University of Virginia Library

EPIGRAM I.

O Love! what Pains do I endure?
Have Patience, Swain, they'll soon be pass'd,
Your very Passion bring its Cure,
Since all Philosophers assure,
Nothing that's violent, can last.

EPIGRAM II.

Come, throw your idle Rhimes away!
Get something for a rainy Day.
Alas! my Friend, bid T-l-nd pray;
Teach Cork to sink, or Time to stay!

EPIGRAM III.

You think, in yon inchanting Dome,
Cupid, and Psyche have their Home:
Alas! my Friend, 'tis no such case.
Draw nigh, and hear the Strife and Din,
My Lord, and Lady have within,
You'll swear, Love never knew the Place.

EPIGRAM IV.

Corinna dies for Grief; but still
She frets, her Weeds are made so ill.

EPIGRAM V.

Yet in a Sling you bear your Arm?
The Duel, Friend, was close, and warm,
Nor is my Wound so very slight.
Good Captain, do your Honour Right!
'Tis all Pretence, your Foes declare,
And that this Scarf you only wear,
That you may not be forc'd, to Fight.

EPIGRAM VI.

Do, what you can; say, what you will,
You must be curs'd, and hated still,
In spite of Fortune, Sense, or Wit;
While Florus, profligate, and vain,
Without the least Pretence, or Pain
Does ev'ry Mortal's Fancy hit.

EPIGRAM VII.

Phillis , I a Plot discover!
You have taken a new Lover:
For his Comfort I can tell,
Let him use you ne'er so well,
You will change him for another.

EPIGRAM VIII

Collin , for Love expiring, crys,
To see the Nymph, before he dies.
She went in Pity, 'tis confess'd,
She went; but deck'd in all her Best.

EPIGRAM IX.

Why Doctor, cure that pleasing Ill?
He had been Mad; but Wealthy still:
He feels, and owns he now is poor.
Better for Gripus do as much,
Who starves, yet is afraid to touch
The useless Hoards, he keeps in store,

EPIGRAM X.

Tho' your Boy Charles ressembles John,
Your Nose is short, and his is Long,
Why can't you see his Merit?
Must Ned, who han't a Grain of Wit,
But Like, as you the Child had spit,
Your whole Estate inherit?

EPIGRAM XI.

Hermit , who with Contempt look down
From yon high Mountain's barren Crown
Upon the leud, licentious Town!
Descend, and live with us unmov'd:
Your boasted Force is yet unprov'd,
While in that cold, sad, mossy Cell
Untempted thus alone you dwell:
See Cloe smile, and feel no Wound;
Brave all the Joys, that here abound,
And we'll pronounce your Virtue sound.

EPIGRAM XII.

Palemon met me in his way,
And ask'd my Counsel t'other Day.
Excuse, said I, the Case is nice,
I never care to give Advice.
He took this flat Denyal ill,
And pray'd me in Compassion still.
I yet refus'd: he beg'd, and cry'd,
Must an old Friend be then Deny'd?
We to our selves are blind, unjust;
No Man alive but you I'd trust.
At length consenting, bad, or good,
I gave the best Advice I cou'd:
He seem'd convinc't; but since, I find,
Palemon follow'd his own Mind,
And thinks my wholsom Truth unkind.

EPIGRAM XIII.

Timon , chagrin'd, and sick of Life,
To mend the Matter, takes a Wife.
Things still go worse: to ease his Pain,
Kind Heaven took his Spouse again.
Unhappy yet, he keeps a Miss;
But was no better pleas'd with this.
Court next, and Camp in vain he tries;
With like Success o'er Europe flies;
Marries once more. At length, resign'd,
Observes the Evil's in his Mind.

EPIGRAM XIV.

God knows, Prudilla, while you pray,
Which Saint you chuse, what Words you say;
But what you wish, we shrewdly guess,
In your Devotion, and Distress,
And this beyond all Doubt we know,
None of your Vows to Heaven go;
For still your rich, old Aunt's alive,
And you're a Maid at Thirty Five,
In Love, despis'd; in Debt, and poor:
An Atheist scarce cou'd suffer more.

EPIGRAM XV.

Titus reads neither Prose, nor Rhime,
He writes himself; he has no Time.

EPIGRAM XVI.

In Anno Twenty, it is clear,
You lost Twelve Hundred Pounds a Year:
You still have left Twelve Hundred more.
Yet Irus, who was born to none,
And found the Means to get but One,
Is rich, and blest, you sad, and poor.

EPIGRAM XVII.

Hamor in Six Months Time, no more,
Has almost travel'd Europe o'er:
Hamor must then be chang'd, no Doubt?
No; he's come Home, as he went out.

EPIGRAM XVIII.

What has this Change in Myrtle wrought;
He's grown reserv'd, and full of Thought;
Looks odd, and hardly seems to know
The Friends, he lov'd a while ago.
I'll tell you: Myrtle has, of late,
Inherited a good Estate,

EPIGRAM XIX.

Whence this strange Bustle, Friends, I trow,
Of Tory, Whig; of High, and Low?
Zeal for the Public Good, no Doubt.
No; here's the Cause of all this Din;
They out of Place, wou'd fain come in,
They that are in, wou'd not go out.

EPIGRAM XX.

Why weary of a single Life?
I wou'd advise you, Charles, to stay:
Friend Limber marry'd th' other Day;
You like his Table, and his Wife.

EPIGRAM XXI.

In dismal Weeds you still appear,
Melissa, tho' the Time is out,
And vow, your Mourning ne'er shall end:
Excess of Grief, I make no Doubt,
For our departed, loving Friend;
Yet, since you have not shed a Tear,
There are some People who pretend,
It cant be Sorrow for your Dear.
'Tis true, this Dress becomes you more,
Than any Thing you ever wore.

EPIGRAM XXII.

How chang'd my Phillis? can it be,
You love so well, and only me?
The pleasing Wonder I'll believe:
But shou'd you change your Mind again,
And doat on any other Swain,
In Pity, Phillis, thus deceive.

EPIGRAM XXIII.

Detested Plague of human Race,
Who Nature's fairest Works deface,
And your malicious Rage disclose
On Strephon's Shins, or Phœbe's Nose!
To visit my inconstant Fair,
In pity to her Youth forbear;
Tho' thrice five Years she cannot count,
To five Times three her Lovers mount.

EPIGRAM XXIV.

Plague on your dry Platonic Love;
'Tis fitter for the Blest above,
Quoth Joan, still burning with Desire.
I swear, quoth John, the Wench is mad!
Of that same vulgar Sort we've had
Enough, to quench a common Fire!

EPIGRAM XXV.

Sly keeps a Mistress of his own.
You jest; she's kept for half the Town.

EPIGRAM XXVI.

Geron at Fourscore marry'd! 'tis too late.
No; he but wants an Heir to his Estate.

EPIGRAM XXVII.

Why all this Stir at Myra's House?
She took last Night a second Spouse.
Then why that Hatchment, Friend, I pray?
Her first was bury'd but to Day.

EPIGRAM XXVIII.

Why Drums, and Trumpets to excite,
Dread Captain, when you go to fight,
While you, and all your Soldiers swear,
Ye never knew, what 'tis, to fear.

EPIGRAM XXIX.

Poor Widower! how he takes on?
Alas! 'twou'd melt a Heart of Stone.
Her Jointure was well paid, and clear
A good two thousand Pounds a Year.

EPIGRAM XXX.

How! cost a Week, before you made it?
Yet Damn'd you say, the Night they play'd it?
Your Pardon, Master Bayes, I doubt-it!
You cou'd not be so long about it.

EPIGRAM XXXI.

Sly Dick took his new Spouse to Bed,
And counted on her Maidenhead;
For she was scarce Fourteen:
But hear! the Zone, he judg'd so tight,
Was found unty'd and loosen'd quite.
What may this Wonder mean?
Poor Sylvia, who had her Cue,
Frighted, From his Embrace with-drew,
And beg'd, he wou'd not chide:
With Colin romping th' other Day,
The Bird got out, and fled away;
No Fault of mine, she cry'd.

EPIGRAM XXXII.

'Tis strange, Prudilla, you accuse
Of too much Warmth my wanton Muse,
While you read on with all your Spite,
And Practise, what I only Write.

EPIGRAM XXXIII.

Tar with Beau Fopling caught his Wife:
He scream'd, and fled; she beg'd for Life.
Tar saw Contrition in her Eyes,
And thus the good, blunt Sailor crys.
Spouse, the first Fault we may forgive;
But ne'er repeat it, while you live!

EPIGRAM XXXIV.

Poetic Works, you say, are vain,
Infants of a distemper'd Brain.
What then? my Verses still you read;
And I my lab'ring Mind have freed.