[Poems on Several Occasions by Nicholas Amhurst]

In the dark Backward of six thousand Years,
(So Moses writes and all our Christian Seers)
The World, a rude, unfashion'd Embryo lay
Eternal Night, without a glimpse of Day;
Earth, Seas, and Heaven, in one blind Chaos thrown,
And Years, and Months, and Days were Names unknown;
'Till God mark'd out th' interminable Space,
And stamp'd Creation on the formless Mass;

Wide o'er the Void his genial Wings he spread,
And entity uprear'd its infant head;
Prone to her Center sunk the Earth below,
And o'er her Face the rising Waters flow.

Let there be Light, said God; and sudden light
Sprung from the Deep, and burst the womb of Night,
Dreadful it gleam'd along the barren Waste,
Hell startled, and old Chaos stood aghast;
From the dusk gloom he call'd the chearful Light,
Prescrib'd its Bounds, and wing'd it for the flight.
God saw, approv'd, and bless'd the spreading Ray;
And the first Ev'ning clos'd the first-created Day.

Again th' Almighty said; let Us prepare
A wide expanse of undulating Air;
And let it be, the Waters to remove
Beneath the Firmament, from those above:
He spoke benign; and with his out-stretch'd Hand
Establish'd the immutable Command:
Forthwith thin Vapours from the Gulph arise,
Cloud after Cloud, and thicken into Skies;
God saw and bless'd: while choral Angels play,
And crown with joyful Hymns the second Day.

Still was the Earth in ambient Oceans drown'd,
Nor knew the Waters their appointed bound:

When thus again Heaven's all-sufficient Lord
Thro' the dark Void pronounc'd his pow'rful Word;
Hear and obey, ye Waters, that below
The Firmament in wild disorder flow;
Be gather'd into one capacious Bed,
And let Dry-Land upheave her naked Head:
Th' Almighty thus; and sudden at the Word,
Obedient down the Hills the Torrents pour'd;
Thro' porous Veins impetuous Waters sweep,
And headlong crowd into a Chrystal heap:
Low sunk beneath, the hollow'd Earth provides
An ample Basin for the rushing Tides.
Emerging Hills and broken Rocks arise,
And lift their craggy Summits to the Skies.
God saw it, and confirm'd the wise Decree,
He nam'd the Dry-land, Earth; the Waters, Sea:
And said, Let lusty verdure cloath the Earth,
And let the Fields conceive a various Birth;
Let tender Grass, and painted Flow'rs arise,
And to the Season trust their gaudy Dies:
Let lofty Trees their shady Honours spread,
And fragrant Herbs perfume the springing Mead.

Scarce had he spoke, when lo! the quick'ning Ground
Spontaneous smil'd, with vernal Beauties crown'd:
Flow'r, Herb, and Grass, arise; and o'er the Plain
Mature for Harvest waves the bearded Grain;

Unplanted Trees drive deep their branching Roots,
Spread in the Air, and bend with golden Fruits.
God saw it, that 'twas good, and bless'd it all,
And the third Day beheld the Shadows fall.

Again, said God; let radiant Orbs appear
Thro' the wide Kingdoms of the Hemisphere;
Alternate Day and Darkness to divide,
And o'er the Seasons of the Year preside.

And God created two vast Orbs of Light,
To bear dividual Rule by Day and Night:
And first the Sun, an huge, unweildy sphere
He fixt aloft, to lead the circling year;
To spread around his lustre, and bestow
Prolific influence on the World below.
To the bright Car he join'd the flaming Horse,
Furnish'd with Light; and pointed out his Course:
With gen'rous Courage, from the Barrier freed,
O'er the wide Azure, bounds th'æthereal Steed;
Till from afar he views the less'ning East,
And hastens down the ruddy-colour'd West;
There forms, in halcyon waves, a downy bed,
To rest his weary limbs, and quench his burning head.

Oppos'd to him the silver Moon displays
Her spotted Orb, and burns with fainter Rays;

With level'd Aspect views his golden Urn,
Feasts on his Beams, and fills her famish'd Horn;
Which the Almighty fashion'd, to preside
O'er Winds and Waves, and rule the angry Tide;
With spangling Stars to join her trembling Light,
And share the gloomy Empire of the Night:
Of spangling Stars sprung forth, at his Command,
And roll'd their destin'd Orbs, a num'rous Band,
Darkness repuls'd, Day scarce could Night out-vye,
And on the World bestow a brighter Sky.
God saw, approv'd, and bless'd what he had made,
And the fourth Day receiv'd the falling Shade.

And God said; let the fruitful Waters teem,
And moving Creatures glide thro' ev'ry Stream;
Let feather'd Fowl thro' fluid Kingdoms fly,
And with their Pinions fan the floating Sky.

He spoke; and strait the pregnant Seas brought forth
And ev'ry Billow teem'd a scaly Birth;
The huge Leviathan from Side to Side,
Tumbled along, and flounc'd the thundring Tide;
On the smooth Calm the arching Dolphins play,
And shape, in sportive Chace, their liquid way.

While Embryo Fowl distend the tepid Shells,
Mature for Life, and burst their scanty Cells;

Or loosly rang'd, or firmly wedg'd they rise,
A feather'd Cloud, and blacken half the Skies.
The strong-pounc'd Eagle, with unwearied Sight;
Tow'rs the bright Sun to his Meridian height.
The elegiac Nightingale prepares
Her ev'ning Song, and sinks in solemn airs.
The Lark melodious, poiz'd on levell'd Wings,
Hangs in mid Air, and brisker Carols sings;
Borne on the Breeze her silver Warblings float,
And the Creator swells in every Note:
The crested Cock, with a majestick Mien.
Pains his shril Voice, and struts along the Green.
With leathern Oars the silver Swan divides
The Lake, and proudly o'er the Mirrour rides.
While that fair Bird, whose varied Plumes unfold
Myriads of starry Eyes, and Gems of Gold,
With conscious Pride spreads forth his gorgeous Train,
And with brocaded Pinions sweeps the Plain.
God saw that it was good; and, gracious, said,
(In mantling Thunder and in Winds array'd)
Be fruitful, O! ye Creatures, that repair
On painted Wings thro' Fields of buoyant Air;
Be fruitful, O! ye Creatures, that divide
The restless Waves, and cleave the briny Tide;
Female, and Male increase; with genial Seed
Replenish ev'ry Stream, and multiply your Breed.
While yet he spoke, the youthful Sun descends,
And the fifth Day in gloomy Darkness ends.

Once more th' Almighty said; let fruitful Earth
Unfold her Womb, and teem with num'rous Birth:
Let Cattle in the Field expect their Food,
And savage Beasts frequent the lonely Wood;
Let reptile Animals a minim Race,
And various Insects swarm in every Place.

Straitway the Earth impregnated, conceives,
And the swoln Glebe with num'rous Offspring heaves;
The shaggy Lyon, and the bristled Boar
Rise into Life, and thro' the Desart roar;
The Ox and Tyger crowd the peaceful Plain,
And the fleet Courser shakes his flowing Mane;
The vast Behemoth, of enormous Size,
Starts from the Glebe, and rolls his glaring Eyes;
Behemoth, largest of all Nature's Race,
With Ribs of Iron, and with Nerves of Brass;
His Loins are stronger than the temper'd Mail,
And like a Cedar moves his length of Tail.

Still there remains, said God, the noblest part,
The Boldest Effort of creating Art:
After our Likeness, let us draw the Plan,
And in our Image build immortal Man;
Man o'er the Riches of the Earth to reign,
Of trackless Air, and vast unbounded Main;

Endow'd with Reason, and a pow'r to will,
Inclin'd to Good, tho' not restrain'd from Ill.

And from the Dust God shap'd the human Frame,
And in his Nostrils breath'd the living Flame;
Female and Male he shap'd them; to command,
Earth, Air, and Seas, and bless his righteous Hand;
The Brute machine confess'd th' informing Ray,
And infant Motion warm'd the struggling Clay:
Wak'd into Life, his Eyes begin to roll,
His Heart to beat, to meditate his Soul;
Erect to Heav'n he lifts his ardent Sight,
Charm'd with those glorious Orbs, and Worlds of rolling Light.

FEMALE and Male God shap'd the human Frame
Incorporate, consubstantial, and the Same;
In the Man's Side, his Consort, Woman, lay,
Not yet call'd forth to view the chearful Day;
But Adam slept; for God his Eye-lids press'd,
And took the beauteous Female from his Breast;
From a stol'n Rib the shining Creature rose,
Fresh, fair, and spotless as the falling Snows,
Sparkling and gay as the primœval Light,
Soft to the Touch and lovely to the Sight;
With polish'd Features, but an artless Mind,
Unequal Fate! to damn and bless Mankind.

Like fragant Flow'rs she breathed, commanding Love,
And her Eyes glitter'd, like the Stars above,
So charming was the Mother of our Race,
That Angels gaz'd in transport on her Face.

When thus, in Words, which loud as Thunder, broke,
Th' Almighty to his new Vicegerent spoke;
While list'ning Seraphs on each Accent hung,
And Heav'ns high Domes with hallow'd Ios rung.

“Hail, thou great master-piece of Skill Divine,
“In whom the Features of thy Maker shine;
“For thee alone this spatious Globe was made,
“And the dark searchless Plan of Nature laid;
“For Thee the Seasons and the Year roll round,
“With beauteous Flow'rs and plenteous Harvests crown'd;
“The Wind, subservient to thy Grandeur blows,
“Each Tree bears Fruit, and every River flows;
“For thee is made, whatever may conduce
“To Pleasure, Profit, Ornament and Use;
“Fish, Fowl and Cattle shall obey thy Word,
“And Woman own thee her despotick Lord.

“Enrich'd with Blessings mount thy earthly Throne,
“Subject to thy Creator God alone:
“Female and Male in nuptial Bands be join'd,
“Preserve your Image and improve your kind.

Thus spake, and ceas'd the dread, omnific God,
And up the Heav'n of Heav'ns triumphant rode;
From whence reclin'd the new-born World he view'd,
His handy Labour, and pronounc'd it Good;
The western Sun now shot a feeble Light,
And the sixth Day was wrapt in Shades of Night.

Job 4. 15.

The Destruction of PHARAOH in the Red-Sea.

A Paraphrase on the fourteenth Chapter of EXODUS.

Still unrelenting Pharaoh's Heart remain'd,
And still the Tyrant in his Bosom reign'd;
Moses in vain out-stretch'd the sacred Rod,
And Israel groan'd in Bondage to their God,
The pow'rful Arm of Vengeance he defy'd,
Nor could repeated Plagues unbend his Pride:
With Flies, with Hail and Fire in vain he strove,
And noisome Boils, his stubborn Heart to move;
The Waters roll'd along a crimson Flood,
And Nile her guilty Banks distain'd with Blood,
Locusts the Promise of the Earth destroy,
And Frogs and Lice his Luxuries annoy,

The grazing Cattle feel a sudden Wound,
Horse, Sheep and Camel, press th' unwholesom Ground,
Thro' Ægypt's Coasts the black'ning Crowds arise,
And Darkness to be felt, involves the Skies:
But still he trifled with divine Command,
And scoff'd indignant Heav'n's avenging Hand;
At length th' Almighty gave th' unwilling Stroke
To wrest his Chosen from the painful Yoke;
Throughout the Land, each softer Method try'd,
Of Man and Beast the guiltless First-born dy'd,
Alike the Court and Dungeon mourn'd his Hate;
Not Pharaoh's Heir escap'd the common Fate;
From every Part promiscuous Cries were heard,
Horror and universal Grief appear'd,
And sudden Moses and his God were fear'd:
Ev'n Pharaoh trembled at the direful Ill,
And wish'd to conquer his obdurate Will;
Benumb'd the Tyrant stood with sullen Dread,
And thus to Moses and to Aaron said.

“To Canaan hence, your promis'd Land, depart,
“Your God at length has quite unmann'd my Heart;
“Some Pow'r unknown seems whisp'ring in my Ear,
“My Thoughts are rouz'd and I begin to fear;
“Wherefore no longer to our Ruin stay,
“And with you bear your Flocks and Herds away;
“Be gone this very Night, with all your Host,
“And quit for ever this unhappy Coast;

“If ought be wanting, e'er you quit the Land,
“Or Gold or Raiment, ask it from our Hand;
“Go, serve that God, whose wondrous Works we see,
“And oh! derive his Blessing upon me;
“Go, e'er it yet repent me of your Flight,
“And my Breast harden with returning Light,
“Go, lest some greater Ill we yet endure:
“Enough already, we confess his Pow'r!

His pressing Words the Reverend Prophets heard,
And bowing, from his Presence disappear'd;
The pleasing News at Goshen they relate,
And bear the Tidings of a better Fate:
The Israelite, from Servitude releas'd,
Which long had chas'd all Comfort from his Breast;
Exults triumphant with a keen Delight,
And speeds to Canaan his immediate Flight;
With Flocks and Herds, as sacred Annals say,
The joyful Thousands journey on their Way;
In awful Pomp, the Guardian of their Flight,
An Angel rides before by Day and Night,
By turns in Darkness seen and splendid Light:
High on a Car of Fire thro' desart Sands,
Or a wing'd Cloud he leads the rescued Bands.

Mean while the Tyrant's haughtiness return'd,
And in his Breast rekindling Fury burn'd,

Soon he repented of his coward grace,
And vow'd Revenge on Israel's hated Race;
Each soft Idea perish'd in his Mind,
And left gygantick Pride and Rage behind;
With num'rous armed Hosts, in Dread array,
Wrathful he now pursues them on their way.

When Israel heard of their approaching Foes,
Unrighteous Fears in ev'ry Tent arose;
Thro' devious, lonely Wilds they march along,
A restless, tim'rous and repining Throng;
At length the Streights of Chiroth they obtain,
For so did Heav'n by Stratagem ordain.

To stop their Flight the Ocean roll'd before,
And foam'd in thund'ring Volumes to the Shore;
On either Hand the tow'ring Hills arose,
And close behind advanc'd their vengeful Foes;
With Foes, with Hills and Seas, begirt around,
And Danger threat'ning their ill-omen'd Ground;
“Do we for this, dismay'd with Fear, they cry,
“From Pharaoh, Ægypt, and from Bondage, fly?
“And come we hither then to meet our Doom,
“To make this Desart our inglorious Tomb?
“Better, say they, in Ægypt to remain,
“And patient wear the raging Tyrant's Chain;

“Better to crouch beneath oppressive Hate,
“And all the Hardships of a servile State,
“Than to fall Victims by his powerful Hand,
“And with our Blood enrich the thirsty Sand.

Thus Israel plain'd, and Moses thus reply'd,
“Hush'd be your Fears and let your Doubts subside,
“Secure in God, for your Salvation trust,
“And still believe him to his Promise just;
“Ev'n now his Thoughts with your Deliverance teem,
“Intent his favourite People to redeem,
“This Day you will behold his rising Might,
“How wise in Council, and how strong in Fight;
“This Day the proud Ægyptian he o'erthrows,
“And works the tardy Vengeance on his Foes;
“Go on, as void of Danger, void of Fear,
“Nor let one causeless Jealousy appear;
“Cease, cease at length, ungrateful, to complain
“Of his Injustice, who relieves your Pain;
“With faithful Hopes expect the promis'd Coast,
“Since Heav'n, propitious Heav'n conducts your Host.

He spoke, and rais'd to Heav'n his ardent Eye,
Indulgent Heav'n receiv'd the Prophet's Cry,
And thus did answer: “With a pow'rful Hand
“Far o'er the Seas stretch forth thy gifted Wand,
“When strait th' obedient Waters shall dispart,
“And Wave from Wave with sudden Terror start;

“Rear'd up in Heaps, the Billows shall be seen,
“And rolling, leave a level Space between,
“Thro' which my chosen Israelites shall go,
“And lead to Ruin the revengeful Foe.

Dreadful he spoke, and nodded from his Throne;
Doubling thro' Air the menial Thunders groan,
And trembling Earth and Heav'n th' eternal God-head own.

MOSES obey'd the Dictate of his God,
And o'er the Billows stretch'd his awful Rod;
From right to left the trembling Seas divide,
And rise a lympid Wall on either Side;
And see! between, to patronise their Flight,
An Area opens to the wond'ring Sight,
While Israel's chosen Tribes, a lengthening Train,
Securely pass the intermediate Plain;
Pharaoh pursu'd with unrelenting Hate,
In all his dreadful Tyranny and State;
But now behold and fear Almighty Pow'r,
Behold the Vengeance of one fatal Hour!
Moses again out-stretch'd his Rod from Shore,
The Winds are hush'd, returning Waters roar,
The following Hosts in whelming Oceans sleep,
And Horse and Horseman perish in the Deep.

Then might you see, in all his gorgeous Pride,
Great Pharaoh struggling with the stubborn Tide;
Then might you hear him curse his Fate in vain,
His Pride, Ambition and oppressive Reign;
Too late Remorse upbraids his tortur'd Soul,
And booming o'er his Head the Billows roll.

The Sons of Israel from the Banks ador'd
The mighty Vengeance of their heav'nly Lord;
His Pow'r with joy and wonder they confess'd,
And Faith reviv'd in ev'ry glowing Breast;
To Heav'n the Shouts of Gratitude they raise,
And the wide Plains resound with Hymns of praise.

See the second Verse of this Chapter.

THE LEGEND: A POEM

[_]

To the Memory of Sir Thomas White, Founder of St. John's College in Oxford.

—Και γαρ τ'οναρ εκ Διος εστιν.
Hom. II.

For God is also in sleep and dreams advise,
Which he has sent propitious, some great good
Presaging.
Milton Par. Lost.

Hail to the Man, whom sacred thirst of Fame
Amongst the stars enroll'd a shining Name!
In whose great Soul Apollo fix'd his Seat,
And exil'd Virtue found a safe Retreat:

Who, only to exhaust, increas'd his Store,
And spar'd himself, that he might give the more.

Say, Muse, how still his Sacred Ashes live,
And o'er the Triumphs of the Grave survive:
What Blessings stream'd from his indulgent Hand,
Like morning Dews, and spread o'er half the Land:
How the big embryo's brooded in his Mind,
And sleep confirm'd what Heav'n and White design'd.

Pardon, great Shade! long since from Earth retir'd;
The pious transport of a Youth inspir'd:
Inspir'd to sing in unambitious lays,
A grateful Tribute to his Founder's praise.

His Virtues Heav'n with vast abundance crown'd,
Industrious to diffuse his Gifts around;
Th' immortal Power well knew his boundless Mind,
Whom to enrich was to enrich Mankind.

With silent joy he saw his Wealth increast,
New plans of Bounty forming in his Breast;
And with the same profusion it was giv'n,
He lavish'd the Benevolence of Heav'n:
Fortune disarm'd contracts a guiltless brow,
Forc'd to a Justice she repines to show:

Pale want and hunger are in plenty lost,
And Charity shakes off her wonted Frost.

Old Ocean thus into his ample Main
Receives each circling River's copious Train;
Nor studious to extend his antient Bounds,
And whelm in roaring Seas the frontier Grounds,
Thro' many a porous subterranean Cave
Returns each supernumerary Wave;
Or pours it back in rich Supplies of Rain,
To swell the redd'ning Grape, and plump the teeming Grain.

It chanc'd, when soft Favonian gusts untie
The stiff'ned Floods, and warm the frozen Sky;
When genial heats distil on every Gale,
And various Flora paints the blushing Vale:
The smiling Season call'd our Hero forth,
To view her op'ning Blooms, and lab'ring Earth:
Silent he strays along the lonely Mead,
Where Shrubs their aromatick Fragrance bleed;
His Thoughts a while unbent from doing Good,
Wrapt in the Murmurs of the Vocal flood:
When, faint with Age, or sudden Cares oppress'd,
On the green Herb he stretch'd his Limbs to rest;
Thick Shades, obsequious to the Call, arise,
And a deep Slumber seals his weary Eyes;

His Fancy still awake; the roving Guest
Usurps the Throne of Reason in his Breast:
Forms great Ideas, and religious Schemes,
A busy mime, and floats in golden Dreams.

For see! thro' Air an Angel wings his Flight,
Shrin'd in a Radiance of æthereal Light;
An Olive wreath his flaming Temples bound,
Which seem'd to cast a breezy Shade around:
With Wings expanded o'er the Heroe's Head,
In Words like these, the glorious Vision said.

“Hail, pious Man! in ev'ry Fortune prov'd
“Wise, good and just; by God and Man belov'd!
“Dispatch'd from Heav'n I come; what I relate,
“Hear and believe, and speed the Birth of Fate.

“Where the fam'd Isis laves the verdant Soil
“With fruitful Streams, and crowns the Farmer's Toil;
“Sacred to Learning sumptuous Domes arise,
“And heave their hoary Summits to the Skies:
“Amid these reverend Piles, the Seats of Worth,
“An Elm luxuriant lifts her triple Birth;
“Which Heav'n industrious planted, to withstand
“The Rage of Time, and mock his iron Hand:
“In comely Rank the sister Trees upshoot,
“Share the same vital Sap and parent Root.

“There shalt thou build (for so hath Heav'n decreed;
“As Heav'n enjoins, he will reward the Deed)
“A stately Dome, majestic to the Sight,
“And solid Stone shall bear its quadrate Height:
“There infant Bards shall try the golden Lyre,
“And soften into Sound the jarring Wire:
“There shall the Muse essay her tender Wings
“In humble Strains, and tremble as she sings;
“Till, by degrees embolden'd to the Flight,
“She soars on high, and gains a loftier height.
“From thence shall flow a venerable Race,
“Vers'd in each Art, and form'd with ev'ry Grace:
“Men turn'd to serve in all degrees of Life,
“To limit Laws, or quell seditious Strife;
“To guard the Church, or sway a stormy State,
“For pious Counsels fam'd, and cool Debate:
“Who fond and studious of the public Weal,
“Shall serve their Country with an ardent Zeal;
“With native Freedom bold, despise the Rage
“Of daring Frenzy, and a rebel Age.

“Haste then, great Man, to act as Heav'n decreed,
“And to late Times transmit the God-like Deed:
“Let the high Dome, Immortaliz'd to Fame,
“Worthy the Baptist, bear the Baptist's Name.

So spake the Vision, and resumes the Skies,
While downy Sleep forsakes the Heroe's Eyes:

Still, lost in Extasy, he seems to hear;
Still the soft Accents murmur in his Ear;
Still glow'd his Breast, with deep Attention charm'd;
Still throb'd his Heart, with pious Ardour warm'd;
His inmost Soul with eager Glory fir'd,
Resolv'd to execute what Heav'n inspir'd:
The great Foundation grows his hourly Theme,
And rising Roofs confess the golden Dream.

He was Benefactor to most of the Cities and Corporations in England.

Upon the Death of, Mr. ADDISON;

Inscrib'd to the Earl of WARWICK.

If yet, my Lord, your Sorrows find relief,
And a short Pause succeeds your weighty Grief;
With Candour this unwelcome Verse peruse,
The last kind Office of a grateful Muse:
Nor needs the grateful Muse to court thy Ear,
Which sheds for Addison a pious Tear;
And jointly sorrows, with pathetick Rage,
The greatest Genius of the greatest Age;

Whom Rival-wits with Veneration name,
And the foul Lips of Party durst not blame.

What secret Curse attends the Poet-line?
How have the Muses urg'd the Wrath divine?
Say, holy Sires, is Poetry a Crime?
Or whence these Judgments on the Sons of Rhime?
Why are the noblest Spirits snatch'd away
In their full Blaze of intellectual Day?
While Crowds of worthless Drones are left behind,
Grown white with Years, the Lumber of Mankind,
That loll, fat Canons, in some lazy Stall,
Or thoughtless sleep within a College Wall?
To its full Length they stretch the mortal Span,
Nor lose a Moment of the Age of Man;
But dully dreaming out their vital Store,
Drop ripe into their Graves, and are no more.

Scarce have our tender Sorrows ceas'd to flow
For courtly Garth, and soft-complaining Rowe;
Like Ovid witty one; in one conspire
Otway's prevailing Art, and Lucan's Fire:
Both these together drain'd our lavish Eyes;
Will not two Poets in a Year suffice?
Shall twelve short Months an Age's Woes ingross,
And Addison compleat the Nation's Loss.

Who then in manly Numbers shall record
The future, glorious Deeds of Brunswick's Sword?
Who now correct the Follies of the Age,
Or give new Lustre to the British Stage?
With Foreign Stores enrich his native Land,
Or deign to youthful Bards his willing Hand?

Great as he was, the Monarch of the Bays,
Plac'd far above the reach of mortal Praise;
In every Thought tho' Wit Divine appear,
Yet aw'd by modest dread and cautions Fear,
Seldom (too seldom!) did he put it forth,
Still most ambitious to conceal his Worth;
Stunn'd with applauding Crowds, he check'd his Flight,
And, wearied with Admirers, fear'd to write;
In his own Praise he felt a painful Shame,
And blush'd at the Abundance of his Fame.

So the fair Virgin with Confusion hears
Her Charms extol'd, and shuts her tortur'd Ears;
From the Encomiums of the Youth she flies,
And strives to hide the Lustre of her Eyes.

From this great Master of poetick Art,
Ye num'rous Bards that swarm in ev'ry Part,
And with laborious Nonsense load the Press,
Learn to contemplate more, and scribble less:

Learn, from this great Example, to command
Your Thirst of Fame, and stop an itching Hand:
Think not that Wit in bulky Volumes lies,
(Alas what witless Volumes daily rise.)
Oft is it wanting in a thousand Lines,
And often in a single Couplet shines.

While others on a part of Learning dwell,
Proud in one single Science to excel;
And as the scatter'd Stars adorn the Sky,
In diff'rent Arts their diff'rent Talents try;
Nor aim at more; great Addison alone
No Branch of human Knowledge left unknown;
But like the Sun inimitably bright,
Shone with collected Rays, the source of Light;
In Verse or Prose, with more than mortal Art,
He struck the Passions, and he warm'd the Heart:
Various, but still unrival'd, was his Song,
Now soft like Ovid, now like Virgil strong:
For ev'ry Theme his Genius was the same,
And each new Piece still added to his Fame.

But whither is this Boast of Britain fled?
Lies the great Author of our Glory dead?
Shall we, tormenting Thought! expect in vain,
A second Cato or a new Campain?
Why did not gracious Heav'n prolong his Date,
And shield him from the Rage of envious Fate?

Why did th' Almighty trust this common Good,
To the frail Elements of Flesh and Blood;
Expos'd to Ills, and subject to Decay,
The feeble, short-liv'd Creature of a Day?
Why was his Life not boundless as his Mind,
To bless the future Ages of Man kind?

But Heav'n to punish our repeated Crimes,
Call'd him from Earth to breathe in happier Climes:
For now in the gay mansions of the Skies
(If there the promis'd Land of Glory lies)
With kindred Bards that liv'd in earliest Days,
The rev'rend Fathers of harmonious Lays,
He joyns his tuneful Voice, his Lyre he strings,
And Maro listens whilst his Rival sings;
Great Somers fixes on his well known Face,
And Cato greets him with a stern Embrace.

TARQUIN AND LUCRECE.

[_]

Address'd to a young Lady in OXFORD, who had been ravish'd,

Of Dames who in strict Virtue glory,
In antient or in modern Story;
The fam'd Lucretia bears the Bell,
An arrant Prude, as Authors tell;
So squeamish, fanciful and nice,
She startled at the Thought of Vice;
For having once, against her Will,
And with a Prince committed Ill;
Possess'd with strange romantick Pride,
She stab'd her self, forsooth, and dy'd;
For she would no Example give,
For future Prostitutes to live:

(Lord help her! if the Sex will sport,
They never want Examples for't)
This Feat of hers alarm'd the Age,
And set the Nation in a Rage;
Each Roman Cit was seiz'd with Dread,
Thought the Horns sprouting on his Head;
With Doubts and Jealousies perplext,
Lest his own Turn should be the next:
And therefore all resolve as one,
To rout both Father and the Son;
Bad may you think was Tarquin's Case;
Him they expel and all his Race;
His Name, and ev'n the Name of Kings,
(For Rapes were then no trivial Things)
The State grew popular and common,
And all by one poor silly Woman.

But tho' this Deed in former Days
Procur'd our Madam wondrous Praise;
Yet let not any modern Beauty
Hence rashly judge, that 'tis her Duty,
For every little breach of Honour,
To take Lucretia's Air upon her;
(For in this strict religious Season,
Such Cautions can't be void of Reason)
In ancient Times the Roman Dame,
To save her Virtue and her Fame,

According to the Pagan Creed,
Might do a meritorious Deed;
She might ------ but in a Christian Nation,
Self Murther's worse than Violation.

Catullus imitated Ep. 7.

Quæris quot mihi Bassiationes.

In vain, my gentle Charmer, you inquire
How many thousand Kisses I desire;
Say first, how many Sands the Shores contain,
And Drop by Drop the boundless Ocean drain;
Count all the Stars that gild the silent Night,
And glitter, conscious of each stol'n Delight:
Count all the Leaves, that on ten thousand Trees
Tremble, obedient to the Morning Breeze:
Count all the Courtiers Arts, the Tradesman's Lies,
The Miser's Wishes, and the Lover's Sighs,
Then will I tell thee, nor till then enquire,
How many thousand Kisses I desire;
Scarce will Arithmetick the Sum explain,
Millions on Millions multiply'd in vain.

Catullus imitated. Ep. 5.

While Life, my Dear, remains, enjoy thy Charms,
And deaf to Censure, take me to thy Arms;
The Evening Sun descends into the Main,
And sets, to rise with brighter Beams again;
The Lilly folds her Beauties up at Night,
And opens fairer to the morning Light:
But you, to charm no more, resign your Breath,
And sleeping, moulder in eternal Death;
For a few Years the vital Oil may burn,
And to your native Nothing you return:
Wherefore let's love this fleeting Life away,
And laugh at what ill-natur'd Churchmen say:
O let me on thy panting Breast recline,
And press my burning, humid Lips to thine;
A thousand Kisses let me first implore,
And after them a thousand thousand more;
A thousand thousand let me still repeat,
Till my Joys grow as numberless as great,
Till envious Tongues in their Account are crost,
And magick in her secret Art is lost.

Catullus to Himself.

Miser Catulle, desinas ineptire.

At length, Catullus, give thy Follies o'er,
Nor vainly wish lost Pleasures to restore;
Thou hast indeed been blest with golden Days,
And Suns have rose with more auspicious Rays,
While frequently thy lov'd one thou didst see,
More lov'd, than any other shall, by me.
All then was Mirth, and Joy succeeding Joy,
For ever new, nor was thy Charmer coy:
Your Sighs she heard, was to your Wishes kind,
And to your Will she constantly resign'd:

Then wast thou bless'd indeed with golden Days,
Then the Suns rose with more auspicious Rays:

But since the false one thy Embraces flies,
Do thou contemn the Joy, which she denies,
Court not against her Will the servile Kiss,
Nor in a fickle Woman place thy Bliss:

Turn from thy manly Breast the faithless Dame,
Assert thy Freedom, and subdue thy Flame.

'Tis done, my childish Follies I give o'er,
Adieu, vain thing! Catullus sighs no more;
No more to thee he sighs, nor tamely sues,
For what, in scornful Pride, thou dost refuse;
But thou shalt mourn thy own perverse Disdain,
And long to feel me in thy Arms, in vain;
For, what new Joys our Raptures will succeed?
Who now submissive at thy Feet will bleed?
Who after me thy fading Charms admire?
Whom wilt thou chuse to quench thy raging Fire?
Whose Lips with eager Kisses wilt thou bite,
And in whose Arms enjoy the luscious Night?
For now my childish Follies I give o'er;
Adieu, vain thing! Catullus sighs no more.

On the Images of the Nine leaden Muses upon the new Printing-House in OXFORD.

An EPIGRAM.

In Oxford Crouds of stupid Bards are found,
Where of all Places bright ones should abound;
Dull plodding Blockheads, without Sense or Fire,
Toil hard for Fame, and to the Bays aspire:
From deep Logicians shallow Wits commence,
Old Dogs at Rhime, no matter for the Sense;
If the Lines flow but smooth, and jingle well,
The Man's a Poet, and his Verses sell;
Nor is it strange, but rightly weigh the thing,
That our soft Bards so indolently sing,
Or that the Genius of the Place is dead,
When our inspiring Muses breathe in Lead:
High on the stately Dome, with Harp in hand,
Their lumpish Deities exalted stand,

Fix'd as a publick Mark, that all might know,
What wretched heavy Stuff they print below.

Catullus imitated. Ep. 58.

Cloe, dear Jack, that once victorious Name,
Cloe, the Object of my raging Flame,
Whom I did more than Life or Friendship prize,
In Fleetstreet now a common Strumpet plies,
Turns up to ev'ry Puppy in the Town,
And claps the Temple Rake for half a Crown.

On the Same.

Cloe, as soon as she has plaid the Whore,
Repents the Deed, and vows to do't no more;
With the next Man she meets, to cure her Pain,
She breaks her Vow, repents, and vows again;
Breaks it again, so yielding is the Dame,
And does the next Day and the next the same;
Or keep thy Vows, frail Nymph, or vow no more,
Cease to repent, or cease to play the Whore.
Plain Fornication is a venial Evil,
But Perjury leads headlong to the Devil.

On the Tenth of JUNE.

Stuck upon the School Walls in OXFORD.

If Fame says true, on this auspicious Morn
A Beggar, Coward, and a Fool was born;
By lazy lineal Right, three Crowns he claims,
And cloaths his wandring Friends with mimick Names;
Proud of his fancied Birth, he boasts his Race,
And apes his mighty Sires in ev'ry Grace.
With the first Ch---s in Bigotry he vies,
Fierce like the Second to the Battle flies,
Like J---s he's gracious, and like A---a wise.

Cupid match'd.

As from the Honeycomb one Day,
Young Cupid filch'd the Sweets away,
Intent on the felonious Wrong,
A watchful Bee his Fingers stung.

Impatient of the Smart and Pain,
He frets, and puffs, and stamps in vain.
To Venus in a Rage he flies,
And sniv'ling, see Mamma, he cries,
What Mischief lurks in little Things,
A scurvy Bee this Torment brings:
Shall such vile Insects, quoth the Boy,
The Pleasures of a God destroy?

While thus with peevish Rage he burn'd,
The Goddess, with a Smile return'd.

Cease, Child, thy Wonder at the hurtful Bee
A Pow'r more hurtful is repos'd in Thee,
Like that fierce Animal on slender Wings,
Thou roam'st abroad; thy Arrows are thy Stings:
Tho' small thy Stature seem, thy fatal Darts
Subdue Almighty Strength, and pierce immortal Hearts.

To a Lady who said she would never marry a Whig.

Must Brunswick and his Friends for ever bear,
The keen Resentments of the British Fair?
Still crown'd with Glory, must he curse his Fate,
Fear'd by the World, expos'd to Female Hate?

In vain, he boasts, how firm his Empire stands;
How the World listens to his dread Commands;
Beneath his Sword how many Thousands fell;
What boots Dominion if the Fair rebel?
To court their Favour first deserves his Care,
No Policies avail against the Fair;
To check their Fury, all Attempts are vain,
Leagues have no Power, and Armies meet disdain.

Yet say, what Virtue or superior Grace,
What hidden Charms exalts the Tory Race?
The youthful Whig, with as polite an Air,
Sings, dresses, dances, and gallants the Fair;
With the same scorching Fires and nervous Heats,
His Pulses kindle, and his Bosom beats;
He loves as fiercely as the Tory Swain,
And burns with equal Rage, tho' burns in vain.

Too rashly, fair one, you condemn our Cause;
And judge of our Deserts by partial Laws.
Think not the Whig, what falsely some pretend,
To lawless Rule and Anarchy a Friend;
Foe to the Church, of an abandon'd Life,
And a most horrid Creature to his Wife;
That with a double Edge his Tenets strike,
And wound his Monarch and his Spouse alike;
For tho' my Soul despotick Pow'r disdains,
Yet gladly it submits to female Chains;

In Love no free-born Liberties I crave,
An humble, passive, non-resisting, Slave.

Catullus imitated. Ep. 84. CÆLIA and LAURA.

Cælia to many does the Venus seem,
Of all the reigning Nymphs near Isis Stream,
The Toast of Coxcombs, and the Poet's Theme
To me (th' impartial Truth I will declare)
Her Eyes seem sprightly, her Complection fair,
Plump are her Limbs, majestick is her Air,
And yet no Venus is the buxom Dame;
Since nought Divine informs her bulky Frame,
No Charm to merit that illustrious Name.
But Laura is a Venus in the Whole,
Whose awful Title no Defects controul,
Unblemish'd in her Body and her Soul;
In her, a graceful Shape, a comely Mien,
And all the Charms of all the Sex are seen;
Still rising in her Bloom; but just Eighteen.

To a Friend in LONDON.

Well dost thou ask me in thy friendly Lays,
How in this factious Place I spend my Days:
Why briefly thus; as is the modish way,
Seldom I read, and much more seldom pray:
Logick I like not, that mechanick Art,
To prove the Whole is greater than a Part:
Divinity and Law alike displease;
In short, I love my Bottle and my Ease;
The Tenor of a College Life I keep,
Eat thrice a Day, pun, smoke, get drunk, and sleep.

Never to Love I tune my artless String,
For to what She at Oxford shou'd I sing;
Our first-rate Toasts, that sparkle at the Ball,
Scarce rise above the Shop-board or the Stall;
A vulgar Race—yet so confounded vain,
They strut in tawdry Silks, and spurn at ev'ry Swain:
Wherefore some holy Dotard let them wed,
And take the rev'rend Lumber to their Bed;

There let the Doctor, in a wanton Mood,
Drudge out the last dull Spirits of his Blood:
For me, by Heav'n, with some damn'd common Dame,
Sooner at Wyburn's would I quench my Flame;
Take the lewd Strumpet to my warm Embrace,
Than mix with such a scoundrel haughty Race.

Oxon Dec. 20, 1718.

Mahomet's Kingdom.

E'er the sixth Age the Christian Faith decreas'd,
And stubborn Errors spread o'er all the East;
The Judas Priest, debauch'd with sensual Pride
Aspir'd to Empire which his Lord deny'd;
The Layman too, from present Joys debarr'd,
Spurn'd at the Promise of a late Reward;
Which Mahomet observ'd, and in his Mind,
The crafty Kingdom of this World design'd;
He saw how vain was all persuasive Art,
The Task how tedious to convince the Heart;
In spite of Truth that Heresies prevail'd,
That Signs from Heaven, and Miracles had fail'd;
And boldly therefore, in th' Almighty's Name,
Arm'd with the Sword, and carnal Weapons came;

In Fields of Blood he prov'd his Mission true;
And who embrac'd not what he taught, he slew;
Nor was our Prophet wanting to delude,
The fearful, dull, believing Multitude;
To their own Wish he fram'd his Paradise,
A courtly Mansion of celestial Vice;
Fair Virgins, purling Brooks, and flow'ry Shades,
Delicious Themes! for your Arabian Blades.
What airy Belle, or modish courtly Knight,
Whom lewd Intrigues and Gallantry delight,
Cou'd not with Ease think that Religion good,
Which courts his Sense, appeals to Flesh and Blood?
Thy Wit we all, O Mahomet, applaud,
Tho' Heav'n commands us to detest the Fraud;
Wealth to thy Sons on Earth and Pow'r is given,
And after Death, a soft luxurious Heaven.

Catullus imitated. Ep. 81.

Before her Husband, Lesbia calls me Names,
And at the Lewdness of the Town exclaims;
This tickles the poor Cuckold to the Life,
And he thanks Heav'n for such a virtuous Wife.
Contented Fool!—indeed you reason wrong,
If she were virtuous, she would hold her Tongue;
Scandal and Noise her Virtue do not prove,
But are the Marks of unextinguish'd Love

Still, in her Veins, the wanton Itch prevails,
And, in the madness of her Lust, she rails.

Warning to young married Men.

Whilom in Kent there liv'd a jolly Swain,
Young Colinet, the Genius of the Plain;
Sonnets he wrote, could sing and whistle well
Crack witty Jokes, and merry Stories tell;
At Wakes and Weddings always led the Dance,
And drew from every Lass the wishful Glance;
Courteous he was, and skilful to perswade;
Soon to his Lures he won the Parsons Maid;
He married, and (O mournful to relate!)
Grew a meer Tyrant in the nuptial State;
Assum'd Dominion o'er his trembling Wife,
And prov'd a very Husband all his Life;
No more as once he charm'd her list'ning Ear,
Call'd her no more, my Honey, and my Dear;
But daily, from his Work, returning Home,
With dreadful Oaths and Curses shook the Room;
To ev'ry humble Question he'd reply,
You saucy B*tch, G*d d**n you, what care I?
No Answer would the frowning Churl afford,
But snapt the Woman short at ev'ry Word;

When to the Alehouse, from his Pipe and Pot,
She came to fetch the drunken midnight Sot;
Out of the House, he cry'd, be gone! away!
And reeling, stammer'd in her Ears, Obey!
Then shook the Crab-tree Cudgel in his Hand
The well-known Ensign of his stern Command.

Tir'd out at Length with this vexatious Course,
And finding ev'ry Day that it grew worse,
She vow'd, grown desp'rate, to revenge her Wrong,
And bear no longer what she bore so long;
To a brisk, neighb'ring Barber she apply'd,
With all my Heart, the gallant Barber cry'd:
Now whilst Abroad the Tyrant-bumpkin roams,
With silent Haste the watchful Lecher comes;
Her welcome Guest the injur'd Wife receives,
And for politer Work her Spinning leaves,
Up Stairs she leads him, springs into his Arms,
And fir'd with Transport, opens all her Charms:
Now, Colly, triumph now, in Scorn she said,
Proud of the Honours that adorn thy Head.

Three Times the pleasing Vengeance they repeat,
And with becoming Horns the Brute compleat.

Jupiter and Cloe.

Young Cloe, frolicksome and gay,
Was reading, once upon a Day,
How Jove, as Ovid's Lines record
(And Ladies will take Ovid's Word)
Us'd to descend in borrow'd Shapes,
And sport in Cuckoldoms and Rapes.
Delightful Stories!—as she read,
A Maggot jump'd into her Head:
Thus to her self, “Does Jove then mind,
‘Us mortal Girls? Extremely kind!
‘Now I'll be further, quoth the Dame,
“If this loose God be not the same,
“Dress'd in rich Velvet and Brocade,
“That won my Heart last Masquerade;
‘Hold—let me think—it must be so,
‘It could not be a common Beau.
“Lord! there was something so Divine—
“Well, hang it all, I'll not repine;
“For if his Godship likes the Sport,
“He'll never damn a Body for't.

Advicd to my self on being threatned to be expell'd

Prithee, dear Nick, thy wicked Life amend,
And take the Counsel of thy nearest Friend:
No more, presumptuous Boy, with impious airs,
Prefer the tempting Bottle to thy Prayers;
No more at Newnham, nor at Woodstock dine;
Abandon Finmore's Ale and Richmond's Wine;
No more by Water, nor on Horseback rove,
Nor Mind the gadding Girls in Maudlin Grove;
Cease with repeated Crimes to urge the Spleen
Of the grave Vice and Silver-button'd Dean;
Ah! that with them alone thou hadst to strive,
For they are candid both, and will forgive;
But Crowds of ev'ry Species are thy Foes,
Fops, Ladies, Critics, Parsons, Wits, and Beaux;
All these united with revengeful Hate,
Vow thy Destruction, and conspire thy Fate.

Crassus on thee contracts his wrathful Brows,
And Semivir thy speedy Ruin Vows:
Whither, expell'd, for Succour wilt thou run?
Thy Fortune squander'd, and thy Fame undone?
A dark blind Room in Grub-street wilt thou take,
And venial Ditties, for thy living, make?
Wilt thou in Love-odes, or in Satire deal,
Translate old Authors, or from modern steal?
In mournful elegiac Rhimes complain,
Or try thy Fate in the dramatick Strain?
These all are Arts in which but few prevail,
For one that gets a Dinner, twenty fail.
Or wilt thou rather, studious of Success,
Lay Schemes with C**l, and ply the spurious Press.
By Fraud and Artifice obtain Renown,
And with decoying Titles cheat the Town;
While he shall grant thee, to reward thy Flight,
At Noon a Dinner, and a Whore at Night?
No, this to Want and Infamy will lead,
Soon will he turn thee off, when none will read.
Think then betimes, thy former Course forsake,
Espouse the Church at last, and quit the Rake;
Check thy free-thinking Vein, thy Sins acknowledge,
And grow a dull, old Fellow of a College.

The Vice-President,

The Dean of the College.

The Free-thinker converted.

Sir Fopling, crost in Love and stript at Play,
Pensive and grumbling on his Pillow lay;
How vain says he, are all the Things below,
Sway'd by a Woman, or a fickle Throw?
Is this the boasted Pow'r of humane Souls,
Which Fortune or a foolish Wench controuls?
No, we are Slaves; our Nature is a Cheat,
And Reason serves to shew us the Deceit;
The servile Tools of Providence we live,
Content with what the Heav'ns vouchsafe to give:
Life on such niggard Terms I scorn to keep,
Death take me hence—he spoke and dropt asleep.

When to his Fancy there appear'd a spright,
Such as old Wives, upon a Winter Night,
Describe to keep the naughty Boys in awe,
With two long spindle Shanks, a lantern Jaw;
Nor Flesh nor Skin the Phantom seem'd to have,
Ycleped Death, the Monarch of the Grave;

A Tyrant, dreaded by the old and young,
His dry Bones rattled as he stalk'd along.

Kind Heav'n, says he, has heard thy urgent Pray'r,
And takes thee from a World beneath thy Care;
Lo! thus I execute his high Command,
And shook the Hour-glass in his scraggy Hand;
Then poizing for the Blow his barbed Dart,
Aim'd it directly at the Coxcomb's-Heart.

Sir Fopling, startled at the fancied Stroke,
Shrunk from the Point, and in his Fears awoke;
A cold, damp Sweat his dewy Cheeks o'erspread,
And his Limbs trembled all with panick Dread;
Upon his Knees the gracious Pow'rs he blest,
And the Presumption of his Heart confess'd:
Quite alter'd now from what he was before,
He rakes and rattles and blasphemes no more;
Grows a meer Saint, converted in a Fright,
And says his Pray'rs devoutly ev'ry Night.

To a Friend in LONDON, upon my returning to College.

While You, dear Tom, in London City,
Associate with the fair and witty,
And, gayly rambling o'er the Town,
Take the brisk Juice in Bumpers down;
Or, charm'd with the persuasive Stage,
Laugh at the Follies of the Age;
To College wretched I return,
And Day and Night with Spleen I burn:
From jovial Friends, from Pipe and Bottle,
To Pray'rs and musty Aristotle,
From decent Meals, and wholsome Wines,
To foggy Coll. and Mutton Loins,
From well-bred Mirth, to stupid Puns,
Of Pedants and of College Dons,
My happy course of Life I change;
No more I dress, no more I range,
But pensive mope within all Day,
And sleep and rhime the Hours away;

A gentle Song to Laura send,
Or scribble something to my Friend;
This Morning, as I stalk'd about,
These Lines to thee I hammer'd out.

Thou, TOM, with Rapture and Delight,
Enjo'st the fair one in thy Sight,
The fair one too perhaps on thee,
Smiles, as she tattles o'er her Tea:
Whilst far from these distracted Eyes,
My absent Laura's Image flies,
To her my constant Thoughts I bend,
In Sighs to her my Wishes send;
In vain from Sighs I hope Relief,
And Thinking but augments my Grief;
Her distant Lips I seem to kiss,
And cheat my self with fancy'd Bliss.

Excuse me, that I say no more,
My Veins with raging Fires boil o'er,
Wild roll my Eyes, my Heart grows sad,
Pox take me if I don't run mad.

Oxon, Nov. 10, 1718.

College Ale.

Upon Parties.

Curst be that busy Wretch, that human Beast,
(Some crafty Statesman or ambitious Priest)
Who first his own pernicious Schemes to build
His native Country with Divisions fill'd;
The Bands of Friendship and Relation tore,
And broke that Union we enjoy'd before;
All social Rights and social Ties dissolv'd,
And into Factions the blind World involv'd.

What mighty Ills by Party have been done?
What Empires ruin'd? What long Wars begun?
What Treasure and what Bloodshed has it cost?
What Millions for a Party have been lost?
To this we owe the Curse of every Age,
Treason, Sedition, Feud, and civil Rage;
To this we owe, that, drunk with frantick Zeal,
The holy Bigot draws his thirsty Steel;
For trifling Piques his Neighbour's Life demands,
And stains in kindred Blood his impious Hands;

Hence Crowds enrag'd with fatal Anger meet,
And the mad Populace embroil the Street;
Hence Cato perish'd in his Country's Cause.
And Julius triumph'd o'er the Roman Laws;
Hence York and Lancaster, with Rival Might,
Led forth their wasteful Armies to the Fight;
While each contended for supream Command,
And with wild Havock strew'd the bleeding Land;
Hence we derive the Discords and the Woes,
Which in the last dire Century arose,
With her own Wounds the jarring Nation bled
A Monarch in rebellious Chains was led,
And the Church bow'd to Earth her sacred Head.

But why on distant Evils do I dwell,
Which our own factious Times describe so well?
Unnumber'd Sects unnumber'd Schemes devise,
And mutual Vengeance reddens in their Eyes;
Each in their Right believes himself alone,
And rails at all Religions but his own:
The Tory with his sworn Opinions big,
Glows with hot Zeal, and cries G*d d**n the Whig;
The Whig, of his Perswasion full as vain,
Damns the vile Tory, in as proud a Strain;
The Papist and the Protestant by turns,
As Interest dictates, or as Conscience burns;
Idolater! and Heretick! exclaim;
Such are the Honours paid the Christian Name!

Nay, farther does this rude Distemper reach,
For ev'n the Ladies now Religion preach,
O'er their Bohea in Politicks debate,
And drop their Scandal for Affairs of State;
For Marlborough some, and some for Ormond plead,
Just as the Parish Priest has fram'd their Creed:
In Love all Damsels are extreamly Nice,
And think a Mungril-match a shameful Vice,
Each takes her Likeness to the Marriage Bed,
Whigs mate with Whigs and Tories Tories wed,

Thus Man-on-Man eternal War proclaims,
Branding each other with opprobrious Names;
And lest with them their Enmity should cease,
And when they die, the World be hush'd in Peace,
A num'rous Race of Successors they raise,
To propagate their Feuds in after Days;
Soon as they learn to speak, their careful Sires
Light in their tender Breasts the Party-fires,
Master is taught to lisp the Doctor's Name,
And pretty little Miss must do the same;
They must not play with Presbyterian Boys,
Nor let a Low-Church Girl prophane their Toys;
As they grow up, the Seeds of Party shoot,
And in their ripen'd Breasts take deeper Root:

Those whom they fled, when Children, still they fly,
Upon their Persons cast an evil Eye;
The same ill Will tenaciously maintain,
And fight their Father's Quarrels o'er again.

Upon the Same.

Tories and Whigs, with mutual selfish Pride,
In all their Quarrels for themselves decide,
Both Parties their own Principles prefer,
And in their own Opinion cannot err;
Yet both condemn, and for the same Pretence,
The Church of Rome, and talk of common Sense.
Does then to us, this Privilege belong?
And must the Pope alone be in the Wrong?
Or shall we rather say, that void of Light,
Heav'n leaves us all uncertain of the Right?

An Epilogue for the Tragedy of King HENRY IV. of France, design'd to have been spoken by Charlotta.

Well—I suppose you now sit all agog
In hopes to hear a smutty Epilogue,
With filthy Meanings couch'd in modern Guise;
Ye wicked Toads! I read it in your Eyes;
Gad! you're of late so horrid vicious grown,
Nothing but fulsom Lewdness will go down;
Your Palate's so debauch'd, you cannot eat
Without provoking Sauce, the nicest Meat,

Dearly you love the bold intriguing Blade,
And chuckle, when an Assignation's made,
Yet little dream, that often, while you come,
To laugh at other Men, you'r dub'd at home.
How many of you if the Truth were known,
Point at your Neighbour's Horns, to screen your own?
So one gay Ideot when he sees another,
Makes senseless Jokes, and titters at his Brother.

You thought, perhaps, I'd sneer my Husband's Fate,
With lewd Reflections on the Marriage-State;
Did you, sweet Sirs?—No, faith, you're all mistaken,
I shall not speak one Word for Cuckold-making.
Indeed our most obliging Bard to day
Has made me something modish in his Play:
But durst he hint it once behind the Scenes,
I'd ask the pert young Puppy—what he means;
For let me tell you, that Prince Condi's Wife,
Bad as you think her, leads an honest Life.

Shame on such foul Corrupters of the Age!
What! would you make a Brothel of the Stage?
No Play of late can be obscene enough;
Think ye, the Ladies like such paw-paw Stuff?
Sorely against our Will we act such Parts,
And speak the naughty Words with grumbling Hearts;
Yet now and then forsooth we must comply
With your politer Taste—good Reason why;
For should we dare to thwart your wanton Vein,
You'd starve us quite, and flock to Drury-Lane.

The Wish.

When real Blessings are to Men deny'd,
With airy Hopes they gratify their Pride;
To every Wretch this Privilege extends,
However void of Acres or of Friends:
The Bankrupt wishes for the Statesman's Post,
And each Foot-Soldier to command an Host;
The meanest Curate that reads Pray'rs in Town,
Or in the Country, awes the gaping Clown,
Thinks to be call'd, His Grace, before he dies,
And looks at Lambeth with ambitious Eyes;
The brawny Footman, conscious of his Worth,
Forgets his servile State and humble Birth,
Dresses, looks spruce, and with designing Art
Lays tempting Snares to catch his Lady's Heart;
While the smug Chamber-maid, with equal Pride,
Ogles Sir John, and hopes to be his Bride.

Like Fellow-mortals thus I live on Air,
Nor will Self-Love permit me to despair,

Tho' Fortune sinks me to my native Dust,
On future Blessings I securely trust.
Lo! Reader, to thy Bosom I impart
The Secret, whole Ambition of my Heart.

Grant me, kind Heav'n, five hundred Pounds a Year,
From Mortgages and Tythes, and Taxes clear,
And (if a Beggar might presume to chuse)
In a sweet Climate to oblige my Muse,
Where Thames thro' fruitful Countries pours his Tide,
Or where thy wanton Streams, O Medway, glide;
There lodge me in a pleasant rural Seat,
And let the River murmur at its Feet,
Screen'd from the Sun, and shelter'd from the Wind,
Before a Prospect, and a Wood behind.

Then grant me, Heav'n, the second Boon of Life,
Next to a good Estate, a pretty Wife,
A fond, young toying Girl, and full of Flame,
(Not a cold, phlegmatick, insipid Dame)
In whom good Nature, Beauty, and good Sense,
With equal Force their blended Charms dispense,
Tho' virtuous, unreserv'd, and chastly free;
Just such as Laura is—or is to Me.

Thus fix'd in Pleasure, to my Wishes send,
The next substantial Good, a faithful Friend,

To whom I may, with an unguarded Heart,
My Cares, my Sorrows, and my Joys impart,
Reveal the Doubts that rack my tortur'd Mind,
And Ease and Pleasure in his Counsel find:
With whom in rural Sports I may partake,
Start the fleet Hare, or bait the fishy Lake,
With Books or Conversation waste the Day,
And o'er a Bottle wear the Night away.

And grant me, lastly, to complete the rest,
An honest, peaceful, and unshaken Breast,
Free from blind Zeal and superstitious Fear,
That, what I am, a Man I may appear;
That, while I live, no Terrors I may know,
And, when Death strikes, despise the transient Blow.

Grant me all this, and to the painful Great,
Give Titles, Garters, and the Posts of State:
Let Law in Mississipi Bubbles shine,
And Stanhope by new Treaties grow divine.

To the Memory of Sir Thomas Taylor, Bart. late of Maidstone in Kent.

Whence does this sudden, fatal Change proceed?
For lo! Despair on ev'ry Brow I read,
All shake their mournful Heads and pensive stand.
As the last dreadful Judgment were at hand:
Aurelia, the fair Parent of Delight,
So wont with smiling Looks to greet our Sight,
Beneath her Roof the Stranger Grief receives,
Her Bosom with unusual Anguish heaves,
Her Eyes, that quick as Lightning shot around,
Now indolently fix'd upon the Ground,
Some sudden Shock of inward Grief confess,
See! every Look betrays the deep Distress.
Alas! the Cause too just, that drowns her Eyes,
Too plain the Source, from whence her Sorrows rise!
Damon, the lovely, cheerful Youth is dead,
And with him all our boasted Joys are fled,

In every Mouth I hear the moving Tale,
With constant weeping every Cheek grows pale,
Damon from every Eye demands a Tear,
And damps the jovial Season of the Year.

Behold, how abject is our earthly State!
A Thread that hangs between the Sheers of Fate:
Conscious of Grief, and sensible of Pain,
Short are our Pleasures, and those short ones vain;
From Hour to Hour we draw precarious Breath,
And blindly trample on the Snares of Death.
Our mortal Frame no mortal Pow'r can save,
Struggling thro' Care and Sorrow to the Grave,
Death lurks in every Shape, and every Breeze
Of Air we draw is big with some Disease,
Our Traytor-senses, in the civil Strife,
Let in the Foe to seize upon our Life;
We bloom, like Lillies, with the dawning Light,
And droop like them, and sicken e'er 'tis Night.

Thus Damon bloom'd, and in his Bloom decay'd,
Long e'er 'twas due, the Debt of Nature paid:
But oh! how worthy of a longer Life,
So free from wordy Broils and social Strife;
So fam'd for Candour, Constancy and Truth,
As Cato virtuous, in the Tide of Youth!

In every various graceful Art approv'd,
And loving all Mankind, by all belov'd.
Scarce ever did he frown, but on his Face
Eternal Pleasure laugh'd and youthful Grace,
The Fair still listen'd to his pleasing Strains,
And Damon was the Pride of Medway's Plains.

Blest with his Friendship, but too lately blest!
I sung Te Deum to my joyful Breast;
With eager Hands I seal'd the faithful Vow,
And to my Heart I said, be open now.
Throw by thy worldy Forms and wordly Art,
And all thy Secrets to his Soul impart:
When on a sudden (as a mighty Wind
Roots up the Oak, and leaves the Shrub behind)
A fierce Distemper cropt his early Prime,
While I remain to mourn his Fate in Rhime.
So soon torn from me, and so lately giv'n!
How stinted are thy Blessings, righteous Heav'n!

Patient and graceful, like himself, he dy'd,
Bold as a Martyr, but without his Pride,
He courted not his Fate, disturb'd in Mind,
Nor fear'd the Stroke, but gallantly resign'd:
When Death advanc'd, and in his wounded Heart
He felt, with Pain transfix'd, the mortal Dart;

“My Friends, said he, my dearest Friends, adieu!
“What most I fear in Death, is losing you;
“Thus in the Blossom of our Joys to part!
“'Tis an hard Sruggle with a youthful Heart;
“This Weakness, if it bears that Name, forgive,
“But sure it's none in Youth to wish to live.
“Hadst thou, all-judging Pow'r, prolong'd my Days,
“Each Morning should have open'd with thy Praise;
“But, since thy Hand cuts short my scanty Line,
“Still to thy Dispensations I resign;
“Death is the Doom, in which we all are curst,
“And it's my Lot to go that Journey first;
“Whate'er new Worlds beyond the Grave I find,
“I meet prepar'd, arm'd with a guiltless Mind;
“Once more farewel—and now, ye happy Skies,
“Behold I come: then turn'd and clos'd his Eyes.

In that last Crisis of his ebbing Breath,
Alas! how many suffer'd more than Death!
Numbers of every Rank still feel the Blow;
For who to Damon did not something owe?
In Times of Need, so courteous was his Mind,
All sought him for their Friend, and found him kind,
Ingenuous and benevolent of Heart,
Still ready to protect the injur'd Part,
Proud to oblige, and fearful to offend,
The best, good Neighbour, and the easiest Friend.

Praise and Respect, that turn the giddy Brain,
And make young Men grow insolent and vain,
In Damon's Breast no proud Conceptions wrought,
Laid no wrong Biass on his equal Thought;
He sought not, but he shun'd our vain Applause,
And fought without Reward in Virtue's Cause:
If he had any Fault, 'tis want of Pride,
And that's a Fault on the good-natur'd side;
None were beneath his Notice or his Love,
And yet so happy was he, none above:
All were his Equals, or he made 'em so,
Rose to the high, descended to the low:
Him, in the same frank Manner, might you see
Speaking by turns to Romney—and to Me.

How humble, yet how wealthy was his Mind?
How much to Letters and to Arts inclin'd?
Free from vain Affectation and Conceit,
His Thoughts were manly, his Ideas great;
Quick was his Fancy, and his Judgment strong,
Blest with a modest Fluency of Tongue.

Nor least of all, the mournful Bard admires
His kindred Talents and poetick Fires.
Proud is the Muse amongst her Sons to name
The youthful Heir of such establish'd Fame;
Yet in one Thought she loses half her Pride.
That with his own short Life his Verses dy'd,

Like Virgil, but alas! with more Success,
He damn'd his own fair Fruit, and robb'd the Press:
By his Command the shining Pages burn,
And sink in Ashes, never to return,
Unless to Verse another Life is giv'n,
And with her Bard the Muse revives in Heav'n.

But whilst his Virtues thus my Lays prolong,
His Death recurs and checks me in my Song.
Courteous he was, and learn'd, and good, and just,
But all those Graces now are laid in Dust!

Ye fair ones, that so lovely us'd to smile,
And made our Kent the Paphos of the Isle,
No more your Damon, with unlabour'd Grace,
Joins in the Dance, nor at the Board takes place,
To Joys polite and innocent gives Birth,
Nor thro' the crouded Room diffuses Mirth;
Mix'd with cold Earth, all-motionless he lies,
No more his Bosom beats, nor roll his Eyes;
His comely Limbs now mouldring for the Worms,
The certain Spoilers of the fairest Forms!
But I perceive afresh your Sorrows stream,
And to my self recal the mournful Theme.

Forgive, dear Shade, these plain well-meaning Lays,
That in a native Dress record thy Praise,

This sober Theme a sober Muse demands,
Not one that wanders thro' romantick Lands,
And whines a fairy Tale of Woods and Plains,
And Nymphs bewailing their departed Swains:
When stately Villains unlamented die,
The venal Poet must to Fiction fly,
With foreign Arts his want of Merit hide,
And in the Helps of common-place confide;
The Rivers weep, the Flow'rs forget to bloom,
And browzing Flocks deplore their Shepherd's Doom,
Winds moan his Death, instructed by the Muse,
In mournful Sighs, which human Breasts refuse;
But real Sorrows lessen in Disguise,
And Art is useless when a Damon dies.
Nor needs the Willow to preserve his Fame,
Grav'd in the noblest Bosoms lives his Name:
Romney laments his Death, illustrious Peer!
And ev'ry neighbouring Beauty drops a Tear:
Kent in her Annals will his Loss retain,
'Till at the Judgment-Bar we meet again.

He dy'd a few Days before Christmas.

The Small-Pox.

To Mrs. Centlivre at that time dangerously ill.

Struck with a Passion for unhappy Rowe,
To whom so many finish'd Scenes we owe,
I paid my Tribute to his mighty Name,
A Stranger to his Person—but by Fame:
The Man, but not the Author was unknown,
Oft have I made his well-wrought Verse my own;
Oft have I wept his dying Hero's Cause,
And shook the ecchoing Dome with loud Applause:
From hence alone my grateful Sorrows rise,
Hence the prompt Tears o'erflow my swelling Eyes;
But double Pangs thy mournful Bosom rend,
I lose the Poet only, you the Friend.
You knew the secret Virtues of his Heart,
How void it was of every treacherous Art;
Search'd the vast hidden Treasures of his Mind,
And weep in him the Loss to all Mankind.

Garth follow'd soon, from the unsparing Grave,
Not his own Art his mortal Life could save!
Two Bards at once the Tyrant swept away,
To feed the Worm, and mix with vulgar Clay;
Nor yet content, unbounded in his Rage,
Of Thee too he attempts to rob the Age.
Insulting Death! oh stop thy savage Hand,
Reverse, tremendous Power, the rash Command;
Already you have given us too much Grief,
Be kind at last, and minister Relief;
Stop our forboding Tears, asswage our Pain,
And give Centlivre back to Health again.

To Mrs. Centlivre, upon her desiring Me to read and correct a Poem.

In vain, Orinda on my Aid,
And weaker Judgment you rely;
Too rashly Fair-one, you perswade
A Mortal to correct the Sky.

To me, like Phaeton of old,
A dangerous Province you resign,
Which I, like him unskill'd, and bold,
Accept, and mimick Pow'r divine.

Without my Help the Soul to warm
With Love, still happily proceed,
Bid other Leonora's charm,
And other Villains justly bleed—

Whilst party-mad the British-Fair,
On Monarch Jemmy set their Hearts,
Despise the peaceful House-wife's Care,
And practise their seditious Arts.

Whilst they with Lies revile the Throne,
And with Church Fears their Minds perplex,
Their Follies singly you attone,
And singly you redeem the Sex.

See the cruel Gift, a Tragedy, written by Mrs. Centlivre.

Epigram on Dr. CRASSUS.

Occasioned by his taking a Character in a Lampoon to Himself.

Crassus, the Poet's and the Villain's Tool,
Just Wise enough to think himself a Fool,
Swears that in each Lampoon he sees his Face,
And vows Revenge upon the Rhiming Race:
For once dear Crassus let a Foe advise,
Look on thy self with more auspicious Eyes,
To blab thy Weakness, be not thou the first,
For that of all thy Follies is the worst;
Ill-natur'd Scriblers, unoffended, read,
The conscious Ideot is a Wretch indeed!
By other Hands let our Defects be known,
For 'tis the Devil to betray one's own.

On the Same.

Crassus looks grave and learned to the Eye,
His stiff Scarf rustles as he passes by;
Mark that wise Shrug, that deep designing Frown!
His sleek broad Beaver, and his glossy Gown!
Oft he stops short, and at the first Alarm,
Doubles his Speed, and swings his careless Arm:
Sometimes he bites his Nails, and rubs his Head,
Nay (what you'll scarce believe) I've seen him read:
Sure Crassus for a deep Divine may pass—
And so, with your Permission, may an Ass.
Ay, and I will aver, with more Pretence,
For one has spoke, and he spoke better Sense.

On the Same.

Crassus one Evening (as 'tis oft his Doom)
Was made the publick Butt of all the Room,
Backside and foreside upon him they fall,
At last, says Crassus smartly to 'em all,

Nay softly, Sirs! For all this great ado,
I can my Talents boast as well as you:
Perhaps I'm not so bright; I grant you that,
But I'm as strong, as Jolly and as fat;
You, Milvius, can your Lines and Circles draw,
I can make Circles too—for Boys at Taw.

You, Sir, can pun, or make a pleasant Joke,
I know you can—and I can laugh and smoke.
You understand your Greek and Logick better,
(Of which indeed I scarcely know a letter)
But I can preach and chat, and after Pray'r
Walk with the Ladies out—to take the Air.
You have more Learning, Sir, perhaps than I;
And you more Wit—all this I don't deny.
But who has most of something else, as good?
Come on! and we'll be judg'd by Mistress W****d

Upon the Same.

Unform'd in Nature's Shop, while Crassus lay,
A cumbrous Heap of coarse neglected Clay,
Pray, Madam, says the Foreman of the Trade,
What of yon paultry Rubbish must be made?
For it's too gross, says he, and unrefin'd,
To be the Carcass of a thinking Mind;

Then it's too lumpish and too stiff to make
A Fop, a Beau, a Witling, or a Rake;
Nor is it for a Lady's Footman fit,
For Ladies Footmen must have Sense and Wit;
A Warrior must be vigilant and bold,
And therefore claims a brisk and active Mould;
A Statesman must be skill'd in various Arts,
A Strumpet must have Charms, a Pimp have Parts.
A Lawyer, without Craft, will get no Fees—
This Matter therefore will make none of these;
In short, I plainly think it good for nought;
But, Madam, I desire your better Thought.

Why, Tom, says she, in a disdainful Tone,
Amongst the Sweepings let it then be thrown,
Or—make a Parson of the useless Stuff,
'Twill serve a preaching Blockhead well enough.

To my Friend the Author of the Tragedy of Sir Walter Raleigh.

Whilst two great Bards our grateful Country mourns,
And sheds the Debt of Sorrow o'er their Urns;
Transfus'd in thee, revive their generous Fires,
And Liberty again her Sons inspires;
Thrice happy Poet! in thy Numbers glow
The Elegance of Garth, and Force of Rowe.
From yon' bright Arch thy spreading Fame they see,
And triumph in a Successor like thee.

Behold! to cure the Frenzy of the Age,
A second Cato rises on the Stage;
The same their Suff'rings, for a Cause the same,
Nor yields the English to the Roman Name.

Oppress'd with Noise, and drunken Party-Strife,
Where I sis flows, I waste a painful Life;

Stunn'd with the Terrors of impending Woes,
And Prelates to the Church insatiate Foes;
Of uncouth Logick Terms condemn'd to hear
The same pedantick Jargon all the Year,
Pro formà to dispute the Questions round,
And trace the Windings of scholastick Ground,
To College Walls reluctantly confin'd,
Check'd in the native Freedom of my Mind;
Or on the Stage, with corresponding Eyes,
I would have seen thy British Hero rise;
For Virtue and Religion hear him plead,
And boldly for a thankless Nation bleed;
But partial Laws that Happiness deny'd,
Against my Will I laid the Wish aside,
Content to read thee in thy genuine Light,
Where no proud Scenes attract the dazzled Sight,
Stript of the Pomp and Trappings of the Stage,
Strong is thy Diction, and sublime thy Rage;
Great in your self, you want no foreign Art
To raise Compassion, and awake the Heart,
The secret Springs of Nature to controul,
And touch the diff'rent Passions of the Soul.

Accept, my Friend, these tributary Lays,
(If by that Name I may presume to praise)
Permit me, last, thy full Applause to crown,
And join the publick Chorus of the Town.

St. John 's College, Oxon. Feb. 3d 1718—19.

THE Test of LOVE:

TO A Friend who fancied Himself in Love.

Oft hast thou told me, Dick, in friendly Part.
That the Usurper Love has seiz'd thy Heart;
But thou art young, and, like our sanguine Race
In their full Vigour, may'st mistake thy Case;
For, trust me, Love (that Inmate of the Mind)
Is very much mistaken by Mankind,
For which too often is misunderstood
The sudden Rage and Madness of the Blood:
Thus every common Rake his Flame approves,
And when he's leud and rampant, thinks he loves.

But I, who in that Study am grown old,
Will to my Friend such certain Marks unfold,
By which a real Passion he may prove,
And without which he cannot truely love.

How does this Tyrant lord it in thy Mind?
What Symptoms of his Empire do'st thou find?
Do'st thou within perceive the growing Wound?
Does thy Soul sicken, while thy Body's sound?
Does in thy Thought some blooming Beauty reign,
Whose strong Idea mingles Joy with Pain?
When she appears before thee, does she spread
O'er thy pale, fading Cheeks a sudden Red?
Press her soft Lips, or touch her lillied Hand,
Does thy Heart flutter, does thy Breast expand?
If but her Name is mention'd, does it fire
Thy Pulses with a quick and fierce Desire?
Does every Glance, like Jove's vindictive Flame,
Shoot through thy Veins, and kindle all thy Frame?
From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For he, who wants these Symptoms, does not love.

Is to One Woman all your Heart inclin'd?
And can She only charm your constant Mind?
For Her do all your morning Wishes rise?
Does she at Night of Slumber rob your Eyes?
Musing on Her, does she alone excite
Your Thoughts by Day, and all your Dreams by Night?
Or does your Heart for every Nymph you meet
Own a new Passion, and as strongly beat?

Do in your Eyes all Women seem the same,
And each new Face expel the former Flame?
From hence a real Passion you may prove;
If you love more than One, you do not love.

Does Love, and only Love, invade your Heart?
Or is it stricken with a Golden Dart?
Does the keen Arrow from her Beauty fly?
Or does her Fortune glitter in your Eye?
For, in this Age, how seldom is it found,
That Love alone inflicts the secret Wound?
Silver and Gold are Cupid's surest Arms,
One thousand Pounds out-weighs Ten thousand Charms.
But art thou sure that in thy tender Heart
These worldly Baubles bear no sordid Part?
And can'st thou say, sincerely can'st thou say,
Should adverse Fortune on thy Charmer prey,
That still unchang'd, thy Passion would remain?
That still thou would'st abide a faithful Swain?
If in the curst South-Sea her All were lost,
Still would her Eyes their former Conquests boast?
And would she, do'st thou think, in every State,
The same Emotions in thy Soul create?
From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For if you sigh for Wealth, you do not love.

Again, my Friend, incline thy patient Ear,
(For thou hast many Questions still to hear)

This chosen Damsel, this triumphant She,
Can'st thou no Blemish in her Person see?
Her Temper, Shape, her Features and her Air,
(Though never yet was born a faultless Fair)
Do they all please? In Body or in Mind
Can'st thou no Blot nor Imperfection find?
Does o'er her Skin no Mole nor Pimple rise?
Or do ev'n these seem Beauties in thy Eyes?
From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For if you spy one Fault, you do not love.

Do you within a sudden Impulse feel,
To dress, look florid, and appear genteel?
Do you affect to strike the gazing Maid
With glittering Gems, with Velvet and Brocade
Your snowy Wrists do Mecklin Pendants grace,
And do the smartest Wigs adorn thy Face?
Do you correct your Gait, adjust your Air,
And bid your Taylor take uncommon Care?
Before your Glass each Morning do you stand,
And tye your Neck-cloth with a Critick's Hand?
From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For Dressing ever was a Mark of Love.

Do Books and worldly Cares no longer please?
Can no Diversions give your Heart-pains Ease?
Have Wealth and Honours lost their wonted Charms?
And does Ambition yield to Cupid's Arms?

Is your whole Frame dissolv'd, by Love ingrost,
To Study, Interest, and Preferment lost?
From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For if aught else prevails, you do not love,

Do all your Thoughts, your Wishes, and Desires,
Comply with her, and burn with mutual Fires?
If she loves Balls, Assemblies, Opera's, Plays,
Do they in you the same Amusement raise?
If she at Ombre loves to waste the Night,
Do you in Ombre take the same Delight?
If to the Ring her graceful Horses praunce,
Does your new Chariot to the Ring advance?
If in the Mall she chooses to appear,
Or if at Court, do you attend her there?
What she commends, does your officious Tongue
Approve, and censure what she judges wrong?
Are all her Loves and her Aversions thine?
In all her Joys and Sorrows dost thou join?
Art thou, my Friend, united to her Frame,
Thy Heart, thy Passions, and thy Soul the same?
From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For without Sympathy you cannot love,

Did'st thou e'er strive (once more sincerely say)
With Friends and Wine to drive thy Cares away?
And have e'en these Endeavours prov'd in Vain?
Will neither Friends nor Wine remove thy Pain?

Dost thou sit pensive, full of Thought, repine,—
And in thy Turn forget the circling Wine?
From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For if Wine drowns your Flame, you do not Love.

Art thou a tame, resign'd, submissive Swain?
Can'st thou bear Scorn, Repulses and Disdain?
Can no ill Treatment nor unkind Returns
Quench the strong Flame, which in thy Marrow burns?
But do they rather aggravate thy Smart,
And give a quicker Edge to every Dart?
Does not each scornful Look, or angry Jest
Drive the keen Passion deeper in thy Breast?
Do not her poignant Questions and Replies,
Thy partial Ears agreeably Surprize?
From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For if you can Resent, you do not Love.

Whole live-long Days you have enjoy'd her Sight;
Say, were your Eyes e'er sated with Delight?
Did not you wish next Moment to return?
Did not your Breast with stronger Ardours burn?
Did not each View another View provoke?
And every Meeting give a deeper Stroke?
From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For there is no Satiety in Love.

Perhaps you judge it an imprudent Flame,
And therefore live at Distance from the Dame;
But what is the Effect? does Absence heal
Those Wounds, which smarting in her Sight you feel?
Does not to her your Mind unbidden Stray?
Does not your Heart confess her distant Sway?
Does not each rising Thought inhance your Pain?
And do'nt you long to see her once again?
From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For that which Absence cancels is not Love.

Suppose (once more) your Parents or your Friends,
Either for pievish or prudential Ends,
Should thwart thy Choice, thy promiss'd Bliss oppose,
Would'st thou for her engage all these thy Foes?
Would'st thou despise an angry Father's Frown?
And scorn the noisy Censures of the Town?
Could'st thou, possess'd of her, with Patience see
The Coxcomb's Finger pointed forth at thee?
Would it not vex you, as you pass along,
To hear the little Spleen of every Tongue?
“There goes the fond young Fool, who t'other Day
“In heedless Wedlock threw himself away,
“And, to indulge the rash ungoverned Heat
“Of a vain Passion, lost a good Estate?—

Would not such Insults grate thy tender Ear?
Could'st thou besides, without Compunction, bear
The scornful Smile and the disdainful Sneer?
From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For he who loves with Reason does not love

Still must I touch thee in a tenderer Part:
Would not a happy Rival stab thy Heart?
Could'st thou behold the Darling of thy Breast
With Freedom by another Youth carest?
Say, could'st thou to thy dearest Friend afford
A Kiss, a Smile, or one obliging Word?
Say, at the publick Ball or private Dance,
When the brisk Couples artfully advance,
Could'st thou unmov'd with Indignation stand,
If to another she resign'd her Hand?
Would your Heart rest at Ease? or would it swell
With all the Pains, the sharpest Pains of Hell?
From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For without Jealousy you cannot love.

To the last Question of thy trusty Friend
(Though many more might still be ask'd) attend.
To purge her Virtue, or revenge her Wrongs,
(For Beauty is the Theme of busy Tongues)
Should Blood be call'd for in the doubtful Strife,
Would'st thou with Pleasure part with Blood—or Life?
Would'st thou all Dangers in her Cause despise,
And meet unequal Foes, for such a Prize?

Would it not plant new Courage in thy Heart,
And double Vigour to thy Arm impart?
To screen thy Mistress from the slightest Harms,
Would'st thou not purchase Death and would not Death have Charms?
From hence a real Passion you may prove.
For never yet was Coward known to Love.

By these Prescriptions judge your inward Part,
Put all these Questions closely to your Heart,
And if by them your Flame you can approve,
Then will I own that you sincerely Love.

THE BOTTLE-SCRUE.

A TALE.

Nec Deus intersit nisi dignus vindice nodus Inciderit.
Hor.

The Patten, Fan, and Petticoat,
Three modern Themes of special Note,
In parlous Rhimes immortal live,
If Rhimes immortal Life can give;
The Mouse-Trap in sonorous lays
Trensmits thro' Ages Taffy's praise;

While still unsung in pompous Strains,
Oh! shame! the Bottle-scrue remains,
The Bottle-scrue, whose Worth, whose Use,
All Men confess, that love the Juice;
Forgotten sleeps the Man, to whom
We owe th' Invention, in his Tomb,
No publick Honours grace his Name,
No pious Bard records his Fame,
Elate with Pride and Joy I see
The deathless Task reserv'd for me.

Say, gentle Muse, in living Song,
Whence First this useful Engine sprung,
And Thou, who (if report speak true)
In Pocket always bear'st thy Scrue,
Accept, D---l---ne, in youthful Lays,
The Homage which the Poet pays.

Once on a Time, of mortal Men,
(No Matter where, no Matter when)
There liv'd a jolly, Country Vicar,
Who lov'd the Church and eke his Liquor,
What was his Name, I do not read
In Baker, Hollinshead, or Speed,
But thro' the Progress of our Poem,
By Name of Roger you must know him,

Some little Faults this Roger had,
But of the Dead, mum! nothing bad;
As that he rarely paid his Debts,
And others which the Muse forgets;
Our Business 'tis his Faults to hide,
And only shew his better Side.

All Writers in this Point agree,
That he was jovisant and free,
A merry Wight! and after Mass,
Would smoke his Pipe, and drink his Glass:
Oft fond of Mirth and Conversation,
Or press'd by courteous Invitation,
To neighb'ring Farmers he'd repair,
And spend a winter Ev'ning there;
Sometimes of grizly Sprights would talk,
That in white Sheets at Midnight walk,
'Till all the list'ning Children groan,
And dare not go to Bed alone;
Sometimes would on the Musick play,
Or Putt, to pass the Time away,
Sometimes to ravish'd Clowns would speak
Mouthfuls of Latin, and of Greek,
His Logick shew and Classick Knowledge,
And tell of merry Freaks at College;
Play with the Louts at Christmas Games,
And in their Absence—with their Dames

For wary Clerks learn all these Arts
To gain Esteem, and conquer Hearts.

It chanc'd, as old Traditions say,
That on a certain Holiday,
The 'Squire, designing to carouse,
Some Friends invited to his House;
Amongst the rest, as was most fitting,
To sanctify the merry Meeting,
The Parson, If we credit Fame,
Was sent for and precisely came.

Supper now waited on the Board,
The Guests stand round, and at the Word,
Sir Roger, with a solemn Face,
Held forth his Hat, and ton'd a Grace,
He said, and Hemming thrice aloud,
Sate down, and venerably Bow'd.

Plain, not luxurious was the Feast,
But what a gen'rous Heart confess'd;
First, on the Dish sublimely rear'd,
The famous British Loin appear'd,
Whose worth our loftiest Praise deserves,
Great Builder of the Warrior's Nerves!
Two Turkies next the Footman bore,
Which lately gobbled at the Door,

But oh! how very short their Span?
Unhappy Fowls! the Food of Man!
The careful Matron, from whose Hand
To peck the Grain they wont to stand,
From Weeping scarcely could refrain,
To see her pretty Poultry slain.
The Feast a Dish of Wild-fowl crown'd'
Which on the neighb'ring woody Ground,
The 'Squire himself had lately kill'd,
A Sportsman, most exactly skill'd;
Full oft, unerring from afar,
Forth trudg'd he to the Sylvan War,
In search of Foes, with ruthless Mind,
Dreaded by all the feather'd Kind,
For let 'em that way fly or this,
Seldom the 'Squire was known to miss.

Thus far premis'd, 'tis now high Time
To check our long-digressing Rhime,
The Task intended to pursue,
And of our Tale resume the Clue;
Wherefore the Supper now was over,
And Thomas brought up the October;
The hoary Bottle seem'd to tell,
That all within was Ripe and Well;
When studious to extract the Cork,
Sir Roger set his Teeth to work;

This way and that the Cork he ply'd,
And wrench'd in vain from side to side;
In vain his ivory Grinders strain'd,
For still unmov'd the Cork remain'd;
And as a Chieftain stout in Fight
Exerts his utmost, warlike Might,
Loth to desert his destin'd Post,
And see his ravish'd Honours lost,
So did the Cork maintain the Field;
And scorn'd to human Force to yield,
Still kept the Seat, each Shock repress'd,
Which in the Cellar it possess'd.
At length, enrag'd with foul Defeat,
The Levite burn'd with fiercer Heat,
And grown by Thirst more Valiant far,
He meditates a second War;
Firm on the spungy Cork he plac'd
His doubty Thumb, and downward press'd
The yielding Wood;—but oh! dire luck!
Fast in its Place his own Thumb stuck.
Loudly the pleas'd Spectators laugh'd,
With Pain and Shame the Parson chaf'd,
Long did he strive, with adverse Fate,
His captive Thumb to extricate,
Nor could his Liberty regain,
'Till Hammer broke the glassy Chain;
Leave to withdraw the Priest desir'd,
And Bowing, sullingly retir'd.

Homewards with flying Steps he sped,
Smoak'd half a Pipe, and went to Bed,
Where pond'ring for a while he lay
On the Miscarriage of the Day;
At length the Shades of Sleep arise,
And gently Seal his closing Eyes:
Now thro' the Gloom of pitchy Night
There stood presented to his Sight,
Or seem'd to stand, the God of Wine,
Known by his Thyrsus and his Vine,
Which clust'ring round his ample Head,
His broad impurled Cheeks o'erspread,
This Hand a Cork-Scrue did contain,
And that a Bottle of Champaign;
He sat Majestick 'cross his Tun,
And said, “Hail! dearest rev'rend Son.
“Whose bulky Paunch and rosy Face
“Proclaim thee of the toping Race,
“Behold in me thy darling God,
“At whose Imperial, awful Nod,
“Immortal Deities get Drunk,
“And lewdly Rave for mortal Punck,
“Your grosser Flesh and Blood put on,
“And tread on solid Nerves and Bone,
“Scorn their own thin, unbody'd Dames,
“And Scorch in sensual, human Flames,

“For we, to give Mankind their due,
“Love a tit Bit, as well as you.

“Last Night (for we above, you know,
“See all Things that are done below)
“I saw thy concious Shame and Grief,
“And come to minister Relief;
“For lo! this crooked Instrument
“All future Mischief shall prevent.
Thus, with a Smile, kind Bacchus spoke,
And in his Hand the Weapon took,
He slipt it o'er his Finger-joint,
And to the Cork apply'd the Point,
Gently he turn'd it round and round,
'Till in the Midst its Spires were wound,
Then bending earthward low, betwixt
His Knees the Bottle firmly fixt,
And giving it a sudden Jerk,
From its close Prison wrench'd the Cork:
The Wine now issu'd at Command,
When, with a Bumper in his Hand,
Your Health, Sir Roger, quoth the God,
Sir Roger gave a reverend Nod,
In a full Brimmer pledg'd his Guest.
And gravely toasted—to the Best.
They Chat together, Drink and Fill,
And like two Inkle-weavers Swill,

'Till both begin to hang the Lip,
See double, stare like Pigs, and clip;
Then, hugging, take a parting Glass,
(But dream-wise all this came to pass)
His Deity reel'd home to Heav'n,
And Master Roger wak'd at Sev'n.

Up strait he got, in joyous hast,
And recollecting what had pass'd,
How with a God he spent the Night.
His Heart exalted with Delight,
Each Circumstance, their Talk, their Wine,
Prov'd his late Visitor divine,
The Thought of which celestial Favour,
Gave a new Turn to his Behaviour,
Wore off the Gloom of last Night's Spleen,
Intent to form the new Machine.

But first, to his nocturnal Guest
This short Petition he address'd;
“Thrice honour'd Pow'r! whose drunken Sway
“The jovial Sons of Earth obey,
“If yet the racy Fumes are fled,
“Which seiz'd last Night thy gracious Head,
“The Hint, which then you kindly gave,
“Accomplish and oblige your Slave.

“For the great Work my Arm inspire,
“To bend aright the stubborn Wire,
“To grind the Edge, no easy Thing!
“And for the Finger shape the Ring;
“So Yearly, at thy hollow'd Shrine,
“I'll sacrifice a Tun of Wine.

He spoke, and with his lifted Eyes
Saw the God posting from the Skies.

Now to the mighty Task he sets
His Hands, and o'er the Anvil sweats,
First puts the Iron in the Fire,
And hammers out the glowing Wire,
Then tortures it in Curls around,
As Tendrils on the Vine are found,
Sharpens the Bottom, rounds the Top,
And finish'd bears it from the Shop;
Well-pleas'd, a Bottle-scrue he names it,
And sacred to the God proclaims it.

This curious Engine, says the Priest,
Shall stretch my Fame from West to East,
Me the Fox-hunting, tipling 'Squire,
And punning Curate shall admire;
Me shall the raking Templer praise,
And Altars to my Glory raise,

When privately he treats his Whore,
And this fam'd Scrue secures the Door;
By me shall Birmingham become
In future Days, more fam'd than Rome,
Shall owe to me her Reputation,
And serve with Bottle-scrues the Nation.

FINIS.

University of Virginia Library

THE MOSAICAL CREATION, Or the First six Days.

A Paraphrase on the first Chapter of Genesis.

The Destruction of PHARAOH in the Red-Sea.

A Paraphrase on the fourteenth Chapter of EXODUS.

THE LEGEND: A POEM

Upon the Death of, Mr. ADDISON;

Inscrib'd to the Earl of WARWICK.

TARQUIN AND LUCRECE.

Catullus imitated Ep. 7.

Catullus imitated. Ep. 5.

Catullus to Himself.

On the Images of the Nine leaden Muses upon the new Printing-House in OXFORD.

An EPIGRAM.

Catullus imitated. Ep. 58.

On the Same.

On the Tenth of JUNE.

Stuck upon the School Walls in OXFORD.

Cupid match'd.

To a Lady who said she would never marry a Whig.

Catullus imitated. Ep. 84. CÆLIA and LAURA.

To a Friend in LONDON.

Mahomet's Kingdom.

Catullus imitated. Ep. 81.

Warning to young married Men.

Jupiter and Cloe.

Advicd to my self on being threatned to be expell'd

The Free-thinker converted.

To a Friend in LONDON, upon my returning to College.

Upon Parties.

Upon the Same.

An Epilogue for the Tragedy of King HENRY IV. of France, design'd to have been spoken by Charlotta.

The Wish.

To the Memory of Sir Thomas Taylor, Bart. late of Maidstone in Kent.

To Mrs. Centlivre at that time dangerously ill.

To Mrs. Centlivre, upon her desiring Me to read and correct a Poem.

Epigram on Dr. CRASSUS.

Occasioned by his taking a Character in a Lampoon to Himself.

On the Same.

On the Same.

Upon the Same.

To my Friend the Author of the Tragedy of Sir Walter Raleigh.

THE Test of LOVE:

TO A Friend who fancied Himself in Love.

THE BOTTLE-SCRUE.

A TALE.