, more to a Husband's due:
Only remember that our Lord has taught,
Thy will be done; therefore we must in thought,
As well as words, submit to his intents,
Who can bring good out of the worst Events;
Whose Mercy oft protracts the bad Man's doom,
And takes the good Man from the ill to come.

TO MY Young Lover.

Incautious Youth, why do'st thou so mis-place
Thy fine Encomiums on an o'er-blown Face;
Which after all the Varnish of thy Quill,
Its Pristine wrinkles shew apparent still:
Nor is it in the power of Youth to move
An Age-chill'd heart to any strokes of Love.
Then chuse some budding Beauty, which in time
May crown thy Wishes in thy blooming prime:
For nought can make a more preposterous show,
Than April Flowers stuck on St. Michael's Bow.
To consecrate thy first-born Sighs to me,
A superannuated Deity;
Makes that Idolatry and deadly Sin,
Which otherwise had only Venial been.

TO MY Young Lover ON HIS VOW.

TO MY Young Lover.

A SONG.

To my Unkind Friend, Little Tom King.

A Second EPISTLE.

To my Honoured Friend Mr. E. S.

A PASTORAL DIALOGUE Betwixt Two Shepherd Boys.

1. Boy.
I wonder what Alexis ails,
To sigh and talk of Darts,
Of Charms which o'er his Soul prevails,
Of Flames and bleeding Hearts:
I saw him yesterday alone,
Walk crossing of his Arms;
And Cuckow like was in a tone,
Ah Cælia, ah thy charms!

2. Boy.
Why sure thou'rt not so ignorant,
As thou would'st seem to be;
Alas the cause of his complaint,
Is all our destiny.
'Tis mighty Love's All-pow'rfull Bow,
Which has Alexis hit;
A pow'rfull Shaft will hit us too,
E'er we're aware of it.

1. Boy.
Love, why, alas, I little thought
There had been such a thing;
Only for Rhime it had been brought,
When Shepherds use to Sing.
I'm sure, what e're they talk of Love,
'Tis but conceit at most;
As Fear i'th' dark our fancies move,
To think we see a Ghost.

2. Boy.
I know not, but the other day,
A wanton Girl there were,
Who took my Stock-Dove's Eggs away,
And Black-birds Nest did tear.
Had it been thee, my dearest Boy,
Revenge I shou'd have took;
But she my Anger did destroy,
With th' sweetness of her Look.

1. Boy.
So t'other day a wanton Slut,
As I slept on the Ground,
A Frog into my Bosom put,
My Hands and Feet she bound:
She hung my Hook upon a Tree,
Then laughing, bad me wake;
And though she thus abused me,
Revenge I cannot take.

Chorus.
Let's wish these Overtures of State,
Don't fatal Omens prove;
For those who lose the Power to hate,
Are soon made slaves to Love.

To Mr. C. B. On his Incomparable SINGING.

THE COMPLAINT.

A SONG in SCIPINA.

A SONG. I.

[The Heart you left, when you took mine]

A SONG.

[Give o'er my Fidelius, my Fidelius give o'er]

A SONG.

[As Am'rous Corydon was laid]

A Bachanalian SONG.

An ODE.

Absence for a Time.

Parting with ---

THE Anchorite IN SCIPINA.

Ah, happy are we Anchorites that know
Not Womens Ebbs, nor when their Love will flow,
We know no Storms that rage in Womens Breasts,
But here in quiet build our Halcyon Nests;
Where no deceitfull Calm our Faith beguiles,
No cruel frowns, nor yet more cruel smiles;
No rising Wave of Fate our hopes advance,
Nor fear we fathomless despair of Chance;
But our strong Minds, like Rocks, their firmness prove,
Defying both the Storms of Fate and Love.

Jane, Nan, and Frank, their Farewell to Captain C. going to Sea.

To her Lovers Complaint.

A SONG.

To my Adopted BROTHER, Mr. G. P.

On my frequent Writing to Him.

Dear Brother, You will think that now,
Epistles grow on every Bow,
O'th' multitude of Shin-gay Trees,
And so drop off like Soland Geese.
In this the Analogie holds forth,
They are produc'd of airy froth;
But how they'll answer in the rest,
Without conjuring, may be guess'd:
For when you find they want the heat
Of Wit and Sence to make them meat;
And that the inside's only down,
Soft as the scope they grew upon:
You'll curse the Winds officious wings,
Because to you no good it brings;
And swear the Proverb's now revers'd,
Which so oft has been rehers'd:
For now it must be understood,
It's happy Wind blows any good;
But thank your self for so being serv'd,
And praise no more where 'ts not deserv'd:
For praise, the Gad-fly of the mind,
To pure desert shou'd be confin'd,
Lest it set it Cock-a-hoop,
And make it run with Tail turn'd up,
Through the Woods, and o'er the Downs,
Through Cities, Villages, and Towns;
And plague both genteel Fops and Rabble,
With its Nonsence, Rhime and Babble,
Till by its follies they are urged,
To send it home severely scourged,
With the keenest Whips of Scoffing,
Damming, Censuring and Laughing.
Then prithee, George, prevent this wretched Fate,
And all their damning Censures antedate.

To my Friends against POETRY.

Dear Friends, if you'll be rul'd by me,
Beware o'th' Charms of Poetry;
And meddle with no fawning Muse,
They'll but your harmless Loves abuse.
Though to Orinda they were ty'd,
That nought their Friendship cou'd divide;
And Cowley's Mistriss had a Flame
As pure and lasting as his Fame:
Yet now they're all grown Prostitutes,
And wantonly admit the Suits
Of any Fop, that will pretend
To be their Servant or their Friend.
Though they to Wit no Homage pay,
Nor yet the Laws of Verse obey,
But ride poor Six-foot out of breath,
And wrack a Metaphor to death;
Who make their Verse imbibe the crimes,
And the lewd Follies too o'th' times;
Who think all Wit consists in Ranting,
And Vertuous Love in wise Gallanting:
And Thousand sorts of Fools, like these,
Make Love and Vertue what they please:
And yet as silly as they show,
Are Favourites o'th' Muses now.
Who then would honour such a Shee,
Where Fools their happier Rivals be?
We, surely, may conclude there's none,
Unless they're drunk with Helicon,
Which is a Liquor that can make
A Dunce set up for Rhiming Quack:
A Liquor of so strange a temper,
As can our Faculties all hamper;
That whoso drinks thereof is curs'd
Unto a constant Rhiming thirst;
I know not by what spell of Witch,
It strikes the Mind into an itch;
Which being scrub'd by praise, thereby
Becomes a spreading Leprosie;
As hard to cure as Dice or Whore,
And makes the Patient too as poor;
For Poverty's the certain Fate
Which attends a Poet's state.

TO THE Importunate ADDRESS OF POETRY.

Kind Friend, I prithee cease t' infest
This barren Region of my Breast,
Which never can a Harvest yield,
Since Sorrow has o'er-grown the Field.
If Int'rest won't oblige thee to't,
At least let Honour make thee do't;
'Cause I ungratefully have chose
Such Friends, as will thy Charms oppose.
But nought I see will drive thee hence,
Grief, Bus'ness, nor Impertinence:
Still, still thou wilt thy Joys obtrude
Upon a Mind so wholly rude,
As can't afford to entertain
Thee with the welcom of one strain:
Few Friends, like thee, will be so kind,
To come where Int'rest do's not bind:
Nay some, because they want excuse
To be unkind, will feign abuse.
But thou, kind Friend, art none of those,
Thy Charms thou always do'st oppose
'Gainst all Inquietudes o'th' Mind:
If I'm displeas'd, still thou art kind;
And by thy Spells do'st drive away
Dull Spirits, which with me wou'd stay;
And fill'st their empty places too
With Thoughts of what we ought to doe.
Thoughts to the Soul, if they be good,
Are both its physick and its food:
They fortifie it in distress,
In joy th' augment its happiness:
Thoughts do attend us at all times,
They urge us to good deeds, and crimes:
They do assist us in all states,
To th' Wretched they're Associates.
And what's more strange than all before,
They're Servants to the innocent and poor;
But to the Rich and Wicked, Lords or something more.

A Farewell to POETRY, WITH A Long Digression on ANATOMY.

I.

But now, my Dear, thou know'st more than Art can,
Thou know'st the substance of the Soul of Man;
Nay and its Maker too, whose Pow'rfull breath
Gave Immortality to sordid Earth.
What Joys, my Dear, do Thee surround,
As no where else are to be found,
Love, Musick, Physick, Poetry;
And in each Art each Artist do's abound,
And all's converted to Divinity.

II.

No drooping Autumn there,
No chilling Winter do's appear;
No scorching Heat, nor budding Spring,
Nor Sun do's Seasons there divide,
Yet all things do transcend their native pride;
Which fills, but do's not nauseate,
No change or want of any thing,
Which time to periods or perfection brings;
But yet diversity of state,
And of Souls happiness there is no date.

III.

Should'st thou, my Dear, look down on us below,
To see how busie we.
Are in Anatomie,
Thoud'st laugh to see our Ignorance;
Who some things miss, & some things hit by chance,
For we, at best, do but in twilight go,
Whilst thou see'st all by th' most Transcendent light,
Compar'd to which the Sun's bright Rays are night:
Yet so Cœlestial are thine Eyes,
That Light can neither dazzle nor surprize;
For all things there
So perfect are,
And freely they their qualities dispence,
Without the mixture of Terrestrial dross;
Without hazard, harm or loss;
O joys Eternal satiating Sence,
And yet the Sence the smallest part in gross.

On the DEATH of my Brother.

A SONNET.

Resolved never to Versifie more.