Cupid
recruiting.
From
Paphos I'm flown, by my Mother's command,
To raise new Recruits for the Goddess's Band.
To Venus's Standard the Sex I invite;
Our Pay's ready Mony; our Service Delight.
Come, all ye gay Nymphs, who are blooming, and fair,
Leave your Blushes behind, to her Colours repair!
All you, who love Pleasure, and ha'nt wherewithal
To flirt at the Play, or to frisk at the Ball;
All you, who by Parents, beyond the twelfth Year,
Are kept in Submission, vile Bondage, and Fear;
All you, who no Offers of Marriage have found,
And, like mellow Pippins must fall to the Ground;
All you, whose slow Lovers have promis'd, to wed,
And then from their Words with Dishonour have fled;
All you, whose old Spouses are gone to decay,
Grown jealous, or cross, or are out of the way;
Come, in your clean Linnen, and strip'd for the Fight
To H-y—d's, or W—d's any Hour of the Night!
The Alarm.
What is't, good, prying Friend, you say?
A Hair or two just turning Grey!
Quick, Boy! for the next Barber send;
This Sight my Cloë may offend:
I'll pass for Twenty five, no more,
Tho' I have seven Lustrums o'er.
Go, tap the oldest Cask of Wine;
Invite those merry Blades to Dine;
Bid Arrigoni bring his Lute;
And brush my best, embroyder'd Suit!
This mighty Hurry, Friend, forgive;
Tis Time, to be in haste, to Live!
Apollo, and a Poetaster.
DIALOGUE.
Apollo.
Shame to Parnassus! why for Bread
With Rhimes wou'd you prophane the Dead?
Poetaster.
His Lordship was intomb'd last night;
What harm his Epitaph to write,
Or with an Elegy to wait
At his sad Widow's lofty Gate?
What can I do? I have no Meat:
I needs must Rhime! for I must Eat.
Apollo.
My Lord, I own, was wise, and brave;
But leave him quiet in his Grave.
You ask in Alms my sacred Fire;
In Charity shall I inspire?
Go, seek some fitter Trade to live:
This vile Affront I'll ne'er forgive!
Poetaster.
Homer cou'd Write, tho' he was Poor,
And beg in Verse from door, to door,
Apollo.
'Tis granted; but he never writ
In spite of Nature, Sense, and Wit;
But to obey the Muses call,
Kindly invited by us All.
Still stupid, profligate, and poor,
Turn Pimp, or Bully to a Whore,
Jailor, or Hangman; but forbear,
With great Apollo thus to war!
Minerva, and an Author.
DIALOGUE.
Minerva.
Author
, your Productions seem
Like a sick Man's troubled Dream;
Neither Middle, Tail, or Head;
Stole unfinish'd, cold, and dead.
Author.
Goddess of fine Arts! forgive!
I've no better Trade, to live;
And must suit my stupid Page
To the Genius of the Age:
This, I'm certain, will go down,
Get me Money and Renown.
Pallas, read this long Essay,
Made in a short Winter's Day;
And this Book I sweat, to Write,
A whole Summer's sultry Night;
Nothing now but these succeed:
None my finish'd Labours read.
Minerva.
From the Garret, Cellar, Plough
Authors I'll excite enough:
Crouds of Scriblers shall prevail,
Rise, like Mushrooms, thick as Hail!
Ægypt's resty King of Yore
Ne'er was plagu'd with Vermin more,
Than they shall the Town torment,
Till these tasteless Rogues relent,
Till I am ador'd, and see
Captiv'd Arts, and Nature free.
To
Neptune,
in a Tempest.
I
Neptune
, whose Trident shake the Ground,
Why all this mighty Rage to those,
By whom your Altars still are crown'd?
Why are we treated like your Foes?
II
The Trojan Race we never knew,
Who did your Godhead once beguile:
No! We are Britains bold, and true,
Free Natives of your favour'd Isle.
III
Then Neptune, let our Pray'rs prevail,
Nor with our Ship thus rudely sport:
Send Zephyrus to fill our Sail,
And safely guide us to our Port.
To Love.
‘Twas in that Month which follows May,
(I never can forget the Day!)
When first I gaz'd on Phœbe's Eyes,
When first my Heart became her Prize
In Sighs the tedious Summer past:
We cheerful Autumn saw at last;
But still I sigh'd: rude Winter came;
In Frost, and Snow I burnt the same:
Now Spring returns; still, still I burn!
When, Love! must Phœbe have her Turn
