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The poetical and dramatic works of Sir Charles Sedley

Collected and Edited from the Old Editions: With a preface on the text, explanatory and textual notes, an appendix containing works of doubtful authenticity, and a bibliography: By V. de Sola Pinto

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Square brackets denote editorial emendations or insertions.



Strephon, O Strephon, once the jolliest Lad,
That with shrill Pipe did ever Mountain glad;
Whilome the Foremost at our rural Plays,
The Pride and Envy of our Holidays:
Why dost thou now sit musing all alone,
Teaching the Turtles, yet a sadder Moan?
Swell'd with thy Tears, why does the Neighbouring Brook
Bear to the Ocean, what she never took?
Thy Flocks are fair and fruitful, and no Swain,
Then thee, more welcome to the Hill or Plain.

I could invite the Wolf, my cruel Guest,
And play unmov'd, while he on all should feast:
I cou'd endure that every Swain out-run,
Out-threw, out-wrestled, and each Nymph shou'd shun
The hapless Strephon.—

Tell me then thy Grief,
And give it, in Complaints, some short Releif.

Had killing Mildews nipt my rising Corn,
My Lambs been all found dead, as soon as born;
Or raging Plagues run swift through every Hive,
And left not one industrious Bee alive;
Had early Winds, with an hoarse Winter's Sound
Scatter'd my rip'ning Fruit upon the Ground:
Unmov'd, untoucht, I cou'd the Loss sustain,
And a few Days expir'd, no more complain.

E're the Sun drank of the cold Morning-dew,


I've known thee early the tuskt Boar pursue:
Then in the Evening drive the Bear away,
And rescue from his Jaws the trembling Prey.
But now thy Flocks creep feebly through the Fields,
No purple Grapes, thy half drest Vine-yards yields:
No Primrose nor no Violets grace thy Beds,
But Thorns and Thistles lift their prickly Heads.
What means this Change?

Enquire no more;
When none can heal, 'tis Pain to search the Sore;
Bright Galatea, in whose Mateless Face
Sat rural Innocence, with heavenly Grace;
In whose no less inimitable Mind,
With equal Light, even distant Virtues shin'd;
Chast without Pride, and Charming without Art,
Honour the Tyrant of her tender Heart:
Fair Goddess of these Fields, who for our Sports,
Though she might well become, neglected Courts.
Belov'd of all, and loving me alone,
Is from my Sight, I fear, for ever gone.

Thy Case indeed is pitiful, but yet
Thou on thy Loss too great a Price dost set.
Women like Days are Strephon, some be far
More bright and glorious than others are:
Yet none so gay, so temperate, so clear,
But that the like adorne the rowling Year.
Pleasures imparted, to a Friend encrease,
Perhaps divided Sorrow may grow less.

Others as fair, to other Eyes may seem,
But she has all my Love and my Esteem:
Her bright Idea wanders in my Thought,
At once my Poison, and my Antidote.

Our Hearts are Paper, Beauty is the Pen,
Which writes our Loves, and blots 'em out agen.
Phillis is Whiter than the rising Swan,
Her slender Wast confin'd within a Span:


Charming as Nature's Face in the new Spring,
When early Birds on the green Branches sing.
When rising Herbs and Buds begin to hide,
Their naked Mother, with their short-liv'd Pride,
Cloe is ripe, and as the Autumn fair,
When on the Elm the purple Grapes appear.
When Trees, Hedg-rows, and every bending Bush,
With rip'ning Fruit, or tasteful Berries blush,
Lydia is in the Summer of her Days,
What Wood can shade us from her piercing Rays?
Her even Teeth, whiter than new yean'd Lambs,
When they with tender Cries pursue their Dams.
Her Eyes as Charming as the Evening-sun,
To the scortcht Labourer when Work is done,
Whom the glad Pipe, to rural Sports invites,
And pays his Toil with innocent Delights.
On some of these fond Swain fix thy Desire,
And burn not with imaginary Fire.

The Stag shall sooner with the Eagle soar,
Seas leave their Fishes naked on the Shore;
The Wolf shall sooner by the Lambkin die,
And from the Kid the hungry Lion fly,
Than I abandon Galatea's Love,
Or her dear Image from my Thoughts remove.

Damon this Evening carries home his Bride,
In all the harmless Pomp of rural Pride:
Where, for two spotted Lambkins, newly yean'd,
With nimble Feet and Voice, the Nimphs contend:
And for a Coat, thy Galatea spun,
The Shepherds Wrastle, throw the Bar, and Run.

At that dear Name I feel my Heart rebound,
Like the old Steed, at the fierce Trumpet's sound:
I grow impatient of the least Delay,
No Dastard Swain shall bear the Prize away.


Let us make hast, already they are met;
The ecchoing Hills their joyful Shouts repeat.


Phillis, let's shun the common Fate,
And let our Love ne'r turn to Hate;
I'll dote no longer then I can,
Without being call'd a faithless Man.
When we begin to want Discourse,
And Kindness seems to tast of Force,
As freely as we met, we'll part,
Each one possest of their own Heart.
Thus whilst rash Fools themselves undo;
We'll Game, and give off Savers too;
So equally the Match we'll make,
Both shall be glad to draw the Stake:
A Smile of thine shall make my Bliss,
I will enjoy thee in a Kiss;
If from this Height our Kindness fall,
We'll bravely scorn to Love at all:
If thy Affection first decay,
I will the Blame on Nature lay.
Alas, what Cordial can remove
The hasty Fate of dying Love?
Thus we will all the World excel
In Loving, and in Parting well.


Not Celia, that I juster am
Or better than the rest,
For I would change each Hour like them,
Were not my Heart at rest.


But I am ty'd to very thee,
By every Thought I have,
Thy Face I only care to see,
Thy Heart I only crave.
All that i[n] Woman is ador'd,
In thy dear Self I find,
For the whole Sex can but afford,
The Handsome and the Kind.
Why then should I seek farther Store,
And still make Love a-new;
When Change itself can give no more,
'Tis easie to be true.


[Thirsis no more against my Flame advise]

Thirsis no more against my Flame advise,
But let me be in Love, and be you wise:
Here end, and there begin a new Address,
Pursue the vulgar easie Happiness:
Leave me to Amaranta, who alone
Can in my sullen Heart erect her Throne:
I know, as well as you, 'tis mean to burn,
For one who to our Flame makes no return:
But you, like me, feel not those conquering Eyes,
Which mock Prevention by a quick Surprize:
And now like a hurt Deer, in vain I start
From her, that in my Breast has hid the Dart.
Though I can never reach her Excellence,
Take somewhat in my hopeless Love's defence.
Her Beauty is her not esteemed Wealth,
And Graces play about her Eyes by stealth;
Vertue in others, the forc'd Child of Art,
Is but the native Temper of her Heart:
All Charms her Sex so often court in vain,
(Like Indian Fruit, which our cold Earth disdain.)
In her grow wild, as in their native Air,
And she has all Perfection without Care.


Of Lovers Harms she has the tend'rest Sense,
That can consist with so much Innocense.
Like a wise Prince, she rules her Subjects so,
That neither Want, nor Luxury they know.
None vainly hoping what, she may not give,
Like humble Slaves at small Expence we live:
And I the wretched Comfort only share,
To be the Least whom she will bid Dispair.


Cloris, I cannot say your Eyes
Did my unwary Heart surprize;
Nor will I swear it was your Face,
Your Shape, or any nameless Grace:
For you are so intirely Fair,
To love a Part, Injustice were;
No drowning Man can know which Drop
Of Water his last Breath did stop;
So when the Stars in Heaven appear,
And joyn to make the Night look clear;
The Light we no one's Bounty call,
But the obliging Gift of all.
He that does Lips or Hands adore,
Deserves them only, and no more;
But I love All, and every Part,
And nothing less can ease my Heart.
Cupid, that Lover, weakly strikes,
Who can express what 'tis he likes.


Love, when 'tis true, needs not the aid
Of Sighs nor Oaths to make it known;
And, to convince the cruel'st Maid,
Lovers should use their Love alone:


Into their very Looks 'twill steal;
And he that most wou'd hide his Flame,
Does in that Case his Pain reveal,
Silence it self can Love proclaim.
This my Aurelia made me shun,
The Paths that common Lovers tread:
Whose guilty Passions are begun
Not in their Heart, but in their Head.
I cou'd not Sigh, and with cross'd Arms
Accuse your Rigour and my Fate,
Nor tax your Beauty with such Charms
As Men adore, and Women hate:
But careless liv'd, and without Art,
Knowing my Love you must have spy'd,
And thinking it a foolish Part,
To set to shew, what none can hide.


Cloris, you live ador'd by all,
And yet on none your Favours fall.
A stranger Mistress ne're was known;
You pay 'em all in paying none.
We him of Avarice accuse,
Who what he has forbears to use;
But what Disease of Mind shall I
Call this, thy hated Penury?
Thou wilt not give out of a Store,
Which no Profuseness can make poor.
Misers, when dead, they make amends,
And in their Wills enrich their Friends;
But when thou dy'st, thy Treasure dies,
And thou canst leave no Legacies.
What Madness is it then to spare,
When we want Power to make an Heir?


Live, Cloris, then at the full Rate
Of thy great Beauty; and since Fate,
To Love and Youth, is so severe,
Enjoy 'm freely while th' art here.
Some Caution yet I'd have thee use,
When e're thou dost a Servant chuse:
Men are not all for Lovers fit,
No more than Arms, or Arts of Wit:
For Wisdom some respected are,
Some we see poweful at the Bar;
Some for Preferment waste their Time,
And the steep Hill of Honour climb.
Others of Love their Business make,
In Love their whole Diversion take.
Take one of those; for in one Breast
Two Passions live but ill at rest:
Be wise, and with Discretion fly
All that take Flame at every Eye.
All sorts with powder'd Coat and Hair;
All that dare more than think thee Fair,
Take one of Love who nothing says,
And yet whom every Word betrays;
Love in the Cradle pretty'st shews.
And when't can speak, unruly grows.


When fair Aurelia first became
The Mistress of his Heart,
So mild and gentle was her Reign,
Thirsis in hers had part.
Reserves and Care he laid aside,
And gave a Loose to Love;
The headlong Course he must abide,
How steep so e're it prove.


At first Disdain and Pride he fear'd;
But they being overthrown,
No second Foe a while appear'd,
And he thought all his own:
He thought himself a happier Man
Than ever lov'd before;
Her Favours still his Hopes out-ran,
Yet still he lov'd the more:
Love smil'd at first, then looking grave,
Said, Thirsis, leave to boast;
More Joy than all her Kindness gave,
Her Fickleness will cost.
He spoke, and from that fatal Time,
All Thirsis did, or said,
Appear'd unwelcome, or a Crime
To the ungrateful Maid.


Fear not, my Dear, a Flame can never dye,
That is once kindled by so bright an Eye;
View but thy self, and measure thence my Love,
Think what a Passion such a Form must move;
For though thy Beauty first allur'd my Sight,
Now I consider it but as the Light
That led me to the Treasury of thy Mind,
Whose inward Vertue in that Feature shin'd.
That Knot be confident will ever last,
Which Fancy ty'd, and Reason has made fast;
So fast that time, although it may disarm
Thy lovely Face, my Faith can never harm;
And Age deluded, when it comes, will find
My Love removed, and to thy Soul assign'd.



Fair Amaranta, wert thou not to blame,
To blow the Fire, and wonder at the Flame?
I did converse, 'tis true, so far was mine,
But that I lov'd, and hop'd was wholly thine;
Not hop'd as others do, for a Return,
But that I might without offending burn.
I thought those Eyes which every Hour enslave
Could not remember all the Wounds they gave:
Forgotten in the Crowd I wisht to lie,
And of your Coldness, not your Anger, die;
Yet since you know I love, 'tis now no time
Longer to hide, let me excuse the Crime,
Seeing what Laws I to my Passion give,
Perhaps you may consent that it should live:
First then, it never shall a Hope advance,
Of waiting on you, but by seeming chance;
I at a distance will adore your Eyes,
As awful Persians do the Eastern Skies;
I never will presume to think of Sex,
Nor with gross Thoughts my deathless Love perplex;
I tread a pleasant Path without Design;
And to thy Care my Happiness resign:
From Heaven it self thy Beauty cannot be
A freer Gift, than is my Love to thee.


You tell me, Celia, you approve,
Yet never must return my Love:
An Answer that my Hope destroys,
And in the Cradle wounds our Joys;


To kill at once what needs must die,
None would to Birds and Beast[s] deny.
How can you then so Cruel prove,
As to preserve, and torture Love?
That Beauty Nature kindly meant
For her own Pride, and our Content;
Why shou'd the Tyrant Honour make
Our cruel undeserved Wrack?
In Love and War th' Impostor do's
The Best to greatest Harms expose:
Come then, my Celia, let's no more
This Devil for a God adore;
Like foolish Indians we have been,
Whose whole Religion is a Sin:
Let's lose no Time then but repent,
Love welcomes best a Penitent.


Thirsis, I wish, as well as you,
To Honour there were nothing due,
Then would I pay my Debt of Love
In the same Coin that you approve;
Which now you must in Friendship take,
'Tis all the Payment I can make;
Friendship so high, that I must say,
'Tis rather Love, with some Allay;
And rest contented, since that I
As well my self as you deny.
Learn then of me, bravely to bear,
The want of what you hold most dear;
And that which Honour does in me,
Let my Example work in thee.




Fair Amaranta on the Stage, whilst you
Pitty'd a feigned Love, you gave a true;
The Hopes and Fears, in every Scene exprest,
Grew soon th' uneasie Motions of my Breast.
I thought to steal the innocent Delight,
And not have paid my Heart for a first Sight.
And if I ventur'd on some slight Discourse,
It should be such as could no Passion nurse:
Led by the treacherous Lustre of your Eyes,
At last I play'd too near the Precipice:
Love came disguis'd in Wonder and Delight,
His Bow unbent, his Arrows out of sight;
Your Words fell on my Passion, like those Showers,
Which paint and multiply the rising Flowers;
Like Cupid's self, a God, and yet a Child,
Your Looks at once were awful, and yet mild:
Methoughts you blush'd, as conscious of my Flame,
Whilst your strict Vertue did your Beauty blame:
But rest secure, y'are from the Guilt as free
As Saints ador'd from our Idolatry.


Ah! Pardon, Madam; if I ever thought
Your smallest Favours could too dear be bought;
And the just Greatness of your Servants Flame,
I did the Poorness of their Spirits name;
Calling their long Attendance Slavery,
Your Power of Life and Death flat Tyranny;
Since now I yield, and do confess there is
No way too hard that leads to such Bliss.


So when Hippomanes beheld the Race,
Where Loss was Death, and Conquest but a Face,
He stood amazed at the fatal Strife,
Wondring that Love shou'd dearer be than Life;
But when he saw the Prize no longer staid,
But through those very Dangers sought the Maid,
And won her too: O may his Conquest prove,
A happy Omen to my purer Love;
Which if the Honour of all Victory,
In the Resistance of the Vanquisht lie,
Though it may be the least regarded Prize,
Is not the smallest Trophy of our Eyes.


Phillis, this early Zeal asswage,
You over-act your part;
The Martyrs, at your tender Age,
Gave Heaven but half their Heart.
Old Men (till past the Pleasure) ne're
Declaim against the Sin;
'Tis early to begin to fear
The Devil at Fifteen.
The World to Youth is too severe,
And, like a treacherous Light,
Beauty, the Actions of the Fair,
Exposes to their sight.
And yet this World, as old as 'tis,
Is oft deceiv'd by't too;
Kind Combinations seldom miss,
Let's try what we can do.



Princes make Laws, by which their Subjects live,
And the high Gods Rules for the Worship give;
How should poor Mortals else a Service find
At all proportion'd to their heavenly Mind?
Had it been left to us, each one would bring,
Of what he lik'd himself, an Offering;
And with unwelcome Zeal perhaps displease
Th' offended Deity he would appease.
All Powers but thine, this Mercy did allow,
And how they wou'd be serv'd, themselves do shew.
A rude Barbarian wou'd his captiv'd Foe
Fully instruct in what he'd have him do:
And can it be, my Celia, that Love,
Less kind than War shou'd to the vanquish'd prove?
Say, cruel Fair, must then my Heart, a Flame,
Use for a while Friendship's Disguise and Name?
Or may it boldly like it self appear,
And its own Tale deliver to thy Ear?
Or must it in my tortur'd Bosom live,
Like Fire in unmov'd Flints, and no Light give,
And only then humbly send forth a small
Spark, when your self does on that Subject fall?
My Passion can with any Laws comply,
And, for your sake, do any thing, but die.


Get you gone, you will undo me,
If you love me, don't pursue me,
Let that Inclination perish,
Which I dare no longer cherish;
With harmless Thoughts I did begin,
But in the Crowd Love entred in;


I knew him not, he was so gay,
So innocent and full of play;
At every Hour, in every Place,
I either saw or form'd your Face;
All that in Plays was finely writ,
Fancy for you, and me did fit.
My Dreams at Night were all of you,
Such as till then I never knew:
I sported thus with young Desire,
Never intending to go higher:
But now his Teeth and Claws are grown,
Let me the fatal Lion shun;
You found me harmless, leave me so;
For were I not, you'd leave me too.


Amintas, I am come alone,
A silly harmless Maid,
But whether is thy Honour flown?
I fear I am betray'd;
Thy Looks are chang'd and in the Place
Of innocent Desires,
Methinks I see thy Eyes and Face
Glow with unusual Fires.

Sees not my Celia, Nature wear
One Countenance in the Spring,
And yet another Shape prepare,
To bring the Harvest in?
Look on the Eagle, how unlike
He to the Egg is found,
When he prepares his Pownce to strike
His Prey against the Ground;


Fears might my Infant-love become,
'Twere want of Vigor now
Should Modesty those Hopes benum,
The Place and You allow.

Amintas, hold; What could you worse
To worst of Women do?
Ah! how could you a Passion nurse,
So much my Honour's Foe?

Make not an Idol of a Toy,
Which every Breath can shake,
Which all must have, or none enjoy,
What Course soe're we take.
Whilst Women hate, or Men are vain,
You cannot be secure;
What makes my Celia then a Pain
So needless to endure?

Could I the World neglect for thee,
Thy Love, though dear it cost,
In some unkind Conceit of me,
Would be untimely lost:
Thou would'st thy own Example fear,
And every heedless Word,
I chance let fall beyond thy Ear
Would some new Doubt afford.

If I am jealous, 'tis because
I know not where you love;
With me obey Love's gentle Laws
And all my Fears remove.

Women, like Things at Second-hand
Do half their Value lose,
But whil'st all Courtship they withstand,
May at their Pleasure choose.

This were a fine Discourse, my Dear,
If we were not alone;
But now Love whispers in my Ear,
There's somewhat to be done.


She said she never would forgive;
He kissing, swore she shou'd;
And told her, she was mad to strive
Against their mutual Good.
What farther past, I cannot tell
But sure not much amiss;
He vow'd he lov'd her dearly well,
She answered with a Kiss.


Drink about till the Day find us;
These are Pleasures that will last;
Let no foolish Passion blind us,
Joys of Love they fly too fast.
Maids are long e're we can win 'um,
And out Passions waste the while,
In a Beer-glass we'll begin 'um,
Let some Beau take th' other Toil.
Yet we will have store of good Wenches,
Though we venture fluxing for't,
Upon Couches, Chairs, and Benches,
To out-do them at the Sport,
Joyning thus both Mirth and Beauty,
To make up our full Delight:
In Wine and Love we pay our Duty
To each friendly coming Night.


Love still has somthing of the Sea,
From whence his Mother rose;
No time his Slaves from Doubt can free,
Nor give their Thoughts repose:


They are becalm'd in clearest Days,
And in rough Weather tost;
They wither under cold Delays,
Or are in Tempests lost.
One while they seem to touch the Port,
Then straight into the Main,
Some angry Wind in cruel sport
The Vessel drives again.
At first Disdain and Pride they fear,
Which if they chance to 'scape,
Rivals and Falshood soon appear
In a more dreadful shape.
By such Degrees to Joy they come,
And are so long withstood,
So slowly they receive the Sum,
It hardly does them good.
'Tis cruel to prolong a Pain,
And to defer a Joy;
Believe me, gentle Celemene
Offends the winged Boy.
An hundred thousand Oaths your Fears
Perhaps would not remove;
And if I gaz'd a thousand Years
I could no deeper love.


Phillis, you have enough enjoy'd
The Pleasures of Disdain;
Methinks your Pride shou'd now be cloy'd,
And grow it self again:
Open to Love your long-shut Breast,
And entertain its sweetest Guest.


Love heals the Wounds that Beauty gives,
And can ill Usage slight;
He laughs at all that Fate contrives,
Full of his own Delight;
We in his Chains are happier far
Than Kings themselves without 'em are.
Leave then to tame Philosophy,
The Joys of Quietness;
With me into Love's Empire fly;
And taste my Happiness:
Where even Tears and Sighs can show
Pleasures, the Cruel never know.


[Madam, for your Commands to stay]

Madam, for your Commands to stay,
Is the mean Duty of a Wretch,
Whose Service you with Wages pay;
Lovers should at occasion catch,
Not idly wait till it be brought,
But with the Deed o're take your Thought;
Honour and Love let them give o're,
Who do their Duty, and no more.


[Awake, my Eyes, at Night my Thought[s] pursue]

Awake, my Eyes, at Night my Thought[s] pursue
You charming Shape; and find it ever new;
If I my weary Eyes to Sleep resign,
In gaudy Dreams your Love and Beauty shine;
Dreams with such Extasies and Pleasures fill'd,
As to those Joys they seem can only yield;
Nor do they yield perhaps, wou'd you allow,
Fair Amidea, that I once might know.



As in those Nations, where they yet adore
Marble and Cedar, and their Aid, implore:
'Tis not the Workman, nor the precious Wood,
But 'tis the Worshipper that makes the God;
So, cruel Fair, though Heaven has giv'n you all,
We Mortals (Vertue or can Beauty) call,
'Tis we that give the Thunder to your Frowns,
Darts to your Eyes, and to our selves the Wounds:
Without our Love, which proudly you deride,
Vain were your Beauty, and more vain your Pride;
All envy'd Beings that the World can shew,
Still to some meaner things their greatness owe,
Subjects make Kings, and we (the numerous Train
Of humble Lovers) constitute thy Reign,
This difference only Beauty's Realm may boast,
Where most it favours, it enslaves the most;
And they to whom it is indulgent found,
Are ever in the surest Fetters bound:
What Tyrant yet, but thee, was ever known
Cruel to those that serv'd to make him one?
Valour's a Vice, if not with Honour joyn'd,
Beauty a raging Plague, if never kind.


I ask not my Celia would love me again,
In its own Pleasure my Love is o're-paid;
I'll find such Excuses for all her Disdain,
That shortly to Frown I'll make her afraid.


Her Neglect of me, of her self I'll think Care;
Her Cruelty I her strict Vertue will name;
When least kind she seems, I'll believe her most near,
And call her Refusal, but a Virgin's Shame.
Thus all that was wont hertofore to cure Love
In me shall increase, and stir up the Fire;
I'll make her at last some kind Remedy prove,
Since all others but increase my Desire.


Fair Aminta, art thou mad,
To let the World in me
Envy Joys I never had,
And censure them in thee?
Fill'd with Grief, for what is past,
Let us at length be wise,
And to Love's true Enjoyments hast,
Since we have paid the Price.
Love does easie Souls despise,
Who lose themselves for Toys,
And escape for those devise,
Who taste his utmost Joys.
Love should, like the Year, be crown'd
With sweet Variety;
Hope should in the Spring abound,
Kind Fears, and Jealousie.
In the Summer Flowers should rise,
And in the Autumn Fruit;
His Spring doth else but mock our Eyes,
And in a Scoff salute.



Walking among thick Shades alone,
I heard a distant Voice,
Which, sighing, said, Now she is gone,
I'll make no second Choice.
I look't and saw it was a Swain,
Who to the flying Wind,
Did of some neighbouring Nymph complain,
Too fair, and too unkind.
He told me how he saw her first,
And with what gracious Eyes,
And gentle Speech, that Flame she nurst,
Which since she did despise.
His Vows she did as fast receive,
As he could breath 'em to her;
Love in her Eyes proclaim'd her leave,
That he alone should woo her.
They fed their Flocks still near one Place,
And at one instant met,
He gazing on her lovely Face
Fell deeper in the Net.
She seem'd of her new Captive glad;
Proud of his Bondage he,
No Lover, sure a Prospect had
Of more Felicity.
But the false Maid, or never lov'd,
Or gave so quickly o're;
E're his was to the height improv'd,
Her Kindness was no more.
Even her Dissemblings she let fall,
And made him plainly see,
That though his Heart she did enthral,
Her own was ever free.


Now, lest his Care should Pity move,
She shuns his very Sight;
And leaves him to that hopeless Love,
She did create in Spight.
Her Name I could not make him tell,
Though vowing him my aid;
He said he never would reveal,
In Life, nor Death, the Maid.


Cloris, tho' meaner Beauties might
Perhaps have need of some such Slight,
You may those petty Arts despise,
Secure of what is once your Prize;
Ill us'd and scorn'd, we must adore,
And question not resistless Power:
In Rome, no Man was known to fly,
Whom the Emperor condemn'd to dye,
The fatal Stroke themselves wou'd give,
Rather than banisht from her live.
So to your Empire harsh or kind,
I stand by my own choice confind.
I daily saw how others far'd,
Whom the false Hope you gave ensnar'd;
Like foolish Boys at Birds, that catch,
Sometimes we thought you in our reach;
And then again, you'd mount and fly
Beyond the compass of our Eye;
Till weary'd with the vain Pursuit,
Like Birds that peck at painted Fruit,
The wiser sort their Hopes disclaim,
And beat the Wood for easier Game.




Love's Goddess sure was blind this Day,
Thus to adorn her greatest Foe,
And Love's Artillery betray,
To one that wou'd her Realm o'rethrow.
Those Eyes, that form that lofty Meen,
Who could for Vertue's Camp design?
Defensive Arms shou'd there be seen;
No sharp, no pointed Weapons shine.
Sweetness of Nature, and true Wit,
High Power, with equal Goodness joyn'd
In this fair Paradise are met,
The Joy and Wonder of Mankind.
May her blest Example chase
Vice in Troops out of the Land,
Flying from her awful Face,
Like pale Ghosts when Day's at Hand.
Long may she Reign over this Isle
Lov'd and ador'd in foreign Parts;
But gentle Pallas shield the while
From her bright Charms our single Hearts.
May her Heroe bring home Peace,
Won with Honour in the Field,
And all home-bred Factions cease;
He our Sword, and She our Shield.


Many such Days may she behold,
Like the glad Sun without decay;
May Time, that tears where he lays hold,
Only salute her in his way.
Late, late, may she to Heaven return,
And Quires of Angels there rejoyce,
As much as we below shall mourn
Our short, but their eternal Choice.


Cloris, I justly am betray'd,
By a Design my self had laid;
Like an old Rook, whom in his Cheat,
A run of Fortune does defeat.
I thought at first with a small Sum
Of Love, thy Heap to overcome;
Presuming on thy want of Art,
Thy gentle and unpractis'd Heart;
But naked Beauty can prevail,
Like open force, when all things fail.
Instead of that thou hast all mine,
And I have not one Stake of thine;
And, like all Winners, dost discover
A Willingness to give me over.
And though I beg, thou wilt not now;
'Twere better thou should'st do so too;
For I so far in debt shall run,
Even thee I shall be forc'd to shun.
My Hand, alas, is no more mine,
Else it had long ago been thine;
My Heart I give thee, and we call
No Man unjust that parts with all.



Room, Boys, room; room, Boys; room,
For from Ireland we come;
We have mawl'd the original Tories;
We have baffled the League,
Between Monsieur and Teague,
And eclips'd the Grand Lewis his Glories.
They all fly in the Field,
Their best Garrisons yield,
They stand trembling while we take their Passes:
Our brave King at our Head,
We fear no Steel nor Lead,
But laugh at their Beads and their Masses.
If some Blood we have spilt,
To compound for the Guilt,
In Love's Camp we will do double Duty,
Mankind we will repair,
With the leave of the Fair,
And pay our Arrears to true Beauty.
Our worst Noise in the Pit,
Shall pass all for good Wit,
While the Cits and the Bumkins adore us.
We will pay the Rogues well,
Their Wives Bellies shall swell,
And the Cuckolds at random shall score us.
The next Summer for France,
We will boldly advance,
Our noble Redeemer shall lead us;
We will break the Slaves Chains,
And drink of their Champains,
To the Health of that Heroe that freed us.


He hates Lewis le Grand,
Like a true English Man,
And ne're will consent to a Treaty,
Till each neighbouring Crown
Have what's justly their own,
And the French strike sail when th[e]y met ye.
Since Elizabeth's Reign
No Protestant Queen
We have had, but the present God bless her;
Since our Edward the Fourth,
No brave Prince of such Worth,
But William his valiant Successor.
With a Queen so devout,
And a People so stout,
A Parliament that will supply 'em,
A Cause that is right,
And a King that will fight,
Our Enemies all we defie 'em.


Thanks, fair Vrania; to your Scorn
I now am free, as I was born,
Of all the Pain that I endur'd
By your late Coldness I am cur'd.
In losing me, proud Nymph, you lose
The humblest Slave your Beauty knows;
In losing you, I but thrown down
A cruel Tyrant from her Throne.
My ranging Love did never find
Such Charms of Person and of Mind;
Y'ave Beauty, Wit, and all Things know,
But where you shou'd your Love bestow.


I unawares my Freedom gave,
And to those Tyrants grew a Slave;
Would you have kept what you had won,
You should have more Compassion shewn.
Love is a Burthen, which two Hearts,
When equally they bear their Parts,
With Pleasure carry; but no one,
Alas, can bear it long alone.
I'm not of those who court their Pain,
And make an Idol of Disdain;
My Hope in Love does ne're expire,
But it extinguishes Desire.
Nor yet of those who ill receiv'd,
Wou'd have it otherwise believ'd;
And, where their Love cou'd not prevail,
Take the vain Liberty to rail.
Whoe're wou'd make his Victor less,
Must his own weak Defence confess,
And while her Pow'r he does defame,
He poorly doubles his own Shame.
Even that Malice does betray,
And speak Concern another way;
And all such Scorn in Men is but
The Smoke of Fires ill put out.
He's still in Torment, whom the Rage
To Detraction does engage;
In Love Indifference is sure
The only sign of perfect Cure.


Who would not gaze away his Heart
On Mariana's Eyes,
Did not her high and just Disdain
The bold Delight chastize?


Mirth and Joy she spreads around,
Like the Sun's chearful Light,
When his returning Beams destroy
The Empire of the Night.
Her Beauty with amazement strikes
(If with no more) the Old:
Her Vertue tempers with Despair
The Youthful and the Bold.
Her Goodness so disarms her Wit
Of the offensive part;
Whilst others only charm the Ear,
She steals the very Heart.
Let us no more defame the Fair,
But learn to praise again;
Bright Mariana's Worth demands
A new and nobler Strain.
So, to the feather'd Kind, the Spring
Restores their wonted Voice;
On ev'ry Bough they sit and sing,
And court their new-made Choice.


Did any Punishment attend
Thy former Perjuries,
I should believe a second time,
Thy charming Flatteries:
Did but one Wrinkle mark this Face,
Or hadst thou lost one single Grace.
No sooner hast thou, with false Vows,
Provok'd the Powers above;
But thou art fairer than before,
And we are more in love,


Thus Heaven and Earth seem to declare,
They pardon Falshood in the Fair.
Sure 'tis no Crime vainly to swear,
By every Power on high,
And call our bury'd Mother's Ghost
A Witness to the Lye:
Heaven at such Perjury connives,
And Venus with a Smile forgives.
The Nymphs and cruel Cupid too,
Sharp'ning his pointed Dart
On a old Hone, besmear'd with Blood,
Forbear thy perjur'd Heart.
Fresh Youth grows up, to wear thy Chains,
And the old Slave no Freedom gains.
Thee, Mothers for their eldest Sons,
Thee, wretched Misers fear,
Lest thy prevailing Beauty should
Seduce the hopeful Heir:
New-marry'd Virgins fear thy Charms
Should keep their Bridegroom from their Arms.



To the Tune of Bateman.

You Gallants all, that love good Wine,
For shame your Lives amend;
With Strangers go to Church, or Dine,
But drink with an old Friend.
For with him tipling all the Night,
You kiss, hugg, and embrace;
Whereas a Stranger, at first sight,
May kill you on the Place.


There was a rich old Usurer,
A gallant Son he had;
Who slew an ancient Barrister,
Like a true mettled Lad.
All in that very House, where Saint
Holds Devil by the Nose;
These Drunkards met to Roar, and Rant,
But quarrell'd in the close.
The Glass flew chearfully about,
And drunken Chat went on;
Which Troops had fail'd, and which were stout,
When Namur wou'd be won.
A learned Lawyer, at the last,
No Tory, as I'm told,
Began to talk of Tyrants past,
In Words both sharp and bold.
He toucht a little on our Times,
Defin'd the Power of Kings,
What were their Vertues, what their Crimes,
And many dangerous Things.
A Stranger that sat silent by,
And scarce knew what he meant,
O'ercome with Wine and Loyalty,
Did thus his Passion vent:
I cannot bear the least ill Word,
That lessens any King;
And the bold Man shall feel my Sword;
At that their Friends stept in.
The Quarrel seem'd a while compos'd,
And many Healths there past,
But one to Blood was ill dispos'd,
As it appear'd at last.


The Counsellor was walking Home,
Sober, as he was wont,
The young Man after him did come,
With Sword, that was not blunt.
A Blow there past, which no Man saw,
From Cane of Lawyer bold;
The young Man did his Weapon draw,
And left the Lawyer cold.
Which Cane held up, in his Defence,
Was judg'd a Weapon drawn:
What needs there farther Evidence,
Th' Assault was very plain.
At Hixes's Hall, by Jury grave,
It was Man-slaughter found;
O what wou'd it have cost to have
A Pardon from the Crown.
Then learn, my honest Country-men,
To take yourselves the Pence;
Wisely prevent the Courtier's Gain,
And save us that Expence.
Ye Gallants all, take heed how you
Come to untimely Ends;
Justice has bid the World adieu,
And dead Men have no Friends.


Hears not my Phillis, how the Birds
Their feather'd Mates salute?
They tell their Passion in their Words;
Must I alone be mute?
Phillis, without Frown or Smile,
Sat and knotted all the while.


The God of Love in thy bright Eyes
Does like a Tyrant reign;
But in thy Heart a Child he lyes,
Without his Dart or Flame.
Phillis, without [Frown or Smile,
Sat and knotted all the while.]
So many Months in Silence past,
And yet in raging Love,
Might well deserve one Word at last
My Passion shou'd approve.
Phillis, without [Frown or Smile,
Sat and knotted all the while.]
Must then your faithful Swain expire,
And not one Look obtain,
Which he, to sooth his fond Desire,
Might pleasingly explain?
Phillis, without [Frown or Smile,
Sat and knotted all the while.]


Scrape no more your harmless Chins,
Old Beaux, in hope to please;
You shou'd repent your former Sins,
Not study their Increase;
Young awkard Fops, may shock our Sight,
But you offend by Day and Night.
In vain the Coachman turns about,
And whips the dappl'd Greys;
When the old Ogler looks out,
We turn away our Face.
True Love and Youth will ever charm,
But both affected, cannot warm.


Summer-fruits we highly prise,
They kindly cool the Blood;
But Winter-berries we despise,
And leave 'em in the Wood;
On the Bush they may look well,
But gather'd, lose both taste and smell.
That you languish, that you dye,
Alas, is but too true;
Yet tax not us with Cruelty,
Who daily pity you.
Nature henceforth alone accuse,
In vain we grant, if she refuse.


When first Pastora came to Town,
The fresh Desire of every Heart,
Her Innocence so fenc'd her own,
She laught at Cupid and his Dart.
Her Looks might all the World enflame,
Themselves, yet cold as freezing Snow;
Which the bold Hand that thinks to tame,
Soon with unusual Heat will glow.
As when a Comet does appear,
We Stars and Moon no more respect;
So while Pastora guilds our Sphere,
All former Beauties we neglect.


Smooth was the Water, calm the Air,
The Evening-Sun deprest,
Lawyers dismist the noisie Bar,
The Labourer at rest,


When Strephon, with his charming Fair,
Cross'd the proud River Thames,
And to a Garden did repair,
To quench their mutual Flames.
The crafty Waiter soon espy'd
Youth sparkling in her Eyes;
He brought no Ham, nor Neats-tongues dry'd,
But Cream and Strawberries.
The amorous Strephon ask'd the Maid,
What's whiter than this Cream?
She blush'd, and could not tell, she said:
Thy Teeth, my pretty Lamb.
What's redder than these Berries are?
I know not, she reply'd:
Those lips, which I'll no longer spare,
The burning Shepherd cry'd.
And strait began to hug her:
This Kiss, my Dear,
Is sweeter far
Than Strawberries, Cream and Sugar.


The Sun had scarce drunk up the Dew,
Or underneath the Boughs,
The chearful Birds met, to renew
Their mutual daily Vows.
Scarce had they paid their Debt to Love,
When Thirsis with his Fair,
Enter'd in haste the conscious Grove,
A lovely loving Pair.


Thirsis began, Why mourns, my Dear?
Why does my Celia weep,
Since all things are propitious here,
And envious Man asleep?
Blame not my Tears, the Nymph reply'd,
Let them for ever flow,
E're Phœbus twice his Face shall hide,
I to the Country go.
Let us then snatch at flying Joy,
Cry'd out the am'rous Swain;
When cruel Flames an House destroy,
Who saves not what he can?
If, Thirsis, e're we seal our Love,
We are so loth to part,
The Torment then will double prove,
And break my tender Heart.
I suddenly must cross the Seas,
To get my self a Name,
For in Love's Camp no Man can rise,
Who is unknown to Fame.


Behold the happy Day again,
Destinguisht by the Joy in every Face;
This Day Great William's Life began,
Soul of our War, and Guardian of our Peace.
Of three afflicted Realms, the choice,
When on the furious Waves of Faction tost,
They all cry'd out, as with one Voice,
Save us, Heroick Prince, or we are lost.


So in the gen'ral Deluge met
Beasts of all Kinds, whom Nature had made Foes;
They did their mutual Hate forget,
And the blest Ark for sacred Refuge chose.
Part of thy Time, and of thy Care,
Thy Native Country claims, and cannot want.
But we one Movement cannot spare,
(Tho' it be due) without a kind Complaint.
The Sun, who flies around the Earth,
Painting the Face of Nature where he shines,
Giving to Flowers, and Fruit new Birth,
Rip'ning for us rich Spice and noblest Wines,
Permits we shou'd his Absence mourn,
Tho' for our good, like thee, abroad employ'd,
And that we welcome his Return,
As if too long by distant Climes enjoy'd.
Hail, glorious King, fill all the Mouthes of Fame:
Vertue like thine will fiercest Envy tame;
And may thy Life, be lasting as thy Name.


Cupid, I hear thou hast improv'd
Thy little Art of War;
Old Men conceit they may be lov'd,
And Cripples win the Fair.
False powder'd Beaux at distance kill,
And every Fop writes Songs;
Musick imploys her utmost Skill,
And to thy Camp belongs.

Great God of War, why shou'd not I
As well as you advance,
And by new Ways make Lovers dye,
While you bomb Towns in France.


William and Louis are your Pride,
Belle Dives, and Stowel mine,
Whose Batteries Men can less abide
Than those upon the Rhine.


What shall become of Man so wise,
When he dies?
None can tell
Whither he goes to Heaven or Hell;
Or after a few Moments dear,
He disappear,
And at last,
Perish entirely like a Beast:
But Women, Wine and Mirth we know,
Are all the Joys he has below:
Let us then ply those Joys we have,
'Tis vain to think beyond the Grave;
Out of our reach the Gods have laid
Of Time to come th' Event,
And laugh to see the Fools afraid,
Of what the Knaves invent.


[From Martial, Lib. 8. Ep. 77.]

Liber, thou Joy of all thy Friends,
Worthy to live in endless Pleasure:
While Knaves and Fools pursue their Ends,
Let Mirth and Freedom be thy Treasure.


Be still well dress'd, as now thou art,
Gay, and on charming Objects thinking;
Let easie Beauty warm thy Heart,
And fill thy Bed when thou leav'st drinking.
Delay no pressing Appetite,
And sometimes stir up lazy Nature;
Of Age the envious Censure slight;
What Pleasure's made of, 'tis no matter:
He that lives so but to his Prime,
Wisely doubles his short Time.


Phillis is my only Joy,
Faithless as the Winds or Seas;
Sometimes coming, sometimes coy,
Yet she never fails to please;
If with a Frown
I am cast down,
Phillis smiling,
And beguiling,
Makes me happier than before.
Tho', alas, too late I find,
Nothing can her Fancy fix;
Yet the Moment she is kind,
I forgive her all her Tricks;
Which, tho' I see,
I can't get free;
She deceiving,
I believing;
What need Lovers wish for more?



[From Martial,] Lib. 9. Ep. 7[0].

O Times! O Manners! Cicero cry'd out,
But 'twas when enrag'd Catilin conspir'd
To burn the City, and to cut the Throat
Of half the Senate, had his Ruffians hir'd:
When Son and Father did the World divide,
And Rome for Tyrants, not for Empire fought;
When slaughter'd Citizens on either side
Cover'd that Earth, her early Valour bought.
Of Times and Men, why dost thou now complain?
What is it, Coscus, that offends thee, say?
Our Laws the License of the Sword restrain;
And our Prince wills that his arm'd Troops obey:
His Reign, Success, Freedom and Plenty crown,
Blame not our Manners then, but mend thy own.


See! Hymen comes; How his Torch blazes!
Looser Loves, how dim they burn;
No Pleasures equal chaste Embraces,
When we Love for Love return.
When Fortune makes the Match he rages,
And forsakes th' unequal Pair;
But when Love two Hearts engages,
The kind God is ever there.


Regard not then high Blood, nor Riches;
You that would his Blessings have,
Let untaught Love guide all your Wishes,
Hymen shou'd be Cupid's Slave.
Young Virgins, that yet bear your Passions,
Coldly as the Flint its Fire,
Offer to Hymen your Devotions,
He will warm you with Desire.
Young Men, no more neglect your Duty,
To the God of Nuptial Vows:
Pay your long, Arrears to Beauty,
As his chaster Law allows.



How cruel was Alonzo's Fate,
To fix his Love so high,
That he must perish by her Hate,
Or by her Kindness dye?
Tortur'd, and mangl'd, cut and maim'd,
If he triumpht o're his Pain,
And with his dying Breath proclaim'd,
'Twas better than Disdain.
The gentle Nymph, long since design'd
For the proud Monsieur's Bed,
Now to a holy Jayl confin'd,
Drops Tears with ev'ry Bead.
Tell me, ye Gods, if where a King
Suffers for Impotence,
True Love be such a fatal thing,
What can be Innocence?



Phillis, Men say that all my Vows
Are to thy Fortune paid;
Alas, my Heart he little knows
Who thinks my Love a Trade.
Were I, of all these Woods, the Lord,
One Berry from thy Hand
More real Pleasure would afford,
Than all my large Command.
My humble Love has learnt to live,
On what the nicest Maid,
Without a conscious Blush, may give
Beneath the Myrtle-shade.


Thou cursed Cock, with thy perpetual Noise,
May'st thou be Capon made, and lose thy Voice,
Or on a Dunghil may'st thou spend thy Blood,
And Vermin prey upon thy craven Brood;
May Rivals tread thy Hens before thy Face,
Then with redoubled Courage give thee chase;
May'st thou be punish'd for St. Peter's Crime,
And on Shrove-tuesday, perish in thy Prime;
May thy bruis'd Carcass be some Beggar's Feast,
Thou first and worst Disturber of Man's Rest.



O're the Desert, cross the Meadows,
Hunters blew the merry Horn;
Phœbus chas'd the flying Shadows:
Eccho, she reply'd, in scorn;
Still adoring,
And deploring:
Why must Thirsis lose his Life?
Rivers murmur'd from their Fountains,
Acrons dropping from the Oaks,
Fawns came tripping o're the Mountains,
Fishes bit the naked Hook[s];
Still admiring,
And desiring:
When shall Phillis be a Wife?


Dear Friend, I fear my Heart will break;
In t'other World I scarce believe,
In this I little pleasure take:
That my whole Grief thou may'st conceive;
Cou'd not I Drink more than I Whore,
By Heaven, I wou'd not live an Hour.


There was a prudent grave Physician,
Careful of Patients as you'd wish one;


Much good he did with Purge and Glister,
And well he knew to raise a Blister;
Many he cur'd and more he wou'd,
By Vomit, Flux, and letting Blood;
But still his Patients came again,
And most of their old Ills complain;
The Drunkards drank, and spoild their Liver:
Beaux ply'd the Smock as much as ever,
And got the high Veneral Feaver:
The Glutton cram'd at Noon and Supper,
And doubled both his Paunch and Crupper.
One Day he call'd 'em all together,
And one by one, he askt 'em whether
It were not better by good Diet,
To keep their Blood and Humours quiet;
With Tost and Ale to cool their Brains,
Than nightly Fire 'em with Champains;
To sup sometimes on Water-grewel,
Than drink themselves into a Duel;
To change their lewd, for sober Life,
And rotten Whore, for sounder Wife?
They all agreed that his Advice
Was honest, wholsom, grave and wise;
But not one Man, wou'd quit his Vice;
For after all his vain Attacks,
They rose and din'd well at Pontack's:

The Moral

The Wise may preach, and Satyrists rail,
Custom and Nature will prevail.


A Grave Physician, us'd to write for Fees,
And spoil no Paper, but with Recipe's,


Is now turn'd Poet, rails against all Wit,
Except that Little found among the Great;
As if he thought true Wit and Sence were ty'd
To Men in Place, like Avarice, or Pride.
But in their Praise, so like a Quack he talks,
You'd swear he wanted for his Christmas-box.
With mangled Names old Stories he pollutes,
And to the present Time past Actions suits;
Amaz'd we find, in ev'ry Page he writes,
Members of Parliament with Arthur's Knights[.]
It is a common Pastime to Write Ill;
And Doctor, with the rest, e'en take thy fill;
Thy Satyr's harmless: 'Tis thy Prose that kills,
When thou Prescrib'st thy Potions and thy Pills[.]
Go on brave Doctor, a third Volume write,
And find us Paper while you make us S---.


Since glorious Dryden has withdrawn his Light,
Some glimmering Stars relieve our gloomy Night;
Poets of different Magnitudes advance,
In humble Confidence of Song and Dance;
Ballon and Tumblers please, tho' Poets fail;
At a strong Back She-Criticks never rail.
When a good Place is void, we all pretend,
Some on their Merit, some their Purse [dep]end:
Our Friend can boast of neither, yet his Play
He hopes at least may live out his third Day;
Adorn him with one Sprig, like Christmas-Brawn,
His farther Plea to Bays shall be withdrawn.
In Courts of Law, under Delays we groan,
But here our Poets are too sone undone;
Plays are half seen, half heard, less understood,
When the dead Warrant issues from the Crowd;
Some are so void of Wit they'll relish none:


Others again like nothing but their own;
Tho' outwardly they seem to carry it fair,
The Wits are alwayes in a state of War.
This Play's so chast, so void of Pagan Wit,
It might have been by a Reformer writ;
Fops, Beauxs and Parsons, shall this Night be safe,
We bring the other Sex to make you laugh.


Poets and thieves can scarce be rooted out,
Scape ne're so hardly, they'll have th'other bout;
Burnt in the hand the Thieves fall to't agen,
And Poets hist, cry they did so to Ben—
Like Boys, who have at School too oft been stript,
They have no feeling in the part that's whipt.
They're for your pity, not your anger, fit,
They're e'en such fools, they wou'd be thought t'have wit.
Elsewhere you all can flatter, why not here;
You'll say you pay, and so can be severe:
Judge for yourselves then Gallants as you pay,
And lead not each of you his Bench astray:
Let easie Citts be pleased with all they hear,
Go home and to their neighbours praise our Ware.
They with good stomachs come, and fain wou'd eat
You nothing like, and make them loath their meat;
Though some men are with Wine, Wit, Beauty cloy'd;
The Creatures are by others still enjoy'd.
'Tis not fair play, that one for his Half Crown
Shou'd judge, and rail, and damn for half the Town.
But do your worst; if once the Pit grows thin,
Your dear lov'd Masks, will hardly venture in.
Then w'are reveng'd on you, who needs must come
Hither, to shun your own dull selves at home:


But you kind Burgers who had never yet,
Either your Heads or Bellies full of wit:
Our Poet hopes to please; but not too well;
Nor wou'd he have the angry Criticks swell.
A moderate Fate best fits his humble mind,
Be neither they too sharp, nor you too kind.


Beauty and Wit so barely you requite
That had not Nature joyn'd a dear Delight,
No Maid wou'd ever Yield, or Poet write[.]
Yet sometimes Beauty's Lottery sounds a Prize,
And in Alcove the happy Harlot lyes,
While but one Wit can to a Laureat rise[;]
And then a Butt of Sack, and a small Pension,
Is the full summ of his whole Li[f]e's Pretention.
If not stark mad, they'll leave us in the Lurch,
We have but one poor Living in our Church.
Hither you come resolving not to like,
And bold-blind Cocks at every Feather strike:
The Language one, another Damns the Plot,
And briskly hits the Poet, ere he Blot.
And pray be Civil my Young Empty Beaux,
M[e]re Shew yourselves and only Judge of Shows!
Unbend your Critic Brows, For a Young Wench
As soon may like a Judge upon the Bench,
As one of your Censorious Grimaces,
Let Wit alone and trust to your sweet Faces.
No Man or Woman here expects that you
Should Judge or Write, beyond a Billet Doux;
But if you can, pass by each small Offence,
And strain your Wits to find one Excellence,
Tis much the truest, and best sign of Sense.



Envy and Faction rule this Grumbling Age,
The State they cannot, but they shake the Stage,
This barren trade some woud engross, still hopeing
From our poor Port to banish Interloping:
And like the plodding Lawyers take great care
To elbow blooming merit, from the Bar:
In every Age there were a sort of Men,
As you do now, damn'd all was written then.
Thousands before 'em less provok'd their Pride
Then one poor rivall straining by their side,
Such vermin Critticks we expect to find,
For Nature knows not how to loose a kind
The stinking Poll Cat, nor the Mole that's Blind.
But against old as well as new to rage,
Is the peculiar Phrensy of this Age.
Shackspear must down, and you must praise no more
Soft Desdemona, nor the Jealous Moor:
Shackspear whose fruitfull Genius, happy Wit
Was fram'd and finisht at a lucky hit
The Pride of Nature, and the shame of Schools,
Born to Create, and not to learn from Rules;
Must please no more, his Bastards now deride
Their Fathers Nakedness they ought to hide,
But when on Spurs their Pegasus they force,
Their faded Muse is distanc'd in the Course:
All that is now has been before tis true,
And yet the Art, the Fashion may be new:
Tho' old Materials the large Pallace raise,
The skillfull Architect deserves his praise.
If nothing please, you are not nice, but sick,
'Tis want of stomack, ever to dislike.
On our Past Poets, petty Juries sit,


The Living sink beneath your present spite,
As if this were the doomsday of all wit.
But Beaus and Ladies for your selves be wise
You'l break our Lottery if none draw a Prize[.]
For this one night, do as kind Lovers use[,]
Tye up strict Judgement and let fancy loose.


Carmina vix placeant Romæ si displicet Author;
Docta premit Livor, stulta favore vigent.


[From Martial,] Lib. 2. Ep. 41

Ovid, who bid the Ladies laugh,
Spoke only to the Young and Fair;
For Thee his Council were not safe,
Who of sound Teeth has[t] scarce a Pair;
If thou thy Glass, or Me believe,
Shun Mirth, as Foplings do the Wind;
At Durfey's Farce affect to grieve;
And let thy Eyes alone be kind.
Speak not, tho't were to give Consent;
For he that sees those rotten Bones,
Will dread the[ir] monumental Scent,
And fly thy Sigh's like dying Groans.
If thou art wise, see dismal Plays,
And to sad Stories lend thy Ear;
With the afflicted, spend thy Days,
And laugh not above once a Year.



[From Martial,] Lib. 2. Ep. 55.

I Offer Love, but thou Respect wilt have;
Take, Sextus, all thy Pride and Folly crave;
But know, I can be no Man's Friend and Slave.


How shall we please this Age? If in a Song
We put above six Lines, they count it long;
If we contract it to an Epigram,
As deep the dwarfish Poetry they damn;
If we write Plays, few see above an Act,
And those lewd Masks, or noisie Fops distract:
Let us write Satyr then, and at our ease
Vex th' ill-natur'd Fools we cannot please.


[From Martial,] Lib. 2. Ep. 69.

When thou art ask'd to Sup abroad,
Thou swear'st thou hast but newly din'd;
That eating late does overload
The Stomach, and oppress the Mind:
But if Appicius make a Treat,
The slend'rest Summons thou obey'st,
No Child is greedier of the Teat,
Then thou art of the bounteous Feast.
There thou wilt drink till every Star
Be swallow'd by the rising Sun:


Such Charms hath Wine we pay not for,
And Mirth, at others Charge begun.
Who shuns his Club, yet flies to ev'ry Treat
Does not a Supper, but a Reck'ning hate.


[From Martial,] Lib. 2. Ep. 38.

What Business, or what Hope brings thee to Town,
Who can'st not Pimp, nor Cheat, nor Swear, nor Lye?
This Place will nourish no such idle Drone;
Hence, in remoter Parts thy Fortune try.
But thou hast Courage, Honesty, and Wit,
And one, or all these three, will give Thee Bread:
The Malice of this Town thou know'st not yet;
Wit is a good Diversion, but base Trade;
Cowards will, for thy Courage, call thee Bully,
Till all, like Thraso's, thy Acquaintance shun;
Rogues call thee for thy Honesty a Cully;
Yet this is all thou hast to live upon:
Friend, three such Vertues, Audley had undone;
Be wise, and e're th'art in a Jayl, be gone,
Of all that starving Crew we saw to Day
None but has kill'd his Man, or writ his Play.


[From Martial,] Lib. 2. Ep. 12.

That thou dost Cashoo breath, and Foreign Gums,
Enough to put thy Mistress into Fits;
Tho' Rome thy Hair, and Spain thy Gloves perfumes,
Few like, but all suspect, those borrow'd Sweets:
The Gifts of various Nature come and go,
He that smells always, well does never so.



[From Martial, Lib. 1. Ep. 54.]

If Scæva for more Friends thou care,
Which thy great Merit cannot want;
For me an humble Place prepare,
That I am new, make no complaint,
Thy dearest Friends were Strangers once, like me,
Like them, in time, I an old Friend may be,
If thou no want of friendly Vertues see.


If thou do'st want a Horse, thou buy'st a Score,
Or if a Piece of Wine, thou'lt have a Tun;
Swords, Belts, or Hats, does any Cheat bring o're;
At his own Rate thou wilt have all or none.
Whil'st out of Wantonness thou buy'st so fast,
Out of meer Want thou wilt sell all at last.


[From Martial, Lib. 3. Ep. 42.]

Leave off thy Paint, Perfumes, and youthful Dress,
And Nature's failing Honesty confess;
Double we see those Faults which Art wou'd mend,
Plain downright Ugliness wou'd less offend.



Thou strutst, as if thou wert the only Lord;
When we all know of such there is an House,
Where I might sit, cou'd I the Price afford,
And Child has now three Earldoms out at use,
High Expectation does attend good Seed,
Yet none will buy a known Jade, for his Breed;
Boast not too much thy mighty Pedigree,
Were they alive, they'd be asham'd of Thee.


Thro' servile Flattery thou dost all commend:
Who cares to please, where no Man can offend?


Thou quiblest well, hast Craft and Industry,
Flatt'rest great Men, laugh'st at their Enemies,
Rally'st the absent, art a pretty Spy,
Yet for all this in Court thou dost not rise;
Thou play'st thy Court-game booty: I'm affraid
Th'ast promis'd Marriage, when thy Fortune's made,
And so thou dar'st not thrive upon thy Trade.



[From Martial,] Lib. 2. Ep. 43.

All Things are common amongst Friends, thou say'st;
This is thy Morning and thy Ev'ning-song,
Thou in rich Point, and Indian-Silk art dress'd
Six foreign Steeds to thy Calash belong,
Whil'st by my Cloaths the Ragman scarce wou'd gain;
And an uneasie Hackny jolts my Sides;
A Cloak embroider'd intercepts thy Rain,
A worsted Camblet my torn Breeches hides;
Turbots and Mullets thy large Dishes hold,
In mine a solitary Whiting lies;
Thy Train might Fire the impotent and old,
Whil'st my poor Hand a Ganimede supplies:
For an old wanting Friend thou'lt nothing do,
Ye[t] all is common among Friends we know;
Nothing so common, as to use 'em so.


[From Martial,] Lib. 2. Ep. 89.

That thou dost shorten thy long Nights with Wine,
We all forgive thee, for so Cato did;
That thou writ'st Poems without one good Line,
Tully's Example may that Weakness hide;
Thou art a Cuckold, so great Cæsar was;
Eat'st till thou spew'st, Antonius did the same;
That thou lov'st Whores, Jove loves a bucksom Lass;
But that th'art whipt, is thy peculiar Shame.



Whil'st thou sit'st drinking up thy Loyalty,
And rail'st at Laws, thou dost not understand,
Ador'st the Ministers, who know not [thee],
Sel'st thy long Freedom for a short Command,
The Power thou aim'st at, if o're thee one have,
In a rich Coat th'art but a ranting Slave.


[From Martial,] Lib. 2. Ep. 77.

Coscus, thou say'st my Epigrams are long;
I'd take thy Judgment on a Pot of Ale:
So thou may'st say the Elephant's too strong,
A Dwarf too short, the Pyramid too tall;
Things are not long, where we can nothing spare;
But, Coscus, even thy Disticks tedious are.


[From Martial,] Lib. 2. Ep. [26].

That thy Wife coughs all Night, and spits all Day;
Already thou believ'st thy Fortune made,
Her whole Estate thou think'st thy suddain Prey;
She will not dye, but wheedles like a Jade.



[From Martial,] Lib. 2. Ep. 53.

Wou'd'st thou be free, I fear thou art in jest;
But if thou wou'd'st, this is the only Way,
Be no Man's Tavern, nor Domestick Guest;
Drink wholsom Wine, which thy own Servants draw;
Of knavish Curio, scorn the ill-got Plate,
The numerous Servants, and the cringing Throng:
With a few Friends on fewer Dishes eat,
And let thy Cloaths, like mine, be plain and strong;
Such Friendships make, as thou may'st keep with ease,
Great Men expect, what good Men hate to pay;
Be never thou thy self in pain to please,
But leave to Fools, and Knaves, th' uncertain Prey.
Let thy Expence with thy Estate keep pace;
Meddle with no Man's Business, scarce thy own;
Contented pay for a Plebeian Face,
And leave vain Fops the Beauties of the Town.
If to this Pitch of Vertue thou can'st bring
Thy Mind, th'art freer than the Persian King.


Thou swear'st thou'lt drink no more; kind Heaven send
Me such a Cook or Coach-man, but no Friend.


When to thy Husband thou didst first refuse
The lawful Pleasures of thy charming Bed;
Men did his Pipe, and Pot, and Whores accuse;
On his meer Lewdness the whole Fault we laid:


Into thy House thou took'st a deep Divine,
And all thy Neighbours flockt to hear him Preach;
The cheated World did in thy Praises joyn,
The wiser sort yet knew thy wanton Reach,
From Sundays-crowds thou did'st thy Gallants chuse,
And, when they fail'd thee, the good Doctor use.


Thou'lt fight, if any Man call Thebe Whore:
That she is thine, what can proclaim it more.


[From Martial, Lib. 1. Ep. 58.]

Cloris, the prettyest Girl about the Town,
Askt fifty Guineas, for her Maidenhead;
I laught, but Cascus paid the Money down,
And the young Wench did to his Chamber lead.
This Thrift my eager Catso did upbraid,
And wisht that he had grown 'twixt Cascus Thighs;
Get me but half what his got him, I said,
And to content thee, I'll ne'er stick at Price.


Thou art an Atheist, Quintus, and a Wit,
Thinkst all was of self-moving Attoms made,
Religion only for the Vulgar fit,
Priests Rogues, and Preaching their deceitful Trade;


Wilt drink, whore, fight, blaspheme, damn, curse and swear:
Why wilt thou swear, by G---, if there be none?
And if there be, thou shou'd'st his Vengeance fear:
Methinks this Huffing might be let alone;
'Tis thou art free, Mankind besides a Slave,
And yet a Whore may lead the[e] by the Nose,
A drunken Bottle, and a flatt'ring Knave,
A mighty Prince, Slave to thy dear Soul's Foes,
Thy Lust, thy Rage, Ambition and thy Pride;
He that serves G---, need nothing serve beside.


[From Martial, Lib. 1. Ep. 13.]

When Arria to her Pœtus gave the Steel,
Which from her bleeding Side did newly part;
From my own Wound, she said, no Pain I feel:
And yet thy Wound will stab me to the Heart.


[From Martial, Lib. 2. Ep. 64.]

One Month a Lawyer, thou the next wilt be
A grave Physician, and the third a Priest;
Chuse quickly one Profession of the three;
Marry'd to her, thou yet may'st court the rest.
Whil'st thou stand'st doubting, Bradbury has got
Five Thousand Pound, and Conquest as much more;
W--- is made B---, from a drunken Sot:
Leap in, and stand not shiv'ring on the Shore;
On any one amiss thou can'st not fall,
Thou'lt end in nothing, if thou grasp'st at all.



Surly and Sour thou dislik'st Mankind;
But most thou hat'st the Company thou'rt in;
Seest all their Faults, but to thy own art blind:
Yet still thou cry'st, When shall we meet agen?
Thou can'st not sit at Home, what should'st thou read?
For all are Fools, thou know'st that ever writ.
What should'st thou do abroad? this Age does breed
A sort of Vermin, have not half their Wit.
Thou hat'st the World, hate Flesh and Devil so,
And, for a blessed End, to Burnet's go;
But, for thy Misery, th'art an Atheist too.


Phrine, as odious as Youth well can be,
The Daughter of a Courtier in high Place,
Met with a b--- Mass, that cou'd not see;
His Blindness she, and that excus'd her Face.
Were she not ugly, she wou'd him despise;
Nor wou'd he marry her, if he had Eyes.
To their Defects, they're for the Match in debt,
And, but for Faults on both sides, ne're had met.


[From Martial, Lib. 1. Ep. 90.]

That I ne're saw thee in a Coach with Man,
Nor thy chast Name in wanton Satyr met;
That from thy Sex thy liking never ran,
So as to suffer a Male-servant yet.


I thought thee the Lucretia of our time:
But, Bassa, thou the while a Tribas wert,
And clashing ------, with a prodigious Crime,
Didst act of Man th'inimitable part.
What Odipus this Riddle can untye?
Without a Male, there was Adultery.


Storm not, brave Friend, that thou hadst never yet
Mistress nor Wife that others did not ------,
But, like a Christian, pardon and forget,
For thy own Pox will thy Revenge contrive.


[From Martial, Lib. 2. Ep. 44.]

When I had purchast a fresh Whore or Coat,
For which I knew not how to pay,
Sextus, that wretched covetous old Sot,
My ancient Friend, as he will say;
Lest I shou'd borrow of him, took great care,
And mutter'd to himself aloud,
So as he knew I cou'd not chuse but hear
How much he to Secundas ow'd,
And twice as much he paid for Interest,
Nor had one Farthing in his trusty Chest:
If I had ask'd, I knew he wou'd not lend;
'Tis new, before-hand, to deny a Friend.



When first the World from the black Chaos rose,
And Infant-Beauty did the Frame compose;
When Heav'n and Man possess'd one state of Mind,
And the pure Globe, like its CREATOR, shin'd:
When free from Sin the noble Mortal strove
To Rival God in his return of Love.
When damning PRIDE, that Architect of Hell,
Made not, as yet, his Tempted Soul Rebel.
When plunging Avarice no Birth had found,
Nor tore the precious Entrails of the Ground;
Then then the new Inhabitant was blest,
Ease watch'd his Heart, and Peace secur'd his Breast;
No Earthy Thought tainted his gen'rous Mind,
That World th' Almighty gave him, he declin'd;
His God-like Image made him upwards move;
He liv'd below while his Soul dwelt above.
Riches were things too weak t' enslave his Sense,
The Daz'ling Di'mond wanted Influence.
Pearls, like the Common Gravel, he contemn'd,
And what we count a God, he thought no Friend.
With heat of Love he flam'd upon his Mate,
And on the green Swarth without dowry sate:
Circling her snowy Neck, he sought her Heart;
A fi'ry Lover, free from Fraud, or Art.
The Object of his restless Thoughts, was Bliss,
And that he found in one Embrace, one Kiss:
One Clasp, one Hugg, one eager Glance was more,
Than Worlds of Pearl, or heaps of Golden Ore.


He prais'd his priz'd Affection next his God,
And thought his Wife the second Chiefest Good;
The Heav'n-born Dame brought to his longing Arms
Her Soul, her Beauty, and resistless Charms.
Her Breast an equal active Fire did move,
She lost the thoughts of Empire in his Love.
The splendid stile of Empress she despis'd,
The World a Cypher to the Man she priz'd:
Her crouding Wishes him alone persu'd,
No sep'rate Greatness cou'd her Love delude:
Her Intellectuals pure, knew how to scan
That Great and Independent Monarch, Man;
That little, but more weighty World Refin'd,
More apt, and suited to her Heav'nly Mind.
She understood, that all that Good we name,
Was nicely wrapt and folded up in him.
Oh Fate! from whence proceeds the hidden Cause,
That we at LOVE, that glorious Passion, pause!
Was it with Adam's Innocence betray'd,
Or, by his Lapse, a Malefactor made?
Or have our own acquir'd Excesses been
So daring, to determin it a Sin?
What shou'd at once proclaim us Blest and Great,
We fly, and court the Land-mark of our Fate.
Like murm'ring full-mouth'd Isra'lites we stand,
And run on Rocks, to shun the Holy Land.
From hence the baffl'd World has been inverst,
Princes involv'd in War, and People Curst;
Friends to their Confidents Estrang'd, and those
Whom Fathers Got, to tender Fathers Foes.
Hence Lands United to themselves, divide,
And cease their strict Alliance, tho' Ally'd.
Hence hot debates grow in Domestick Pow'rs,
The Man's unkind, the cheated Woman Low'rs.
Man, like the sordid Earth, from which he sprung,
Corrupts his Soul by a base heap of Dung:


Forgetting the Celestial Form he bore,
He values not the Woman, but her Store:
Extends his treach'rous Pledge to golden Charms,
And joins his hands to none but spangled Arms.
He Weds her Jewels, and her Amber-Chains
But her Rich Self (that merits all) Disdains:
Her Face he praises, but he courts her Ears,
Catching the glitt'ring Pendants that she wears:
Each Eye no longer he esteem's a Star,
Than flaming Rubies h[u]ng upon her Hair:
And judging Love, without her Gold, a Curse,
He scorns her Vertue, and adores her Purse.
The Woman too no less Debas'd than he,
Gives not her self, but for GRATUITY;
Sooth's like a Merchant, with inveagling Art,
Demands her JOINTURE, and keeps back her Heart.
On Terms and Articles, with Pride proceeds,
And Seals her cold Affections to her Deeds:
Stands off and Treat's like an Imperious State,
And baulks her Happiness, to be made Great:
Proclaims her Fortune of a goodly Size,
And he that offers most, obtains the Prize.
Both Sexes now deprave their Noble Kind,
While sordid Avarice corrupts the Mind.
Never consult poor Vertue when they choose.
But for a painted Cloud, the Goddess lose.
Divine content they count a finer Cheat,
A Dish for Ornament, but no true Meat:
A meer Romance, an idle Dream of those,
Who wanting Wealth, think to disguise their Woes.
A Mountebank, that only boasts of Cures;
But cannot work th' Effects his Cant assures
The vain deluded Atheist thus denies
A Supreme Essence, hid from Human Eyes:
Because his Sense can't apprehend a God,
Religion's Sottish and her Zealots Mad.


But look, a Marry'd and a happy PAIR,
Are now like Revelations, Strange and Rare:
But if we reason from the Ages gone,
There scarcely was a happy Match, but One.
We mind not now the Merits of our Kind,
Curious in Gold, but to the Persons Blind.
The Man ne'er minds his Love, for Money still
Is the base thirsted Object of his Will.
Upon condition of a promis'd Store,
He'll hugg a thing that crawls upon all Four.
Bring him an Old Rich Corps with grim Death's Head,
He'll Swear she's Young, and her Complexion Red.
Or if you cou'd bring one without a Face,
He'll praise her conq'ring Eyes, and charming Grace.
The Woman too, by such Affections led,
Contemns the Living, to embrace the Dead.
And rather than not Covet, basely bold,
Would wed a Coffin, were the Hinges Gold.
Nature's Apostate, active Youth she Scorns,
Will long for Oxen, if you gild their Horns.
Say he's Deform'd, has neither Eyes nor Nose,
Nay, nothing to bespeak him Man, but Cloaths,
Strait she reply's he's Rich, so passes down;
There's nothing ugly, but a poor Baboon.
Thus might she clasp a loathsom Toad in Bed,
Because he bears a Pearl within his Head.
And gilded Pills, tho' bitter, may delight
The liquerish Lust of wav'ring Appetite.
But still tho' Wealth their griping Senses Feasts,
At most, they're but concatenated Beasts.
For as they scorn all consonance of Soul,
A mutual Hatred must their Peace control.
And this stands fix'd, what with my Love won't suit,
Appears Deform'd, and strait commences Bruit.
To various Climes of Tempers each are thrown,
The Frigid coupled to the Torrid Zone;


Like Curs of different Nature, in a Chain,
They're link'd in Fear, and wear their Bonds in Pain.
Perhaps a cold Respect they both may shew,
As Impious Men to a kind Demon do.
Who when some skulking Wealth he does unfold,
Honour and dread him for their New-found Gold.
But view, unrobe the bosom of Disguise,
Observe the strange aversion of their Eyes:
With palpitations of Regret They Twine,
Like Oil and Water their false Loves combine.
With feign'd Embrace they seem Love's Joys to crave,
But with their Bed, converted to a Grave:
And whilst their backward Hearts like Load-stones meet,
They wish their Linnen were their Winding-sheet.
He, like the Bear of Love, her Body Clips,
Instead of pressing, bites her glowing Lips.
She, like a wounded Otter, flings and Rails,
Fires with her Tongue, and combats with her Nails.
Hell and Confusion seize the Place around,
Nothing but mutual Frenzy's to be found.
They both launch out into a Sea of Strife,
A clam'rous Husband, and a brawling Wife.
The whole Armado of their Thoughts combine,
On each side Summon'd, they in Consort join.
He arms Revenge, she meets him with Disdain,
And to't they rush, like Storms upon the Main.
She to her shrill loud Clamours, takes recourse,
Stamps, and invokes the Clergy for Divorce;
Detests the Light by which his Face she saw,
Curses the Bands, and Execrates the Law.
Directs to Heav'n her folded Hands with Pray'rs,
And pouring down a flood of briny Tears;
Hopes that kind Justice wou'd her grief behold,
Pity an injur'd Lover, tho' a Scold:
That Death wou'd snatch him from the loathsom Bed,
And Heav'n restore the Will which she betray'd,


He with Distraction and with Rage grows blind,
Curses the Sex, and Damns all Woman-kind:
Accuses Heav'n that such a Monster made,
A Fury in deceitful Masquerade.
A gaudy Phantom, that deludes the Sight,
A Devil with the Coverture of Light;
Blasphemes, and by his Passion cast so far,
Destroys himself by Persecuting her:
Abjures his Faith sworn to a legal Bed,
Hates her, and lays another by his Side;
Profusely lavishes, her Right, each Kiss,
And wracks her with the sight of wrongful Bliss.
She grows provok'd upon the dismal Change,
And turns Dishonest, to retort Revenge:
The breach of Chastity she makes her Play,
Plagues him all Night, and Cuckolds him all Day.
This must be then the issue, where our Love,
Does not together with our Nuptials move.
Possessions can't for fickle Joy provide.
When Love the end of Living, is Destroy'd.
Alas! we're all mistaken in the Kind,
A happy Man is measur'd by the Mind.
Suppose him born to all the Pomp of Life;
Admit he's match'd to Beauty in a Wife,
These are but Pageants, which a while may please,
They may Divert him, but procure no Ease.
That Grandeur is no compound of our Bliss,
The rugged Bosoms of the Great confess.
The gilded Monarch's Sable stands within,
His Glory to his Troubles, but a Shrine:
His Cares, his Jealousies, Nocturnal Frights,
Imbitter all his Joys and false Delights.
His toiling Head with Grief a Crown must bear,
Whilst he still starts and grasps, to hold it there.
And thus all Princes to this Hell we trace,
They Reign without, and are but Kings by Place.
But lest ambitious Maids in Scorn relate,
This is the utmost Tyranny of Fate;


That such Seditious disagreeing Pairs,
Are scarcely known in Centuries of Years.
We'll grant, (which yet no less Misfortune breeds)
The Woman loves the Golden Man she Weds.
We'll think she brings with her Estate a Mind,
Pure as her Sterling, from it's Dross Refin'd.
Yet this is so unlikely to succeed,
It Murders what it first design'd to Feed.
He strait concludes her Passion a Pretence,
Condemns her Soul, and lays the Crime on Sense.
Argues, she only chose to be his Bride,
To serve and gratify her costly Pride.
But still we'll give this Topick larger Law,
We'll say an equal Passion both does draw.
We will suppose them both enclin'd to Love.
We'll call her Venus, and we'll stile him Jove;
Yet through the Tides of Business in his Head,
He must neglect, and at length slight her Bed.
His peeping Passion, like a feeble Sun,
Mingled with Show'rs of Rain, will soon be gone.
And if perhaps there's left some poor Remains,
Like Northern Gold, 'tis in penurious Veins.
Diffus'd and scatter'd o'er the barren Land,
Amidst vast heaps of Lead and worthless Sand.
This must be then a sad Reward of Love,
When he thus senseless of her Choice do's prove.
Her Am'rous Courage ne'er can long be bold,
That finds herself out-rival'd by her Gold.
Both their Affections to the Deep are sent,
He sinks through Weight, and she through Discontent.
Their Riches then shew their defect of Pow'r,
That can't create what Want do's oft procure.
In thought of Wealth, he can't Intomb his Smart,
When sullen Love preys on his stubborn Heart.
If crouded Chests and glutted Coffers can
Restore Contentment to the anxious Man;


Possess'd of those, if he from Pain is free,
A troubled, may be call'd a quiet Sea:
Because there's Pearl and Amber on the Shoars,
And thus it's strangely Silenc'd when it Roars.
But 'twere, methinks, an easie Task to prove
There's no such Curse, as Mercenary Love;
True Fire the Hearts oth' Wealthy seldom breed,
They may through Care, but not Affection bleed.
Their Tenures, Lands, their Rents, and Quarter-days,
In their Distracted Heads strong Factions raise.
And whensoe'er poor simpering Love peeps in,
He's by that boistrous Crowd beat out agen:
Crœsus is still perplex'd to guard his Store;
Fears 'twill be less, labours to make it more.
Thus what he hoard's by the excess of Gain,
Starves his lean Joy, but feeds his pamper'd Pain.
When Love with kind Caresses he should please,
He forms Indentures, draws a cautious Lease;
On nasty Acres all his Speeches run,
His Heart's a Tumult, like a Market-Town.
And when in Bed he shou'd Embrace his Spouse,
Like a Dull Ox, he's still amongst the Cows;
Chew's all the Night upon the next fair Day,
How much this Horse, how much that Load of Hay.
No thought but that of Cattle, yoaks his Heart,
His Soul's the Driver, and himself the Cart.
Nothing but Buz and Noise, his Fancy seize,
His Head's the Hive, his busie Thoughts the Bees.
In vain the Wife do's for the Husband Mourn,
Whilst she's the Burthen, and her Love the Droan.
Love, like a cautious fearful Bird, ne'er builds,
But where the Place Silence and Calmness yields:
He slily flies to Copses, where he finds
The snugging Woods secure from Blasts and Winds.


Shuns the huge Boughs of a more stately Form,
And Laughs at Trees tore up with ev'ry Storm.
The pleasant Nightingale can ne'er be won,
To quit a Temp'rate Shade, to scorch i'th' Sun;
In some low Grove, he sings his Charming Note[,]
And on a Thorn tunes the sweet Warbling Throat.
We'll take a Rustick Couple for our Scenes,
Who Love, and know not what Ambition means:
Who such an even competence possess,
What may support, but not disturb their Bliss.
See how unmov'd they at all Changes stand,
Shipwrecks at Sea, and Earthquakes on the Land:
The Fraud of Courts, the Knavish Toil of Clowns,
A Monarch's Favour, or his pointed Frowns,
Concern them not; they but themselves abuse,
In valuing that they ne'er intend to use.
Each to the other proves a solid Bliss,
Rich in themselves no want of Happiness.
Like Ægypt, in whose Land all Plenty grows,
Each others Bottom is their best Repose.
When clam'rous Storms, and pitchy Tempests rise,
Cheek clings to Cheek, and swimming Eyes to Eyes:
When jarring Winds and dreadful Thundres Roar,
It serves to make 'em Press, and Love the more.
Immortal Beings thus themselves Cajol,
Spurn stinking Sense, and feed upon the Soul.
Here let us leave them bathing in pure Joy,
Whom envious Man, nor Fate can e'er destroy.
Here let 'em live to share all Wealth and Pow'r,
As Greatness can't love less, they can't love more.
To the Divinest State of things they drive,
Like Pilgrim-Angels, on the Earth they live,
Kind Nature gave them, Fortune bore no part,
Love join'd their Souls, and Heav'n seal'd each Heart.



[Translation of the Fourth Georgic.]

Next I will sing ethereal Dews refin'd,
The heavenly Gift of Honey to Mankind;
Let not Mecœnus this small Part despise,
Nature is always wonderful and wise;
But mind, while I the Laws, Birth, Wars relate,
And sing the Leaders of this winged State;
The Subjects humble, but not so the Praise,
If any Muse assist the Poets Lays,
Or invok'd Phœbus his small Labours grace,
First for your Bees, a Seat and Station chuse,
Shelter'd from Winds, and where no Cattle use;
For they in Winds cannot bring home their Food:
Nor let the Dew from off the Flowers be trod
By Sheep or Goats; let no young Heifer in,
With wandring Feet to crush the rising Green;
Suffer no greedy Wood-pecker to live,
Nor spotted Lizard, near you fruitful Hive;
Nor Progne's Race admit, who long since stain'd
Her feather'd Bosom, with her bleeding Hand;
Lest in their Bills they bear the Swarm away
To their devouring Nests a cruel Prey.
But let clear Fountains, mossy Pools be near,
And a small Brook his murmuring Passage wear
Between the grassy Banks; let the Hives be
O'ershaded by some Palm or Olive-tree;
That when new Kings first lead their Troops abroad,
And the glad Youth forsake their dark aboad;
They on the neighbouring Banks may shun the Heat,
Or find on shady Boughs a cool Retreat.
Whether the sluggish Waters make a Pool,
Or in weak Streams, with gentle Murmur rowl,


Throw in some Boughs and Stones where they may stand,
And to the Summer's Sun their Wings expand.
If by East Winds, disperst in their short flight,
They headlong on the Water's Surface light.
Let Cassia's spicy Shrub be ever nigh,
With verdant Thyme and fragrant Savory;
And near some Fountain, on well water'd Beds,
Let early Violets raise their Purple Heads:
And let your Hives, whether of Barks of Trees,
Or bending Osier have small Passages,
Le[s]t Cold condense, or Heat the Honey warm,
For both Extreams may equally do harm.
Nor is't in vain; so artfully they line
Their Cells with Wax, Herbs, Leaves and Flowers joyn,
Closing with certain Glue, their Outlets, which
For that small use excels Idean Pitch.
If Fame say true, sometimes they under Ground
Make themselves Nests, sometimes their Swarms are found
In the dark Vaults of hollow Pumices,
Or in the rotten Trunks of aged Trees.
To stop the gaping Crannies of their Hive,
Of Leaves and Mud a yielding Paste contrive.
Let no dire Yew, her baneful Shadow spread
Near their small House; no filthy Crabs grown red
In crackling Flames, infect the Neighbouring Air;
No odious smell of Mire, no Fen be near.
Echo, that babbling Nymph, be far away,
And hollow Caves that with last Accents play,
When under Ground the Sun makes Winter fly,
And with his fruitful Light expands the Sky.
They spread o're every Forest and dark Wood,
Sip of each Stream, and taste of every Bud:
Then back with Vernal Sweets, refresht they come,
New build and people their beloved Home.


Next in their artful Combs fresh holes they drill,
Which with tenacious Honey soon th[e]y fill.
When thou look'st up, and seest 'em all above,
In a thick Cloud before the Weather move,
Through yielding Skies cutting their liquid Way,
No more they mean in their own Homes to stay,
But fly to the next Water or green Wood,
For there they'll swarm, if not by Art withstood.
Press then each Herb of grateful smell and taste,
Before 'em Mint and Honey-suckles cast.
Let Brass and Old Cybile's Cymbals beat,
Till to their Medicin'd Hives, they all retreat;
But if adventurous Kings for Empire strive,
Or civil Wars divide the factious Hive,
The Vulgars Hearts thou early maist perceive,
Trembling for Rage; and through the buzzing Hive,
A broken Noise, like that of Trumpet's sound,
Till the hoarse Warlike Call the Camp go round:
Then shine their Wings, and each bold Warrior
Whets in his Mouth, and shakes his brandisht Spear;
About their King and his Pavillion all
The Bravest flock, and for th' Battle call.
At his Command in the early Spring they fly
Out of their Hives, and in the open Sky,
Meet in thick living Clouds, headlong they fall;
Not faster from a freezing Cloud the Hail,
Nor drops the Acorn from the shaken Oak.
The Kings their Camp and Squadrons overlook,
Distinguisht by illustrious Wings they go,
And mighty Courage in small Bodies show
So brave to fly no King was ever found
Till half his Host lay breathless on the Ground,
These Tempests of their Mind, this mighty Rage,
A little Dust thrown up, will soon asswage:
But if both Kings return, the Vanquisht slay;
The conquering Monarch let the Swarm obey;


One bright with various Spots, shining like Gold
(For of the two sorts there are) this best and bold
In Looks and Courage, gay with glittering Scales;
Deform'd with Sloth, the other poorly trails
A gross inglorious Paunch; as of the Kings,
Their Nations, Shape, are different, and their Wings;
Those foul and russet, like the Dust appear,
New Spit on by some thirsty Traveller;
These are all bright like Lumps of shining Gold,
And equal Spots their painted Backs unfold;
These are the noblest kind, from such thou maist
Sweet Honey press, and of the smoothest taste,
Not only sweet and clear, but such as may
The roughness of unpleasing Wines allay:
But when the Swarms fly wanton in the Air,
And to forsake their empty Hives prepare,
Thou may'st with ease the Wanderers recall,
Clip their King's Wings; the Labour is but small.
No great Attempt, if he once lag behind,
No airy March, no Flight will be design'd:
From various Flowers let grateful Odors rise,
And place the Garden's God before their Eyes:
Plant Thyme and Pines, from lofty Mountains torn,
About their House: Let Hinds, to labour born,
Set deep, and water well the fruitful Shade:
And now did not my ending Task perswade
To slack my Sails, as to my Port I steer,
Perhaps the Art of Gardening I'd declare,
And rosie Harvests of the Pæstan Year,
How their broad Leaves new water'd Endives rear,
Green Parsly-beds, slow Daffadils, and how
The bending Cucumbers to Belly grow;
Nor the Achantus wou'd in silence pass,
Y[ew,] Mirtles, nor th' Ivies dire embrace;
For I under Tarentums lofty Towers,
On yellow Fields, where slow Galasus pours
He[r] fruitful Stream, remember to have known
A good old Man; some Acres of his own


He did possess, but neither fit to breed
The useful Heifer, or the Flock to feed,
No Purple Vines his naked Elms adorn,
But his poor Soil was overgrown with Thorn,
Roots he preferr'd, and Pot-herbs of his own.
To all the Pomp and Riots of a Crown.
When late returning from his Work abroad,
He did with unbought Fare his Table load.
In the new Spring he cropt the earliest Rose,
And the first Apples ripen'd on his Boughs;
When even Rocks with cold fierce Winter cleaves,
And every Stream his icy Chain receives,
He the soft Sprigs of yielding Bearsfoot binds,
Chides the late Summer, and slow Western Winds:
He first made fruitful Bees his early care,
Had many Swarms, whose Combs much Honey bear:
As many Blossoms as the Spring display'd,
So much ripe Fruit his grateful Autumn paid:
He cou'd transplant large Elms and make 'em grow,
And to a tastful Plum, improve the Slow:
And Plants remove, such as might then afford
A grateful Shade to his small chearful Board.
To treat those things at large I here want room,
And therefore leave 'em to some Muse to come;
And now proceed the Natures to declare,
Which Jove himself did on the Bees confer
As a Reward, for following the shrill
Sound of Cybile's Priests on Ida's Hill;
Till by their tinkling Cymbals they were led,
Where Heaven's new exil'd King th[e]y found and fed.
Their off-spring they alone in common rear,
And their small City in like Houses share;
Under eternal Laws they wisely live,
Each knows his little Cell, and loves his Hive;
Mindful of Winter, in the Spring takes pains,
To swell the publick Stock with private Gains.
Some Food provide, and by appointment scour,


O'er every Meadow, and each opening Flower.
Others at home their industry imploy;
Tears of Narcissus, the too lovely Boy,
And lightest Gums f[ro]m Barks of Trees they take,
The firm Foundation of their Combs to make;
Those form the Wax, while these brood o're the young;
Others the Cells with liquid Nectar throng;
Some watch abroad, and of the Gates take care,
Observe Clouds, Rains, and Tempests in the Air;
Of the returning Swarm the loads receive,
Or force the idle Drones out of the Hive:
Hotly the Work is ply'd through all their Cells,
Fragrant with Thyme, the new-made Honey smells;
And as the Cyclops, when they Thunder mold,
Of melting Wedges, some the Bellows hold,
Draw in the Winds, and force 'em out again,
From the dark Womb of the Bulls nine-fold Skin:
Others dip hissing Metals in the Lakes,
With their huge massy Anvils Ætna shakes:
In tuneful Strokes, their high-rais'd hammers fall:
Some turn with nimble Tongs the glowing Ball.
So if small things I may with great compare,
Cecropian Swarms in their close Work-house fare;
Desire of Gains sollicites all Degrees,
And makes 'em ply their several Offices;
Care of the Town and Combs the Elder take;
And with Dædalian Art new Houses make;
The Younger late at Night with Labour worn,
And laden Thighs, from their days Task return.
Among the Wildings, and fat Teils they feed,
Pale Violets, and the Osier's bending Reed;
All the same Labour, and same Rest partake.
Soon as 'tis Day out of their Hives they break;
And when th' Evening calls 'em from abroad,
Alike refresh themselves with Rest and Food;
The House is fill'd with their returning Hum;


But when into their inward Rooms they come,
A Sacred Silence reigns throughout the Hive,
And all with Sleep their wearied Limbs relieve.
In threatning Show'rs from Home they will not fly,
Nor trust, when East-winds blow, the low'ring Sky,
But from their Walls, safe, short Excursions make,
And from the near'st Spring their Water take.
With little Stones they poise their flight,
As reeling Barks by Ballast are kept right.
'Tis strange this sort of Life shou'd please 'em so,
Where kindly Joys of Sex they never know;
To Venus never sacrifice, nor breed,
With glad short Pangs, the Youth that must succeed;
But gather from sweet Herbs, and Flowers their young,
Choose Kings, and such as to his Court belong;
Their little Cells, and Realms of Wax repair;
Sometimes on Flints, their labouring Wings they tear:
Under their Load, some generously expire,
Of Flowers, and Honey, through too great desire.
Though their Lives seldom seven Years exceed,
Their Kind's immortal, deathless is their Breed:
The ancient House and Families survive,
And a long faithful Pedigree derive.
Not Egypt, Lydia, nor Hidaspis Shore,
Their Monarch more obsequiously adore;
While he is safe, they all are of one Mind,
But if he fail, Faith Laws no longer bind;
On their own Stores tumultuously they fall,
And of their Combs, destroy themselves the Wall;
He keeps them all in order, and in awe.
Him they admire, and guard, observe, obey,
Oft bear him on their Shoulders through the Air;
And a brave Death pursue in Arms and War.
Some by these Signs, and these Examples taught,
Bees to partake of the eternal Mind have thought,
And of Ethereal Race; Jove runs through all,


High Heaven, deep Seas, and the Earth's massy Ball;
Hence Cattle, Men, all Animals receive
When th[e]y are born, the Souls by which they live,
And when dissolv'd, to him return, none dye,
To their first Elements the grosser fly,
Th' etherial Parts ascend their native Sky.
But if their little Stores thou car'st to sieze,
And force the Sacred Treasure of thy Bees,
First from thy Mouth large draughts of Water spout,
Then, with thy Hand extended, smoak 'em out.
Twice they have Young, two Harvests in a Year,
One when the lovely Pleiades appear,
And their new Light above the Ocean show;
The other when those Stars feel Winters blow,
And to moist Northern Pisces leave their Place,
Hiding in stormy Seas their sullen Face.
With the least hurt provok'd, they arm for fight,
And dart a painful Venom where they light:
Fixt in the Veins their Sting and Soul they leave,
And often perish by the same Wound they give.
But if thou seest a cold hard Winter near,
And their low Minds, their sickly State declare,
Who doubts to spare their Stores, or will delay
To burn fresh Thyme, or cut some Wax away?
Oft on their Combs, the unseen Lizards light,
And buzzing Moths disturb 'em in the night;
Or sluggish Drones (on others Toil that thrive)
Or Wasps with their unequal Arms arrive.
Some filthy Worm gets in, or Spider sets
At their Hive's Mouth, her loose and deadly Nets.
The more they are exhausted, still the more
Their wasted Stock they labour to restore.
But if, perhaps (as Life will on the Bees
Bring our Distempers) with some new Disease
They languish, which no doubtful Signs declare,
A horrid paleness will their Looks impair,
And dusky Colours their sick Bodies wear.
Then bear they out great Numbers of the Dead,


And in long Pomp, sad Funerals they lead,
Or dully hang, clincht in each others Feet,
At the Hive's Mouth, or to their Cells retreat,
Through cold or hunger, for their Work unfit.
Whispers and Murmuring rise, as when a Breese
Of Southern Winds breath on the bending Trees,
Or troubled Seas in ebbing Tides retire,
Or Forges labour with imprison'd Fire.
To burn Galbanean Fumes I would perswade,
And through fresh Pipes let Honey be convey'd;
So to restore 'em to their Strength and Food.
To mix the Juice of Galls, perhaps were good.
Dry'd Roses, and new Wines half boil'd away,
Clusters of Raisins, Thyme, and Centaury.
There is a Flower, which we in Meadows find,
And call'd Amello by the Country Hind;
By those that seek it, easie to be known,
Each single Root a many Branches crown;
Yellow the Flowers, but to the numerous Leaves,
The darker Purple of the Vi'let cleaves;
With it the Altars of the Gods are crown'd,
Rough to the Taste, in fruitful Vallies found
By Shepherds, that near winding Mella dwell.
Boil this sound Root in generous Whit[e]-wine well,
Then Osier-pipes with the new Diet fill.
But shou'd the whole Stock fail, and none remain,
Whence a new Progeny might rise again,
'Tis time, the fam'd Invention to unfold,
Of the Arcadian Shepherd, how of old,
From the bruis'd Blood of Heifers new slain, Bees
Have taken Life, and swarm'd out by degrees
Here the whole Story shall at large have place.
While the long Fame, I to its Author trace:
For where the People of Canopus dwell,
And fruitful Waters of fat Nilus swell;
On whose smooth Bosom painted Vessels ride,
Where-e're it borders on rich Persia's Side;


Or with seven Mouths do's the plain Country drown,
As far as from parcht India rowling down,
Egypt's green Soil, with fruitful Slime to mend;
All the vast Region on this Art depend.
A Place contracted for that use they chuse,
And the low House with narrow Walls inclose:
Of well-wrought Tyles, four Windows they contrive
To the four Winds expos'd, that may receive
The Light obliquely; then they choose a Steer,
Whose bending Horns proclaim his Second Year;
On him they seize, and stop his struggling Breath
At Mouth, and Nostrils, beating him to death.
With his bruis'd Entrals his warm Hide they fill,
And thus inclos'd, they leave him for a while:
Fresh Boughs, Thyme, Cassia's on his sides they throw,
E're Western-winds first on the Waters blow;
E're Nature with fresh Colours paints the Fields,
Or on House-tops the airy Swallow builds.
The clotted Blood and dissolv'd Bones, the while
Ferment, and into wondrous Creatures boil,
Who without Feet at first their Voices try,
And with new Wings in little Parties fly;
Till they at last break forth, as when a Shower
Hot Summers Clouds on the parch'd Mountains pour,
Or as the Arrows from the Parth[i]an Bow,
When twanging Strings first send 'em on the Foe.
What, God, my Muse? who first this Secret taught,
Or was it the high Flight of Human Thought?
The Shepherd Aristæus (as Fame says)
Losing his Flock, through Famine and Disease,
Forsook Thessalian Temple, and dismay'd,
Ran to the Sacred River's utmost Head,
And thus his Moan to his bright Parent made:
Mother, Cyrene, Mother who dost keep
Thy watry Court beneath this Crystal Deep,
Why dost thou say I am of heavenly Race,
And sprung from Great Apollo's hot Embrace,


Since Fate pursues me thus? Is this thy Love?
Why dost thou bid me hope a Seat above,
Since in this Life that little Fame decays,
Which I by Herds and Gardens thought to raise?
With thy own Hand my thriving Woods destroy,
Devouring Fire against my Stalls employ,
Burn my full Barns, if I too much enjoy,
Cut down my Vines, and blast my coming Years,
Since my small Fame offends a Mother's Ears.
His Voice Cyrene through her Waters heard,
While round her Nymphs Milesian Fleeces card;
Drymo and Xantho, Ephyre the Fair,
Her Neck half cover'd with her flowing Hair;
Cydïpe and Lycoris, one a Maid,
The other rising from Lucina's Aid;
Clio and Beroe, both Ocean-born,
Whom well-wrought Gold and painted Skins adorn;
Bright Deiopea, Arethusa, now
No more a Huntress with her Spear and Bow;
To these Clymene sings of Vulcan's Care,
Defeated by the amorous God of War:
From Chaos she the Loves of Gods relates.
Pleas'd with these Tales, while the soft Flax abates
From their swift Spindles, the Nymph hears again,
Nearer and nearer still her Son complain,
All rise astonisht from their green Abode;
But Arethusa first above the Flood
Lifts her bright Head: The Crystal Waters bow'd,
And spying him afar, 'Twas not in vain,
Sister, she said, we heard a Voice complain;
Sad Aristæus, once thy Care and Joy,
See at thy Father's Spring the weeping Boy:
By Name he calls thee Cruel and Unkind.
Fear and Amazement, seiz'd Cyrene's Mind,
Let him, she said, he may behold th' aboads,
And tread the Threshold of his kindred Gods.
At his command the wondring Rivers spread,
And a new Passage for his Entrance made.


The Waters like a Mountain stood on Heaps,
While he into their yielding Bosom leaps:
Down to the bottom, where amaz'd he sees
His Mother's Realm and Crystal Palaces:
And as he goes, admires the sounding Groves,
And hidden Lakes, thro' which the Water moves
With such amazing Force, and under Ground
Beholds the Rivers that our World go round;
Phasis and Lycus, and the sacred Head
Whence the deep Waters of Enipeus spread;
Whence Aniena and fam'd Tyber flow,
The stony Hypanis, Mysus and the Poe,
Than which no River runs a swifter Race
To his old Father Neptune's moist Embrace.
Into her inmost Seat while they withdrew,
And of each other took a nearer View,
The Nymphs clear Fountains for their Hands prepare,
And curious Towels of the finest Hair:
Some with full Cups, with Banquets some attend,
While in rich Smoak Panchæan Gums ascend:
Take this full Bowl of Wine, Cyrene cries,
And to the Ocean pour the Sacrifice:
To Neptune first, Father of all she Prays;
Then Nymphs inhabiting the Woods and Seas;
Pure Nectar thrice upon the Fire she throws,
And thrice the auspicious Flame up to the Cieling rose:
Embolden'd by the Omen, thus she spake,
A Prophet dwells in the Carpathian Lake;
Green Proteus, whom a wondrous Coach conveighs,
And scaly Horses draw through yielding Seas:
His own Palene on th' Emathian Shore
He visits: Now him, all we Nymphs adore,
And aged Nereus self; for well he knows
What is, what was, what Fate will next expose:
So Neptune has decreed, whose Herds and Flocks
He feeds beneath the Ocean's craggy Rocks:


Him thou must seize, my Son, and bind him well,
Till thy Misfortune's Cause and Cure he tell:
For uncompell'd he nothing will declare,
Nor can his Heart be touch'd with humane Prayer.
When thou hast seiz'd him, chain, or use him worse,
His Shifts will fail before the God-like Force:
My self, when the Sun climbs the middle Sky,
Plants scorch, and Cattle to their Coverts fly,
Will bring thee where the aged Prophet lies
Dissolv'd in Sleep and Sloth, and easie for surprize.
When thou hast seiz'd and bound him, every Shape
And frightful Form he'll vary, to escape;
One while he'll seem a Dragon, or tusk'd Boar,
Then shake his yellow Mane, and like a Lyon roar;
Then crackle like a kindling Flame, or slide
Out of thy Chains like a declining Tide:
The more he varies Forms, my Son, the more
Urge thy Success, and never give him o're,
Till vext through all his Forms, that Shape he keep
Which first he wore when he lay down to sleep.
This said, she with Ambrosia scents the Room,
And 'noints his Body for the time to come,
The Steam Divine on his loose Tresses dwells,
And every Nerve which active Vigor swells.
Worn in a Mountain's side there is a Cave,
Where beat by ceasless Winds the Waters rave;
And into crooked Bays the Currents glide,
Of old a Port where Vessels us'd to ride:
Within lies Proteus, with high Rocks inclos'd.
In ambush here her Son the Nymph dispos'd:
For her Retreat a distant Cloud she wove;
Now Syrius scorcht the Indians from above,
And through the middle Sky swift Phœbus drove:
Herbs wither'd at his touch, and to the Mud,
His thirsty Beams drank up the boiling Flood;
When Proteus rising from the Waves repair'd
To his old Cave; on him the watry Herd


Of Sea-born Monsters their Attendance pay,
And in glad Leaps shake the salt Dews away.
Around the Shore the sleepy Sea-calves lay;
He, like a Herdsman on some Hill that lives,
When Night the lazy Cattle homeward drives,
And bleating Lambs the hungry Woolf provoke,
Reviews and tells 'em over, from his Rock:
Seeing his time, the bold Youth on him rush'd,
And with new Chains the aged Prophet crush'd.
He on the other side trys every Shape,
And dreadful Form, whereby he might escape:
One while a Monster, Flame, and then a Flood.
Finding himself through all his Shifts pursu'd,
Wearied' o'ercome, his former Shape he took,
And with a Humane Voice at last he spoke:
Bold Youth, who bid thee to our Cave repair?
What would'st thou learn? he said, What mak'st thou here?
Proteus, thou know'st no Man can thee deceive,
Deceive not others by the Gods high Leave;
Ruin'd, undone, I come to know of thee,
What was the Cause, what is the Remedy.
Here the green Prophet cast a dreadful Look,
He star'd, he gnasht his Teeth, and big with Fate thus spoke:
Some powerful God with no light Wrath pursues
Thy fatal Crime; now injur'd Orp[h]eus shews
His fierce Revenge, he this Contagion sent,
For his lost Wife too small a Punishment:
Unhappy Nymph, who while she headlong fled
Thy foul Pursuit, on a loathed Serpent's Head
Trod unawares, which then she could not see
For the long Grass, and for worse Fears of thee:
For equal, Nymphs the Dryades with shrill
Complaints and Shrieks the neighbouring Mountains fill.
The Towers of Rhodope, the Gætan Race,
The rough Inhabitants of Warlike Thrace;


Pangæum, Hebrus, Orithyia, all,
With their united Grief lament her Fall:
He on bleak Sands, soothing his vain Desire,
Wanders alone, and with his mournful Lyre
Feeding his Grief, pining himself away,
With her begins, with her he ends the Day.
The Jaws of Tænarus, Infernal Gates,
Dark Groves he past, where dismal Terrour waits;
To Ghosts, and their dread King, does fearless sue,
And Minds that never yet Compassion knew:
Charm'd with his Voice the airy People throng
About the Youth, and listen to his Song;
Thick as small Birds to their dark Coverts fly,
When th' Evening comes, or the tempestuous Sky
Pours down a Storm.
Mothers with Husbands, and the breathless Shades
Of once great Heroes, Boys, and riper Maids,
Unmarry'd Youth whom their fond Parents mourn'd,
Before their Face t' untimely Ashes turn'd.
All these with filthy Mud, rank ugly Weeds,
Such as alone infernal Water breeds,
Styx does nine times surround the House of Fate,
And Snake-hair'd Furies in Amazement sate.
Cerberus three Mouths were dumb, Ixion's Wheel,
And Winds that move it at, his Song, were still.
Now he returning, had all Dangers past,
And freed Eurydice beheld at last
The upper Sky again, following behind, unseen,
So far obeying the infernal Queen;
Here Love, Rage, Joy, to a short Madness drive,
Th' impatient Lover, (could those Gods forgive,
How small a Fault!) here fatally he staid,
Rashly forgetting the Agreement made:
With the first Glimpse of fresh Ethereal Light,
On his dear Wife he turn'd his longing Sight:
Here vanish'd all his Labour, and their Law
Those unrelenting Powers neglected saw.


Three Peals of Thunder shook th' infernal Coast,
Orpheus, she cry'd, was ever Love so crost?
How are we both by thy rash Passion lost?
Fate puts me back, and my declining Sight
Feels the cold Hand of Death and endless Night.
Farewel, farewel for ever, now I go
Plung'd deep in Darkness, to the World below;
Stretching to thee, (dear Cause of all my Harms)
No longer thine, alas! my helpless Arms.
And at that Word from his distracted sight,
Like Smoak mixt with thin Air, she took her flight,
Ne'r to return again. At the dear Shade
In vain he catcht, and much he wou'd have said,
Too late: For surly Charon wou'd no more
Permit his Passage to the Elysian Shore.
His Wife twice lost, ah, Whither shou'd he move?
With what soft Prayer invoke the Powers above?
Or with what Tears the Shades? cold in the Boat,
On the dark Lake she did already float.
'Tis said seven Months he did his Loss deplore
On the bleak Rocks of Strymon's Desart-shore;
Singing this sad Event of too much Love,
He soften'd Tygers and made Forrests move.
As in some Poplar Shade the Nightingal,
In mournful Strains, does her lost Young bewail,
Whom some course Hind has newly torn away
From their warm Nests, unfeather'd as they lay.
Night after Night, upon some Bough she sits,
And her sad Note no Moment intermits,
Which every Field and echoing Grove repeats:
Nor Love, nor Marriage charm'd his restless Mind;
Alone he wanders, where the Northern Wind
Beats upon snowy Tanais chilling Shoar,
Where Ice ne're fails, and ceasless Tempests roar;
There his lost Wife he mourns in doleful Strains,
And of the Gods and their vain Gift complains.
The fierce Sithonian Women thus despis'd,
As they the Feast of Bacchus solemniz'd,


Full of their God, and boiling with disdain,
Scatter'd his bleeding Limbs through all the Plain.
From his firm Neck his gory Head thus torn,
Down the swift Stream of rapid Hebrus born,
Shriekt out, Ah poor Eurydice, and dy'd,
The echoing Banks Eurydice reply'd.
This said, he plung'd into his watry World,
About his Head the foaming Billows curl'd.
Her anxious Son divine Cyrene chears,
Here end thy Grief, she said, and needless Cares:
This was the Cause of all thy Woe, the Crime,
For which the Nymphs, Companions of her prime,
Whom she in sacred Dances us'd to lead,
Among thy Bees that dire Contagion spread.
With Prayers and Sacrifice their Wrath appease:
Napæan Nymphs invok't, forgive with ease.
Take four curl'd Bullocks of thy largest breed,
Whom now the Hills of green Lycæus feed;
As many untam'd Heifers; and for these
Four Altars in their Sacred Temples raise:
Then from their wounded Throats let out the Blood,
And leave their Bodies in some shady Wood.
Soon as the ninth Aurora gilds the Skies,
To Orpheus drowzy Poppeys sacrifice,
With a black Lamb; then view the Grove again;
Eurydice, with a Calf newly slain
Thou shalt appease. Without delay he goes;
All she commands immediately he does:
Comes to the Temple, does the Altars raise;
Four mighty Bulls of wondrous Bulk he slays,
As many Heifers that ne'r felt the Yoke,
When from the East the ninth Aurora broke:
He Worships Orpheus, to the Grove he goes;
When lo a strange and wondrous Sight arose.
From the Bulls Entrails Bees were found to hum,
And met in Swarms from out the putrid Womb:
In moving Clouds to the next Tree they go,


And hang like Cluster'd Grapes upon a bending Bough.
While thus of Plants, Tillage, and Herds I sung,
With Cæsar's thundring Arms Euphrates rung.
Just Laws he for the willing World ordain'd;
By God-like Acts his Claim to Heaven maintain'd.
Me all that while proud Naples did embrace,
Fam'd for th' inglorious Arts of lazy Peace:
Full of the Loves of Shepherds, bold and young,
Under the Beechen Shade, thee, Tityrus, I sung.




Elegy the Eighth

He Curses a Bawd, for going about to debauch his Mistress.

There is a Bawd renown'd in Venus Wars,
And dreadfull still with honourable scars:
Her youth and beauty, craft and guile supply
Sworn Foe to all degrees of Chastity.
Dypsas who first taught Love sick Maids the way
To cheat the Bridegroom on the Wedding day.
And then a hundred subtile tricks devis'd,
Wherewith the Amorous Theft might be disguis'd.
Of Pigeons-blood, squeez'd from the panting heart,
With Surfeit-water to contract the part,
She knows the Use: whilst the good man betray'd,
With eager Arms huggs the false bleeding Maid.
Of herbs and Spells she tries the Guilty Force,
The poyson of a Mare that goes to Horse.
Cleaving the Midnight Air upon a Switch,
Some for a Bawd, most take her for a Witch.
Each Morning sees her reeling to her Bed,
Her Native Blew o'ercome with drunken red.
Her ready Tongue ne'er wants an usefull lie,
Soft moving words, nor Charming flattery.


Thus I o'erheard her to my Lucia speak,
Young Damon's Heart wilt thou for ever break?
He long has lov'd thee, and by me he sends
To learn thy motions, which he still attends.
If to the Park thou go, the Plays are ill;
If to the Plays, he thinks the Air wou'd kill.
The other day he gaz'd upon thy Face,
As he wou'd grow a Statue in the place;
And who in deed has not? like a new Star,
Beauty like thine strikes Wonders from afar.
Alas, methinks thou art ill drest to night,
This Point's too poor; thy Necklace is not right.
This Gown was by some botching Taylor made,
It spoils thy Shape; this Fucus is ill laid.
Hear me, and be as happy as thou'rt fair,
Damon is rich and what thou want'st can spare.
Like thine his Face, like thine his Eyes are thought,
Wou'd he not buy, he might himself be bought.
Fair Lucia blusht; It is a sign of Grace,
Dypsas reply'd, that Red becomes thy Face.
All Lovers now by what they give are weigh'd,
And she is best belov'd that is best paid.
The Sun-burnt Latines, in old Tatius Reign,
Did to one man perhaps their love restrain.
Venus in her Aeneas City rules,
And all adore her Deity, but Fools.
Go on, ye Fair, Chaste onely let such live,
As none will ask, and know not how to give.
How prettily you frown[!] But I'll speak on,
Hear me, another day 'twill be your own.
Vertuous Penelope is said t'have try'd,
With a strong Bow, each lusty Lover's side.
Nor did Lucretia kill herself for rage,
But love of Tarquin, in that colder Age.
To the young Prince she vow'd, ne'er more to joyn
In dull Embraces with her Collatine.
To keep her word she dy'd—
Life steals away, and our best hours are gone,


E'er the true Use, or worth of them, be known.
Things long neglected of themselves decay,
What we forbear time rudely makes his prey.
Beauty is best preserv'd by Exercise,
Nor for that Task can one or few suffice.
Wou'dst thou grow rich, thou must from many take;
From one 'twere hard continually to rake.
With out new Gowns, and Coaches, who can live?
What does thy Poet, but new Verses give?
A Poet, the last thing that Earth does breed,
Whose Wit, for sixpence, any one may reade.
Him that will give, to Homer I prefer,
To give is an ingenious thing I swear.
Despise not any can a present make,
It matters not from whom, but what we take.
Nor with the sound of titles be thou caught,
For nothing can with empty Names be bought.
Hang the poor Lover, and his Pedigree,
The thriving Merchant, or fat Judge give me.
If any beardless Stripling ask a Night,
And think thee paid with mutual delight;
Bid him go earn thy price among the men,
And when he has it, come to thee again.
Love truly none, but seem in Love with all,
And at old friends to thy new Lover rail.
Sometimes deny, 'twill Appetite procure;
The sharp-set Hawks will stoop to any Lure.
Then grant again, lest he a habit get
Of living from thee, but be sure thou let
No empty Lover in: murmur sometimes,
And as first hurt, reproach him with thy Crimes.
Seem jealous, when thou'st been thy self to blame,
'Twill stop his mouth, if thou the first complain.
All thou hast done be ready to forswear,
For Lovers Oaths fair Venus has no Ear,
Whilst he is with thee, let some Woman bring
Some Indian stuff, or Foreign pretious thing;
Which thou must say thou want'st, and he must buy,


Though for it six months hence in Gaol he lye.
Thy Mother, Sister, Brother, and thy Nurse,
Must have a pull each at thy Lover's Purse.
Let him from Rivals never be secure,
That hope once gone, Love will not long endure.
Shew him the presents by those Rivals sent,
So shall his bounty thy request prevent.
When he will give no more, ask him to lend,
If he wants money, find a trusting Friend.
Get hangings, Cabinets, a Looking-glass[,]
Or any thing for which his word will pass.
Practise these Rules, thou'lt find the benefit;
I lost my Beauty e'er I got this wit.
I at that word stept from behind the door,
And scarce my Nails from her thin Cheeks forbore.
Her few Grey hairs in rage I vow'd to pull.
And thrust her drunken eyes into her Skull.
Poor in a Dungeons bottom mayst thou rot,
Dye with a blow with thy beloved Pot,
No Brandy and Eternal thirst thy Lot.


Elegy the Fifth

To his false Mistress.

Cupid, begon! who wou'd on thee rely,
And thus at every moment wish to dye?
Death is my wish, when on thy guilt I think,
(Thy faithless guilt) at which I fain wou'd wink.
False Maid, thou various torment of my life,
Thou flying pleasure, and thou lasting grief;
No doubtfull Letters thy lost faith accuse,
Nor private gifts, thou mightst with ease excuse
Such proofs, one word of thine might overcome;


Why is my cause so good, and thou so dumb?
Happy's the man that's handsomely deceiv'd,
Whose Mistress swears and lies, and is believ'd.
Those Eyes beheld thee, when thou thoughtst me
In books and signs (nor yet in those alone)
Conveying the glad message of thy Love
To that gay, vain, dull Fopp that sate above.
I knew the Language soon, what could be hid
From Lovers Eyes of all ye said or did?
When others rose, I saw thee Dart a kiss,
The wanton prelude to a farther bliss:
Not such as Wives to their cold Husbands give,
But such as hot Adulterers receive.
Such as might kindle frozen appetite,
And fire even wasted nature with delight.
What art thou mad, I cry'd, before my face,
To steal my wealth, and my new Rival grace?
I'll rise and seize my own upon the place.
These soft endearments should not farther go,
But be the secret treasure of us two,
How comes this third in for a share I'd know?
This, and what more my grief inspir'd, I said;
Her face she cover'd with a Conscious red:
Like a Cloud guilded by the rising Sun,
Or Virgin newly by her Love undone.
Those very blushes pleas'd, when she cast down
Her lovely Eyes, with a disdainfull frown.
Disdain became her, looking on the Earth,
Sad were her looks, but Charming above mirth.
I could have kill'd my self or him, or her,
Scarce did my rage her tender Cheeks forbear:
When I beheld her Face my anger cool'd,
I felt myself to a mere Lover fool'd.
I, who but now so fierce, grow tame and sue,
With such a kiss we might our Love renew.
She smil'd and gave me one might Jove disarm,
And from his hand the brandisht Thunder charm.
'Twas worse than Death, to think my Rival knew


Such Joys as till that hour to me were new.
She gave much better kisses than I taught,
And something strange was in each touch methought.
They pleas'd me but too well, and thou didst tongue,
With too much art and skill, for one so young:
Nor is this all, though I of this complain,
Nor should I for a kiss be so in pain:
But thine cou'd never but in Bed be taught,
I fear how dear thou hast thy Knowledge bought.


Elegy the Fourth

To A Man that lockt up his Wife.

Vex not thy self and her, vain Man, since all
By their own Vice, or Vertue stand or fall.
She's truely chaste and worthy of that name,
Who hates the ill as well as fears the shame:
And that vile Woman whom restraint keeps in
Though she forbear the Act, has done the Sin.
Spies, Locks and Bolts may keep her brutal Part,
But thou'rt an odious Cuckold in her heart.
They that have Freedom use it least, and so
The power of ill does the design o'erthrow.
Provoke not Vice by a too harsh restraint,
Sick men long most to drink, who know they may'nt.
The fiery Courser, whom no Art can stay
Or rugged force, does oft fair means obey:
And he that did the rudest Arme disdain,
Submits with Quiet to the looser rein.
An hundred Eyes had Argos, yet the while
One silly Maid did all those Eyes beguile.
Danae though shut within a brasen Tower,


Felt the male virtue of the Golden shower:
But chaste Penelope, left to her own will
And free disposal, never thought of ill;
She to her absent Lord preserv'd her truth,
For all th'Addresses of the smoother Youth.
What's rarely seen our fancy magnifies,
Permitted pleasure who does not despise?
Thy Care provokes beyond her Face, and more
Men strive to make the Cuckold, than the Whore.
They're wondrous charms we think and long to know,
That in a Wife inchant a Husband so:
Rage, Swear and Curse, no matter, shee alone
Pleases who sighs and cryes I am undone;
But could thy Servants say we have kept her chaste?
Good Servants then but an ill Wife thou hast.
Who fears to be a Cuckold is a Clown,
Not worthy to partake of this lewd Town:
Where it is monstrous to be fair and Chaste,
And not one Inch of either Sex lies waste.
Wouldst thou be happy? with her ways comply,
And in her Case lay Poynts of honour by:
The Friendship she begins wisely improve,
And a fair Wife gets one a world of Love:
So shalt thou wellcome be to Every treat,
Live high, not pay, and never run in debt.