University of Virginia Library

To Mrs. S. F. on her Poems.

Oh! say what happy Muse informs thy Lyre,
Or do the sacred Nine, thy Breast inspire;
That thus we see in each judicious Line,
Nature and Art in beauteous Order shine,
The Numbers easy and the Thoughts Divine.
No more let haughty Man with fierce disdain,
Despise the Product of a Female brain,
But read thy Works, there view thy spacious Mind,
Thy Reason clear, thy Fancy unconfin'd;
And then be just to thy immortal Fame,
And with due Honours celebrate thy Name.
In thy harmonious Strains at once admire,
Orinda's Judgment, and Astrea's Fire.
Many are in Poetick Annals found,
Whose Brows with never fading Laurels bound,
For some one Grace were by Apollo Crown'd:
Of generous Friendship, this compos'd her Song,
And that with Love still Charm'd the list'ning Throng.
Another in Philosophy excells,
And pleasing Wonders tunefully Reveals;
But thou alone on every Theme can'st write,
That task was left for thy superior Wit.

To Mrs. S. F. on her Poems.

Hail to Clarinda, dear Euterpe Hail,
Now we shall Conquer, now indeed prevail;
Clarinda will her charming Lines expose,
And in her Strength we vanquish all our Foes.
To these Triumphant Lays, let each repair,
A sacred Sanction to the writing Fair;
Mankind has long upheld the Learned Sway,
And Tyrant Custom forc'd us to obey.
Thought Art and Science did to them belong,
And to assert our selves was deem'd a Wrong,
But we are justify'd by thy immortal Song:
Come ye bright Nymphs a lasting Garland bring,
In never fading Verse, Clarinda's Praises sing;
Read o're her Works, see how Genuine Nature fires,
Observe the sweetness which her Pen inspires.
From thence grow Wise, from thence your Thoughts improve
Here's Judgment piercing Sense and softer Love;
To idle Gayeties true Wit prefer,
Strive all ye thinking Fair, to Copy her.

To Mrs. S. F. on her incomparable Poems.

Thou Champion for our Sex go on and show
Ambitious Man what Womankind can do
In vain they boast of large Scholastick Rules,
Their skill in Arts and Labour in the Schools.
What various Tongues and Languages acquir'd,
How fam'd for Policy, for Wit admir'd;
Their solid Judgment in Philosophy,
The Metaphysicks, Truths, and Poetry,
Since here they'll find themselves outdon by thee.
Thy matchless Thoughts, and flowing Numbers sweet,
And lofty Flights, in just Conjunction meet;
Thy mighty Genius can each Subject trace,
The best can equal and to none give Place.
Sappho the Great, whom by report we know,
Would yield her Laurels were she living now,
And strait turn Chast, to gain a Friend of you:
Of you! to whom we all Obedience pay,
And at your Feet our humble Tribute lay,
Whilst all around, your Beams dart like the God of Day;
We bask with Pleasure in your Glorious shine,
And read and wonder at your Verse Divine.

To my Ingenious Friend Mrs. S. F. on her Poems.

Come ev'ry Muse with Fire and Garlands too,
Inspire my Breast adorn Clarinda's Brow;
(Cypress and Mirtle with the Laurel twine,
Three Boughs of each, with Heavenly skill combine,
The mystick Number suits the sacred Nine,)
She does the force of every Passion tell,
None ever Lov'd, or Greiv'd, or Prais'd so well.
Sometimes she soars aloft a Pindar's height,
In a bright Track nigh lost to human Sight;
Then gently slides into a softer Strain,
And does with Loves and Graces entertain:
In Panegyricks just to that Degree,
'Tis all complaisant Truth, not nauseous Flattery;
And when her Muse Satyrick would appear,
'Tis without air of Spite, and yet severe.
Then in deep Thought reflects on human kind,
And traces Fate thro' her mysterious Wind:
To ev'ry Theme she does her Genius bend,
While every Art and Grace officiously attend.
Such sacred Beauties grace her lays Divine,
Pæan's immortal Beams shine Bright in every Line;
In Virgil, Ovid, Martial we prefer,
Some single Gift, but we have all in her.
Forbear by humble Muse, thou art unfit,
To celebrate her various turns of Wit.
Let the soft Pen, who great Pastora Mourn'd,
To more delightful rural Strains be turn'd;
And sing Clarinda's Fame, whose tender Lays,
Next to his own, deserve immortal Praise.

On Friendship.

Friendship (the great pursuit of noble Minds)
Passion in abstract, void of all designs;
Each generous Pen, doth celebrate thy Fame,
And yet I doubt, thou'rt nothing but a Name.
Some pregnant Fancy, in a raptur'd height,
Produc'd this mighty notional Delight.
The Muses virtuosal Chymistry,
To turn all Fortunes to Felicity;
'Tis fancy'd well, and this I dare ingage,
Were all Men Friends, 'twould be the golden Age;
But tell me where, this Extract may be found,
And what Ingredients make the Rich Compound;
Or in what Soul, is true kindly heat,
That can this great Experiment compleat.
Sometimes a fond good Nature lights upon
A soft and civil Temper like its own;
Strait they resolve to be those happy things,
Which when combin'd, pity contending Kings:
Yet e'er they reach these sublimated Joys,
They'r poorly lost, in Treachery or Toys.
The mighty Notions of the exalted State,
Sink to a vulgar Commerce, or Debate:
Sure, like the Chymick Stone, it was design'd,
But to imploy the curious searching Mind,
In the pursuit of what, none e'er shall find;
Their Quality's I'm sure do prove all one,
Who trusts too much to either is undone.

The Extacy.

On the Honourable Robert Boyl's, Notion of Nature.

Tis bravely done, great Boyle has disenthron'd.
The Goddess Nature, so unjustly Crown'd,
And by the Learn'd so many Ages own'd.
Refuge of Atheists, whose supine desire,
Pleas'd with that Stage, no farther will aspire:
It damps the Theists too, while they assign,
To Nature, what's done by a Power divine.
We know not how, nor where, to ascribe events,
While she's thus Rival to Omnipotence;
Sure that alone, the mighty Work can do,
The Power that did create, can Govern too:
It is not like our sublunary Kings,
That must be circumscrib'd to place, and things,
Whose straighten'd Power, doth Ministers Elect,
That must for them remoter business act,
The Omnipresence, of the Power Divine,
Argues it need no Deputies assign;
Nor is't beneath the Glory of his State,
To Rule, Protect the Beings he create:
But stop my Pen, blush at thy weak pretence,
Tis Boyle, not thee, that must the World convince;
Boyle the great Champion of Providence.
Whose conquering Truths in an Inquiry drest,
Have celebrated Nature dispossest;
Not the Vice gerent of Heavens settled Rules,
But nice Idea of the erring Schools.
Fate, Fortune, Chance, all notional and vain,
The floating Fictions of the Poet's brain;
The World rejects, yet stupidly prefers,
This wild Chimera of Philosophers:
This more insinuating Notion lay,
Unquestion'd till you made your brave Assay,
Which doth the daring Sceptick more confute,
Than a suspected Orthodox dispute.
They can't pretend Int'rest, thy Lines doth Bribe
With which they censure, the Canonick Tribe:
'Twas Love of Truth alone, thy Pen did move,
Nor none but thee, could so successful prove.
Methinks I all the School-mens Shades espy,
Tending thy Tryumphs of Philosophy,
And all the pregnant Naturist of Yore,
From the Great Stagarite, to Des-Cartes, More,
Resigning their Gigantick Notions now,
And only what you write for Truth allow.
See they have all their renounc'd Volumes brought,
(Bidding Mankind believe, what you have Taught;)
Asham'd they've been, renown'd so many Years,
Each from his blushing Brow his Laurel tares:
With their own Hands, in one just Wreath they twine,
Adorning that victorious Head of thine.
And shall my Female Pen, thy Praise pretend,
When Angels only, can enough commend,
In Songs, which like themselves, can know no End.

Satyr against the Muses.

By my abandon'd Muse, I'm not inspir'd,
Provok'd by Malice, and with Rage I'm fir'd.
Fly, fly, my Muse from my distracted Breast,
Who e'er has thee, must be with Plagues possest:
Fool that I was, e'er to sollicite you,
Who make not only Poor, but wretched too.
Happy I liv'd, for almost Eight years time,
Curss'd be your Skill, you taught me then to Rhime:
The Jingling noise, shed its dark Influence,
On my then pleased, unwary Innocence,
I scarce have had one happy Moment since.
Here all the Spite and Rage of Womankind,
Cannot enough advance my threatning Mind,
Let Furies too, be in the Consort join'd.
Passion, that common Rage, I here refuse,
Call Hell itself, to curse my Torturing Muse;
Not the calm Author of blest Poetry,
But the black Succubus of Misery:
There let her sit, with her Infernal Chyme,
And put the Shreiks and Groans of Fiends in Rhime.
May their Parnassus, like Vesuvius burn,
Their Laurels wither, or to Cypriss turn;
May Stuff like Hopkin's Rhyme, degrade their Fame,
And none but Ballad-makers use their Name:
May they despis'd, sad and neglected sit,
Be never thought upon by Men of Wit.
May all the Ills a fond Imperious Dame,
Wishes the Man that dare reject her Flame,
Light upon him, that does commit the Crime,
Of writing any thing, in jingling Rhime;
Nothing like that, to Dangers can expose,
May none be Happy, but what write in Prose.
Curse on the Whimsical, Romanick Fool,
That yielded first, to his Phantastick Rule;
That Wit like Morris-dancers must-advance,
With Bells at Feet, and in nice measures Dance.
Let pregnant Heads, but think of Poetry,
And just before the Brain-delivery;
Fancy shall make a Prodigy of Wit,
Which soon, as born, shall run upon its Feet:
Sure, 'tis some Necromantick Ordinance,
That Sence, beyond the Circle mayn't advance;
Was all the learned Ancients Courage dead,
That Wit, in Fetters, is tame Captive led?
Had Some oppos'd, when Rhyme at first grew bold,
Then her Defeat, not Triumphs had been told?
But now the Plague is grown so populous,
'Tis hard to stop the universal Curse.
Doubtless, they are mistaken who have told
Spightful Pandora's pregnant Box did hold
Plurality of Plagues, She only hurl'd
Out Verse alone, and that has damn'd the World.
Curses, in vain, on Poets I bestow;
I'm sure, the greatest is, that they are so;
Fate, send worse if thou can'st, but Rescue me
From trifling torturing wretched Poetry.

To the Queen.

My trembling Muse, with awful Duty press,
Mong'st kneeling crouds, with thy unfeign'd Address;
Since meanest Slaves, to Altars may repair,
With sacred Rites, of Sacrifice and Prayer.
Heaven takes the Incense, if it is sincere,
Freely as if the Great, had offer'd there,
Bless'd with such hopes, my Muse, with Prostrate Zeal,
Dare at the Feet of her great Sovereign kneel;
You I revere, like Heaven, not cause you'r high,
Not for your Glory, but Divinity.
The radiant Gems, that deck Britannia's Crown,
Ne'er shone so Bright, till you had put it on;
You, who have condescended to a Throne.
In you kind Heaven, the unusual Blessing brings,
Greatness and Goodness, are consistent Things:
Your Subjects modest Merits your regard,
Virtue, not Impudence, now finds Reward;
Goodness like yours so aws the Bolder sort,
As makes a Sanctuary of your Court.
All your Retinue, so reform'd appear,
As if the Golden Age, were Blooming here;
Fix'd like the Sun, superior you dispence,
On all the under World, your blissful Influence.
The Graces in your smiles, with Grandeur move,
And form an Air of Majesty and Love:
Heaven be propitious to my Monarch's Arms,
And make them as Victorious, as her Charms,
Revenge on your proud Foes, their Salick Law,
With your fair Hand, their boasted Greatness awe.
Why are we barr'd, or why I Woman made,
Whose Sex forbids to Fight, and to Invade,
Or give my Queen, more than my wish for Aid?
I shall not tremble, at the Launce, or Sword,
Will strait turn Amazon, but speak the Word;
Scarce can I curb, my eager loyal Soul,
For you I'd fight, Mankind from Pole to Pole,
Till all the Kingdoms, in one Empire meet,
Then lay the Crown at your Imperial Feet.
They'd bless the Arms, which did their Realms subdue,
And hug the Chains, which made them Slaves to you;
May you in Peace, long Rule your Native Land,
And the just Terror, of Ambition stand:
May every Subject you protect; Profess
As much as I, and dare to act no less.

The Liberty.

Shall I be one, of those obsequious Fools,
That square there lives, by Customs scanty Rules;
Condemn'd for ever, to the puny Curse,
Of Precepts taught, at Boarding-school, or Nurse,
That all the business of my Life must be,
Foolish, dull Trifling, Formality.
Confin'd to a strict Magick complaisance,
And round a Circle, of nice visits Dance,
Nor for my Life beyond the Chalk advance:
The Devil Censure, stands to guard the same,
One step awry, he tears my ventrous Fame.
So when my Friends, in a facetious Vein,
With Mirth and Wit, a while can entertain;
Tho' ne'er so pleasant, yet I must not stay,
If a commanding Clock, bids me away:
But with a sudden start, as in a Fright,
I must be gone indeed, 'tis after Eight.
Sure these restraints, with such regret we bear,
That dreaded Censure, can't be more severe,
Which has no Terror, if we did not fear;
But let the Bug-bear, timerous Infants fright,
I'll not be scar'd, from Innocent delight:
Whatever is not vicious, I dare do,
I'll never to the Idol Custom bow,
Unless it suits with my own Humour too.
Some boast their Fetters, of Formality,
Fancy they ornamental Bracelets be,
I'm sure their Gyves, and Manacles to me.
To their dull fulsome Rules, I'd not be ty'd,
For all the Flattery that exalts their Pride:
My Sexs forbids, I should my Silence break,
I lose my Jest, cause Women must not speak.
Mysteries must not be, with my search Prophan'd,
My Closet not with Books, but Sweat-meats cram'd
A little China, to advance the Show,
My Prayer Book, and seven Champions, or so.
My Pen if ever us'd imploy'd must be,
In lofty Themes of useful Houswifery,
Transcribing old Receipts of Cookery:
And what is necessary 'mongst the rest,
Good Cures for Agues, and a cancer'd Breast,
But I can't here, write my Probatum est.
My daring Pen, will bolder Sallies make,
And like my self, an uncheck'd freedom take;
Not chain'd to the nice Order of my Sex,
And with restraints my wishing Soul perplex:
I'll blush at Sin, and not what some call Shame,
Secure my Virtue, slight precarious Fame.
This Courage speaks me, Brave, 'tis surely worse,
To keep those Rules, which privately we Curse:
And I'll appeal, to all the formal Saints,
With what reluctance they indure restraints.

To the Lady Cambell, with a Female Advocate.

Go, fatal Book, yet happy at the last,
Since in so fair, so kind a Hand thou'rt plac'd,
(That such a Trifle, e'er should be so grac'd.)
But your Desires, which are to me Commands,
Can charm what e'er you please out of my Hands;
I rather than neglect obliging you,
Expose my Follies, to your nice view:
But hope your Goodness, will one Smile bestow,
On what my tender Infant Muse did do.
Scarce fourteen Years, when I the piece begun,
And in less time than fourteen days 'twas done;
Without design of Publication writ,
And Innocence supply'd, the want of Wit.
But ah! my Poetry, did fatal prove,
And robb'd me of a tender Father's Love;
(I thought that only Men, who writ for Fame,
Or sung lewd Stories, of unlawful Flame,
Were punish'd for, their proud or wanton Crime.
But Children too, must suffer if they'll Rhyme:)
The Present is but mean, which you receive,
Yet cost me more, than all the World can give,
That which I would, with Life itself retrieve.
But Madam, if your Goodness condescend,
And one kind Minute, on this trifle spend;
It will compleat my Happiness at last,
And recompence for all my Sorrows past.

On my leaving London, June the 29.

What cross impetuous Planets govern me,
That I'm thus hurry'd on to Misery;
I thought I had been bless'd, a while ago,
But one quick push, plung'd me all o'er in Woe.
My cruel Fate, doth act the Tyrant's part,
And doth Torment me, with a lingering smart;
To make me sensible of greater Pain,
Lets me take Breath, then screws the Rack again:
Ah! where's the Joy, of such precarious Bliss,
That for one smiling short Parenthesis;
I must such tedious horrid Pangs indure,
And neither State, will either kill or cure.
With all Submission, I my Fate implore,
Destroy me quite, or else Torment no more;
At least let not one glimps of Joy appear,
It only makes my Sufferings more severe.
No, here I'll Rule, not sue to you for this,
You cannot tantalize me now with Bliss;
For when you took, my Father's love away,
Perverse as you, I'd not let others stay:
I was not so insensibly undone,
To hoord up Counters, when my Gold was gone.
Plunder'd of all, I now forsake the Place,
Where all my Joys, and all my Treasure was,
Ah do not now, my wandering Footsteeps Trace;
I left the Town, and all Divertisement,
And in a lonely Village am content.
Nor do I ask to be remov'd from hence,
Tho' Man and Beast, are both of equal Sense:
I had not fled, but strongly forc'd by you,
In hast bid Mother, Sisters sad adieu.
I saw them last of all I knew in Town,
Yet all alike to me are Strangers grown;
I almost have forgot I e'er was there,
And the sad Accidents that brought me here.
Ah Fate! pursue me not in this Retreat,
Let me be quiet in this humble Seat:
Let not my Friends know where to send to me,
Lest I grow pleas'd with their Civility.
I'd fain live unconcern'd, not pleas'd nor cross'd,
And be to all the busy World as lost.

The Repulse to Alcander.

What is't you mean, that I am thus approach'd,
Dare you to hope, that I may be debauch'd?
For your seducing Words the same implies,
In begging Pity with a soft Surprize,
For one who loves, and sighs, and almost dies.
In ev'ry Word and Action doth appear,
Something I hate and blush to see or hear;
At first your Love for vast Respect was told,
Till your excess of Manners grew too bold,
And did your base, designing Thoughts unfold.
When a Salute did seem to Custom due,
With too much Ardour you'd my Lips pursue;
My Hand, with which you play'd, you'd Kiss and Press,
Nay ev'ry Look had something of Address.
Ye Gods! I cry'd, sure he designs to woo,
For thus did amorous Phylaster do.
The Youth whose Passion none could disapprove,
When Hymen waited to compleat his Love;
But now, when sacred Laws and Vows confine
Me to another what can you design?
At first, I could not see the lewd Abuse,
But fram'd a thousand Things for your Excuse.
I knew that Bacchus sometimes did inspire
A sudden Transport, tho' not lasting Fire;
For he no less than Cupid can make kind,
And force a Fondness which was ne'er design'd;
Or thought you'd travel'd far, and it might chance,
To be the foreign Mode of Complaisance.
Till you so oft your amorous Crimes repeat,
That to permit you would make mine as great;
Nor stopt you here but languishingly spake,
That Love which I endeavour'd to mistake:
What saw you in me, that could make you vain,
Or any thing expect, but just Disdain?
I must confess I am not quite so Nice,
To Damn all little Gallantries for Vice;
(But I see now my Charity's misplac'd,
If none but sullen Saints can be thought Chast:)
Yet know, Base Man, I scorn your lewd Amours,
Hate them from all, not only cause they're yours.
Oh sacred Love! let not the World prophane,
Thy Transports, thus to Sport, and Entertain;
The Beau, with some small Artifice of's own,
Can make a Treat, for all the wanton Town:
I thought my self secure, within these Shades,
But your rude Love, my Privacy invades,
Affronts my Virtue, hazards my just Fame,
Why should I suffer, for your lawless Flame?
For oft 'tis known, through Vanity and Pride,
Men boast those Favours which they are deny'd:
Or others Malice, which can soon discern;
Perhaps may see in you some kind Concern.
So scatter false Suggestions of their own,
That I love too: Oh! Stain to my Renown;
No, I'le be Wise, avoid your Sight in time,
And shun at once the Censure and the Crime.

To Mr. Norris, on his Idea of Happiness.

The Retreat.

Adieu to all the splendid Gallantry,
Complaisant Pleasures, modish Gaiety;
Airy Delights, imaginary Joys,
Fashions, Entertainments, Wit and Noise;
To all the Follies of my former State,
All that's Genteel, or Popular, or Great.
I'll move no longer in this gaudy Sphear,
I've been gaz'd at enough, 'tis time to disappear.
Without Concern, I'll leave the glittering Seat;
No, not the softest Sigh shall sound retreat,
Lest Fate should over-hear, mistrust my Flight,
Pursue me now, and so undo me quite.
In these soft Shades, I no Misfortune fear,
For she will never think to find me here;
My Joys, shall be by her no more betray'd,
I'll cheat her now, in this kind Masquerade;
While she in Noise and Crowds doth search for me
I'll lie serene in safe Obscurity.
A silent Village doth more Pleasures yield,
Or harmless Sports of the delightful Field;
Then all the pageant Glories of a Throne,
Luxurious Pleasures of the wanton Town.
Here is the Copy of lost Paradice,
The pure and spotless Quintessence of Bliss:
All the safe Pastimes Mankind can enjoy,
Which Innocence delight, but not destroy:
Here I am blest in these secure Abodes,
As once in Shades were the retiring Gods:
These silvan Joys know no surprizing Strife,
This is to live, whilst others spend a Life:
Here is the Summum Bonum of the Earth,
Here the renowned Poets had their Birth;
Or hither, from the noisy World retir'd,
Here their great Souls, with noble Raptures fir'd.
Philosophers of old, in Solitude,
Their own resisting Passions first subdu'd;
Then with good Precepts civiliz'd the Rude:
They knew a Court or City would molest
The calm Conceptions of a studious Breast.
Here the Mautuan Swain gain'd all his Bays
To Solitude his unmatch'd Pen doth raise,
Disserved Trophies of immortal Praise.
How many Monarchs weary of their State,
Have quit their Glories for a mean retreat;
Thought silent Shades far happier than Thrones,
That Garlands sat much easier than Crowns.
Then why's the wond'ring World amaz'd at me,
For leaving Fraud and Infidelity?
The poor mistaken World who places Joys
In splendid Popularity and Noise,
When after all it's Search it must conclude,
'Tis in a Friend, and well-chose Solitude.

To one who in Love, set a Figure.

In vain alas ye search your artless Books,
A lover's Fates writ in his Mistris's Looks;
Tis to no purpose that ye gaze ith' Skys,
There are no Stars like her propitious Eyes.
When Hearts are lost to set a Figure vain,
None but the Thief knows if you'll hav't again.
Your Venus ask, not Mercury's Aid intreat,
For he knows nothing of an amorous Cheat:
'Tis she alone that can the Mystery tell,
Read but her Looks they are infallible;
Consult the upper World for Death and Wars,
She is Love's Heaven, her Eyes the only Stars:
Since her kind Influence hath attracted you,
She may admit of a Conjunction too.

To Philaster.

Go perjur'd Youth and court what Nymph you please,
Your Passion now is but a dull Disease,
With worn-out Sighs deceive some list'ning Ear,
Who longs to know how 'tis and what Men swear,
She'l think they'r new from you; 'cause so to her.
Poor cousin'd Fool, she ne'er can know the Charms
Of being first encircled in thy Arms.
When all Love's Joys were innocent and gay,
As fresh and blooming as the new-born day.
Your Charms did then with native Sweetness flow,
The forc'd-kind Complaisance you now bestow,
Is but a false agreeable Design,
But you had Innocence when you were mine,
And all your Words, and Smiles, and Looks divine.
How Proud, methinks, thy Mistriss does appear
In sully'd Cloths, which I'd no longer wear;
Her Bosom too with wither'd Flowers drest,
Which lost their Sweets in my first chosen Breast;
Perjur'd imposing Youth, cheat who you will,
Supply defect of Truth with amorous Skill;
Yet thy Address must needs insipid be,
For the first Ardour of thy Soul was all possess'd by me

At my leaving Cambridge August the 14th, Extempore.

Cambridge adieu! I ne'er shall see thee more,
Nor feast my Soul at Learning's mighty Store;
Not one fresh Drop of thy ambrosial Sense,
To quench my Thirst at learned Cham's Expence;
Apollo's Fountain I must ever quit,
Who's only Nectar is the streams of Wit;
I thy fair Colleges no more shall see,
Each Greece, Rome, Athens, in Epitomy;
The antient infant Learning which they taught,
Could only here be to Perfection brought;
They've finish'd all, each long hid Spring discern,
The Gods themselves may hover here and learn;
And if in every Grace they would advance,
Let B--- give Wit, and G--- teach Complaisance;
To th' sacred Vatican no more I come,
But grieve like Ovid when excluded Rome.

To Orabella, Marry'd to an old Man.

Tell me fair Nymph who justly had design'd,
A charming Youth to suit your equal Mind;
What did seduce you thus to match with one,
Whom if by Nature made she'll scarcely own?
For form'd so many Centuries ago,
She has forgot if he's her Work or no;
I think the way to do his Reverence right,
Is to suppose him a Pre-Adamite:
Your blooming Youth his Age beyond decay,
Will teach censorious Malice what to say,
Who spite of Virtue will your Fame betray.
What strong Persuasions made you thus to wed,
With such a Carcass scandalize your Bed?
Sure 't was no earthly Gain that charm'd you to't,
Nothing but hopes of Heaven should make me do't:
But since there's other ways to gain that Bliss,
Dispatching Martyrdom I wou'd not miss;
To be secur'd, could I but 'scape from this.
The monster Twin whose Brother grew from's Side,
With all the stench he suffer'd when he dy'd,
Is a just Emblem of so yok'd a Bride.
But Ptisick, Gout and Palsie have their Charms,
And did intice you to his trembling Arms:
Kind amorous Glances from his hollow Eyes,
Did your gay Breast with rapturous Joys surprize
Ah! who can blame to see a yielding Maid,
By all these blooming Charms to Love betray'd.
Oh! for a vestal's Coldness to resist
The tempting Softness in such Beauties drest.
The bright Idea soon dissolves in Air,
And in it's room the Picture of Despair.
A moving Skeleton he seems to be,
Nature's antientest Anatomy.
Worth Observation, hang him up therefore
In Gresham College, and I'll ask no more.

To Alexis, on his absence.

Say, lovely Youth, why all this niceness shown,
Is modest Passion, so offensive grown?
I'll not oblige too far, nor force my Charms,
To tempt your Coyness to my slighted Arms:
Give me but leave, with secret sighs to Gaze,
And silent Joys, view that dear fatal Face.
I never dress'd, nor smil'd, us'd no soft Art,
No little Amorous cheat to win your Heart,
Nor knew in mine you had so great a Part;
Till from my Sight you cautiously remov'd,
Then, not till then, I knew how well I lov'd:
'Twas my Advice, you should awhile absent,
I ne'er design'd it for a Banishment.
But wisely you, as if you fear'd your Fate,
Shun what you would not Love, and cannot hate;
Yet spite of all your Vanity and Care,
Know my Alexis, that I have you here:
Here in my Breast, your dearest Image glows,
Warms every Wish, and softens all my Vows.
Inspires my Muse, to wanton in your Charms,
And feast on Joys, which are deny'd my Arms:
In melting strains, she shall my Passion tell,
Describe those lovely Eyes, and Smiles so well;
Till every Nymph who my soft Lines shall see,
Sighs and Adores, and owns she loves like me.
That Shape, that Mein, that dear undoing Tongue,
With thousand unknown Charms shall fill my Song,
To glad the listening World and make it last as long.
With an Eternal blast the trump of Fame,
Will found Alexis and Clarinda's Name,
Your matchless Graces, my unequall'd Flame.
You shall this fondness of my Muse forgive,
And tho' not in my Arms, in my soft numbers live:
While warlike Heroes who are half Divine,
Shall have their Glories sung, in meaner Lays than thine.

A SONG.

Curse on this Virtue Constancy,
Of which we're vainly Proud;
It like a Crime doth Torture me,
Since all my softer thoughts of Bliss,
And ev'ry kind and tender Wish,
Is on a careless thankless Swain bestow'd.
I with more ease could bear my Fate,
Forgive his Cruelty,
If stupidly our Sex he hate:
But he doth Smile on every Fair,
The partial Curse I cannot bear,
For, oh he's kind! he's kind! to all but me.

Love.

Love, like Original Sin, in all does dwell,
Fools sighs in private, and the Witty tell;
Boast they'r fond Passions in repeated Rhymes,
That other Reigning Mischief of the Times:
The Learn'd asham'd to own their Amorous Pain,
Vent the warm Raptures in a Pious strain,
Sigh, Languish, Die, (tho' for a Mortal fair,)
In Lays Divine, like Quarles and Arwaker.

A SONG.

To One who said I must not Love.

Bid the fond Mother spill her Infants Blood,
The hungry Epicure not think of Food;
Bid the Antartick touch the Artick Pole:
When these obey I'll force Love from my Soul.
As Light and Heat compose the Genial Sun,
So Love and I essentially are one:
E'er your Advice a thousand ways I try'd
To ease the inherent Pain, but 'twas deny'd;
Tho' I resolv'd, and griev'd, and almost dy'd.
Then I would needs dilate the mighty Flame,
Play the Coquet, hazard my dearest Fame:
The modish Remedy I try'd in vain,
One thought of him contracts it all again.
Weary'd at last, curst Hymen's Aid I chose;
But find the fetter'd Soul has no Repose.
Now I'm a double Slave to Love and Vows:
As if my former Sufferings were too small,
I've made the guiltless Torture-Criminal.
E'er this I gave a loose to fond Desire,
Durst smile, be kind, look, languish and admire,
With wishing Sighs fan the transporting Fire.
But now these soft Allays are so like Sin,
I'm forc'd to keep the mighty Anguish in;
Check my too tender Thoughts and rising Sighs,
As well as eager Arms and longing Eyes.
My Kindness to his Picture I refrain,
Nor now imbrace the lifeless lovely Swain.
To press the charming Shade tho' thro' a Glass,
Seems a Platonick breach of Hymen's Laws,
Thus nicely fond, I only stand and gaze.
View the dear conq'ring Form that forc'd my Fate,
Till I become as motionless as that.
My sinking Limbs deny their wonted Aid,
Fainting I lean against my frighted Maid;
Whose cruel Care restores my Sense and Pain,
For soon as I have Life I love again,
And with the fated softness strive in vain.
Distorted Nature shakes at the Controul,
With strong Convulsions rends my strugling Soul;
Each vital String cracks with th' unequal Strife,
Departing Love racks like departing Life;
Yet there the Sorrow ceases with the Breath,
But Love each day renews th' torturing scene of Death.

On the death of dear Statyra.

Begone my Muse, Tears quench thy sacred Fire,
True Grief, like Love, without thee can inspire.
Mod'rate Sorrows may be told with Art,
But the Distractions of my troubled Heart
With sad Confusion I must needs express,
My Verse will, like my Sighs, be numberless.
Ah, cruel Death! why was't thou so severe,
To take the Young, the Witty, and the Fair,
The gay Satyra in her blooming days:
Could no less Feast serve thy luxurious Jaws?
Would not the old or discontented do?
Those whom Misfortune forc'd to wish for you.
No those I by experience find you fly;
And 'tis not those we would, but those you please, must dy.
Guide me, some Friend, if I have any one,
Whom Grief has spar'd since dear Statyra's gone:
Lead me, I say, to some sad Cyprise shade,
Dark as the Grave of the once lovely Maid;
There let me ever mourn the Friend I've lost:
Ye Gods, why was Statyra made a Ghost?
I can no more gaze on that charming Face,
Hear that sweet Voice, nor have one dear Imbrace;
View that soft Air and Mien, and sport and play,
As we was wont on Summer-banks each day.
Ye pleasant Walks whom she so oft did grace,
Who's Charms did dart a Glory round the place.
Keep on your dismal Hue, let not the Spring
Put on your fresh Attire, nor Summer bring.
The less gay verdant Look ye Birds be still,
Sound not one Note unless sad Philomel.
Each lofty Tree hang down your stately Head,
Bud forth no more now gay Statyra's dead;
But let your naked Boughs be ever join'd
In murmuring Sorrows with the sighing Wind:
No Blow, no Wind to move the yielding Bough,
My louder Sighs will do that Office now.
Keep back your force ye Springs that grace the Woods,
My Tears alone will swell you into Floods:
And all too little for the Friend I grieve,
Now she is gone 'tis not worth while to live.

On being ------ tax'd with Symony.

Hence ye prophane Intruders, what d'e mean,
To pry in secret Things that mayn't be seen?
Your Pastor wonders at your Insolence,
'Tis Treason 'gainst your Ecclesiastick Prince.
Pulpits no more than Crowns must be prophan'd,
And if possess'd, not question'd how obtain'd:
With-hold your Hands, rend not the sacred Veil
Of his Sanctorum, lest his Priesthood fail.
The mighty Mysteries he so long conceal'd,
Will be by Lay-mens impious means reveal'd:
Sure, you'll not dare the Secret to pronounce,
No more than Jews their Tetragrammatons.
Yes, it is out the symonaick Sound,
With Horror doth the frighted Priest confound.
Sure, the last Trumpet can't amaze him more,
For he till then had set it on the Score;
In vain he'll to the Horns of th' Altar fly,
(Alias his Patron) for Security:
They'll drag him thence, that is no sacred Hold,
Since tip'd by him with symonaick Gold:
Had they been guided by the Patroness,
She kindly had contriv'd the Danger less:
No avaritious Zeal her Soul did move,
For she was nobly guided by her Love:
Thought Youth and Wit sufficient to prefer,
They were more tempting Things than Gold with her.
But now the Favourite must his Purchase quit,
And live, not by his Learning, but his Wit.

An occasional Copy, in Answer to Mr. Joshua Barns, Extempore.

Go my proud Muse, yet thanks submisly yield,
Not from obliging, but obliged Field;
Since mighty Barns doth Complement thee so,
The World will sure some little Pride allow.
He who's great Pen and elevated Sense,
Can grace the Acts of an Heroick Prince;
Yet condescends to celebrate thy Name,
Whose approbation is sufficient Fame.
What need was there to send it by a Friend?
Sure Barns's Verse itself can recommend:
Sent by a Foe my Rage you had beguil'd,
And for its sake I had been reconcil'd.
How should your Fancy be inrich'd by me,
Thou pregnant Author of best Poetry.
The fruitful Fields do stock the Barns each Year,
My barren Muse cannot allow it here:
She is but Poor, and been so long retir'd,
She could not write until by you Inspir'd.
Heaven has not giv'n Woman highest Wit,
But you good Nature to speak well of it;
I wish I did deserve the Praise you give,
Then like your Verse I should Immortal live;
But thus I take your Lines they speak to me,
Not what I am, but what I ought to be.

Song on Madam S---.

The Fate.

Tell me ye partial Power that wound our Hearts
Why strike ye not with sympathizing Darts?
Let Nymph and Swain be warm'd with equal Fires,
Not thus half-link Aversion and Desires.
Sure you delight to see us fondly crave
Those Joys, some other thankless Wretch must have.
Thus Love the sacred source of Unions crost,
And we perplex'd with what should please us most.
I would not rashly your Decrees prophane,
But am too much concern'd not to complain.
The wealthy Strephon's panting at my Feet,
Tis I alone, that can his Joys compleat.
Yet with proud Scorn his dying Sighs repay,
Find all my Softness forc'd another way.
In gay Exalis centure all my Bliss,
Nor have a Thought but what's intirely his:
Careless of me, he does for Cloe pine,
Who slights him; and to Damon does resign.
Thus Strephon for Larinda almost dies,
But she can only soft Exalis prize,
He dotes on Cloe, she for Damon sighs.
Gods! tis too hard all Love yet all must part,
By some nice Touch turn every other Heart;
But if too cruel to redress us all,
To my Exalis let your Blessing fall.
On Cloe or Larinda the Change must be,
Grant I may please like her, or else she love like me;
For either way will ease my grateful Breast,
So our Exalis will but think he's blest.

A SONG.

On a Gentleman and his Wife visiting a Lady.

He sleeping the while. Extempore.

Spoke by Morpheus.

Pardon, fair Nymph, I durst exert my Power,
Invade your Rights in a facetious Hour;
With gentle Slumbers seal those wondring Eyes,
That might; unweary'd on such Beauties gaze:
My Strength had fail'd had not your Forces joyn'd,
And your own conquering Charms first struck him blind;
Your softer Graces did his Soul intrance,
Or I in vain should to the Sence advance.
All the Mysterious One I did not seize,
But spar'd that part which was most like to please;
She whose diverting Tongue could entertain,
With choice Collections from each Poet's Brain:
But see my Fetters could not bind him long,
He humbly sues for Pardon and a Song,
From your soft Voice which turns the Soul to Ear,
And drousie as I am, I'll stay to hear:
If I with Nods should to the Tune keep time,
It is at worst, but a complaisant Crime:
Oh with what Joy! my Godhead I'd forsake,
Might you for ever Sing, and I for ever Wake.

The Vision.

Quite weary'd with the business of the Day,
To unfrequented Shades I took my way,
And by a murmuring Stream supinely lay.
Soft thoughts confusedly revell'd in my Breast,
Till by composing Slumbers I was bless'd.
Husht was my Sences as the unhaunted Grove,
And all the Vision of my Soul was Love;
Methoughts I saw a soft Celestial Youth,
Whose Eyes speak Love, and smiles Eternal Truth:
Gay as the Spring in all its vernal Pride,
With Amorous Joy sit panting by my side.
I gaz'd with Wonder at a Form so bright,
And thought some Sylvane God had bless'd my sight;
With equal Scruple, Zeal and Passion mov'd,
If he should be ador'd or be belov'd:
His Eyes and Smiles darted refin'd delight,
As if Heavens glowing Glories touch'd the sight;
A thousand Charms his flowing Locks bestow,
For every Curl's inevitably so:
His welcome Head on my kind Bosom laid,
On a soft Flute delightful Airs he play'd.
Mean while such dear undoing looks he cast,
And every Note with artful Motions grac'd:
No Youth e'er seem'd so softning and Divine,
Sure he was made for Love, at least for mine.
Then was his Pipe out-rival'd by his Voice,
As when he Play'd all other Musick was:
A Mein so Gay and Shape that rivals Joves,
His Hand more soft than down of Venus Doves.
Her young Adonis had not half his Charms,
When he most pleasing fill'd her pressing Arms;
So kind he look'd, such tender things he said,
With eager Joy I grasp'd the lovely Shade.
The fleeting Charmer soon dissolv'd in Air,
I search'd around but could not find him there,
(Then to the Grove sigh'd Love and loud despair.)
It was Alexis form I did pursue,
My conscious Soul took the sad Omen too;
Cry'd out the lovely Youth forsakes my Breast,
And will be never but in Dreams possest.

The Power of Love.

In this soft Amrous Age now Love is grown,
The modish Entertainment of the Town,
And the fond Beau loves his half score aday,
The Ladies too almost as Vain as they;
Spare me, ye cruel Powers, let me not prove,
The only Victim of a lasting Love.
I had my share three tedious Years a Slave,
And knew no Joys but what Phylaster gave;
When spite of Vows he prov'd unjust at last,
In distant Shades contending Months I past,
Thought I could see the Youth at my return,
With gay Indifference and Unconcern.
I long'd to know the Temper of my Heart,
And see if Passion could outlive desert;
But this my Curiosity has won,
To know alass! I am again undone:
I thought my self with Resolution bless'd,
But the soft Gods came crouding to my Breast.
The sporting Boys delight in Amorous Pain,
And flock'd in hast to Revel here again;
With downy Wings they Fan the couchant Fire,
And every Spark revives with fresh desire:
I Gaze and Sigh, and wish I'm just the same,
As the first Transports of my blooming Flame.
Almighty Love thy Power to me is known,
Without new Tortures I'll thy Godhead own;
But if I'm doom'd to Love may my Fate be,
(Rather than him) to love each Face I see.
Tis Sin against the custom of the Nation,
To love but one and all this while with Passion,
I'd rather be the shifting Fool in Fashion.
Then if I'm tortur'd with Variety,
I shan't be blam'd for Nonconformity.

To Marcella.

In this so wanton and debaucht an Age,
We come to find out Virtue on the Stage;
By a promiscuous Choice it can't be done,
Our nicer Fate compels to You alone.
You, who's triumphant Virtue doth declare,
That Women can withstand the fatal Snare
Of vast Temptation, when she's Young and Fair.
In you the ancient Miracle we see,
(Tho' here we can boast but of One to Three)
Unhurt amidst the mighty Flames you move,
The wond'ring Gazers only Martyrs prove;
Of all your Sex Great Albion must prefer
You the chast Lucrece of her Theater.
Ye yielding Nymphs now you have no excuse,
Nor blame the Beaus you did your Honour lose;
For your Defence your softness is exprest
With (oh such Charms! no Woman can resist).
Yes Woman can in this fair Maid we see,
Contempt of all their Love and Gallantry;
Wit, Youth and Beauty, does this Lady bless,
She's made for Love and fitted for Address:
While Crowds of Slaves ly sighing at her Feet,
She bravely scorns what you would run to meet.
Among them all doubtless there's more than One,
Charming as those by whom you were undone:
The Soft, the Gay, the Great, the knowing Man,
Have try'd all ways Wit, Wealth, or Passion can,
To gain this Fair who still her Heart secures,
Unmov'd she stands, slights all their soft Amours,
What would you give the Scene of Love were yours?
I know your Spite imputes it to her Pride,
Be't what it will her Honours justify'd:
Her Virtue is the greater Miracle,
To stand with that by which the Angels fell.
Hail, lovely Maid, who contradicts the times,
Your Virtue wears a Vail like others Crimes:
How do your Eyes and Tongue bely your Heart,
When languishing you play the amorous part,
And softly fold your seeming loving Arms,
And speak and look a thousand killing Charms?
Fair, soft Deceiver, oh! were I the Men,
I'd give the World you was in earnest then;
Your pleas'd Spectators with such Joys you bless,
They wish your Virtues or your Charms were less.

The Invocation.

With some auspicious Aid ye Pow'rs above,
Help to support the weight of slighted Love.
I ask not Rage to curse the daring Man;
That by Instinctive Power all Women can,
But keep me mild as when Love first began.
'Tis the malignancy of low desire,
That with neglect turns to revengeful Fire:
But my great Passion, like Æthereal Flame,
Without Supply can ever burn the same;
Love glows in every Atom of my Frame.
Sparkles in every Thought, flames at my Heart,
Like the extensive Soul it does exert;
'Tis all in all, and all in every part.
From his cold Breast no languid warmth I want,
His Fires when at their height to mine are faint,
Yet my hard Fate forces this soft Complaint.
That so much Truth is unreguarded lost,
And we have least when we deserve it most.
Oh! was I fickle as the restless Wind,
Or as the wiser part of Woman-kind:
Then for the Charmer I'd no longer mourn,
But treat his Negligence with equal Scorn.
He should no more my slighted Favours wear,
But from the sighing Crowd that deaf my Ear,
I'd choose some kinder Youth and fix 'em there.
But oh! my tender Soul too weak does prove,
Either to change or bear the force of Love;
Too sure 'tis doom'd by my relentless Fate
That I must love and sink beneath the weight.

On the Author of Religion by Reason, or the Light of Nature a Guide to Divine Truth.

Hail, modest Author, who obscure do'st lie,
But to prevent our fond Idolatry;
Thou'st baffl'd all the Writers of the Age,
Who's active Pens reach the ten thousandth Page:
And doth commit with so much Industry,
Their Names in Folio to Posterity.
Who's wire drawn Notions and expanded Sense,
Swell a great Volume with as great Expence;
Which when we've read the whole Prolix design,
Contains not half that's in one Page of thine.
Nay, choose the best in thy small Tract we see,
A thousand of them in Epitome;
Our way of Study is by Contemplation,
Revolving Thoughts in the mind by dull Sucession
But yours seems Angel-like pure Intuition.
To what perfections Orthography brought,
How could you write in Words so like your Thought;
Truths so Divine in so refin'd a Stile,
Sure Angels view with a consenting Smile:
Let the bold Atheist read thy Noble Line,
In every Leaf he'll see a Power Divine.
Not long Disputes confounding the intent,
But subtle clear convincive Argument;
Had Hobs but seen it, that bold daring Man,
Himself had burnt his own Leviathan.
What sceptick Scruples can in Man be rais'd,
But by your Conquering Truths may be appeas'd?
The Persian Sophi and the papal Chair,
Usurp what Heaven doth sure on you confer.
The careful Student need not any more,
Waste Purse and Time to turn great Volumes o'er,
Your well fraught Book in which all Truths agree,
Will be itself sufficient Library.

On Atheism.

Tell me, ye daring Atheist, what's your End,
To what sure Point do your Debauches tend?
You would be happy and secure it here,
And have no Glymps of future Worlds appear;
Your Minds scarce doubt, but Crimes Reversion fear.
Whoever knew a sober Atheist yet?
Tis the Extravagance of floating Wit,
Buoy'd up with Wine and sensual Apetite.
That Wine can uncreate by all's confest,
Unmakes the Man, and levels him with Beast:
What is't they would not give the Change were true?
For they with Doubts do all their Crimes pursue;
They are more plagu'd to curb the Thoughts of Hell,
Then all the Self-Denials to live well.
No Man at first to Atheism inclin'd,
He takes that Refuge after he has sin'd;
Bold in his Crimes untill he can't repent,
Then strives to think there is no Punishment:
Lull'd in lewd Pleasures from Devotion free,
We call him Atheist, Alias Debauchee.
Where is the Happiness they so much boast,
Their Joys are in their Consequences lost?
Women and Wine their greatest dear Concern,
But cheat their Hopes and make an ill Return;
Raptur'd with Charms of his deluding Fair,
Oh! the Delights and Bliss he centers there;
And in carouzing with lascivious Songs,
And all the Frolicks which to Wine belongs.
These are their Summum Bonum, here they're bless'd,
In those wild Joys that sting while they'r possess'd;
Their Disappointments Pride and Jealousy,
Are more severe than Fast and Mortify;
A hectoring Rival or Decease at last,
Fully revenge the gay Delight that's past;
The Pains and Qualms that wait a drunken Fit,
Severely scourge the Gust of Appetite;
They're punish'd here, and if there is no Hell,
(As they would fain believe but cannot tell.)
We have the best on't for we're Happy now,
Our Joys no torturing Excess allow;
Pleas'd and secure amidst our Bliss we move,
And with just Transports hope for more above;
In this we're bless'd, and since it lasts as long
As Life, what matter tho' we'er in the wrong?
We'er Happy whilst we are, and shall not know
If we mistake, whether we did or no;
If you'r in th' wrong, your Errors more perplex'd,
You'r plagu'd in this World to be damn'd i'th' next,

On a Sermon Preach'd Sept. the 6th, 1697. on these Words, You have sold your selves for Nought.

With Grotius on New-Testament yo've done,
And chose Authentick Coke and Littleton;
The latters Tenures did inspire your Brain,
To vent your self in legislative Strain:
Where you each nice Distinction did pursue,
The Bargain, Sale, and the habendum too.
It was not done by Lease or Mortgage then,
To be redeem'd as you told how and when;
By Deed of Feoffment we had passed away,
For nothing too our Tenement of Clay;
And that the Devil who the Purchase bought,
He nothing gave nor nothing had he got.
On this you Cant (awhile) at last recal,
Cum Pertinentiis, he had gotten all;
When of the Gospel you make Law take Place,
Statues may well get upper-hand of Grace:
Sure you the Primitive design have mist,
Joshua must yield to an Evangelist.
But Littleton in you has got the start,
Did'st know if thou in Church or Temple were't?
Tho' you so Zealously the Non-cons hate,
Methinks too like the Pro and Cons you Prate,
The Sermon is at best but a Debate:
Instead of Proofs you bring us Presidents,
Need more the Judges than the Saints consents.
You Declare, Plead, Join Issue or Demur,
Then sell at last with (come ceo Sur;)
Fatal Defeazance, for if you Preach so,
Your Hearers may remain in Statu quo:
So far you on the legal Rights intrench,
We scarcely know your Pulpit from the Bench.

A SONG.

[When first I saw Laurinda's Face]

On my leaving S---y.

S---y thou dearest soft Retreat adieu
Methink I tremble at the leaving you;
You, whose safe Harbour kindly did receive,
My Shipwrack'd Vessel and gave means to live:
With Gilded Stern and Gaudy Sails I mov'd,
Fraught with this Wish, be Great and be Belov'd.
My Pageant Bark undauntedly I steer'd,
No Rocks nor Wind, nor Enemies I fear'd:
Young and unskill'd in this unlucky Sea,
For want of Ballast, Storms did ruin me.
That blast of Hell, rude spiteful Pop'ler breath,
Tore all my Sails and threaten'd sudden Death;
There was no casting Anchor in this Storm,
That was but Ruin in another Form:
For hope was all the lading I could boast,
Thus was I most inevitably lost.
Left to the Mercy of the faithless Winds,
My tatter'd Bark no friendly shelter finds;
Till some kind Star dear S---y mark'd out thee,
For her repairer and security.
'Tis true, thou couldst not fit her out again,
With Masts and Tackling for the mighty Main;
But as a Pleasure-Boat in thy smooth Streams,
(Happy defect that keeps from such extreams,)
Where no rough Winds but a safe Oar commands,
And if I please at each bless'd Shade she Lands.
There on a verdant Bank I set me down,
Contemn persuit of Passion and Renown:
At all my former daring Follies smile,
And bless the Storms that blow'd me to this Isle;
The Fortunate to me, and doth contain,
Those solid Joys, I elsewhere sought in vain.
But ah! the Fates again do summon me,
To the loath'd Ocean Popularity;
Guard me ye Gods with this one Bliss alone,
Tho' I am seen, yet let me not be known.

The Gratitude.

My injur'd Love, thy Anthems cease awhile,
And hear my Vows with an accepting Smile.
By thee I swear, by thee as sacred now,
I'll pay thee all the Passion that I owe.
Forgive, that I so negligent did prove,
Was such a careless Debtor to thy Love:
As some wild Gallant who profusely spends
That on his Frolicks, which should pay his Friends;
Yet gives good Words, is complaisant and kind,
And with small Presents shews his thankful Mind.
So did I manage my vast stock of Love,
Did neither just, nor yet ungrateful prove;
Heaven knows, to pay thee all I had begun,
But the neglected Score too far had run.
Fatal Delay, for now the dreadful Sum,
I with kind Horror offer at thy Tomb;
What'er I ow'd thy Life, I'll pay thy Dust,
Bring all th' Arrears of Passion, and be Just;
Accept it now, altho alas too late,
And pity this sad Pressure of my Fate.
Thou wer't so pleas'd with what thou hadst below,
'Twould raise thy Bliss could'st thou my Passion know,
That's great and lasting as thy Joys are now.
Not the least Thought shall to ought else be given,
I offer all to thee, and what retains thee, Heaven.
Tho' at thy Death no sable Scenes of State,
Nor solemn Pageantry did gild thy Fate;
No pompous Griefs of a Mechanick Throng
Of hir'd Mourners usher'd thee along;
Nor gaudy Scutchion daub'd thy early Herse,
Yet 'twas adorn'd with thy Clarinda's Verse:
One moment's Grief of mine is of more Cost,
Than a Majestick thirty Days can boast.
Those pageant Sorrows on the Dead bestow'd,
But touch the Fancy of the gazing Croud,
Where scarce one Tear in earnest is allow'd.
Amidst a thousand torturing Pangs I live,
Too well I know, both who and how to grieve.
It is more Honour to be mourn'd by me.
Than all their stately dark Solemnity,
Whose Riches purchase a forc'd Obsequey.
Tho' on thy Grave no Statue I erect,
Yet the smooth Stone shall with my Tears be deck'd.
No, take a Tomb more fitting thy Desert,
Yes, I'll inshrine thee in my generous Heart.
So far for thee a Niobe I'm grown,
That now 'tis fitting for that Use alone.
No Monument more glorious or safe,
Grac'd with a vital crimson Epitaph.
My bleeding Heart shall this Inscription give,
Not here you Lie, but here for ever Live.

On my wedding Day.

Abandon'd Day, why dost thou now appear?
Thou must no more thy wonted Glories wear;
Oh! Rend thy self out of the circling Year.
With me thou'rt stript of all thy pompous Pride,
Art now no festival Cause, I no Bride:
In thee no more must the glad Musick sound,
Nor pleasing Healths in chearful Bowls go round,
But with sad Cypress dress'd, not Mirtle crown'd;
Ne'er grac'd again with joyful Pageantry:
The once glad Youth that did so honour thee
Is now no more; with him thy Triumph's lost,
He always own'd thee worthy of his Boast.
Such Adorations he still thought thy due,
I learn'd at last to celebrate thee too;
Tho' it was long e're I could be content,
To yield you more than formal Complement;
If my first Offering had been Free-Will,
I then perhaps might have enjoy'd thee still:
But now thou'rt kept like the first mystick Day,
When my reluctant Soul did Fate obey,
And trembling Tongue with the sad Rites comply'd,
With timerous Hand th' amazing Knot I ty'd,
While Vows and Duty check'd the doubting Bride.
At length my reconcil'd and conquer'd Heart,
When 'twas almost too late own'd thy Desert,
And wishes thou wast still, not that thou never wer't;
Wishes thee still that celebrated Day,
I lately kept with sympathizing Joy.
But Ah! thou now canst be no more to me,
Than the sad Relick of Solemnity;
To my griev'd Soul may'st thou no more appear,
Be blotted out of Fate's strict Calender.
May the Sun's Rays ne'er be to thee allow'd,
But let him double every thick wrought Cloud,
And wrap himself in a retiring Shroud;
Let unmixt Darkness shade the gloomy Air,
Till all our sable Horizon appear,
Dismale as I, black as the Weeds I wear;
With me thy abdicated State deplore,
And be like me, that's by thy self no more.

The Fatality.

Come all ye grand Predestinarians now,
Your Doctrine to the Height I will allow:
I who with utmost Force resist my Fate,
But am to Ills alone predestinate;
In vain I strive th' immutable Decree,
Has pass'd on my unlucky Destiny.
With Sighs and Tears I did at first begin,
To conquer Fate as others would their Sin;
Each Path I trod I went with Caution on,
But every Step doth lead to be undone:
And when a threatening Storm was in my View,
I from it (wisely as I thought) withdrew;
But whilst the approaching Ills with Fear I shun,
Into some other certain Harms I run;
So when some mighty Grief did press my Soul,
I would th' uneasy Tyranny controul;
(Like a distracted Man that will not bear,
Those Fetters which Discretion makes him wear;
But frets and raves, and breaks the friendly Chain,
Which did from greater Injuries restrain;
He'll not be bar'd a dangerous Liberty,
Tho' he to Outrages and Mischief fly.)
Thus I from one Misfortune force my Way,
By Means that does to greater still betray;
One Sorrow seldom attends long on me,
I have a torturing Variety,
I change and change, yet still 'tis Misery.
A Hydra Fate my Ruin does pursue,
Cut off one ill, strait, there springs up a new,
And they'll arise ad infinitum too.
Ther's none the mystick Scrolls of Fate can read,
Nor shun the Ills by mighty Powers decreed,
Hood-wink'd by them, just as they guide we tread.
In vain we say we this or that will do,
It cannot be unless they'll have it so;
The only Way to ease our Discontents,
Is to conclude they must be such Events;
Such as the mighty hidden source of Things,
Bubbles from it's inevitable Springs.

An Ode on the Death of Mr. Dryden.

The Advice.

To Thyrsis on his Pastoral to Mr. Creech.

Come all ye tender Nymphs and sighing Swains,
Hear how our Thyrsis, Daphnis death complains
In Notes more sweet he doth his Sorrows tell,
Than the harmonious mournful Philomel.
With his sad Airs let all our Griefs combine,
And sighing Eccho in the Consort joyn;
Till o'er the pittying Plains the Tidings spread,
Pans Darling Daphnis to Eliziums fled:
Daphnis the tunefull'st Youth we knew among,
The softening Swains till gentle Thyrsis Sung.
Thyrsis, whose Muse of all our blooming Grove,
Best pities Lovers and best Sings of Love;
Soft are thy Lines as the first tender Fire,
That warms the Breast e'er it commence Desire:
Thy moving Numbers all our Passions share,
Sigh, Languish, Weep, Just what we read we are.
By the soft Magick rais'd to Extacy,
With Daphnis love, and with him too we dy;
Had he addrest but in thy melting Strain,
(And he could do it, sure if any Swain.)
The Nymph in spite of her presuming Charms,
With Joy had yeilded to his wishing Arms.
Impatient Youth, that Death itself could bear,
Rather than scorns of the neglecting Fair:
But thus we fondly Rave to miss the Joy,
Love natural as Life, does Life destroy.
To Wit alone Passion does fatal prove,
Fools may be lew'd but know not how to Love;
Since it in learn'd Breasts such Woes create,
Thyrsis taking warning by great Daphnis Fate:
But to your Charms Caution does needless seem,
Fear less Love, on you need not dye like him.
For oh! what Nymph could e'er so stupid prove,
As not to melt if Thyrsis Name but Love?
What pity 'twas the learn'd Daphnis dy'd,
The slighted Victim of a Virgins Pride.
Had'st thou been silent, it more Tears had cost,
Now half our Grief's in Admiration lost;
So well you Mourn the Shepherd's amorous Fate,
In such soft strains his sad fond Fall relate.
Pan would himself quit Immortality,
To be in Death so sweetly Sung by thee.

Delia to Phraartes on his Playing Cæsar Borgia.

If Cæsar from his Stygian Coast could come,
To see you Play, he'd bless his former Doom;
Pleas'd with the promis'd Glories which he lost,
And in your Form, confess the greater Boast.
Had he been bless'd but with your soft Address,
His Love had never known such ill Success;
That Godlike Mein and that seraphick Voice,
Would have compell'd nice Bellamira's choice.
Had half your Charms in the true Borgia been,
We ne'er his mourning Tragedy had seen.
You'r so Divine, that Heavens peculiar care,
Would so much Gallantry and Sweetness spare.
In vain Historians and Poets too,
To such brave Men celestial Honous do,
They ne'er seem Gods, till personated by you.
A rugged Virtue and the chance of War,
Did bless their Hero's with that Character;
The Antiquated Shade the Poets seize,
And tune the Soul to what a pitch they please:
With artful Notes they grace each noble Line,
But your soft touch gives it an air Divine.
What pains they take for Praise while you with ease,
Transport with that which they scarce hop'd could please?
Th' Imperial Cæsars when with Fortune bless'd,
In all their gay triumphant splendor drest,
And more than Royal State thro' Rome they rode,
(Both prais'd and fear'd and thought almost a God,
When fetter'd Kings did grace the Victory,)
Mid'st all their dazling Pomp look'd less than thee.
If Gods their Glories would expose to view,
To joy Mankind they'd look and speak like you.

To Clarona drawing Alexis's Picture and presenting it to me.

The curious noble Present which you make,
I with surprize and conscious Blushes take.
Why was the gay Alexis made your choice,
Has he my private or my publick Voice?
My nicer Temper cannot that allow,
Tho' you have gone the way to make him so;
Some other Friend would equal Thanks command,
But he was fittest for your skilful Hand:
As the best Poets who's Art Rivals thine,
Should always choose a Subject that's Divine.
I must confess th' obligingness of Fate,
To let you see him tho' he never sate;
A fair Idea form'd in your great Mind,
You ventur'd on, and 'twas as you design'd:
'Twas the gay Youth in all his conquering Charms,
As might seduce a Daphne to his Arms.
His Smiles, his Eyes, his Air each lovely Grace,
All that our Sex can wish in any Face;
It was exactly him, and yet 'twas more,
An Art which none did e'er express before:
Should Nature strive for Ostentation sake,
And would another bright Alexis make,
'Twould be less like than what is done by thee,
She'd blushing throw her long us'd Pencil see;
Nay, you blest Painters this advantage give,
Beyond what is allow'd to those that live.
With sublimated Art you Time subdue,
Draw Charms to'th' Life and make them lasting too.
Now fam'd Apelles from thy Throne look down,
And see a female Hand outdo thy own.
The Piece which unaccomplish'd was by thee,
The just Despair of long Posterity,
By her may with advantage finisht be.
The mighty Task can only be her Right,
Who so exactly draws at casual sight:
I with proud Joy the lovely Present take,
Both for Alexis and Clarona's sake.
My two best Friends, Illustrious now appear,
A pleasing Form drawn by a Hand so fair;
Charm'd by your Art, I generously consent,
To own 'tis my Delight as well as Ornament.

A SONG.

[A thousand Gay obliging Youths]

Erato the Amorous Muse on the Death of John Dryden, Esq.

In the wisht Close of Evening's welcome gloom,
My longing steps reacht an inviting Bloom;
Whose untrod Paths the sadning Cypress grac't,
And in small Plats were softer Myrtles plac't.
The lofty Cedars with extended Arms,
Twine to keep off the force of roughest Storms;
And numerous tow'ring Arbourets they made,
The solemn Glory of the pleasing Shade:
On verdant Moss, Nature's rich cloth of State,
By a clear thrilling Stream supine I sate:
Upon my Hand my thoughtful Head reclin'd,
Sad soft Ideas entertain'd my Mind,
And I to sing some Lovers fate inclin'd;
But strait Erato, whom I did invoke,
Forbid my Choice, her Speech abruptly broke,
At last in Sighs the Interdiction spoke.
Ye shall no more write tender moving Strains,
To please the Nymphs and melt the wishing Swains
But to the World my Sorrows you shall tell,
How I have griev'd since the lost Heroe fell,
My darling Dryden whom I lov'd so well.
He who has done such Glories to my Name,
Immortal as my self has made my Fame;
Watchful as Lovers I first saw his Fate
With raging Sounds Parnassus loss relate.
Call'd all my Sisters with my frantick Cries,
And every God to Join in th' Obsequies,
With Tears made Helycon brackish as the Seas.
Like a deserted Maid in Wild Despair,
I tore my Myrtle Wreath and flowing Hair,
My Mantle rent and shatter'd in the Air;
Then in loose Cypriss vail'd my useless Charms,
Sigh'd till I turn'd our Æther into Storms.
No more I'll wanton on our Mountains brow,
Nor curious Pains upon my Locks bestow;
In amorous Folds my Rosey Mantle twine,
And sooth soft Languishments in airs Divine:
But careless throw me in some dusky Shade,
Which Willows, Cypress, Yew has awful made,
There to my Votress Eccho I'll complain,
Whose Complaisance reverberates again,
My piercing Groans thro' every Wood and Plain.
Thus I and she in an Eternal round,
Will my celestial Griefs for Dryden's Death resound.
Dryden, who with such Ardour did invoke,
That I thro' him my greatest Raptures spoke.
Whisper'd a thousand tender melting Things,
Till he writ Lays moving as Orpheus strings.
Oft I for Ink did radiant Nectar bring,
And gave him Quills from infant Cupid's Wing:
Whose gentle force did as Victorious prove,
As if they'd been th' immortal Shafts of Love.
Warm'd every Breast with a surprizing Fire,
And in the nicest tenderest Thoughts inspire;
Such Lustre still grac't his magnetick Line,
It was both Irresistless and Divine.
With what celestial Cadence doth he tell,
The pristine Joys of Love, e'er Mankind fell;
When in the blooming Grove the first kind Pair,
With amorous Sighs fan'd the ambrosial Air:
Smiling on flowry Banks supinely laid,
The ardent Youth prest the unblushing Maid.
In his soft Lines such Extacies they Boast,
To hear their loves Rivals the Bliss they lost;
When Cleopatra's Passion he adorns,
How Nobly Anthony the Empire scorns:
Dissolv'd in her kind Arms transported lay,
For Love's soft Joy, gave the rough Crown away.
Such Realms of Bliss the Hero there possest,
Sighing fond Vows on her returning Breast;
Who reads their Languishments their Passions feel,
Intranc't in Joys too exquisite to tell.
When an incestuous Flame his Theme has been,
He almost charms us to forgive the Sin.
My favourite Ovid's strains I did improve,
And taught my Dryden tenderer Arts of Love;
Such Arts had our addressing Phœbus known,
Daphne, tho' coy, had not Unconquer'd flown,
But brought the Hero forth, and not their Crown.
He so advanc'd whatever I bestow'd,
I was Love's Muse, but he himself the God.

Delia to Phraartes on his mistake of three Ladies writing to him.

Say, noble Youth, thou Glory of the Stage,
Gay soft Delight of the admiring Age;
What would'st thou give thou didst thy Delia know,
Or that the Nymph who writ the Billet Deau,
Could have oblig'd you with Heroicks too?
To purchase your Esteem they all agreed,
And tho' one Scroul, 'twas a Tripartite Deed.
Methinks in you I royal Paris see,
Like him employ'd ill suiting your Degree;
In his Disguise he rural Conquests won,
But you brave Youth have greater Wonders done;
Your Power by neither Sex can be withstood,
Your own are all oblig'd and ours subdu'd
Wit Fortune, Beauty for your Voice contest,
Each with your Approbation would be blest;
For the charm'd Nymphs desire as much to please,
As did the three contending Goddesses,
That bless'd young Paris in the mirtle Grove,
With the nice Choice of Grandure Wit and Love.
They would appear all eager of Success,
But are more cautious, cause their Charms less,
Besides they are resolv'd they'll not undress:
They've only yet their mystick Charms display'd,
And entertain'd you in a Masquerade;
But beg you would not take the Niceness ill,
For they resolve to wear their Vizards still;
May the soft Riddle never be explain'd,
Lest the neglected blush to be disdain'd;
Should they divide; their Charms would be too small,
Were they Celestial; You would merit all.
Yes, lovely Youth, those mightier Charms of thine,
Deserve not only what, but all that is divine:
E're Nature form'd you, she in you design'd
Perfection far beyond all human Kind:
But scorn'd Materials from her common Store,
Travers'd her pregnant Universe all 'ore;
Pick'd up each softer Atome as she went;
Took too those bright ones next the Firmament.
Thus richly furnish'd she the Work began,
And joy'd to find it would be more than Man;
With utmost Care did every Charm encrease,
And e're she would compleat the Beauteous Piece,
Dip'd her nice Pencil in the liquid Light,
Varnish'd the whole, till Gods themselves less bright,
Each Deity deceiv'd with what was done,
Bestow'd some Gift and thought you was his own:
So liberally they gave; in you we see,
All their Perfections in Epitome.
No Wonder our weak Sex is charm'd to love
That Form which might the pleasing Object prove
Of all the wishing Female Court above:
Tis they alone must for your Heart contend,
Your triple Nymph no farther doth pretend,
Than to adore the Glories they commend;
They are resolv'd they will remain intire,
Not run the Hazard of dilated Fire;
To other Swains their single Power might move,
And they neglecting charm to more than Love.
They know your Worth; so the deserving three
Will joyn, and be one Delia to thee;
Let one Idea fill thy grateful Breast,
Think they are so, in that Mistake they're blest.

To Marina.

Plague to thy Husband, scandal to thy Sex,
Whose wearying Tongue does every Ear perplex;
False to thy own false Soul, thou dost declare,
How Lust and Pride do Reign and Revel there,
Tell the World too, how nicely Chast you are.
This dull compulsive Virtues own'd; for who,
With one so odious would have ought to do?
But this Misfortune you too oft condole,
Whilst loosest Thoughts debauch your willing Soul
Thy best Discourse is but meer Ribaldry,
Telling how fond all that e're see you, be:
And loving all thy self, think'st all in Love with thee.
With pious Heart thou studiest Vanity,
And talk'st obscene by rules of Modesty.
Thus Sins nick-nam'd speak the infernal Saint,
Whose shining Robes are tawdry Cloaths and Paint:
Extravagance and Cheats you mark for Wit,
Thou abstract of Contention, Fraud and Spite.
If Socrates could have made choise of thee,
Thou would'st have baffled his Philosophy,
And turn'd his Patience to a Lunacy.
The restless Waters of the raging Sea,
Are a serene and halcion Stream to thee:
They keep their Banks and sometimes can be still,
Thou art all Tempest, know'st no bounds in Ill.
Pride, Lust, Contention, reign and yet repine,
Vesuvius Noise and Flame has less of Hell than thine.

Euterpe:

The Lyrick Muse, On the Death of John Dryden, Esq;

An ODE.

Terpsichore:

A Lyrick Muse, On the Death of John Dryden, Esq; extempore.

Just as the Gods were listening to my Strains,
And thousand Loves danc'd o're the Æthereal Plains;
With my own radiant Hair my Harp I strung,
And in glad Consort all my Sisters Sung;
An universal Harmony above,
Inspir'd us all with Gaiety and Love.
A horrid Sound dash'd our immortal Mirth,
Wafted by Sighs, from the unlucky Earth.
(Who'd think celestial Forms should Sorrows know,
Or sympathize with sad Events below?
But by our great immortal Selves we do.
For when the loud unwelcome Message spread,
With dismal Accents tuneful, Dryden's dead,
All our gay Joys in hast affrighted fled.
A sullen Gloom seiz'd all the Gods around,
My feeble Hand no more the Lyre could sound:
And all the soft young Loves with drooping Wings,
Lisp't their Concern, and my neglected Strings;
Trembl'd themselves into a mournful Air,
Then Sight and Husht into a sad Despair.
There let them ever unreguarded lye,
Apollo's too, do's cease its Harmony.
He with us sacred Nymphs profusely Mourns,
With us the least desire of Respite scorns;
Intire eternal Grief our Beings seize
For him who best could us and Mankind please.
Great Dryden, in whose vast capacious Mind,
Our utmost Pow'r did fit Reception find;
VVhich Favours he did generously dispense,
Joy'd the glad VVorld with his amazing Sense,
And like us too diffus'd his Influence;
His Genius would such Inspiration bear,
That his Illustrious Lines did not appear
As if our Product, but our Selves were there.
Mourn ye forsaken VVorlds, you'l ne're again
Be blest with so Divine, so great a Swain.
In you no more let tuneful Mirth be found,
The very Spheres shall cease their wonted Sound,
And every Orb stop its harmonious round:
All Nature hush as if intranc't she lay,
Sunk in old Chaos e'er the inlight'ning Ray
Of Heaven awak'd her in the first-born Day.
With such still Horrour let's our sorrows bear,
Lest Sighs in time, harmonious should appear.
If e'er to write again is Man's intent,
(Uncall'd on let us silently lament,)
And take his Works, for an Eternal President,

The Platonick.

Preposterous Fate, let me accuse thee now,
(What means this Mirtle on the Cypress bough;)
Ah! why thus treacherously in Friendship drest,
Hast thou to Love, betray'd my unwary Breast?
Amintor's latest Breath did recommend,
Me to the care of his once dearest Friend;
We the kind fatal Orders did persue,
And for his sake I strove to Love him too:
Methoughts Amintor did his Thanks Proclaim,
Look'd down and smil'd, and authoriz'd my Flame.
Bid me my greatest Favours there bestow,
Where he lov'd best (excepting me) below;
But my ill Fate, th' obedient purpose crost,
Duty was soon in Inclination lost;
For oh! I find the generous Probation,
Has now commenc'd an unsuspected Passion.
I would my Friendship to the height improve,
VVhich unawars did sublimate to Love;
So some well meaning Votaries in Religion,
Run their Devotion up to Superstition:
But from the utmost Error I'll be free,
And not degenerate to Idollatry.
Confess the kind Platonick at the most,
And make my Passion not my Blush, but Boast:
I do not wish him in these careless Arms,
Let me but gaze at distance on his Charms;
To view that softning Air, that Voice to hear,
Is all the Bliss my temperate Soul wou'd share.
But then be ever present ever kind,
Joy to my Eyes and Pleasure to my Mind.
I shall be blest if you'll allow but this,
Shou'd you be kinder, t'would abate my Bliss:
My elevated Flame needs no supply,
But the nice subtil Fewel of the Eye:
In Contemplation all my Pleasure lies,
My Joys are pure Ideal Extacies:
The Lip or Hand are not enough refin'd,
VVith Looks and Smiles let me regale my Mind
'Tis all my softest VVishes e'er design'd.
Love like the sacred Tree which Eden grac't,
To entertain the sight is only plac't;
Safely we gaze, but if we venter on,
To touch and tast, we blush and are undone.

The Emulation.

Say Tyrant Custom, why must we obey,
The impositions of thy haughty Sway;
From the first dawn of Life, unto the Grave,
Poor Womankind's in every State, a Slave.
The Nurse, the Mistress, Parent and the Swain,
For Love she must, there's none escape that Pain;
Then comes the last, the fatal Slavery,
The Husband with insulting Tyranny
Can have ill Manners justify'd by Law;
For Men all join to keep the Wife in awe.
Moses who first our Freedom did rebuke,
Was Marry'd when he writ the Pentateuch;
They're Wise to keep us Slaves, for well they know,
If we were loose, we soon should make them, so.
We yeild like vanquish'd Kings whom Fetters bind,
When chance of War is to Usurpers kind;
Submit in Form; but they'd our Thoughts controul,
And lay restraints on the impassive Soul:
They fear we should excel their sluggish Parts,
Should we attempt the Sciences and Arts.
Pretend they were design'd for them alone,
So keep us Fools to raise their own Renown;
Thus Priests of old their Grandeur to maintain,
Cry'd vulgar Eyes would sacred Laws Prophane.
So kept the Mysteries behind a Screen,
There Homage and the Name were lost had they been seen:
But in this blessed Age, such Freedom's given,
That every Man explains the Will of Heaven;
And shall we Women now sit tamely by,
Make no excursions in Philosophy,
Or grace our Thoughts in tuneful Poetry?
We will our Rights in Learning's World maintain,
Wits Empire, now, shall know a Female Reign;
Come all ye Fair, the great Attempt improve,
Divinely imitate the Realms above:
There's ten celestial Females govern Wit,
And but two Gods that dare pretend to it;
And shall these finite Males reverse their Rules,
No, we'll be Wits, and then Men must be Fools.

To Mr. Yalden, on his Temple of Fame, Extempore.

Had Glo'ester liv'd, and made his Actions shine,
With the united Glories of his Line,
He'd less Immortal been than in these lays of thine.
Not only Royal Tears adorn his Urn,
But you have taught the Subjects all to mourn:
Your melting Lines, make conscious Passion vent
More solemn Griefs, than common Nature meant.
Soft are thy strains as his once moving Tongue,
Fond Venus lose was less divinely Sung;
Amintor, Colin, young Alexis too,
Justly resign the Prize, to mightier you.
The weeping Nymphs, all throw their Cypress down,
With eager Hands wreath your victorious Crown;
You from whom Kings such Glories do receive,
Yet to your self superior Honours give,
Since they but lye, where you'll for ever live.

On the Death of William III, King of England.

To N. Tate, Esq; on his Poem on the Queen's Picture, Drawn by Closterman.

To my much valu'd Friend Moneses.

Great Pæan now thy strongest Rays dispense,
Give Virgils Flights and Dryden's Eloquence:
All the fam'd Bards of sacred Poetry,
Let their bright Flames revive again in me.
Inspire my Breast whilst I his Praise rehearse,
Whose worth deserves thy own immortal Verse;
I sing Moneses whom the Gods ordain'd,
To show their Form, e'er 'twas by Sin prophan'd:
He is all Goodness, Mercy, Justice, Truth,
Has all the Charms without the vice of Youth.
These are the Native Beauties of his Soul,
While every Art and Grace adorns the whole:
Obliging is his Mein, his Judgment strong,
A flowing Wit directs his pleasing Tongue;
And each inchanting Accent which we hear,
Like airs Divine Transport the list'ning Ear.
Not Orpheus Harp, not yet Amphion's Lyre,
Could with more Sweetness or more force inspire:
Oh! what Infernal Magick Mortals bind,
That his instructive Voice can't move the Mind,
And calm the raging Follies of Mankind.
(The passive Stones obey'd less powerful Sound,
For in their heaps was no resisting Atoms found;)
Not greater Pride or Joys did Ammon move,
When by the Shrine, pronounc'd the Son of Jove:
Then are the Transports my blest Soul attend,
That I can call the brave Moneses Friend.
Moneses whom Apollo has design'd,
With his own Arts, to Heal and Charm Mankind;
Fain would I still persue my wonderous Song,
But oh! too fast the bright Ideas throng,
Stifl'd in Raptures e'er they reach my Tongue:
So when with greatest Zeal we Heaven accost,
Our Notions all in Extacies are lost,
We utter least, where it deserves the most.

The fond Shepherdess.

A PASTORAL.

Daphne, and Larinda.
Daph.
Tell me, said she, what makes you all neglect,
Nor now from Sun, or Wolves your Sheep protect,
But let them wander o're th' unbounded Plain,
Scorch'd by the one, and by the other Slain?
Tho' you may now the greatest numbers Boast
Unheeded thus your Flocks will soon be lost.
Nay of your self too, you are careless grown
Shun all the Nymphs to Muse in Shades alone:
Your head's not now, with Rosy Chaplets drest,
No fragrant Poesy decks your pensive Breast,
Nor decent Rushes strow'd beneath the Shade,
Where smiling once with sporting Lambs you play'd.
The little Bird you fondly taught to Sing,
Releas'd from Cage, and trusted to its Wing:
You tore each tender Sonnet you have made,
Wish'd the Pipe broke, when sighing Strephon play'd.
Ah! why thus peevish? Can your faithful Heart
Conceal a Grief from her, who'd bear a Part?

Lar.
No kind Inquirer when with cares opprest,
I still repose in yours, my weary'd Breast;
But I have now, no Secret to reveal,
I've lost some Lambs, as all the Plains can tell.
At the approach of last refreshing Show'r,
In hast I ran to yonder well fenc'd Bow'r;
In the kind shelter too long Sleeping lay,
Or Thief, or Wolf, my Darling stole away.

Daph.
Do not evade the Truth, but be sincere;
For long ere this, your Eyes did sorrows wear,
Besides, I saw you ere you was awake
Disturb'd you slept, with eager accents spake,
(Oh! my Exalis will you leave me.) Then
Foulded your tender Arms, and Slept agen.
Nay, do not blush at the discover'd Truth,
Too well I know you Love that charming Youth,
Oft you together, your mixt Flocks did feed,
Delight your selves with his harmonious Reed.
If any Straglers, from your Folds did run;
Each, would the others seek, neglect their own:
Such mutual kindnesses the Soul indear,
Exalis was your Joy, and you was all his Care.

Lar.
Oh! Name him not; yes, ever sound that Name,
For 'tis in vain to hide th' undoing Flame.
I Love, nay rather the bright Youth adore,
Eccho ne'r doated on Narcissus more;
Nor had he half of my Exalis Charms
To tempt the Nymph to his resisting Arms
'Mongst all the Swains. Speak Daphne, have you seen
A Shape so fine, or such a pleasing Mein,
Fair as the Doves which o're our Cottage flys,
Soft as their Down, and just such lovely Eyes.
His flowing Locks in amorous Ringlets twine,
Like the Young curling Tendrils of the Vine:
Not Philomel's soft Voice, like his, can move,
His ev'ry accent has an Air of Love;
All the gay Chaunters of the welcome Spring,
Like me, are hush'd and joy'd; if he but speak or Sing
A Breath as Sweet, as when the Evening Breeze
Salutes us from yon Grove of spicy Trees;
His lovely Smiles, soft Brightness do display,
Like glowing Blushes of the infant Day.
When o'er the Mountain-tops the blooming Light,
Darts its Young Beams to th' early Gazers sight,
Like Pan himself, the Glory of the Woods,
While other Swains seem Mean, attendant Gods:
Then who such mighty Charms can e'er resist?
Charms like my Love, too great to be exprest.

Daph.
Oh fatal Power of Love, that thus can seize
The nice Larinda, whom no Swain could please;
But now a Slave, worse than e'er sigh'd for you,
You doat to Passion; nay, Distraction too.
Tell me, sad softn'd Nymph, how long your Breast,
Has been by these too mighty Griefs opprest?

Lar.
Yes, I will tell you; my unweary'd Tongue,
Speaking of him, can ne'er think Ages long.
Daphne, you know what time the lovely Swain,
With his Blest Flocks, has grac'd our happy Plain:
From the first Hour, he did obliging prove;
(I little thought, to pay him back in Love)
He within bounds, my wandring Lambs would keep,
When I was weary, gladly Fold my Sheep.
And as I rested, in the verdant Shade,
On oaten Reeds melodious Airs he play'd.
The listning Shepherds not far distant stand,
Pleas'd, and yet envying that dear skilful Hand:
Not Pan's immortal Pipe, could more Inspire,
Or glad the Plains, than my Exalis Lyre.
It Joy'd all Hearts, to mine did Fatal prove,
And taught my listning Soul, the way to Love.
On a fresh Bank, by a clear Fountain side,
(Where Flora smil'd with gaudy vernal Pride.
Phœbus was gone, to Thetis yielding Arms,
But Luna left her Dear, Endymion's Charms;
Smil'd o'er the Grove, scarce Day it self more Bright,
And thro' the Boughs, sprinkled the Shade with Light.)
There with gay Innocence, supine we sate,
Hear'd injur'd Philomel her Wrongs relate,
But no forwarning Bird told my approaching Fate.
Then as I lean'd on the enamel'd Ground,
I cropt the fragrant Flowers all around;
The various Colours, artfully I plac'd,
And with them pleas'd Exalis Bosom dress'd.
To him a Crook and Beachen bowl I gave,
(Did with my careful Hand the last Ingrave,)
One side, with various Silvan Nymphs, I grac'd,
And on the other Pan and Flora plac'd.
Take these, said I; for all the generous Care,
In which, so oft, my Flocks and I did share;
And when I die, Exalis take them too,
Tho' lost to me, they'll Joy to be with you;
Like me, they'r wonted to your gentle Call;
I only grieve their number is so small.
He smil'd to hear the tender things I said,
While grateful looks his pleasing Answers made;
And then half Blushing on his Musick play'd,
List'ning; that dear undoing Face I view'd,
To catch each Smile, which kindly was bestow'd.
But Oh! too long, too long I gazeing sate;
My Soul, with softning Airs, prepar'd by Fate,
Took the Impression of that charming Face,
Which, Smiling, darted Glory round the Place:
A thousand Loves in amorous Fires drest,
With one dear look pierc'd my too ready Breast:
I thought Heaven's Brightness in those radiant Eyes,
And blusht, and fainted at the soft surprize;
Yet hop'd the mighty Transport would be o'er,
And the gay Youth but please as heretofore:
But oh! you may as soon yon Mountain move,
As raze out the immortal Characters of Love.

Daph.
Then with what caution should we guard the Breast,
And the first glimmering of the Flame resist?
A Flame, so fatal, that it doth Destroy,
In sad Larinda, every thought of Joy:
If all kind Breasts are with such torture mov'd,
May I ne'er Love, nor ever be be lov'd?
No; rather let me and my Flocks, be drove
From this fresh Pasture, and delightful Grove;
Confin'd to barren Sands and scorchhing Sun,
Where no Shades near, nor useful Waters run;
Fainted with wandring o'er the fiery Dust,
Famish'd for Food, Parch'd up with Heat and Thirst:
My darling Lambs around me bleat Complaints;
I void of all, that can relieve their Wants:
Yet I'd endure this piercing Scene of Woe;
These utmost ills poor Daphne's State can know:
Rather then Love, should my gay Breast subdue,
With such soft amorous Griefs as torture you;
Ah why, would you indulge the fond desire.
And not at first Stifle the growing Fire?

Lar.
At its Approach, with tender warmth were Blest,
The lambent Flame plays, with the sporting Breast,
And give such Joys, none would, or can resist.
No Lover yet, could e'er of Forecast Boast,
Percieve no Ruin, till they know they'r lost:
Now with the fondest Flames of Love I burn,
Doom'd to the certain Curse of no return.
When to the fickle Youth, I own'd I lov'd,
His Flocks he straight to Ida's Plains remov'd;
He ne'er returns, to see how mine do fare,
Nor I, nor they, are now no more his Care.
Curse on my Love, which did itself disclose,
By what should keep, I did my Charmer lose;
Now I no more must see his lovely Face,
Hear his inchanting Voice, his melting Lays;
Lays, which in coldest Breasts would Raptures move
Make the Soul Gay, and ev'ry Pulse beat Love.
Gods! how he'd look and Smile; how was I blest,
When the charm'd Youth, lean'd on my willing Breast,
Spake things as soft, as the kind Hand he prest?
But now all's lost, I rage beyond redress,
(He'l ne'er return, nor I e'er Love him less.)
First, I was cautious to conceal my Flame,
Now every Breath repeats his dear Lov'd Name:
I carve, Exalis on each smooth bark'd Tree,
That if the mangl'd Woods could vocal be,
They'd surely Curse my fond Barbarity.
Each sigh has such a tender Emphasis,
As moves Compassion, in all Breasts but his:
For all the Swains are Conscious that I Love;
Each Tow'ring Hill, and every humble Grove;
I've tir'd them all, with my incessant Crys,
Ecchoes grown faint, repeating of my sighs:
My Sighs, whose force move ev'ry Bough to Mourn,
In pitying murmurs that I've no return:
Oft do I run to the inviting Shade,
Where first his pleasing Smiles, my Soul betray'd;
There lay me down in the dear sacred Place,
Which kindly once, his lovely Form did Grace;
Then weep his Absence; Rage and Rave in vain,
For oh! I ne'er must be so Blest again;
I try if Slumbers will afford Relief,
But as they sooth, so they augment my Grief.
I clasp him then in my glad wishing Arms,
Gaze on his Eyes, and feast me with his Charms;
But when awake; I rage to find him gone,
To lose the lovely Prize, I thought I'd won.
Search ev'ry Corner of the winding Grove;
Ask every Shade, to give me back my Love.
There silent all, and empty of such Bliss;
In vain I seek for Joys, I'm doom'd to miss:
Too well Exalss knows he gives delight,
But he Industriously avoids my sight,
Tho' Prayers, and Tears, and Gifts, and blooming Love invite.
If he absents, to cure me 'tis in vain,
For still his bright Idea doth remain,
And ev'ry moment Charms me into Pain.
Other Youths may moderate Passion move;
As he's all lovely, I'm all over Love:
Lost to all else, insensible I seem,
And only know I'm something doats on him
If I would count my Sheep into the Fould,
Forget their number ere they half are told;
And when the Nymphs my heedlesness do blame,
I answer all, by sighing of his Name.
Farewel, my Daphne, I must leave thee now,
One pitying Tear, on my sad Fate bestow;
Return thou Glory of the Joyful Grove,
May'st thou be Blest, for may'st thou never Love.
Farewel my once lov'd Flocks, my rural Store;
Larinda now will ne'er regard you more.
But wing'd with Love, to Ida's Plains I'll fly:
Find my Exalis out; to see me die.
No longer on my tedious Griefs I'll wait,
That melting Name so often I'll repeat,
Till the soft sound dissolve the Knot of Fate.
Curss'd by his Absence, Life is tedious grown;
Now he shall see what his neglect has done.
While I can gaze, it shall be on his Charms,
And tho' not live; die in those lovely Arms;
But if he envying, think that Bliss too great,
I'll sigh my Soul out, at his careless Feet;
Then let one pitying Look but Grace my Death,
I'll Bless the Cause, with my expiring Breath.