Poems upon several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

Chaucer, as Fame in Deathless Annals sings,
Successively was Laureat to Three Kings:
Apollo did Himself his Priest ordain,
And made Him Flamen of Their Triple Reign;
In Love and Arms He grac'd the British Throne,
Increas'd Their Laurels much, but more His own;

In Honour's Chase They lagg'd behind His Thought;
The Bard wrote bolder than His Heroes fought.

Such were His Praises;—Such His Honours now,
Which, on Himself, Himself could best bestow.
His Glorious Works must far extend His Name;
Immortal Wit demands Immortal Fame:
His faithful Structures of facetious Rhime,
Secure, withstand the fiercest Shocks of Time;
And cruel Saturn has that Mercy shown,
To spare His Children, who devour'd his own.

But tho' the Muses may elude the Rage
And ineffectual Batteries of Age,
The tuneful Choir can no Protection bring,
Or guard the Nest, where they first learn'd to Sing.
What Phœbus, and the Nine in vain pursue,
Is a peculiar Task reserv'd for You:
Wise Heaven's Design is by Your Care fulfill'd;
You in few Days the Sacred Walls rebuild,

And to its former Dignity restore,
What many Ages scarce destroy'd before;
You, and the Muse each other's Wrongs repair;
The Muse is Your's, and You the Muse's Care.

Our Ancient Father of the British Song,
In Dryden late reviv'd, again grows young:
His Tales are there in freshest Language told,
Like Coins new-stamp'd on old Spur-royal Gold.
You, and His Muse Applauses justly claim,
Both gen'rous Benefactors to His Fame;
The pleasing Task on either Part is great,
Dryden improves His Rhimes, and You His Seat.

The Muses, and the Muse-inspiring God,
Shall now revisit Their belov'd Abode;
While Cytherea, and Her nightly Train
Of smiling Graces, bless the flow'ry Plain.

Fair Venus the Mysterious Dance shall lead,
Light-tripping Elves their airy Measures tread,
And leave Fantastick Rounds in ev'ry Fairy Mead.
No Fire shall wander with delusive Light,
No grisly Ghost, no Forms obscene affright,
Or discompose the Revels of the Night:
Pleasure with Mirth, and Laughter here shall stay,
The Night to shorten, and prolong the Day.
Hark! how the Birds from their Poetick Throats,
Sing more divinely, and in sweeter Notes;
Rivals they strive each other to excel,
And ev'ry Thrush is here a Philomel:
Their great Instructor's Lays employ each Tongue,
By Chaucer taught, of Chaucer is their Song.

Old Greece, and Rome religiously are said
To glean the Reliques of their mighty Dead;

With learned Care their Antiquaries sought
The smallest Fragments which their Poets wrote;
Pieces that with diviner Fires were warm'd,
Oracular the Sense, and ev'ry Word was charm'd.
Thus You preserve (so knowing Fate ordains)
This venerable Mansion's great Remains:
Monarchs may Louvres, Princes Blenheims raise;
Their Fame is louder, but more just Your Praise:
The more important Labours better please
Of building Temples, than proud Palaces.

Threat'ning the Skies This lofty Fabrick stands,
And all below the distant Plain commands:
High, without Pride, Majestick, without State,
Strong in Decay, amidst its Ruins, Great.

Thy fruitful Walls with equal Pride produce
The Warrior-Hero, and recording Muse.

Lavish of Fame, we're by Thy Story taught
How Chaucer sung, and Boys His Valour fought.
But (O!)—'twou'd grieve a Loyal Muse to sing
Of Men, and Arms rebellious to their King;
Of curs'd Newburian Fields,—whose guilty Plain
Rose hilly with the Numbers of the Slain:
By an unequal Fate, and Fortune's Crime,
Falkland was snatch'd from hence before his Time;
The Hero perish'd in the Bloom of Youth,
In Letters old, in Loyalty, and Truth:
Pity the Gods his Life refus'd to spare;
But Heav'n impatient seem'd till He was there.
Honour he lov'd; bright Honour that proceeds
From Virtuous Actions, and Heroick Deeds:
His dauntless Heart in Arms conceiv'd no Fear,
Except to be far off, and not to hear
When Honour call'd, and Glorious Danger near.

Knowledge He sought—but not in Courts to rise;
He was ambitious—only to be wise:
Such great Accomplishments the Chief engross't,
To save Him, Empires had been cheaply lost.
Here fell Carnarvan, an Illustrious Name,
In Blood superior, and his Match in Fame:
He fell,—to vulgar Hands resign'd his Breath;
Ingloriously he fell,—but dy'd a Glorious Death.

From hence a tow'ring Palace may be seen,
The promis'd Court of a Bohemian Queen;
The spacious Building, ample Walls, contain
More Land than bounds a Petty Prince's Reign.
The Sun that daily runs th' Ethereal Round,
With weary'd Steps surveys the vast Extent of Ground.
Had Dido been with such Dominions blest,
She had not lost so soon her Trojan Guest;

The faithless Hero had not prov'd unkind,
Nor rudely left the weeping Fair behind.
In this stupendous Pile we find express'd
The large Ideas of a Princely Breast:
But gilded Roofs no Pattern can afford,
Or form an Image of their present Lord;
Well-fashion'd Marbles Life to others give,
But His superior Worth makes Marbles live;
Does the more gen'rous Monuments impart
Of open Hands, and an unbounded Heart.

With secret Pleasure I am now convey'd,
To seek fair Benham's hospitable Shade,
Whose Beauties, like a blushing Virgin, fly
The common View, nor court the publick Eye:
Noble, yet plain, with unaffected Grace,
Resembling well the Masters of the Place.

Here They in Peace enjoy unenvy'd Wealth,
Unbroken Slumbers, and unphysick'd Health.
Their equal Souls by Sympathy are grown
In Wills, Affections, and strict Friendship, one;
And like two Strings that warble the same Note,
By Turns resound an Unison of Thought.

When you shall consecrate the hallow'd Shrine
With Jolly Songs, and Goblets crown'd with Wine,
My Friends shall in the Dithyrambick Chorus joyn;
Whilst Chaucer's Shade shall answer from below,
Mix with the Pomp, and grace the solemn Show.
And if the fam'd Amphions wond'rous Lyre,
Would graciously assist the chearful Quire,
His charming Lays might teach you to repair
The nodding Ruins with a Grecian Air:
Who by his chorded Shells enchanting Sound,
Made Marble Quarries heave, and burst the Ground;

Then from a rude, and indigested Heap,
Into a new, and beauteous Order leap.
In num'rous Figures rang'd, they danc'd along,
To City's form'd by his attractive Song,
The willing Stones into the Wall were wrought,
Harmoniously proportion'd to each Note;
And thus by Verse in Architecture skill'd,
Without an Artist, taught themselves to build.

O could my Muse in Epick Numbers write,
Some famous Tale, like that of Chaucer's Knight,
You, Sir, the noble Palamon should be,
Your beauteous Consort the fair Emely.

On a Lady's Needle.

Say, well-form'd Piece of pointed Steel,
Why should Her Hands thy Malice feel;

Her Iv'ry Hands that whiter show
Than new-born Lilly's native Snow:
Her Hands proud Scepters fram'd to sway,
And teach their Monarchs to obey?

Or tell me, Needle, why should'st thou
Her slender Fingers injure so?
Thy polish'd Point, there rashly stain,
And purchase Guilt to give her Pain?
In vain thou dost those Fingers gore,
By Suff'ring they're enrich'd the more:
The Crimson Drops, that round them stand,
In Rubies swell to grace her Hand;
The Drops thy impious Rage has shed
Are more divine than Venus bled;
The greatest Prince that fills a Throne
To save that Blood, would lose his own.

Did she not thy rude Motions guide,
Thy curious Works, embroider'd Pride,
Must all have uncommended dy'd:
In ev'ry Flow'r Her Fancies shine,
The Art all Hers, the Glory thine:
To thee since so obliging found,
How can Her Hands deserve the Wound?
Ah! then, fond little Lance, forbear
To vex those Hands, those Fingers spare:
But if thou wouldst propitious prove,
Chastise Her Heart, teach That to love;
There all thy boasted Forces try,
There thy envenom'd Sting apply;
Deep,—deeply let it be imprest,
Till thrilling Vengeance pierce Her Breast;
Her Breast that's more relentless far
Than sensless Rocks, or Marbles are.

If thou canst move Compassion there,
Or mollify the cruel Fair,
Gods!—what proud Trophies will I raise
To thee of Gratitude, and Praise.
Then may'st thou boast thou dost excel
The God of Love in aiming well,
Who never yet cou'd speed a Dart,
Or wing a Wound to reach Her Heart.

To the Honourable The Lady MARY BERTIE, OCCASION'D By Her Immoderate Grief for the Death of Her Brother.

------ quem semper acerbum
Semper honoratum (sic Di voluistis) habebo.

Madam,

If frequent Groans, and never-ceasing Sighs,
If big-descending Drops, and show'ry Eyes
Had force to make Your vanish'd Joys return,
Or mitigate the Evils which you mourn,
Well might You give (nor think the Purchase dear,)
A precious Gem for ev'ry falling Tear.

As in the Fields the springing Blade shoots high,
Sprinkl'd with Dews that drizle from the Sky;
So wat'ry Tears feed Sorrow, and bestow
A secret Vegetation on our Woe.

Nature perversly our Desires has cross'd;
We thus prize Jewels chiefly when they're lost:
To cooling Shades from Summers Heat we run,
But hasten to approach the Winter Sun.

You matchless Beauty boast, and sprightly Health,
Friends nobly born, and large Supplies of Wealth,
Vot'rys that sweet Idolatry pursue,
And steal their Eyes from Heav'n to worship You:
Yet the dull Hours You pensively employ,
Blacken the Thought, and sadden all your Joy.

What has the Noble Lord Your Brother done,
To be unkindly thus forgot so soon?
What Your surviving Friends, who weeping seem
To mourn for You, as You lament for Him?
So some fond Nymph, one fav'rite Flow'r deceas'd'
Doats on its Ruins, and neglects the rest;
And thus while pious Tears You vainly shed,
You wrong the Living, mourning for the Dead.

Passion improves to Rage by length of Time,
And what was Passion, now becomes a Crime:
Grief, fed by Sighs, imperious grows, and strong,
And tyrannizes when it reigns too long.

You most unjust and avaricious grow,
Thus to engross our common Stock of Woe:

To Publick Loss a Gen'ral Grief is due,
Too Universal to be paid by You.

There are who may in Rival Cares contend,
You mourn a Brother,—I lament the Friend.
O! that a Mortal might like Orpheus go
Free, and unpunish'd to the Shades below,
I'd sing in such a sadly-moving Strain,
The Ghosts all list'ning jointly shou'd complain,
Forget their Torments, and attend my Pain:
My Song shou'd teach the Furies to grow tame,
Dismount their Torches, and uncurl their Flame.
Nor wou'd I cease my plaintive Airs to sing,
'Till I had vanquish'd their tremendous King,
His Passport gain'd for Charon to restore
The Fugitive, and land Him on our Shore.

You hover o're His Tomb, exclaiming there
Enough to cause the sleeping Dead to hear;

With hollow Groans the Vaults around complain,
And as You weep, the Marbles weep again.
So Love's soft Goddess, young Adonis lost,
Follows with Cries to catch his flying Ghost;
Her fruitless Tears the flitting Boy pursue,
The Youth less lovely, She less fair than You.

Whereever Beauty in Distress is found,
Pity prepares us to receive the Wound.
Ruffl'd by Passion it exerts the more,
And grows a greater Tyrant than before:
So on destructive Wings red Lightnings fly,
And flash severely from a stormy Sky.

Those Mourning Weeds Your lovely Charms refine,
Worn as a Foil to make the Jewel shine,
Rev'rence to You, to Us they Wonder bring,
First we admir'd,—now fall to Worshipping.

Clad in a Veil of Raven-glossy Hair,
Great Julius own'd his Cleopatra fair;
Her Olive Beauties, in deep Shadow set,
Gain'd more Advantage from their native Jet:
Thus on Enamell'd Rings we may behold
The sable Strokes give Lustre to the Gold.
She justly cou'd a Nobler Empire boast
In Cæsar's Heart, than Ptolomy had lost;
Nor cou'd the Conqu'ring Roman Eagle fly
To Glorious Conquests, swifter than Her Eye.

When Ancient Bards a Sov'raign Pow'r wou'd draw
With Majesty, to keep the World in Awe,
They did their Jove in Robes of Darkness shroud,
And made the Godhead thunder from a Cloud.

Exempt from this alone, You cannot save
His dear Remains now mould'ring in the Grave;

You may as well demand, when Day is done,
A Rising Morning from the Setting Sun.
As Phœbus does his dying Beams renew,
So shall He mount, and greater Glory shew,
Clad in diviner Fires shall upward fly,
And shine superior in a brighter Sky.

Here shall He ever live, for ever blest;
Nothing but Your Disquiet can molest
His Endless Joys, or interrupt His Rest:
O! let Him undisturb'd those Pleasures share,
That cannot greater be—till You are there.

A Solitary Canto To CHLORIS the Disdainful.

What a Pox do you mean with your Pride and Ill-Nature,
Like a Jilt to neglect thus your own and God's Creature?
You idly mistake the Design of a Lover,
His Bus'ness is Action, much more than to Suffer.
'Tis a Barb'rous Return, a Hellish Disdain,
To requite all the Pleasure I offer with Pain.
Didst Thou come of some rough-hewn Northumberland Breed,
Wer't Thou got, and brought forth on the Banks of far Tweed,
There damn'd to the Yoke, and tyrannical Rule
Of some jealous old Huncks, or suspicious young Fool,
Yet methinks You might find some Expedient or other,
Tho' You knew nothing of it—to bring Us together;

And not thus to let a brisk likely young Fellow
To bulk it, or use the hard Ground for a Pillow.
No, Madam, in good Faith, I came not to fool here,
Or court, You may guess, the North-Wind for a Cooler:
My Bus'ness is—Let me come in, and I warrant
You'll say I know how to deliver my Errand.
What a Devil d' y' think I'll stand here like an Ass,
And with Knuckle lie drumming on Pane of small Glass?
Or Coxcomb that fancies he shrewdly does nick it,
When his Passion in Sighs he conveys thro' the Wicket?
All th' amorous Rout of the Curs in the Town
Are in loud Irish Howl Serenading the Moon,
But Cynthia the Kind condescends to each Span'el,
While in Pity She graciously shines from the Kennel.
Grave Owls, Night's wing'd Lovers, fly over our Head,
And with Screaming in Church-Yards awaken the Dead;

But You, cruel Nymph, while Your Grace I'm imploring,
My Ditty ne're mind, but in Blanket lie snoring.
Hark! how the Winds roar, my Misfortunes condoling,
While I lie at Your Door all the Night Caterwauling;
And as of complaining soft Flute I make Tryal,
They dolefully whistle in Consort thro' Key-hole.
The Ground's cas'd with Ice, and the whole Street a Glass is
For the Moon and the Stars to behold their bright Faces;
The Season's so sharp, one wou'd swear the Cold reigns
In Your Blood, and has froze up Your Heart and Your Veins,
And like little St. Francis enamour'd I grow
Of a Damsel of Ice, or a Mistress of Snow.
Come lay by this Scorn You so fondly affect,
Your unchristian Behaviour, and heath'nish Neglect,
Lest the Pow'rs of Love, their just Vengeance to show,
Make You doat on an Ass, or some nauseous old Beau,

Who, to balk and torment You, Your Court shall decline,
And scorn Your Addresses, as You have done mine.
Thy Mother was courteous before Thee, and Nature
Entails Her good Qualities all on the Daughter:
No longer then dream on those dull idle Fancies
Of Honour, ne're found but in Plays and Romances;
Nor that Græcian Jilt who a fair Thread did twist off,
And stood with her Sparks at close Guard with her Distaff.
Have I not set Traps, and laid many a Gin
With Springes to noose You, and catch your Heart in?
Ha'nt I wheedl'd, presented, and offer'd Petitions,
In Order to bring You to milder Conditions?
Your Chamber-Maid fee'd with my Person, and Money,
To know how your Pulse beat, and practise upon Ye?
Been religiously drunk at all Times, and all Places,
By Spelling your Name o're in Stum in Beer-Glasses?

Beside what might plague You, and touch your Heart more near,
Thy Spouse now solaces with Doxy in Corner,
Melodious Stage-Punk, whose bewitching sweet Tongue
Does lewdly seduce his false Heart with a Song;
And if this one mortifying Thought will not win ye,
Nor raise your dull Spleen—why the Devil is in ye.
In Turky the Wives, and Mahometan Beauties,
If their Husbands neglect to do Family-Duties,
Those Heralds of Cupid conclude it but decent,
T' ennoble their Family's Coat with a Crescent;
And sure 'tis not fit Christian Ladies shou'd want
A Freedom, that Love does to Infidels grant.
I've lain down before You already too long,
In Hopes I might take You—with Fiddle and Song;
Then prithee, Dear Chloris, be gentle and coming,
While Love is in Humour, and Youth is a blooming.
When Age comes 'twill make me too wise to endure
The Delays, and Fatigues of a tedious Amour;

Believe me, I ne're shall have Patience hereafter
To stand like a Cistern to catch your Rain-Water,
Nor at your Door whimper, bewailing my Fate,
While it falls in big Drops from the Eaves of my Hat;
No, sweet Mrs. Chloris—pray excuse me for that.

The Ingrate.

Ungrateful Fair! can You despise
The Slave, who so admires those Eyes?
Can You from his dear Arms depart,
From Love and Him estrange your Heart?
Your Heart, that does too faithless prove
To entertain his constant Love?
Ah! Cruel Nymph! to whom is giv'n
A Form more bright, more proud than Heav'n;
Whose scornful Soul, and haughty Breast,
Disdain to make a God their Guest.

And must I bear your cold Disdain,
While You but laugh at all my Pain?
No.—I will triumph in my Turn,
And I will laugh, while You shall mourn,
And render Pride for Pride, and Scorn for Scorn.
Then fare You well, a long Adieu
To all your Pride, your Scorn, and You.
My Muse shall now no more rehearse,
Nor grace thy Beauties with my Verse;
Unworthy of my Songs of Praise,
And all my sweet harmonious Lays:
Then once more thus I bid Adieu
To all your Pride, your Scorn, and You.
For why shou'd You the Heart despise,
That bright Lucinda deigns to prize?
Lucinda the kind tempting Fair,
Of all our Youth the publick Care;
Whose Cheeks the sweetest Blossoms yield
That smile in blooming Beauty's Field;

She boldly makes my Heart Her Claim,
She burns, and glories in the Flame;
To me She gives up all Her Charms,
And melting drops into my Arms.
Already, fam'd by my soft Song,
She warms the Old, and fires the Young;
My wanton Song, that soars so high,
It proudly lifts Her to the Sky,
To Heav'n Her am'rous Fire prefers,
And bids it there outshine the Stars.
Forsaken thus, how will You mourn!
How will You now accuse your Scorn!
And urg'd by secret Grief complain,
While Tears upbraid your past Disdain.
But You, in vain, shall weep and mourn;
In vain shall Tears upbraid your Scorn;
For I will mind your Sighs, and Tears no more,
Than You, proud Nymph, regarded mine before.

A Cannibal's Love-Song.

[_]

See Montaign's Essays, Chap. 30. Vol. I.

Stay, Adder, Gentle Adder, stay,
Ah! glide not in such Haste away:

That from thy painted Mazes, roll'd
In many a various-colour'd Fold
Of burnish'd Wreaths, and speckl'd Gold,
My Sister may with Art prepare
A Garland to present my Fair:
A Garland that secure may bind
Her Tresses from the ruffling Wind.

Stay, Adder, Gentle Adder, stay,
Ah! glide not in such Haste away.

So may thy sleek enamel'd Coat
Of damask'd Scales, in Order wrought,
Out-shine, with a superior Grace,
The Pride of all thy snaky Race,

So shall thy Beauties ever be
By Lovers prais'd, ador'd by me.

Stay, Adder, &c.

ON The Shortness of Life, AND The Miseries that attend it.

Optima quæq; dies miseris mortalibus ævi
Prima fugit: subeunt morbi, tristisq; senectus,
Et labor, & duræ rapit inclementia mortis.

I.

Unhappy Man! the Boast of Nature born:
Who whilst, ambitious to be fear'd,
Thou scorn'st thy Fellow-Creatures of the Herd,
Art made thy Self no less their Scorn.

Yet, proud aspiring Dust, wilt thou
Assume the Empire of the World below,
Thy patrimonial Globe to sway,
Before thee form'd of præexistent Clay?
The humble Earth you insolently tread,
The Fleece, the Furrow, and the Field
Warm Cloathing, and Subsistence yield,
And bounteously allow thee Bread.
“But Godlike Man! his Charter is divine,
“From Heav'n his Tenure, and that Tenure's thine.
“Th' expanded Air, the Land, the Sea
“Thy Tenants are, and jointly hold from thee:
But tho' you vaunt with Heav'n the World to share,
The Gentle Flocks, and Savage Herds,
The Wild, and Tamer Beasts, and Birds,
Thy Benefactors all, and elder Brethren are.
This young vain-glorious Ammon's Son,
Who dreams that he the vanquish'd World has won,
Is by his Captives led in Chains;
And subject to the Slaves o're which he reigns.

His own Rebellious Creatures disobey,
To ev'ry Reptil made, and ev'ry Worm, a Prey.

II.

While yet the Parts unfinish'd are, and rude,
Before the nitrous Air has ting'd the watry Blood,
Weak Nature conscious trembles at the Doom
Of Heav'ns Decrees, and Punishments to come.
Death like a Spy employ'd by th' envious Fates,
Upon the Birth of Motion waits,
And e're we fully live, it often uncreates.
Nor yet alas! do we alone
Beneath th' oppressive Torments groan,
But fruitful of the Pains we undergo,
We propagate our Ills, and multiply our Woe.
While wrapt in Secondine the Embryo lies,
'Tis blasted with unwholsom Sighs;
Thus Infants with the Parents mourn,
Who back again the mutual Griefs return,
And sympathetick Tears infect the Mother's Eyes.

With Pangs, and Throws into the World we come,
The Curse, and Burthen of the Womb:
The Dawn of Life its Part of Torment shares,
Discover'd first by Cries, and introduc'd with Tears.

III.

Like some fleet Arrow from a Parthian Bow
With Fury drawn, to charge the following Foe,
Thro' pathless Air we haste;
Which by no Track discovers where we past.
Along th' impetuous Course of Life we fly,
Life, the Assurance Mankind has to die;
Short-winded Life, unable far to run,
Which almost ends where it begun,
It starts, and lo! the momentary Race is done.
The first Advance we make approaches Death,
And we draw Air to render back our Breath.

As swift as Time our Age posts on,
As swift as Time alas 'tis gone,
And as the hasty Minutes pass,
The ebbing Sand creeps lower in the Glass.
The Body lightn'd of its Weight,
Prepares us for our speedy Flight;
The Hours our Substance on their Wings convey,
Insensibly they steal us from our selves away.

IV.

To Time's victorious Scythe we all
A sudden Trophy fall.
Large Heaps he mows, thro' wide Destruction flies,
While Ruin in large Swarths around him lies.
Thus in the Spring some loud tempestuous Blast
Sweeps o're the Plain, and lays whole Nature waste;
Trees, Plants, and Flow'rs promiscuously are spread,
And on the Womb, that gave them Birth, lie dead.
So swift the Blow, the Flow'rs awhile
Forget to wither, and in Death they smile,

Their Beauties seemingly retain,
As if again they grew, and flourish'd there again.

V.

The Bubble Life does gawdy Colours show,
Like those that paint the Heav'nly Bow;
Which on a watry Cloud appears,
A spangl'd Vapour dropt with shining Tears.
Tho' in the setting Sky departing Light
Forewarns us of approaching Night,
We idly dream one feeble Ray
Has Pow'r to reinforce the Day;
And fancy we extend the Line,
The Shadows lengthning, as the Beams decline.
Thus by Appearances we are betray'd,
Deluded by the Image of a Shade,
Which fondly we admire, till with the Sun
It vanishes, and streight the mighty Phantom's gone.

VI.

As Life is short, 'tis full of Troubles too.
What num'rous Plagues Mankind pursue?
Between the Womb, and neighb'ring Grave,
We scarce from Pain a Moment's Respite have;
Nor living can we hope for a Release,
Since with our Years our Miseries increase.
We rowl this Ball with Sisyphus's Fate,
Lab'ring beneath the dull unactive Weight;
With our collected Pow'rs we first urge on
The sluggish, and unweildy Stone;
The pond'rous Mass creeps up the Race
With lazy Motion, and unwilling Pace,
And as the lifted Orb still higher climbs,
It breaks our Vigor, and unnerves the Limbs:
We faint, that falling with redoubl'd Might
Crushes our Frame in the revolving Flight;

Down the Descent it scowrs with rapid Force,
Rowling in Dust, and Smoke along the furious Course.

VII.

Few are our Days, and painful; yet fond Man
Will stretch his lengthen'd Hopes beyond his Span:
And as the num'rous Torments sent,
Were insufficient,
He to increase th' unhappy Store,
Still seeks out new, and adds a Thousand more.
See but what different Courses Mortals run!
What certain Measures take to be undone!
We all pursue the various Game
Of Honour, Pleasure, Wealth, and Fame;
We roam thro' lonely Wilds, and devious Ways,
Lost in the doubling World's mysterious Maze;
Condemn'd to suffer Life, we're now betray'd
To drag the Fetters which our Follies made:

We struggle, and we strive in vain
To break our Prison, or dissolve our Chain;
The grisly King of Terrors sets us free,
He only can confer a General Goal-Delivery.

VIII.

We here consume in Noise, and Strife,
The Oyl design'd to feed the Lamp of Life.
By starts it flares awhile with dubious Fires,
Then with a Blaze ascends, and lost in Smoke expires.
The Seeds of Change in ev'ry Part we bear,
The fighting Elements now jar,
And all within us raise a Civil War;
Troops of Diseases grim, and pale,
The Ramparts, and the Walls assail,
Th' external Works they batter down,
The Soul within affrighted flies, and quits the Town.

IX.

In secret Beds the Body's Earth contains
More teeming Seeds of sprouting Pains,
More complicated Plagues, than fill
The dreadful Bead-roll of the Weekly Bill.
To keep the destin'd Prey in view,
Infectious Atoms swim the Crimson Flood,
Thro' purple-winding Streams pursue,
Till hunted down it stagnates in the Blood.
The Limb-tormenting Gout with tardy Pace
O'retakes the nimblest in the Race:
Bound Hand and Foot in Chains we lie,
Unable to defend ourselves, or flie.
Thro' all the Parts the wide Contagion's spread,
Till by degrees it mounts into the Head,
And as it racks the tortur'd Brain,
The Victim in the Capitol lies slain,
The knotted Joints distorted with convulsive Pain.

With Eyes inflam'd now scorching Fevers rage.
Kindl'd by Pestilential Heat
The Juice ferments, and throbbing Art'ries beat,
No Juleps cool, nor can Ptisans asswage.
The bloodshot Orbs with glowing Beams look red,
Like Basilisks they glare, and strike us dead.
Within an unseen Ætna reigns,
Which hidden Nourishment contains,
Of liquid Burnings sluic'd thro' parching Veins.
Thus when a Bomb red Vengeance pours
On some beleaguer'd City's blazing Tow'rs,
The Soldiers from th' unguarded Fort retire,
The Magazine in Flames, and Citadel on Fire.

X.

These our Domesticks are, ordain'd by Fate
On Life, th' Original Disease, to wait:

With an innumerable Train behind
Of Ghastly Maladies, assign'd
A sad Retinue to attend Mankind.
All Industry, all Arts in vain are try'd,
No Mole can hinder the departing Tide.
Not the Physician can ensure,
Th'inevitable Urn admits no Cure.
Tho' Frampton, Æsculapius of the Age,
Shou'd in th' unequal Task engage,
Our Athens best Apollo scarce wou'd be
Sufficient to reverse the firm Decree
Of unrelenting Destiny.
Frampton, whom Heav'n did in Compassion give,
Our Publick Fund of Health, and best Preservative.
Who does each secret Virtue know
Of Leaf, of Blossom, and of Fruit that grow
On Intellectual Branch, or Vital Bough;
Who from the Jaws of Death shall rescue more,
Than all his Predecessors slew before.

The Time will come, O! may that Time be late,
When He the Good, the Gen'rous, and the Great,
Must reascend his Bright, Hereditary Seat,
And propitiously from thence
Reviving Lustre shall dispense,
And shed down salutary Influence.
There He with Harvey, Sydenham, Ent shall go
Into a League, confed'rate Aid bestow,
And with superior Arts relieve the suppliant World below.

XI.

Yet while on Earth he strives to join
Unweary'd Care, to Skill Divine,
Does ev'ry Healing Juice employ,
Contending to restore, Death labours to destroy.
Fearing his Skill, and jealous of his Art,
Th' unerring Shaft is level'd at his Heart:

The silent Dart unseen steals on,
He trembles, faints, looks pale, is gone,
Neglects his Patients Life to guard his own:
Thus while h'extends his pious Hands to save,
Ev'n He himself must grace the Triumphs of the Grave.

The Force of WINE:

A DITHYRAMBICK.

Dulce Periculum est
O Lenæe, sequi Deum
Cingentem viridi tempora pampino.
Ode 25. Lib. 3.

1.

Bacchus , Patron of the Vine,
God of Mirth, and God of Wine,

Bath my thirsty Temples o're,
And let me drink at ev'ry Pore.
As thy transporting Joys I sing,
With Genial Lays my Breast inspire:
Then bid Silenus strike the silent Lyre;
While with Thee in the Antick Sound,
The nimble Satyrs frisk, and bound,
And in loud Dithyrambick Strains rouse ev'ry silent String.

2.

Hark! hark! the sleeping Strings awake!
With Fury Divine see! see! how they shake!
The jolly Notes, and drunken Words confus'dly roll along,
And dance, and leap into my Verse, and reel into my Song.

3.

Wine makes a Monarch of the Slave,
The Beggar rich, the Coward brave,
The Pris'ner thus his Freedom gains,
It kindly bails him, and shakes off his Chains.

4.

Who ever did of Poverty complain,
When gen'rous Burgundy had fir'd his Brain?
It gilds the Thought with Chymick Art,
And into Riches stamps, and coins the Heart;
The Language down like Tagus Flood is roll'd,
And glitters with imaginary Gold.

5.

When we rosy Chaplets wear,
And fragrant Oyls perfume the Hair;

When the lusty Bowl goes round,
With ruddy Foam of sparkling Nectar crown'd;
The Merchant laughs at all his Toils,
Forgets his Danger, and his Sorrow smiles.
Now, now, he bids farewel to Care,
And Anguish of the Mind,
That hover round him in the Air,
And flutter in the Wind.

6.

How gloriously dreadful Heroes shine,
Arm'd with Auxiliary Wine!
The Spirits mantle, and a Martial Heat
In the tumultuous Art'ries beat;
The pushing Blood a War maintains,
And sallies from the Heart, and charges thro' the Veins.

7.

So when th' embattl'd Gyants strove
To scale their Heav'n, and storm the Gods above,
Thy Valour, Bacchus, high in Triumph rode;
The Lyon's Wrath supported by a God,
And thy own Grape, which taught thee to engage
With a superior Force, and double Rage.
Thus fortify'd, secure you chase
Thro' Azure Plains the bold rebellious Race;
Then drove the Monsters howling down,
Confirming by their Fall, thy Father's doubtful Throne.

The Artless Beauty.

1

Some may esteem those Beauties most Divine
That dress'd in sparkling Di'monds shine;
Whose precious Rays are proudly shown
To give new Lustre, which conceal their own.

2

The Ropes of Pearl those meaner Beauties wear,
Proclaim them rather Rich, than Fair;
False Lights their tarnish'd Forms disguise,
And Jewels glitter to reproach their Eyes.

3

Jewels like num'rous Stars set in the Sky,
May form a spangl'd Galaxy,
May gild the Clouds, and make them bright.
But, when the Stars appear, we own 'tis Night.

4

Tho' on the Moor his Flames bright Phœbus throws,
Yet swarthy Night deforms his Brows,
Deep Shades his jetty Limbs o'rerun,
Which Darkness wear, tho' Neighbours to the Sun.

5

You may approve the Nymphs, whose Faces wear
A Flattering Resemblance of the Fair;
The Pencil's mimick Beams admire,
That strive to warm a Heart with Painted Fire.

6

And thus a dazling Vapour once cou'd move
Ixion with fond Hopes of Love;
The Youth a gilded Shadow woo'd,
And for a Goddess clasp'd a figur'd Cloud.

7

Give me the artless blooming Maid,
Whose Features need no foreign Aid,
Whose Cheeks kind Nature's Hands adorn,
With the same Blush that flecks the ruddy Morn.

8

On her fair Cheeks be no Vermilion spread,
But that which flows in Native Red;
Let blushing Modesty commend each Grace,
And heighten all the Colours in her Face.

9

Give her no bright Attire, but let her Dress
Owe all its Charms to Comeliness:
Rich Drap'ry wrought by gaudy Art
May take the Eye, but never reach the Heart.

10

Let her no Saphire wear, no precious Stone,
But let her Beauty shine alone;
Thus furnish'd out from her own Store,
Not all the Indian World can give her more.

11

So Venus naked from the Ocean rose,
Where Pearls are form'd, and Coral grows;
With Coral deckt, or Pearls She wou'd not be,
Herself the brightest Gem in all the Sea.

The Swallow. ANACREONTICK.

The Swallow does her Flight prepare,
And takes her Progress with the Year:
She basks here all the Summer long,
Here builds her Nest, and breeds her Young.
But when the weeping Heav'ns presage
Th'approaching Season's stormy Rage,
She with the Old Year wings her Way
To Regions of unshaded Day;
Then with the New returns again,
And brings the Spring back in her Train.
Ah! gentle Bird! to what Excess
Shou'd I arrive of Happiness,
Wou'd Love as reasonable be,
And yearly come, and go like thee.

But Love is my Eternal Guest,
And builds for ever in my Breast.
The Mother-Love, that brooding sits,
A Thousand little Loves begets:
Here some excluded Half we see,
One Part imprison'd, one Part free;
And struggling in the doubtful Strife,
Peep thro' the Egg, just into Life;
While others in Confinement dwell,
Expecting it within the Shell:
Where in Out-Lines is scarce descry'd
The Form but rudely signify'd.
One feather'd softly warbling sings,
And Perching prunes its painted Wings:
Some Chirping in the warm Nest lie,
And make a num'rous Harmony;
So that you'd take my Heart to be
A little speaking Aviary.

And when the wanton, callow Brood
Greedily crave, and gape for Food,
The Old one feeds 'em with my Blood;
And some she feeds with Hopes, and Fears,
And some with Sighs, and some with Tears:
These growing up, supply their Place
Still with a new, and younger Race.
How many Loves have I in Store?
Ten Thousand Loves at least, and more:
So infinite is the Account,
They to such endless Sums amount,
Arithmetick can ne're express
Them all; they are so numberless.

Epistle to Sir R. E.

You left Me ill, but, Sir, your Letter,
Thanks to my Stars, has made Me better;
For your Advice to Wight that is sick,
Is more restorative than Physick:
Which nicest Lady in the Land,
Would take presented by your Hand.
Fair Nymph would laugh till She bep**st Her,
Would You vouchsafe to Administer,
And so solace Her with a Clyster.
For Nymphs are pleas'd much, I must tell ye,
To take such warm Things in their Belly,
And to put Proverb into Meeter,
The deeper, Sir, You go, the sweeter,

But, Good Sir Galen, if You please
Let Us return to my own Case.
You left my Pipe of Respiration
Infested sore with Inflamation;
And I who e'rst ne're thought Me happy,
But when engag'd with You and Nappy,
Now sicker grew each Day, and sicker,
And fear'd but ev'n to dream of Liquor:
Viana direful did appear,
As Blood to touching Murderer.
At Thought of Punch—I saw grim Demons
That cannonaded Me with Lemons:
And Brandy had with Spirits fell
Set in one Blaze my Citadel,
Had I not call'd to Mind just after,
Th' auxiliary Supplies of Water.

But ah! 'twou'd grieve thy Heart to think
How I was damn'd to Posset-drink;
Daily confin'd, by Orders cruel,
To Penitential Water-gruel.
And what wou'd make thy Heart more sorry,
I had in Pole Vesicatory,
Which made prodigious Tumors rise,
Corroded by damn'd Spanish Flies.
At length I found strange Alteration
By Bleeding much, and much Purgation;
Purgation which You know, Sir, eases
In this, and other sore Diseases.
A Wight yclep'd Pharmacopol,
Levell'd his Bagpipe at my Hole;
But oh! had You been there, and seen
With what a jantee, airy Mien
He let the squirting Engine fly,
You wou'd have laugh'd,—so did not I.

Sir Sydrophel ne're took such Care
From Influence dire to purge a Star,
When He full wistfully does grope,
In Comet's Tail with Telescope.

You're charitable, Sir, and nice,
But I've no Guinea for Advice;
Tho' the Receipts You mention hold
Med'cines more valuable than Gold.

You cannot think what woundy Slaughters
You made, among our Towns-men's Daughters.
One whisper'd loud, How wond'rous fine!
Another, Mark his brawny Chine!
Which does deserve, if well requited,
More than Sir-Loyn did to be Knighted.
And sooth to say, each Damsel pretty
Loves Thee so well, that She cou'd eat Thee.

Now Sir, I thank You for the Tok-
en sent by gentle Sl---m of Noak:
With which We drank your Health at Crown
So long, till I forgot my own.
But after All, to shew my Haviours,
I greet You well for all your Favours;
And I'll be, what I ever was,
Your Friend, and Servant

J. S. pos.

TEARS.

Say, Crystal Tears, that falling show
Bright as the Eyes from whence You flow,
Whose trickling Gems confer new Grace,
And shed fresh Glories on her Face,

Her Face that fair as Heav'n appears,
Bath'd in the dewy Morning's Tears;
Tell me from whence those Waters rise?
How can they spring from Chloe's Eyes?
Which kindling flush with hot Desire,
And roll like Balls of living Fire:
That all around their burning Arrows dart,
And scatter Shafts unseen from ev'ry Part.

False are my Eyes, my Thought too errs,
For what I fancy'd Show'rs, and Tears,
Is neither Tears, nor show'ry Rain;
False are my Eyes, my Thoughts are vain.
For All that from those Fountains stream,
Are bubbling Drops of liquid Flame;
No wonder then your scalding Tears are seen,
Thus to consume, and torture Me within.

What num'rous Torments Lovers bear!
How small their Hope, how great their Fear!
In freezing Flames the Wretches mourn,
And then anon in Waters burn;
For Love, that bears a Sov'raign Sway,
Can make the Elements obey,
Can change their Natures, and their Forces tame,
Turn Fire to Water, Water into Flame.

To His Grace the Duke of Beaufort, Upon His Happy Marriage TO THE Lady Mary Osborn.

Connubio jungam stabili, propriamq; dicabo
Omnes ut Tecum meritis pro talibus annos
Exigat, & pulchrâ faciat Te Prole Parentem.
Virg. Æn. 1.

Kind Venus, Queen of Gods above,
Of Beauty Queen, and Queen of Love:
And Thou her Son, whose wide Command
Extends o're Air, or'e Sea, and Land,

Whose Genial Fires thro' all Things move,
And make the World ferment with Love:
Assist, while I in Verse pursue
Two more propitious Pow'rs than You.

Thee, Hymen, next I will rehearse,
Hymen, and Love shall crown my Verse.
But Whom, my Lyre, dost thou design,
With these Immortal Three to join?
Maria well deserves thy Care,
The Pride, and Envy of the Fair,
She well deserves thy Tuneful Art,
Whose Eyes subdu'd Great Beaufort's Heart.

The Smiles of Heav'n on Beaufort wait,
The Gods defend Maria's State;
A Guard of Loves with Shafts and Bows
Attend the Nymph wheree're she goes:

But Shafts and Bows are useless found,
The Fair without those Arms can wound:
The Arrows so resistless fly,
There's no retreating from Her Eye:
So shoots the Lightning without Noise,
And, tho 'tis sent from Heav'n, destroys.

As Morning Beauty gently breaks
In Purple Light upon Her Cheeks,
Her Lord the dazling Form surveys
With beating Heart, while mutual Sighs
Alternately fan all their am'rous Joys.
Beauty, with Charms, and ev'ry Grace,
In Triumph smile upon Her Face,
Eternal Youth around Her flies,
And Pleasure dances in Her Eyes.

The blushing Rose is justly held
The Queen of Flow'rs that paint the Field;

And thus, o're blooming Beauty's Train
Maria's Charms assert Her Reign.
Each budding Fair from Her receives
Warm Influence, and expands Her Leaves:
So Stars, those flaming Ministers of Night,
Sparkle with menial Fires, and borrow'd Light.

Bright Eye of Heav'n, who in thy annual Race
Behold'st no Wonder like Maria's Face;
Let Me, by thy returning Beams, behold
Her Image cast in that sweet forming Mould;
Thou to my Eyes wilt nobler Treasures show,
Than all the Mines thy Flames create below.

Prologue to the FOX: Spoken by Mr. WILKS TO THE University of Oxford.

One Age produc'd Two mighty Bards, to show
How far the utmost Pow'r of Wit cou'd go.
Heav'n diff'rent Talents did to each impart,
Shakespear more Wit, but Johnson shew'd more Art.
Shakespear's diffusive Genius cou'd dispense,
In gentle moving Sounds, the deepest Sense:
But Nature wanted Skill,—and Johnson brought
Horatian Laws to authorize his Thought.
Ben's surly Lines are in Defiance writ,
Sturdy the Phrase, and obstinate his Wit;
His Plays the Form of Ancient Structures claim,
Equal in Plan, and Rivals of their Fame;

Which, by the Model of the Ancients cast,
Shall like the Works of Greeks and Romans last.

The various Humours which his Pen engage
Are calculated right for ev'ry Age,
We have La-fools, and fashionable Tonies,
Corbacchio's, Mosca's, and our own Volpones.
The Beaux our Fox's Way of Practice prove,
They mount our Stage, and play vile Quacks in Love;
And to their Mistresses in amorous Cases,
Like him prescribe,—their own Cathartick Faces.

In the Performance we present to-Night,
Masterly drawn you'll see the Parasite;
When the Gulls yawn, he subtly plays his Bait,
All bribe, and all are Heirs to the Estate:
So Burgess, where the Gold is freely giv'n,
Cajoles the Saints, and packs 'em all to Heav'n.

Your better Tastes such nauseous Shams refuse:
You, like our Author, cultivate the Muse.
What Joys (O Ben) thy Ghost receives to see
These Ranks of thy Athenian Progeny,
A Learned Race of younger Bens here sit,
Th' adopted Sons of thy immortal Wit;
Who, by the Dictates of thy Genius taught,
Can best admire, what their Great Father wrote.

Begging a Kiss.

Bright Angel Form, impower'd above
T' inspire the World below with Love,
The whole Creation's Beauty lies
Within the Circle of your Eyes;
Upon your Lips all Perfumes grow,
And od'rous Beds of Spices blow.

Your Kisses, that in Nectar swim,
With sparkling Joy dance o're the Brim,
Like Wine, whose sprightly Atoms pass
In nimble Leaps above the Glass:
Then drink from those dear Lips of thine
A Kiss, and pledge the Kiss from mine,
That my unquiet Flames may rest,
And rage no longer in my Breast.
O drink not from your Lips divine
A Kiss, nor pledge the Kiss from mine;
For that has such a scorching Pow'r,
It will inflame my Heart the more;
But with each short Return of Breath
Suck in my Soul, and give me Death;
Till all exhal'd, no scatter'd Wind,
Or wand'ring Atom's left behind.
Yet ah! forbear with pow'rful Breath
T' extract my Soul, and give me Death;

For when I once my Soul have lost,
I then shall be an airy Ghost,
An empty Shadow gliding o're
The Banks of Styx, or Lethe's Shore:
Ah! too too sad unlovely Soil;
Where Joy ne're dawns, no Pleasures smile;
Where Love ne're warms, nor can we find
A Mistress charm, or Beauty kind.
Yet, Dearest, once more I request
You'd suck my Soul out of my Breast,
And as our eager Lips we join,
I'll in soft Whispers call forth thine.
Then, like that Alchymist the Bee,
I to thy blooming Soul will flee,
And, thence extracting Life, devour
The Sweets of that immortal Flow'r.
Our Souls thus lost, pale Shades we'll go
To seek the Happy Dead below;

Kind faithful Lovers long deceas'd,
With Joys rewarded now, and bless'd;
With them in Myrtle-Groves we'll stray,
Dissolve the Hours in gentle Play,
And bill, and kiss Eternity away.
Here Lesbia, and Catullus prove
The Sweets of Everlasting Love.
Their faded Lips so wan appear,
You'd swear Love's Ghost was wand'ring there;
But in those Shades such Passions reign,
So fierce a Rage they entertain,
They kiss the God to Life again.
And thus, my Fair One, we'll caress,
And wanton in soft Happiness.
Thus I all pale, and meager too,
Will there embrace, and kiss thee so,
The famous Chiefs for Love renown'd,
With fragrant Myrtle Chaplets crown'd,

Shall vanquish'd yield, and wond'ring see
Themselves so much excell'd by Me,
That they shall all my Conquests own,
And with their Wreaths my Temples crown.
Then shall your Slave with Pride submit
To lay his Trophies at your Feet,
While to your Eyes stern Pluto's Realms shall bow,
And You shall reign a Queen of Love below.

SONG.

[When you, Clarinda, bless mine Eyes]

1

When you, Clarinda, bless mine Eyes,
My swelling Heart with Joys o're fraught,
Beneath the Pressure panting lies,
And a short Death suspends my Thought:

Till thus repriev'd awhile from Sense of Pain,
'Tis more than Life to view your Charms again.

2

Like Stars your Influence is found,
And I by Darts unseen expire;
Your Beauties at a Distance wound,
And kindle in my Heart a Fire;
A Fire more pure than from the Stars e're came,
Bright as your Eyes, and lasting as their Flame.

3

And as Heav'n, when the Happy go
T' inherit their Paternal Sky,
Rewards short Death endur'd below,
With Bliss, and Immortality:
So You my present Suff'rings can remove,
And give Eternal Life, Eternal Love.

4

Thus when Kind Venus saw her fair,
Belov'd Adonis pale, and dead,
She did the Youth at once prefer
To Heav'n, and her immortal Bed;
Between her Breasts he lies dissolv'd in Charms,
And there for ever wantons in her Arms.

To the Ladies.

ANACREONTICK.

Beneath this cool and fragrant Shade,
With Myrtles, and with Roses made;
While their od'rous Wreaths they spread,
In Chaplets growing round my Head,

While their mingling Sweets they join,
Bring me, Fair Ones, bring me Wine:
Wine that will inflame me more
Than all your Beauties did before.
See! it vig'rous Love supplies,
See! the kindling Spirits rise,
Dancing thro' my sparkling Eyes.
Now all your Nobler Ointments pour,
Now crown my Brows with ev'ry Flow'r.
Flow'rs crown my Brows,—but ah! what Art
Can cool the Burnings of my Heart!
In vain they try to ease my Pain,
Refreshing Garlands there are vain,
And Wine will ineffectual prove,
Wine that is Nourishment to Love.

THE Eleventh ELEGY Of the Third BOOK of Ovid 's AMOURS imitated.

Long have I born,—Perfidious Love depart;
I'm tir'd with thy ill Usage of my Heart.
Enlarg'd at last, I redden with Disdain,
To think how long I've dragg'd the servile Chain.
Thanks to my Stars, I'm Conqueror, tho' late,
My boiling Passions sink, my Flames abate,
And now I triumph in a safe Retreat.
To part alas! I great Reluctance find;
Yet I'll pursue the Purpose of my Mind,
For tho' to lose the faithless Fair I mourn,
My Griefs will after to Advantage turn.

Thus bitter Med'cines often give us Ease,
Remove the Pains, and baffle the Disease.
And am I slighted thus—and have I born
The killing Vengeance of your haughty Scorn?
Have I your humble Slave been forc'd to wait,
And whole Nights danc'd Attendance at your Gate,
While to some Fool You gave up all your Charms,
And hugg'd the senseless Coxcomb in your Arms?
I saw him, when with Loss of Blood he reel'd,
In Service spent, come stagg'ring from the Field:
—'Twas I first made your private Beauty known,
And recogniz'd it thro' th' admiring Town;
My Songs invited all the World to gaze,
Gave Lustre to your Eyes, and Glory to your Face.
'Tis needless to repeat your Jilting Lies,
Deluding Falsehoods, frequent Perjuries,
The secret Hints, lewd Glances,—the dumb Cant
That pass'd between You, and your New Gallant;

The speaking Nods, mute Dialogues You made,
Which the loose Wishes of your Souls betray'd.
I lately sent my Boy (fond doating Sot)
To know if I might visit You, or not;
Your Woman had her Cue,—“Says she, Pray tell
“Your Master, Child, my Lady is not well.
Wild with my Fears I ran, the Truth to see,
I found You sick indeed—but 'twas of Me;
My Rival soon knew how to sooth your Pain,
One Healing Kiss recover'd You again.
This and much more I've born—Get some dull Beast,
A passive Beau, some Woman's Fool at least,
Good Faith I can no longer brook the Jest.
Over Love's Shrine my Vessel hangs at last,
In Glad Remembrance of the Shipwrack past,
And safely landed on the distant Shore,
With Joy I hear the furious Billows roar;
False Syren, all thy Wheedles now are vain,
Thou ne're shalt tempt Me out to Sea again.

Driv'n by two diff'rent Gusts of Love, and Hate,
My Heart now floats to This Point, now to That;
Both struggle in my Breast, but Love, I fear,
All-pow'rful Love will prove the Conqueror.
In vain, in vain, thy treach'rous Snares I shun,
One Look, one Glance, and I'm again undone;
A strange Aversion to your Crimes I find,
But love your Body, tho' I hate your Mind.
My giddy Soul turns round, and I perceive
I can nor with thee, nor without thee live:
Distracted with my wild Desires I rave,
And I my self scarce know what I wou'd have.
Th' unhandsome Things you've done, my Hatred move;
But O! those Eyes perswade again to love:
Your Eyes my strongest Resolutions break,
So gently they perswade, such wond'rous Sense they speak:

Upon my Soul insensibly they win,
And melt me all to Tenderness within.
By all those luscious, soft, endearing Charms
We feasted on, in one another's Arms,
By your sweet Face with Beauty's Blossoms strow'd,
Your Face, to Me more pow'rful than a God;
Remit my Sufferings, remove my Smart,
Nor play the wanton Tyrant with my Heart.
Your Eyes, your pow'rful Eyes have learn'd the Skill,
And can, like Fate, necessitate my Will,
My Will that leaves it to your Choice alone,
Whether I freely Servitude shall own,
Or wear my Fetters on Compulsion.
Well, since 'tis thus, I'll spread the flying Sail
Before the Wind, and catch the present Gale;
Rowl'd down the Stream 'tis easier far to move,
Since I, in Spite of mine own Heart, must Love.

SONG.

A Shepherdess To Her Lover Sleeping.

I

No longer, Gentle Youth, no longer sleep:
Reveal the Beauties of those Eyes,
Thy faithful Flock of mournful Sheep
Neglect their needful Food until you rise;
Unveil your Eyes which Ebon Brows adorn,
These black as Night, those fairer than the Morn.

II

If Kisses might their dawning Light disclose,
I there a Thousand wou'd bestow;
But why shou'd I provoke my Lovely Foes
That sleeping wake my Cares, and wound me too?
Thus we poor Virgins by Experience find,
The God of Love can kill, tho' he is blind.

The FABLE OF The Fox and the Cock.

As Reynard, mindful of his Prey,
Was early jogging on the way,
Wistfully casting up his Eyes,
Sir Chanticleer at length he spies.
Amidst his Hens he proudly sate,
Exalted high on Perch of State.
Large were his Spurs, and sharp his Bill,
Jolly his Comb, full rosy was his Gill;
Here he like Eastern Monarch shines,
Among his Feather'd Concubines.
The Fox in Courtly Phrase addrest,
And thus in Form himself exprest.

“I hope you've had a good Repose
“With Madam Partlet, your fair Spouse.
Then holding Eyes up, and Fore-feet,
As saying Grace before his Meat;
“Descend, quoth he, Friend Chanticleer,
“Why what a Mischief makes you there?
“Descend, for I have News to tell ye,
“Will make your Heart leap in your Belly.
“Why shou'd a Friend such Distance shew?
“I, had I Wings, wou'd fly to you.
The Cock look'd grave, but inly smiles,
Appriz'd of Crafty Reynard's Wiles;
And cry'd,—“I hope—you will excuse,—
“But pray, this strange surprizing News.
“I with my Family, and Wife
“Here lead a lonesom, Country-Life,
“And other News we seldom hear,
“But paying Taxes every Year.

“This Covert, and yon Yard afford
“Provision both for Bed, and Board.
“With Pains we spurn the Ground for Food,
“And pick up a poor Livelihood.
“Partlet perchance may sometimes go
“To Market for a Mile, or two,
“To sell some new-laid Eggs—or so;
“But as for me—'tis seldom known
“I visit what you call the Town.
“We your Conveniencies want
“Of Gazette, Post-Man, and Courant;
“Permitted rarely to enquire
“Into the State-Epistles of John Dyer.
“But you Volpones oft resort
“To that grand Mart of News, the Court,
“And, as Prime Ministers, debate
“The deep Intrigues of Church, and State;
“Who, dextrously to shew your Skill,
“Kingdoms unite against their Will,

“And making a preposterous Pother,
“One Nation sell—to buy another.
“But this from ancient Pacquet-Mail;
“Your fresher News,—for mine's grown stale.
“Then know, both Kings of Beasts, and Birds
“Have giv'n, nay ratify'd their Words,
“And on th' important grand Occasion,
“Have issu'd forth a Proclamation,
“That all Hostilities shou'd cease,
“And Birds, and Beasts both jointly keep the Peace.
The Cock his Length of Neck stretch'd out,
And wildly staring round about—
Reynard appall'd—“What see you now, Sir?
“Only our Northern Friend Sir Towzer.
“Along he scours with wide voracious Jaws,
“With Eyes that glow like Fire, and bloody Claws;

“And at this Distance, if I not mistake,
“Erects a Wood of Bristles on his Back.
“Towzer—then 'tis high time for me to jog,
“I hate that fawning, false, perfidious Dog.
“You shall with me at least till Dinner stay.
“Excuse—me—no—not—now—I fast to day.
“Courage Monsieur,—nor meanly quit your Station,
“We're all ensur'd, you know, by Proclamation.
That's true; but—What?—Good Faith I mainly dread
Towzer ne're heard the Proclamation read,
And so his plaguy undiscerning Paws
May seize my Corps,—and then farewel the Laws;
All Law is weak, when Man Oppression feels;
And so—my best Protection is—my Heels.

Moral.

This Fable shews, Statesmen may routed be,
By Puzzling Schemes of their own Policy;
May lay down Magisterial Laws and Rules
Others to teach,—and make themselves the Fools.
And, tho' from Court remov'd, sage Village-Cocks
May ken as far—as our St. James's Fox;
And when some Northern Lords are pleas'd to bully,
The Fox himself may prove the greatest Cully.

The LOAN.

I

Give me, my Fair, or lend at least
Those Naughty, Rolling Eyes of thine,
Whose sparkling Orbs, like Phœbus dress't
With pointed Rays, severely shine:

Your wanton Eyes that killing Arrows dart,
And make another Quiver of my Heart.

II

But, Lovely Nymph, if you require
On what Design the Loan I crave,
I thence would back discharge the Fire,
And Shafts that scorch, and wound your Slave;
That You may be as wretched in your Turn,
With equal Arrows bleed, with equal Fires may burn.

To Mr. RUSSELL,

Drawing Dr. SACHEVERELL's Picture soon after His TRYAL.

What Admiration must This Piece command!
A Form so Noble recommends Thy Hand.
With no such Pomp the Planets glitt'ring lie
Upon th' expanded Azure of the Sky;
Like Heav'n are all Thy artful Figures made,
Vary'd alternately with Light, and Shade.

The Sun does no such Colouring display,
When with his Beams he paints the purple Day.
See at each Touch the Features starting rise,
And new Life dawning sparkles from the Eyes.
The glowing Heat that on the Front aspires,
Equals his Flames, and rivals all his Fires.

Bold was the Hand that durst attempt to draw
Those more than Mortal Features, which cou'd awe
Synods, and give to Lawless Senates Law.
I saw Thee thrice essay,—the Pencil still
Stood disobedient to the Master's Will,
Eluded thrice His Art, and baffl'd thrice His Skill:
His Pow'rs against their Artist now rebel,
The Colours sunk, and faded as they fell.
So Julius hearing greater Tully plead,
No more, O Rome, wou'd own himself thy Head;
Such mighty Rhetorick flash'd upon the Sense,
The Nerves unstrung, His Papers fell from thence;
The Thunder with superior Force was thrown,
And as the Pleader's rose, the Hero dropt His own.

The fam'd Palladium, which the Trojans boast
Secur'd the City more than all their Host,

And that Ancile, the Defence of Rome,
Were Types of Him our better Shield to come:
For future Ages well ordain'd by Fate,
Nations to save, and raise a Sinking State:
The Church and Priesthood on His Cause rely;
So Atlas singly cou'd Support the Sky.
Since Thou wilt paint Him, draw Him as He stood
At the Tribunal, prodigal of Blood.
In Innocence secure, divinely brave,
Resolv'd to perish, or resolv'd to save:
When His Accusers trembl'd so, and fear'd,
That He the Judge, They Criminals appear'd.
Let them, Salmoneus-like, around Him stand,
With mimick Vengeance flaming in their Hand,
Along the tinkling Arches vainly pass,
And proudly rattle o're their Bridge of Brass;
While, like a Jove, He from His lofty Brow
Hurls real Thunder on His Foes below:

Swift Lightnings darted from that bright Abode
Disclose them Mortal, and confess the God.

O! were Thy Picture Vocal, like my Song,
And to the Features Thou could'st add His Tongue,
From thence such wond'rous Eloquence wou'd break,
The World wou'd silent wait to hear Him speak.
The Language flowing from the Muses Spring
Wou'd sweetly charm, as Syrens when they sing;
The Figures all in Titian's Colours wrought,
With pictur'd Words, and Imag'ry of Thought:
So when the Sun with an inspiring Ray,
Does upon Memnon's warbling Statue play,
We hear soft-breathing Symphonies rebound,
To Consorts rais'd, and kindl'd into Sound:
His Image thus wou'd more divinely charm,
Than Musick's God, and more than Phœbus warm.

Two Portraitures the Ancients Wonder move,
Apelles Venus, Phidias wrought a Jove:
His Form will more than Grecian Skill demand,
And where their Labours fail, Thy Work shall stand.

ODE In Praise of BEAUTY.

I.

E're yet the Rowling Orb of Earth
Was fashion'd, to receive its Birth,
The Gods in awful Counsel sate;
Long revolving, long They stay'd,
Unresolving, long delay'd,
In a fruitless, vain Debate,

Till Jove at length saw Love appear,
(What Pow'r has Heav'n when Love's not there?)
He Love consulted, He obey'd,
And so by Love the World was made.

First CHORUS.

Seraphick Joys the Heav'nly Host inspire;
Then their Voices They raise
In loud Accents of Praise,
And join, and join in One Immortal Choir.

II.

The Thund'rer pleas'd their Song to hear,
Shook with a Nod the Crystal Sphere;
And as of Heav'ns Creating Pow'rs They sung,
The Vaulted Skies with rattling Thunder rung,

They rev'rence Jove, but Love applaud,
And celebrate Him for the greater God.

III.

To see, th' Ethereal People flocking came,
To see, and wonder at the Glorious Frame:
A Thousand well-proportion'd Beauties rise
From ev'ry sweet, harmonious Part,
And all was manag'd with such Art,
That with new Admiration rais'd
They look'd,—again They look'd, and gaz'd,
And fed their ravish'd Eyes.

Second CHORUS.

Now All transported, Beauty cry,
Beauty, Beauty, Heav'nly Beauty,
Beauty alone, Beauty alone is Harmony.

IV.

Thus Beauty o're the Globe was first display'd,
By Love, and Beauty thus the World was made.
But Jove in his Eternal Mind
A far more noble Form design'd;
He fram'd a lovely blooming Maid,
In soft attracting Charms array'd,
A Form ordain'd to rule the World He made:
Himself did most the Workmanship approve,
And nam'd the smiling Fair the beauteous Queen of Love.

V.

To Her He Pride, and Pity gave,
This to Destroy, and That to Save;
Soft Compassion, cold Disdain,
To cause, and to redress the Lovers Pain:

Coyness struggling with Desires,
Words denying,
Looks complying,
Eyes that languish, Eyes that dying,
Melt in their own tender Fires.

Grand CHORUS.

Now ev'ry Tuneful String prepare,
Sound all the Instruments of War,
To celebrate the Conquests of the Heavenly Fair.
Her matchless Glories thro' the World disperse,
And with Her Triumphs fill the Universe.

A Persian Hymn to the Sun.

I.

Great Parent of Ethereal Lights,
Celestial Fire, Immortal Flame,
Be Thou propitious to our Rites,
And hear while We invoke Thy Sacred Name.

CHORUS.

With Thine our Flames, and Incense rise,
Our Vows pursue Thee to the Skies,
And to Thee wing our Morning Sacrifice.

II.

Impregnate with Thy Genial Ray
Earth's Womb, and bid it largely bent,
With Blessings crown the springing Day,
And savour with Thy Smiles, the tender Year.

III.

To Thy refining Fires We owe
The shining Product of our Mould,
Ripen'd by Thee our Metals grow,
Our Mines are burnish'd into Gold.
'Tis from Thy Light our Jewels shine,
The Wealth, and Beauties of the World are thine.

100

Dialogue between a LOVER AND His MISTRESS.

Lov.]
I Love.—Yet scorn in Fetters bound

Mist.]
To drag my servile Chain.
Who shun the Toils of being Crown'd,
Refuse the Means to Reign.

Lov.]

II

Lovers by Servitude are great,
From Us all Pow'r You have.
The King that does with Subjects treat,
Becomes His Peoples Slave.

101

Mist.]

III

A Monarch, ev'n in Love, is free;
And claims unbounded Sway.
But Kings, abusing Liberty,
Make Subjects disobey.

Lov.]
Then let Us jointly thus embrace,

Mist.]
And revel in Delight:

Lov.]
So shall You reign all Day in Peace,
And You in Love all Night.

102

THE Oxford Expedition.

A Late Expedition to Oxford was made
By Protestant Peer, and his Brothers o'th' Blade,
Who in Triumph from Gloc'ster his Lordship convey'd.

Cho.

Which no body can deny, deny; which no body can deny.

II

Had you seen all his Myrmidons when they came to 's,
Equipt in their sturdy Grey Coats, and High Shoes,
You'd have sworn not the Gaols, but all Hell was broke loose.
Which no body, &c.

103

III

In Rank, and in File there rode many a Man,
Some in the Rear march'd, ay and some in the Van;
And tho' some had no Hats, they'd Head-pieces on.
Which no body, &c.

IV

Some had Two able Legs, but never a Boot,
And, on their Tits mounted, they stood stoutly to't,
For the Name of a Horse, they'd as good went a-foot.
Which no body, &c.

V

Tho' Steel was not plenty, yet arm'd they come
With stout Oaken Plant, and with Crab-tree Stick some,
To cudgel the Pope, and the Bald-Pates of Rome.
Which no body, &c.

104

VI

In all these gay Troops, among Twenty, scarce One
Had Holster, or Pistol, Sword, Carbine, or Gun;
A Sign they did mean no great Harm shou'd be done.
Which no body, &c.

VII

One's Horse wore a Halter among all the rest,
Nor had the dull Wight half the Sense of his Beast,
And he of the Two did deserve the Rope best.
Which no body, &c.

VIII

Here was many a Gallant, I warrant ye that,
With Ribbon of Orange on Seaman's Cravat,
The Defect of their Arms was made up in State
Which no body, &c.

105

IX

Here Mordaunt, and Gill. on their pamper'd Steeds prance,
Duke Brabourn's Grace next, and Jack Willis advance,
Who look'd fierce as Switzer—that drubb'd him in France.
Which no body, &c.

X

In this Cavalcade, for the Grace of the Matter,
Lord Lovelace rode first,—and the rest follow'd after,
They gallop'd up Town first,—and then down to Water.
Which no body, &c.

XI

Having taken it thus, to secure the Town
The Guards were all set, and the Bridges beat down,
And, tho' no great Courage, his Conduct was shown.
Which no body, &c.

106

XII

The Mayor, and's Brethren in Courteous Fashion,
Bid him welcome to Town in a well-penn'd Oration,
And thank'd him for taking such Care of the Nation.
Which no body, &c.

XIII

His Lordship the next Day, in Courtship exceeding,
Return'd 'em a fine Speech to shew 'em his Breeding,
Which, when 'tis in Print, will be well worth the Reading.
Which no body, &c.

XIV

Next Night's false Alarms our Warriors surprize,
Drums beat, Trumpets sound, and at Midnight all rise
To fight the King's Army—that came in Disguize.
Which no body, &c.

107

XV

The Cits were straight arm'd, expert Men, and able;
With Prongs, and with Cowl-staves next march whooping Rabble,
In as great a Confusion—as e're was at Babel.
Which no body, &c.

XVI

In the Midst of the Mob Two fat Dray-men appear,
To guard Mr. Ensign, a huge nasty Tar,
Who flourish'd a Blanket—for Colours of War.
Which no body, &c.

XVII

At the Foot of the Colours blith Crendon did go,
Who play'd a new Tune that you very well know,
His Bag-pipes squeak'd nothing but Lero, Lero.
Which no body, &c.

108

XVIII

And had the Dear Joys now but come in the Nick,
I fancy they'd shew'd 'em a slippery Trick,
And they'd march'd more nimbly—without his Mu—sick.
Which no body, &c.

XIX

Since England was England, no People e're scarce
So pleasantly burlesqu'd the angry God Mars,
Or of Affairs Warlike e're made such a Farce.
Which no body, &c.

109

DRINKING.

When with brisk Wine I am inspir'd,
And all my Veins are nobly fir'd,
In the delicious Juice I steep,
And lull my wakeful Cares asleep:
My ruffling Sighs no more molest
The Even Calmness of my Breast,
No more their former Rage retain,
Like Storms allay'd by Show'rs of Rain.
While thus I drink, a secret Joy
Does on my trembling Heart-Strings play;
The well-tun'd Nerves in Parts agree,
And I'm all over Harmony.
My Voice, in Silence fetter'd long,
Breaks unprovok'd into a Song,
And gratefully breaths Hymns Divine,
To praise the God that gave Us Wine.

110

With Garlands Crown'd I drink, and sing
More Happy than the Persian King.
With glowing Leaves the Roses spread
A starry Circle round my Head;
Which with new blushing Glories shine,
Enflam'd and purpl'd with our Wine.
Let Desp'rate Wretches ply the Wars,
For Honourable Wounds, and Scars;
For Loss of Limbs Curs'd Gold receive,
And barter Life it self, to live.
The gentler Combats I pursue,
Will Pleasure give, and Riches too.
I feel, I burn with thirsty Rage,
And grow impatient to engage.
Fly, fly, my Boy, with Haste prepare
Supplies to carry on the War;
Draw out my Forces on this Plain,
Present a Revelling Campaign.

111

Charge all the Bowls and Glasses there,
Now form the Van, Gross, Wings, and Rear;
That Train of larger Vessels mount
For loud Artill'ry, in the Front:
See now I charge, and now give Fire:
Those Ranks disorderly retire;
I charge again, and now they fly,
Sound, Io! sound the Victory.
But hold—perfidious Death I see,
As I press on, pursuing me;
And while Without I Triumphs win,
He undermines my Life Within.
Fill, fill the Bowl, the very Sight
Shall put that Phantom soon to Flight.
Brave Wine sure Armour will bestow,
And make me Proof against the Blow.
Brisk Wine is sickly Nature's Stay,
From Ruin frees, and from Decay:

112

It, Chymist like, can Life restore,
And from its Ashes raise the Flow'r;
Wine sprightly Youth does still supply,
And gives Us Immortality.

The ROSES.

I

Go, lovely Pair of Roses, go,
This clad in Scarlet, that in Snow.
Go say to my Ungentle Fair,
(If on your Forms She deigns to gaze)
You dare not hope to Rival Her,
Or match the Glories of Her Face;
But that you're humbly sent, to prove
A Youth undone by Beauty, and Her Love.

113

II

The sickly White in This pale Rose
My Wan, and Meager Looks disclose:
But That which shines so fiercely bright,
Whose Head in painted Flames aspires,
And blushes so with Purple Light,
It seems to send forth real Fires,
Tell Her, That Rose's ruddy Fires impart
The Flames Her Eyes have kindled in my Heart.

114

SONG.

[How! Court Dorinda! Who the Devil]

I

How! Court Dorinda! Who the Devil
Would ever prove so tame a Sot?
If You are Kind, then She's Uncivil,
When You would Love, then She will not.

II

To contradict is all Her Pleasure,
Her utmost Virtue to Deny,
Her Modesty (that boasted Treasure)
Is—to give Her Self the Lye.

115

III

Then ne're, Mistaken Youth, stand Doating
On Woman for Her Beauty's Sake,
Nor for a silly Prize lie Plotting,
Which She'll not give, but You may take.

IV

Summon out all the Pow'rs within Her,
Then boldly push—She can't withstand;
You'll find the surest Way to Win Her,
Is to Engage with Sword in Hand.

116

Epistle to a FRIEND.

Dear Trusty Friend,—

—when You read this,
Don't think it came ab Inferis.
For tho' (which You, no doubt, have read)
There are Epistles from the Dead,
Yet, take my Word, no modern Ghost
E're once employ'd the Penny-Post;
These scurvy Doggrel Rhimes were penn'd
By Flesh, and Blood of Mortal Hand.
'Tis I alas! send this vile Letter,
T' inform You in Unchristian Metre,
That I (but what care You) am better.
When last You saw Me at the Crown,
Like old French Claret I drank down,
Not all thy Whims cou'd make Me Jolly,
Ev'n Wine increas'd my Melancholy:

117

Such Storms of Sighs now heav'd my Breast,
You swore, You thought, I was possess'd
With Twenty Pair of Bellows at the least.
Not Carted Bawd, or Dan. de Foe
In Wooden Ruff e're bluster'd so;
Nor Camisars of Gallick Nation,
When they, brimful of Revelation,
Discharge the Pot-guns of their Inspiration.
So Quakers sigh, and grunt, and goggle,
When Sister they in Spirit ogle,
Oppress'd with Load they struggling bear it;
I was depress'd for Want of Spirit.
O! wou'd my Doctor, thought I then,
Order me Honest William Pen,
Or some Good Edifying Sister,
Much Solace She might administer.
But He, Confounded Learned Quack,
Prescrib'd me a damn'd Oxford Hack.

118

Says He, trot

A Hack so call'd.

Paper-Mill an Hour;
'Twill more relieve than Steel of Low'r,
Succussate till You gall your Bum,
There's Cubebs in't, and Cardamum.
Our Hypocon—Ecclesiasticks
Say the best Physick is Gymnasticks;
And, if you'd gallop thro' a Course,
Your ablest Doctor is—a Horse.
This Point they learnedly discuss,
And prove from fam'd Bucephalus,
Who bore his Lord thro' Pikes, and Rapiers,
And often cur'd him of the Vapours.
But howsoe're the Learned smatter,
I dare pronounce 'tis no such Matter.
For Quixot, the fam'd Mancha Knight,
Rode much, yet got but little by't.
And trusty Rosinant, I'm sure,
Was qualify'd as well to Cure;

119

His sober Trot was full as good,
To rectify, and churn the Blood.
Did he not scour thro' Thick, and Thin,
With Pate crack'd outward, and within?
Imaginary Wars maintain
Against the Wind-Mills of his Brain?
That did by Whirling round, create
Vertigo's in his crazy Pate;
Vertigo's, which sage Sancho sent
To Baratarian Government;
And was not He when all was o're,
As Great a Quixot as before?
Ergo their Argumental Chat
Is Spurious, and Sophisticate.
Such Disputants as well may venture
To clear the Nation's whole Debenture,
And to Committees make appear
What R***ge has cheated in Small-Beer;

120

What Dilatory Gen'rals gain,
How much they pocket each Campaign;
Quit the Late Min'stry, and make out
The J***to's Loyal, St****pe Stout;
How many Millions sunk have been,
Since our D**l**v****r came in;
What Whigs are Plotting, and divine
What Guiscard's Penknife did design;
As work a Cure, or state the Case
How Hypo—makes Mankind an Ass.
But, weighty Arguments aside,
Physicians tell me, I must ride.
I therefore earnestly request
You'd use Suburbian Interest,
That when at London I arrive,
I may ascend the Box, and drive:
And in Requital, mounted there,
I'll take Thee up—without a Fare.

121

THE PRECAUTION. In Irregular STANZA'S.

I

Whither, my Heart, do You your Flight prepare?
Make You a Visit to the Matchless Fair?
Thither the Heedless Wanton flies,
Ambitious to be ruin'd by Her Eyes:
To meet their Shafts Impatient Lovers run,
And proudly All contend to be undone.

II

Well—since You will be gone,—to Madness gaze
On the Transcendent Glories of Her Face;

122

Then trembling view each Colder Part,
Her Snowy Bosom, and Her Icy Heart:
Thro' all the various Regions move,
And wander o're that Beauteous World of Love.

III

But O! I caution Thee, avoid with Care
The flowing Tresses of Her Auborn Hair.
The Braided Locks in which Fair Venus shone,
When She the Vegetable Gold had won,
Were form'd by no such Curious Art,
Nor could She with such Charms surprize the Heart.

IV

The Curls in full Perfection shine,
Form'd, like the World, by Hands Divine.
Strings, like Her Hair, imperceptibly small
Unite the Parts of this Enormous Ball:

123

One Link dissolv'd, the starting Ruins fly,
The Frame's disjointed, and the World must die.

V

Love in each winding Maze in Ambush lies,
To make our wand'ring Hearts his Prize,
All are with Artful Ruin set,
Each Ring's a Gin, and every Curl's a Net.
Then I advise Thee to beware,
Fond Heart, I caution Thee avoid the Snare;
Once fetter'd, all thy weak Attempts are vain,
A Heart so lost will ne're return again.

124

SONG.

[How Great is the Monarch! how Pow'rful his Sway!]

I

How Great is the Monarch! how Pow'rful his Sway!
When He nods, the Earth trembles, and Mankind obey.
If his Frowns urge to Discord, no Friendship holds good,
Weak Nature starts back, and recoils in the Blood;
On his Brow sits Destruction, Fate waits on his Breath,
By his Smiles his Slaves live, but his Anger is Death.

CHORUS.

All Empire belongs to Great Cæsar, and Jove;
The King rules Below, and the God reigns Above.

125

II

If enrag'd by Affronts to rough Wars he incline,
To revenge his Dishonour whole Nations combine;
In Thunder He marches, the Globe He alarms,
Thro' Mountains He breaks by the Force of his Arms;
Our Blood paints his Triumphs; and Victors we bring
All the Trophies of War, and present to our King.

Cho.

All Empire belongs, &c.

III

Attended by Pleasures He sits on his Throne,
And, when Slumbers invite, he reposes on Down.
The Guards that around Him their Watch nightly keep,
Are fatigu'd while He rests, kept awake by his Sleep:

126

Fierce Armies with Fear his Displeasure behold,
They are Slaves to his Passion, when brib'd by his Gold.

CHORUS.

All Empire belongs to Great Cæsar, and Jove;
The King rules Below, and the God reigns Above.

SONG.

[Forbear, fond God, forbear your Dart]

I

Forbear, fond God, forbear your Dart,
Seek not to wound a Dying Heart;
At Chloe's Feet it gasping lies,
A bleeding Victim to Her Conqu'ring Eyes.

127

II

From Her, Death's such a pleasing Pain,
I wish to Live, to Dye again:
With Joy to him the Blow is giv'n,
That has so near a Prospect of his Heav'n.

III

You, and the little Loves all fly
To light their Torches at Her Eye.
By Her alone Love's Empires thrive,
This Vestal keeps Love's Sacred Fire alive.

IV

Then, Chloe, 'tis not strange that You
Weak Mortals yielding Hearts subdue,
Since You another Venus prove,
And give New Being to the God of Love.

128

The FABLE OF THE DOCTOR, AND Patient with Sore Eyes.

------ Ridentem dicere Verum
Quid vetat? ------

Lady Britannia, Rich of Yore,
Was grown, of late, exceeding Poor,
Who 'mong Her Neighbours in High Station
With Credit liv'd, and Reputation.
This Dame full many a Husband had,
(So Chance directs) some good, some bad.

129

'Tis usual sometimes to miscarry,
Where wanton Widows often marry:
This Good Wife, e're She knew Trepanners,
Had sundry Lordships, Farms, and Manors,
Jewels, and Plate; and, without Toiling,
Enough to keep the Pot a Boiling.

To fetch Her Wealth, the Merchants run
Their Annual Journey with the Sun:
For Her to Distant Regions go,
And sail as far as Winds can blow.
The God of Day the Oar refines,
Descends, and works in Indian Mines,
Lab'ring ripe Metals to produce
Both for her Ornament, and Use:
But now t' Enrich the French We roam,
And Trade Abroad, to Break at Home.

130

A Spouse She had, who late controul'd
Her Three Estates, grown weak, and old:
Their Ancient Covenant displeases;
He made the Tenants take New Leases.
Some Boggling at his wild Demands,
Threw up their Farms into his Hands;
For settl'd now in full Possession,
He us'd his Pow'r more, than Discretion,
And gall'd the Peasants with Oppression.

At this They call'd a Foreign Lord,
Who Title try'd by Length of Sword,
He brought a Red-Coat Posse Com,
That bully'd him from House and Home,
And threatning Ruin, War, and Battels,
Righteously seiz'd his Goods and Chattels.

131

The Warriour, mounted in the Saddle,
Began to lay about and swaddle:
The Old Incumbents were disgrac'd,
Some cramb'd with Oaths, and some displac'd.
Then Whigs were into Office thrust,
And fawning Mungrels took their Post:
From Him they held, but paid no Rents,
The Lands their own, and Tenements;
He was so Bountiful, their Crops
Shot high above their Wanton Hopes;
All ran in wild Pursuit of Gain,
They saw 'twas to Divide, and Reign.
This High and Mighty—Doughty Hero's
Triumphs were sung by loud Bullero's:
For He had, in Hibernian Wars,
His Shoulder kiss'd by Bloody Mars.

132

Long were the Broils, and Combats fought hard,
Charging 'twixt Inward Man, and Outward;
Till at the length his Spirits Force
The Body routed, by—his Horse:
So Diomedes Steeds, 'tis said,
On Human Carcases were fed;
And Bilboa Blade with Dew beslabber'd,
Fretted with Rust, eats up the Scabbard.

He hir'd th' Elements out for Pay,
And let the Sun forth by the Day.
His Vassals ne're presum'd to die,
But they bequeath'd him Legacy.
And, more to vex the Marriage-Life,
The Husband fin'd to Kiss the Wife;
Thinning the Unprolifick Nation
By Gabels laid on Generation.

133

Thus, by his Actions Meritorious,
He has atchiev'd the Name of Glorious.

Her last Good-Man in Flannel laid,
She prudently call'd to her Aid
A Matron train'd in Virtue's School;
Who by Obedience learn'd to Rule.
She was Sagacious, Wise, and Just,
True to her Honour, and her Trust;
So Gracious, so divinely Good,
That She ennobl'd all her Blood.
Discreet, and Unconceal'd by Art,
And wears a Gen'rous English Heart:
Born to make Civil Discord cease,
And reconcile the World to Peace.
By this Auspicious Dame defended,
She found her Fortune quickly mended.

134

But lately, as She pass'd the Strand,
A Fellow popt into her Hand
Quack-Bill of fam'd Ophthalmick Clark;
She read,—and found her Eyes grow dark.
So have I learn'd from Heathen Writ,
That once a Hale and Able Cit
Went in his perfect Health to Bed,
Of Maurus dream'd, and was found dead.
Darkling She went along the Street,
And justl'd all She chanc'd to meet;
Then groping onward by the Wall,
She overturn'd a Huckster's Stall,
And with it fell amidst the Ruins
Of Fritters, Codlins, and stew'd Pruins:
So after many Trips and Dodgings,
With much ado She reach'd her Lodgings.

135

Her Friends consulted, and agreed
To send her Maid for Doctor Read.
With her He roll'd in Coach, and Four
That pranc'd, and neigh'd before the Door.
Artfully having hemm'd a Space,
He gravely enter'd on her Case.
“Madam, (says he) Does there no Light
“Araneæ dance before your Sight?
“No Musca volans seem to fly,
“Flutt'ring the Wing before your Eye?
“But I, by closer View, observe
“Ostruction in the Optick Nerve:
“Which sore Disaster oft has brought all
“Eyes so diseas'd t' Eclipses total.
“But to proceed—and may it please ye,
“Can You account how This might seize ye?
“Sir, (She rejoin'd) This grevious Ill
“Took Me perusing Quacking Bill.

136

“Alas! such Cant, and senseless Jargon
“Is hurtful to this Noble Organ.
“I wonder much how You cou'd Read,
“And keep your Eye-Balls in your Head.
He then began his Emp'rick Wheedles,
His Box produc'd, and Couching Needles:
“Lady, (He cry'd) It is my Way
“Of Practice, if No Cure, No Pay.
So after Learned Exhortation,
He fell to Use and Application.
Thrice in a Day (nor did He miss it)
The Punctual Doctor paid his Visit;
Her hood-wink'd Lids He fillets o're,
And made her Blinder than before;
Daubing with Unguents, and such Tackle,
The Casements of her Tabernacle:
Amusing her with Terms of Science,
To shew more masterly Conveyance.

137

Early Sir Knight beat up her Quarters,
E're She had buckl'd on her Garters.
Tankard, with Tempting Liquor fraught,
And more provoking Silver wrought,
He took off—for his Morning-Draught.
Doubling his Diligence, at Noon
He din'd—on Porringer, and Spoon:
And for his Ease, at Night's Approach,
A Down-Bed flew with him in Coach.
(For He concluded it was best,
Tho' Madam cou'd not, He shou'd rest.)
The painful Leach much Labour spent,
The Doctor came,—her Substance went.
His Patient ask'd—what Time o'Day;
And straight He stole her Watch away.
She bid him Sit—the Couch and Chairs
Took silent Leave, and stole down Stairs.

138

From Pedestals the Statues greet him,
Pictures leapt from their Frames to meet him.
The Arras Figures bush'd with Beard,
His Awful Presence so rever'd,
At Sight of Him they disappear'd.
Obsequiously (without Attack)
Th' Obedient Locks and Bolts flew back.
Imprison'd Jewels, Rings and Lockets
Made their Escape—into his Pockets.
He fleec'd the Footmen, Grooms, and Pages,
By Large Deductions from their Wages;
Purloin'd the starving Servants Meat,
And scarcely left them Bread to Eat.
Some Moveables he claim'd of Right,
The Rest by way of Perquisite:
And, Midas-like, whate're he sees,
He turn'd to Bribes, and Golden Fees.

139

And now the Artist's Game was ended,
And the Good Woman's Opticks mended.
Who staring round with wild Amaze,
Cry'd “There's Enchantment in this Place;
“I once had Manteau's, Scarfs, and Hoods,
“And other Valuable Goods,
“Before this Sharper had undone me,
“By Slurring thus the Doctor on me.

At length Sir Phiz came Cringing to her;
“Madam, (says he) I've wrought the Cure,
“And, to my Deathless Reputation,
“Have finish'd all—the Operation:
“And here stand ready to be paid,
“According to Agreement made.
“Hold,—fair and softly, Good Sir Knight;
“Convince me first I have my Sight.

140

“To speak my Thoughts, I think my Case
“Is ten times worse than e're it was,
“For I see Nothing now; so prithee
“'Tis your Deserts,—take That too with thee:
“Yes—you have Doctor'd me—(Pox on ye)
“I've found my Eyes,—but lost my Money.

REFLEXIONS ON THE Foregoing FABLE.

Long have We groan'd beneath Disasters,
And Bondage of Ægyptian Masters,
Who'd have our Tale of Bricks kept on,
When all our Straw, and Fewel's gone.
First State-Physicians (Sage and Able,
As Operator in my Fable)

141

By Lulling Opiats devise
To doze the Brain, and close the Eyes.
So Mountebank's Catholick Pill,
Diseases propagates, which fill
The Doctor's Fob, and Weekly Bill.
The Nation now as blind as Beetle,
Our Salesmen scorn'd to Trade by Retale;
Who, like the Bucaneers of Greece,
The Dragon charm'd, then stole the Fleece.
They, plund'ring in outrageous Fashion,
Quickly reduc'd the Beggar'd Nation
T' an Oliverian Sequestration.
Well, cry the Mob, “but now All's past,
“And we have broke the Spell at last;
“No more in Open Day we grope on,
“God save the Queen,—our Eyes are open.
Open indeed,—but 'tis to see
Present, and Future Misery;

142

Our Merchants broke, Home-Trades decrease,
The Priesthood preaching against Peace,
Hereditary Right disdain'd,
The Church betray'd, Her Rites prophan'd,
Her Doctrines publickly arraign'd.
Some swallow Kingdoms, States devour,
Batt'ning in Wealth, o'regorg'd with Pow'r;
While Honest Britons that deserve
Better than They, by Thousands, starve.
So Wights, when by the Rickets curst,
One Part's by partial Nature nurst,
The others impotent, stand bent,
Dwindling for want of Nourishment:
Each Leg in Lunar Figure grows,
Nerves stretch'd to Strings, Shanks warp'd to Bows;
While Noddle which from Members stole,
Swells to a Monstrous Jobbernoll.
Thus are We Naked, Poor, and Bare
As our first Eden-Parents were,

143

Without a Fig-Leaf left to frame
A Cov'ring, to conceal our Shame.

TO A Gentleman slightly Wounded BY A Fair LADY.

Cease (Damon) cease concern'd to be
At Wounds, for which we envy Thee.
For who wou'd not be treated so,
Were that Fair Hand to give the Blow?
Her Wounds I rather wou'd endure,
Than from another Hand a Cure.

144

From the XVIth ODE of the Second Book of Horace.

Ocium Divos rogat &c.

Address'd to the Earl of ABINGDON.

I.

The Merchant, when his Vessel's toss't
By Storms upon a Rocky Coast,
Where furious Winds the mounting Billows ride,
To Madness lashing on the foaming Tide;
Whose flaggy Wings the Ocean sweep,
And Battel join upon the boiling Deep:
When he beholds a wat'ry War
Of military Waves march rolling from afar,
While the pale sickly Moon's expiring Light
With humid Beams dissolve into the Night,

145

And faithful Stars, by which he us'd to steer,
Quench all their vital Flames, and die away with Fear:
His Conscience starts from her Lethargick Sleep,
Rouz'd by the loud Alarms upon the Deep:
And as he now reflects on ev'ry Sin,
As great a Tempest shakes his sinking Heart within.

II.

Now at one horrid View his Guilt presents
His former Crimes, and future Punishments.
In vain he does to Heav'n complain,
And, prodigal of Vows, he importunes in vain;
Thunders more loud the wrathful Pow'rs declare,
And Heav'n displeas'd forbids the Gods to hear,
Deafens his Cries, and intercepts his Pray'r.
Not all the Freight his Vessels hold,
Not all his Purple, Gems, and Gold,

146

Can reconcile the Sea, or Wind,
Or bribe the angry Gods, or buy a Peace of Mind.

III.

The Hardy German, Mercenary Swiss,
(Tho' they by Arms and Publick Discord thrive,
Tho' they on Blood and Rapine live)
Address to Heav'n for such a Peace as this.
The inward Terrors, sharp Remorse we find,
Rage, Anguish, and wild Uproar of the Mind,
Are louder, and more dreadful far
Than all the bell'wing Engines of the War:
By these our Cares are with us slain,
By those we're rack'd anew, and kept alive for Pain.
No Wealth, no Pomp, or Princely State,
No swelling Titles of the haughty Great,

147

Nor the High Blood that from Old Monarchs came,
With which the Herald paints his Book of Fame,
Can our tumultuous Thoughts controul,
Or calm the ruffling Blasts that discompose the Soul.

IV.

Tho' Crowds of proud Attendants wait
Around th' ambiguous Minister of State,
(Officious to chastise the Throng
That gaze upon the Pageant as he moves along)
Yet his Retinues insufficient are
To guard him from insulting Care.
Care Grandeur does affect, and Kingly Port,
And is Ambitious to be seen at Court:
The Greatest Monarch is not free
From her assiduous Importunity,
She'll be deny'd on no Pretence,
But will be introduc'd, and must have Audience.

148

If to his Closet he repair,
She dogs him thither, and torments him there;
Licentiously bold, She dares obtrude
On his obscure Retreat, and haunts his Solitude.

V.

Shou'd Earth's Capacious Globe, the Air, and Sea
Be ransack'd to indulge his Luxury;
Shou'd Florence, Bourdeaux, and the Rhine,
In a Confederacy join,
To send him Presents of the richest Wine;
To them in vain he for Relief will call,
They're nauseous, and insipid all.
Let him his melting Hours employ
In a refin'd Variety of Joy,
And as the gay voluptuous Minutes fly,
Let ev'ry soft harmonious Air
Of Musick entertain the Ear,
And blooming Beauty feast the ravish'd Eye;

149

He'll find these Joys too impotent, and dull
To charm the Hag that nightly rides his Soul;
His Couches now no longer please,
Down-Beds no more invite him to his Ease,
On his distorted Brow Care ever wakeful lies,
To brush the balmy Slumbers off, that hover o're his Eyes.

VI.

Thrice happy He! whom nor the Smiles of Fate,
Nor Fortune with delusive Arts can cheat
With any Thought so Mean, as that of being Great.
Pleas'd with his small Hereditary Store,
If he should ask, She cannot grant him more.
His Table's plentifully spread
From his own Granary that yields him Bread,
A little Field, and Garden Fruits supply
A wholesom clean Repast,
And vertuously regale the Taste
With Parsimonious Luxury.

150

Amidst his Friends he quaffs with sweet Delight,
And a plain hearty Meal can eat,
Without his Services of Plate,
Or Cyprian Wines to cure a sickly Appetite.
No Dread of Midnight Thieves his Thoughts molest,
Or interrupt his pleasing Rest;
No Fear of Losing, or Desire of Gain
Can discompose him, or distract his Brain;
Peaceful, and undisturb'd, secure he lies
From all the Bosom Throws of Sordid Avarice.

VII.

Riches the Target is, at which we dart
From the well-furnish'd Quiver of the Heart:
The Arrows fledg'd with wing'd Desires are sent,
But to our Wishes disobedient,

151

The Wanderers at random fly,
And sweeping graze below, or flutt'ring mount too high;
Wanting the Skill to guide 'em right,
We rarely win the Prize, or hit the White.
Why do we glitt'ring Piles of Treasure rear,
The few Expences to defray,
Upon th' Unhospitable Way
Of Life's short Journey here?
Or why to distant Countries roam,
Hoping to leave our watchful Cares at Home?
Shou'd we approach the Scythian Coast,
Where Snows inhabit, and Eternal Frost,
Thro' Frost, and Snows they will pursue,
And cease not to torment wheree're we go.
Besides our Native Soil our Hearts will charm,
And like the Lamp that gilds the Skies,
Or our Fair Mistress's brighter Eyes,
Will at that Distance warm.

152

Thither our Inclinations bend;
Thither th' impatient Motions tend
Of the Enamour'd Soul;
And so the constant Needle points, and trembles to the Pole.

VIII.

We fly for Refuge to the Stormy Seas,
For a Vicissitude of Ease;
We fondly thus our selves deceive,
In Noise and Discord Care delights to live.
Tho' for the Indies we're design'd,
And spread our Canvas to provoke the Wind;
Yet Care, that on far swifter Pinions flies,
Than Winds that chase the Clouds along the Skies,
Will board the Vessel, tho' she find
The Sides with Tyres of Cannon lin'd,

153

Which from their brazen Wombs enlarge
A Thousand fiery Births, a Thousand Deaths discharge.

IX.

Why do we search with a too Curious Eye
Into th' Abyss of Dark Futurity?
At airy Forms we strike, at Phantoms catch,
And gay Appearances beyond our Reach.
Dull Expectation is a hungry Treat,
The Charity, and Alms of a penurious Fate.
Let us with Gratitude receive
The present Good kind Chance is pleas'd to give;
Let no one Moment glide away,
Without its double Share of Joy.
Of what we now possess we are not sure,
Since 'tis in fickle Fortune's Pow'r;
And what may be remanded, if she frown,
Improperly we call our own.

154

A wise Man's his own Fortune, and will stand,
Let her assault him upon either Hand;
She can't with her insidious Art
Attract his Eyes, or tempt his guarded Heart.
Let her before his Feet pour down
Wealth, Glory, Beauty, Honour, and Renown,
Thro' Greatness of his Soul he can despise
The shining Pomp, and tinsel'd Braveries,
Unmov'd he can the gilded Trash survey,
And when she courts him—turn his Face away.
But if Indiff'rency, and Scorn
Into Revenge her Favours turn,
He singly dares her num'rous Troops engage,
And by his Conduct soon disarms her Rage,
Well fortify'd within, he does no Danger dread,
Tho' all the Burst of War was thund'ring round his Head.

155

X.

The World no Fav'rite e're caress'd
That we cou'd call entirely bless'd.
That Prince, who high on his exalted Throne
In full Meridian of his Glory shone,
By Fortune's Treachery at last
Had all his Grandeur, all his Pomp laid waste;
She her Arrears of Malice paid,
While by an Insolence scarce known,
The Trayt'ress boldly seiz'd his Throne,
And tore the Sacred Honours from his Hoary Head.
Deluded thus by Court-Deceit,
And gilded Pageantry of State,
To make him doubly Wretched, first She made him Great.
Had He not been by Priests betray'd,
To faithless Rome a Victim made,

156

Oppress'd with Age H' had not been sent
In Tears to mourn a Second Banishment.
But Gods decreed his Fall, and who can be
Sufficient to withstand what Gods decree?
And thus He bow'd beneath the Doom,
Thus bow'd, thus fell He to ungrateful Rome,
And more ungrateful Patriots at Home:
Betray'd, abandon'd, left forlorn,
The Peoples Idol once, now made their Scorn;
Deserted by false Friends his Bounty fed,
Who plunder'd him, of what He gave them, Bread;
Stripp'd of his Wealth and Pow'r, the Nerves that bring
Strength to a Crown, and Safety to a King.
So sunk the Atlas of our State
Beneath the Pressure of Three Kingdoms Weight;
The too unruly Sceptre foil'd his Hand,
Nor cou'd He fill the Circle of his wide Command.

157

XI.

Sated with Life thus some survive to see,
And to protract, their Misery;
Others, untimely snatch'd away,
Fade in the Bud, or in the Flow'r decay.
Death, that beholds us prodigally waste,
Calls in the Principle in Haste,
Impatient long to wait a desp'rate Sum,
Th' uncertain Interest of Bankrupt Years to come.
When the young Hero from afar,
With glowing Eyes beholds th' embattl'd War,
The jointed Armour, portray'd Shield,
And waving Banners of the Crested Field;
His fev'rish Heart begins to beat
With an impatient Bridegroom's Heat,
And now transported with the fierce Delight,
He claims the Battel, and demands the Fight;

158

But if the Trumpet's Sound he hear,
His Limbs all shiver, and prepare
To mount the fi'ry Steed, and shake the glitt'ring Spear.
Warmly he pushes on the Game,
Resolv'd to win immortal Fame,
And in the bold Advent'rous Play,
At one Chance throws the Jewel Life away;
Extended on the Earth, his Grave,
Now lies the Valiant, Youthful, and the Brave:
His Soul soars upward to the Blest Abode,
Falling a Mortal here, and rising there a God.

XII.

The crowding Years, which Fools so vainly prize,
Avoid the Great, as Riches shun the Wise.
But your distinguish'd Worth, and wond'rous Sense,
Have reconcil'd the Laws of Providence.

159

YOU, Sir, are bless'd with ample Store,
Nor do You Ask, but to Distribute more,
Which You as gen'rously Bestow,
As Gracious Heav'n conferr'd the Gift on You.
As Jove to Danae of old,
You glitter down in sparkling Show'rs of Gold;
The Torrent flows with such a swift Increase,
That You surprize Us into Happiness.
Amidst a Plentiful Estate,
You from your Old Hereditary Seat,
In the cool Bosom of the Vale below,
See your fat Oxen feed, and hear 'em low,
And as the woolly Flocks bleat o're the Plain,
The Hills around low back, and Echo bleats again.

160

XIII.

You no Diversions ask but what the Field,
And Rural Sports with Innocence may yield;
Shunning the Gaudy Pomp, and State
Of guilty Pleasures that attend the Great.
Life lengthens with the Chase; which You repair
By drawing wholsom Draughts of Vital Air.
Like Spring your Looks; fresh, fair, and young,
Which gives us Hopes we shall enjoy You long:
Thus You th' united Force of Maladies withstand,
By Lenitives prescrib'd by kindly Nature's Hand.

XIV.

The nimble-footed Fallow Deer,
The wily Fox, and tim'rous Hare,

161

Or runs the wand'ring Maze, or lightly bounds
Before the chearful Consort of your well-breath'd Hounds;
And as the op'ning Beagles shake the Grove,
Echo repeats the Cry, and hunts above.
Fowls of a rank, or feeble Wing,
That springing rise for Game, or sit and sing,
The bright-plum'd Pheasant with indented Crest,
And Em'ralds set in Gold profusely dress'd;
Swift-gliding Shoals that row with finny Oars,
And nimbly scud along the Shores,
That arm'd with Silver Scales disportive run,
Twinkling with nimble Glance against the Mid-day Sun:
All Creatures that or go, or swim, or fly,
That graze the Mead, or Pastures of the Sky,
Upon your God-like Bounty feed;
Breathe for your Pleasure, at your Pleasure bleed:

162

They all your Vassals are, for your Delight renew,
From You they Hold, Lease out their Lives to You.

XV.

The Royal Stag, Lord of the Sylvan Chase,
Monarch of all the Wood-land Race,
With humble Pride submits, declining low
The graceful Terrors of his shady Brow;
Whose branching Honours, high aspiring, spread
Like some tall Oak upon a Mountain's Head.
Th' obedient Herd in Expectation stands,
Ambitiously contending, and demands
The flying Wound directed by your Hands:
The Pious Victim to Advantage dies,
That falls to Heav'n, and You, a willing Sacrifice.

163

XVI.

Now let the Gen'rous Courser breath a-while;
No more, my Lord, pursue your pleasing Toil;
Forsake the Woods, and humble Plain,
And listen to a more exalted Strain.
Under the Conduct of the Muse I dare
Attempt the Hero, and his Toils in War,
To Kings, and their Victorious Arms aspire,
And to the Trumpet raise the tuneful Lyre.
Now my aspiring Soul presumes to try
Her daring Pinions, and invades the Sky:
When lo! I'm upward shot
By Extasy, and Energy of Thought,
And, sailing on the Clouds, descry
Thunders that in the Womb yet forming lie;
While others ripe for Birth, too closely pent,
Murmuring roll, and struggle for a Vent;

164

Till the unruly, monstrous Birth at length,
Must'ring up all its Terror, Rage, and Strength,
Tears thro' the yawning Cloud a furious Way;
And forcibly enlarg'd explodes aloud for Joy.
Then from a dreadful Precipice's Height,
With an undaunted, steady Sight,
A mighty Void I trace
Of the Imaginary Space;
And ever as I mount, and upward go,
With Scorn look down, with Scorn behold, th' ill-natur'd World below.

165

An EPITAPH ON THE Divine Mr. BUTLER, THE Incomparable Author of Hudibras.

Here Phœnix BUTLER lies, whose precious Mold
Wou'd suffer in the Change, tho' turn'd to Gold.
His Chymick Dust to Jewels shall give Birth,
Refine gross Matter, and sublime the Earth;
Himself Himself survives, nor can he die,
Consign'd by Fame to Immortality.

166

Who travels o're his Book, will there descry
Treasures, that all the World's too poor to buy:
Phœbus his Sire with greater Lustre shines
In his One Work, than All his Indian Mines.

He flies his daring Muse, and in her Way
Sour Hypocrites, and Rebels are her Prey,
Saints are expos'd with Masquerading Face;
Much Beard, small Wit, and plenteous Want of Grace.
His pointed Satire like a Shaft is found,
Whose Feathers tickle, while the Steel does wound:
With Indignation fir'd he sneering writes;
The gen'rous Mastiff thus both grins, and bites.

He (our bright Sun) his shining Progress made
(Hid by no Cloud, and darken'd by no Shade)

167

Within our out-stretch'd Island's wide Embrace;
The Tropicks of his wide Poetick Race.
England Triumph, and pour forth mournful Dews,
The Sepulchre, and Cradle of his Muse;
No Kingdom but Great Britain cou'd contain
His mighty Ruins, or improve his Vein.

O Albion! I might well thy Conduct blame,
That Thou no Costly Monument of Fame
Hast Consecrated to his Deathless Name,
But that no Fun'ral Pomp can equal be,
To Recognize a Bard so Great as He.

Since no Corinthian Brass, no Porph'ry Stone,
No Verse can Eternize Him, like his own;
Strictly to do Him Honour, let Him have
His sweet Poetick Flow'rs strow'd o're his Grave.

168

Thus reconcil'd, his Expiated Ghost
Shall glory in a Tomb of greater Cost,
Than the whole Kingly Race of Ptolomies can boast.

Upon a FLOWER IN A LADY's Bosom.

O Flow'r above all others blest!
Shalt thou insensible then rest,
On those white Pillows of her downy Breast?
In that warm Bed her Bosom lie
New purpl'd, and full blown with Joy?
Her Bosom that all Sweets does bear
That blush in Flow'rs to paint the Year.

169

Thrice Happy Flow'r, how blest thy State!
O might I once enjoy thy Fate!
Between the Sister-Paps to dwell,
And rove, and wanton there my Fill;
Between those little Globes be laid,
Twin-Globes, where Heav'n, and Earth's display'd;
Admitted there Love's Joyful Guest,
I wou'd not doze in thoughtless Rest,
But o're the Silver Field wou'd stray,
And restless wander ev'ry Way.
Her small round Breasts, and Neck embrace,
And Kisses leave in ev'ry Place;
On this white Ball of melting Snow
I first a Thousand wou'd bestow,
And as I kiss'd increase my Store,
By giving That a Thousand more.

170

Nor think this all—for I shou'd grow
So very Curious, to know
What Diff'rence lay between the Two:
And judge with quick discerning Eyes
How this did swell, how that did rise;
If that or this more white appear'd,
Or this than that more plump or hard:
Whether the Left round Globe, or Right
Did panting heave with more Delight,
Or with a brighter Orb allur'd the Sight.
If Right or Left inviting Sphere
Did in the painted Center bear
A sweeter Bud, or blowing spread
A liveli'r Blush, or deeper Red.

Now wou'd I, wing'd with am'rous Speed,
See where those winding Vallies lead,

171

Which op'ning with Luxurious Pride,
Those Lovely Hills, her Breasts divide;
Along the Flow'ry Dales I'd go,
To feast on blooming Joys below:
Where, like the Bees, fledg'd Cupids bring
The plunder'd Treasures of the Spring,
And form Ambrosial Cells, that hold
Hyblæan Drops of Liquid Gold.
I on that Milky Way wou'd move,
Silent as Planets glide above,
Till I had reach'd the Awful Throne of Love;
Where Gods the Cyprian Queen adore,
And kneel t' exalt the Goddess more.

Ah Sweet Ingrate! ah Cruel Fair!
How hard my Fate, and how severe!
If her coy Bosom I approach,
It trembling seems to fly the Touch,

172

Then shrinking back forbids the Bliss,
And shuns the bare Suspicion of a Kiss.

And can She then refuse to grant
A Gift so small to Me that want;
So very small a Grace deny
To Me that know to prize the Joy?
Who so great Freedoms does allow,
Who so great Favours does bestow,
On Flow'rs that neither ask, nor know;
Which nor desire, nor yet can be
Appriz'd of their Felicity.

173

Invocation to the Lobster:

Somewhat more Solemn than the Rest of the POEM.

Patron of Numbers which Rare Poets use,
Thy Self unstrung, tune Thou my Doggrel Muse;
Within whose hollow Arch soft Warblings dwell,
Harmonious Madrigals, that far excel
Those of the winged Minstrels vocal Shell:
Frequent in Feet no more my Metre shun,
And tho' Thou crawl'st, O teach my Verse to run:
To my blith Rhimes thy num'rous Succours bring,
And of thy Self instruct thy Bard to Sing.

174

A RHAPSODY UPON A LOBSTER. POEM Burlesque.

Humano capiti cervicem pictor equinam
Jungere sic velit, & varias inducere plumas
Undiq; collatis membris, ut turpiter atrum
Desinat in piscem ------
Hor. de Art. Poet.

Antique Philosophers maintain
Nature acts not (like them) in vain;
But We will prove 'tis no such Matter,
Whate're they say, I say Negatur.

175

If Horace (in whate're you call it)
His Prosphonetick Ode, or Ballad,
Sagely asserts, as Quid probabile,
That the Sea is Dissociabile,—
And thence infers, it is forbidden,
That Billows shou'd by Boats be ridden;
Or Mortals foreign Market keep,
Leaving the Land, to plow the Deep;
Then Procul dubio 'tis plain,
Nature acts frustrà, or in vain.
For Disobedient Wights we find,
That box the Compass, and the Wind;
For Pelf to Distant Climates run
Of Rising, and of Setting Sun;
Unrighteous Slaves, who make no more
Of Crossing Seas from Shore to Shore
Than Scullers, when they Voyage fetch
From Temple-Stairs to Chelsea-Reach;

176

And plund'ring Neptune on their way,
As We his Fish, They gut the Sea.
The Warriour Sword-Fish, and the Whale,
With Rapier arm'd, and Shield-broad Scale,
Cannot with various Kind of Arms
Secure themselves from mortal Harms;
Nor can ev'n Shell-fish 'scape the Gin,
With Bones without, and Flesh within.
Not Lobsters, tho' they crusted are
In jointed Armour de la Guer,
With all their Legs (while Man's pursuing)
Can save their Carcases from Ruin.
Full oft alas! I've seen their Quarters
Fasten'd to Stake, like Smithfield Martyrs;
And after many cruel Turnings,
Expos'd to Faggot, Fire, and Burnings,
Melodiously resign their Breath,
And, Swan-like, sing themselves to Death.

177

Thus have I Rabble seen, intent
At Minstrel's uncouth Merriment,
Where as one Hand's swift Fingers fly,
The other spits the Harmony,
And turning 'em still one by one,
The Tunes all roast, till all are done.

Sea-faring Uncle of blind Archer,
Must grow as mad as any March-Hare,
That Man shou'd wreck his Churlish Nature
On's Scaly Citizens o'th' Water;
That He shou'd Murd'rous Laws invent
For Friday-Treats, and order Lent;
A Persecuting Popish Plot
To make his Subjects go to Pot!
Not all their Suff'rings once afforded
In Fox his Rolls to be recorded,
But deem'd unworthy of the Grace,
Among his Worthies to have Place!

178

If we believe what Poets tell,
Ladies and Nymphs in Ocean dwell,
And sure to Tars a goodly Sight 'tis
Nereids to see, and Amphitrites;
Nereids that sport with Triton Spouses,
And spawn Seed-Pearl in Scollop-Houses:
Lobstero thus (as often seen)
Keeps Lady, that keeps State within;
She, like the wanton Cyprian Dame,
Provokes the Gentle Lover's Flame,
And makes our amorous John Dorys
As far as Paris ride for Chloris;
Salacious 'Squires of Churning Dream,
Blowz-Dairy-Maids, and Clouted Cream.
Aloft She sits on Throne as fair,
As Cassio—in Celestial Chair,

179

—Peia by t' other Half-Name Height,
And shrin'd in Crystal, shines as bright;
Or Dames that ride o're Streams to Cool,
Exalted high in Cucking-Stool,
When they their Hen-peck'd Husbands wrong,
By loud Incontinence of Tongue,
And giv'n too shrilly to dispute,
Like other Fish, it makes 'em Mute
This Lady's Hospitable Seat
Is much frequented in Fish street;
Fair are the Nymphs that wait upon her,
The Fish-Wives are her Maids of Honour,
Who, as along they Warbling go,
Cry Fish above, and Sell below:
These Mermaids as Enchanting be,
And Singing charm like those at Sea;
Their Melody such Danger bears,
Ulysses-like, we stop our Ears,

180

Lest their Harmonious Airs, and Breath
At once should Sing, and Stink to Death.
'Tis said Cameleons make Repast
On Viands of Ethereal Blast;
And what seems stranger yet, we read
Of Creatures that by Flames are fed,
Which like bold Slaves Ensurers hire,
Or Chymist's Lungs, subsist by Fire,
(Tho' different Ways they bring't about,
The one puts in, the other out).
Thus have I seen at wond'rous Shew,
In famous Fair Hight Barthol'mew,
A Wight, that had been Satan's Prentice,
Grave Cits, his Fellow-Servants entice,
And swallow Flames, and Fire as quick
As his own Pædagogue Old Nick:
The Rabble stare to see him eat
His Chafin-Dish instead of Meat,

181

And grind more Charcoal than a Score
Green-Sickness Damsels can devour;
Or Madam Porcia, to go further,
First She-Professor of the Order.

And now, tho' wond'rous strange, I'll shew,
Lobsters by Fire are nourish'd too:
But if you say 'tis a wrong Notion,
Because no Flames are in the Ocean,
To your Objection thus I answer,
Lobster's o' Kin to Sign call'd Cancer;
And as He's of Celestial Line,
So, like his Birth, his Food's Divine:
For as the Moon her Orb does swell,
So that increases in the Shell:
Tis thus like Spiritual Jugglers seen,
All dark without, the Light's within;
But tho' they boast of Inward Light,
We all well know how they Come by't;

182

Since frantick Fits discover soon,
That they're enlighten'd by the Moon.
Now that within Nocturnal Shell
Pale Visionary Glimm'rings dwell,
By Demonstration I'll evince,
And Testimony of the Sense;
For when the Heav'ns (black Night returning)
For Day departed put on Mourning,
From tainted Limbs to wond'ring Eyes
Thousands of heatless Sparks arise:
Not half so scalding as the Brand
That burn'd bold Mutius in the Hand:
These Sparks are Reliques, and no more
Than Beams imprison'd there before,
In Durance kept, and close Custody,
Till interwoven in the Body.
Kind Vestals thus that ply in Street,
Which City-G'ographers call Fleet,

183

With inward Flames in secret glow,
Preserv'd sub Lunæ Concavo.

And lo! as if it knew 'twas hateful
To be for Boons receiv'd ungrateful,
The Lusty Food helps Female Neighbours,
Promotes their Husband's, and their Labours;
And in return much Work supplies
For that Bright Midwife of the Skies.
Lobster with Cavear in fit Places,
Gives won'drous Help in barren Cases;
It warms the chiller Veins, and proves
A kind Incentive to our Loves;
It is a Philter, and High Diet,
That lets no Lady sleep in Quiet:
'Twill Vig'rous Youth to Age restore,
And get us Twins, when turn'd Fourscore.

184

Nay, thy Example does support
Our Modern Politicks at Court;
V**lp*ne, and his puzling Notions
Ap'd thee in thy prepost'rous Motions,
Who by Designs perverse, and awkard,
Made our Affairs, like thee, crawl backward:
Some Gen'rals thus in One Campaign,
Fight all their Conquests back again.

A Modern Geographer, perhaps,
May of the Sea invent New Maps,
Peopl'd with Fish as various, and
In Forms as strange, as those on Land;
And his odd Project to advance,
Christens his Lobsters, Africans,
Or dubs 'em by his Learned Notion
The Moors, and Negroes of the Ocean.

185

Now, as on Land, there is no Creature
But is express'd by Fish in Water;
So Crabs, and Lobsters stil'd may be
The Bums, and Catchpoles of the Sea:
For if there be, as sure there is,
The Thing call'd Metempsychosis,
The Souls of Bums departed dwell
Within the Hollow of their Shell;
Hence, Warranted by Nature's Laws,
They carry Grinders in their Claws,
And treach'rously Arrest, and Catch
Whatever comes within their Reach.

If we'll trust Catholick Recorders,
There was a Lobster once in Orders;
And ever since upon his Back
Canonically he wears Black,
Tho' not to Cassock form'd or Gown,
Like tatter'd Crape that strolls the Town;

186

This Truth in Legend will appear
Of Missionary Saint Xavier.

Once Windy Boreas in a Frolick
Let fly, and gave the Sea the Cholick;
Neptune sore grip'd, cry'd, Gods! it is hard
What Grumblings feel I in my Gizzard!
His Crucifix the good Apostle
Let down to cure Intestine Bustle;
It well the Wonder did perform,
But sinking vanish'd with the Storm;
Much disappointed at the Loss
Of Holy Talisman his Cross,
He to retrieve it first applies
To Heav'n his lifted Hands and Eyes,
Then rattles many a Magick Bead,
Which guides to Bliss by Clue of Thread,
And thrice three times an Ave said;

187

Seeing mean time a Lobster crawl
He laid on Hands Episcopal,
And so Ordain'd him—not to preach,
But to hold forth his Claws, and fetch;
Tho' driv'n by Winds that bluster'd high,
That faster crawl'd than Ship could fly;
Lobstero thus, which in Quandary,
The Saint had taught to fetch and carry,
Prov'd like th' Apostle, Emissary.
And as it is in Story plain,
Brought him his Crucifix again.

But O! ye Learn'd brimful of Knowledge,
Ye Nat'ralists of Gresham-College,
Expound to me, if you are able,
How Lobster, that alive is Sable,
When in his Liquor, puts on Red,
And throws his Mourning off, when Dead:

188

Among You all there is not One
Can solve me this Phænomenon:
But I, who sip no Learned Coffee,
And rarely muse on Philosophy,
Ill-vers'd in Pliny's Nat'ral Hist'ry,
Will soon unriddle this Dark Myst'ry:
If Ferguson turns Renegade,
Leaves Kirk, and quits the Canting Trade,
Righteously changing Sword Eternal,
The Spirit'al, for Tilter Carnal;
Deserts the Sober Weed of Scholars,
And runs (true Turncoat) from his Colours;
While Scarlet, lists the Errant Saint,
Dragoon of the Church Militant;
Why may not Black-Coats of the Water,
Tho' Creatures of inferior Nature,
Observe the self-same Holy Rules,
And turn their Sables into Gules?

189

Since Man was sure created best,
To give Example to the rest:
Besides the Godly sure must grant,
'Tis good to imitate a Saint:
The Saints who, to support the Cause,
Trim with Divine and Human Laws,
They are God's Children, so too weak
Th' Almighty's Ord'nances to break;
And when they see a Civil Storm,
They can Occas'onally Conform;
Thus while there is a Fellow-feeling
'Twixt Party-Lawyers, and false Spelling,
Indictments will have Gaps, and Flaws
For them to Mesh through, and the Laws.
As Brethren of Militia-Sword
By Exercising keep the Word,
And fortify'd in County-Buff,
Are Basket-Hilt, and Cudgel Proof;

190

Yet, in Obedience to Command,
Turn, and Return to Either Hand:
So Presbyters that still have on
A Buff-coat Conscience of their own,
Perversly move contrary quite,
And turn—but never to the Right.
They are of the Spread-Eagle Kind,
With Face before, and Face behind,
On Popish Church-Lands Gospel-Spies,
That, like the Beast, are full of Eyes,
And whirl 'em round which way you list,
They still look tow'rd their Interest:
And as a Dog, that plies the Wheel,
Turns oft, and treads the same Place still;
So which way e're the World goes round,
They with it move,—and keep their Ground.

191

And now, altho' there were no more said,
We may perceive by the aforesaid,
How Juggling Non-Cons change their Coats,
Leave Mangling Texts for Cutting Throats;
The Word is weak, but Sword is strong,
And Pow'r was never in the wrong:
Th' Evangelists with Them have no Spell,
But trusty Pike, and Gun are Gospel.

192

The CONFESSION.

For why, my Friend, shou'd I conceal
A Flame that must itself reveal?
That Matchless Dame, whose Sov'raign Pow'r
The Brightest Nymphs with Pride adore,
That Goddess's Victorious Eyes
Have made your Thyrsis Heart her Prize:
Her Eyes, whose Lustre soon can charm
The Proudest Heart, the Coldest warm.
'Twas now the Boy first taught me Cares,
Unpractis'd yet in Cupid's Wars,
Where by Pursuit fresh Wounds we gain,
And all the Conquest's to be slain.
When first I saw this Lovely Maid
I then was ruin'd, then betray'd;
Her polish'd Beauties shine so bright,
And thence reflect such dazling Light,

193

With aking Sight I on them gaze,
And my Eyes darken on her Face.
High on her spacious Front above,
Heav'n opens wide—a Heav'n of Love.
Her Eye-brows black beneath it lie,
Like Two bent Bows of Ebony.
Her ruddy Lips are big with Joy,
And her soft Smiles create the Boy.
Upon her Cheeks fresh Roses blow,
Which, as her Virgin-Blushes flow,
Flash in the Blood, and crimson all their Snow.
Her Neck, whose Pillar does sustain
That Intellectual World her Brain,
In artful Workmanship transcends
The Pow'r of any Mortal Hands;
That Atlas, whose loud Fame's so great
For bearing Heav'n, wou'd change his State,
Proud to sustain this Nobler Weight.

194

These Beauties then, these Charms Divine
Have vanquish'd this poor Heart of mine,
From which it never can remove,
Linkt fast by Chains of endless Love.

The OLD MAN.

Yes—I am Old, I must confess,
Yet I ne're drink one Drop the less;
A larger Glass—I fain wou'd see
The hardy Youth dares answer me;
The Puny Stripling soon shall know,
As I the Boy in Years outgo,
I shall in Manly Drinking too.
The Circling Hours I measure out
By Bowls of Wine dispatch'd about,

195

And as the nimble Atoms pass,
I take for ev'ry Sand a Glass.
Wheree're my Chearful Friends are found,
The Goblet, like the Sun, walks round;
The Sun, whose rip'ning Beams but shine
To give us fresh Supplies of Wine.
Let's frolick then, and be profuse,
And to our Genius give a Loose:
Bacchus had never reach'd the Sky
By Dulness, and Sobriety,
He Nobler Ways to Glory trod,
And drank himself into a God.
Yes—I am Old, and on that Score
'Tis fit that I carouse the more;
Six in a Hand—the Cold's so great
My Blood is scarcely heated yet;
The kindly Warmth by Drinking bred
Will melt the Snow upon my Head,

196

'Twill thaw the Ice that chills each Vein,
And make the Old Man young again.
For either Hand, my Friends, produce
A Bottle charg'd with sprightly Juice;
I will not ask a better Prop
To keep my stagg'ring Figure up.
When my last Fatal Minute's come,
Thus wou'd I reel into my Tomb,
There quite dead drunk resign my Breath,
And so prevent the Stroke of Death.

197

The Burning LOVER.

Cease, Tyrant Love, thy Rage give o're;
It is enough—I suffer more
Than ever wretched Lover felt before.
A kindling Fire enflames my Veins,
Which thro' the Blood, and Marrow reigns.
And must my Sighs—must they conspire
To blow the Brand, and fan the Fire?
At length, fond Boy, these Fires asswage,
At length, ye Sighs, suppress your Rage,
Bid all your former Fury cease,
And sink to breathing Calms of Peace.
Sufficiently the burning Smart
Already has consum'd my Heart,
And tyranniz'd thro' ev'ry Part.

198

Then since no Safety thus appears,
Begon, ye Flames;—approach, ye Tears;
With cooling Streams the Fires appease,
And give a wretched Lover Ease:
Approach, ye Tears; and weep a Flood,
To quench the Fervour in my Blood.
But how can Tears my Fires appease,
Or give a wretched Lover Ease?
How can my Eyes supply a Flood
To quench the Fervour of my Blood?
Since thirsty Flames, which Tears devour,
Have drank up ev'ry cooling Show'r.
Thus from my Eyes I no Relief can claim,
Condemn'd to Burn, and Live amidst the Flame.

199

An ELEGY

To His Friend, who advis'd Him to desist from LOVE.

In vain, Sir, You advise me to depart
From Love, that has already seiz'd my Heart;
I cannot this Unruly Passion tame,
Suppress the Fury, or conceal my Flame;
Alas! 'tis hard a Remedy to find,
Or sooth this restless Calenture of Mind.
Can I, my Friend, can I stand by, and see
Panthea's Charms with Dull Indiff'rency?
Her Yellow Tresses unconcern'd behold,
That grace her iv'ry Neck with burnish'd Gold?
While her round swelling Breasts in Whiteness rise,
And with Resistless Fires She rolls her wanton Eyes?

200

Can I see this, ye Gods, and yet forbear
Heaping impatient Kisses on the Fair?
Kisses! that on her Lips shall leave display'd
Th' am'rous Signs, my ardent Transports made?
Perish the cautious Wretch,—who thus can rule
His fierce Desires;—ah! perish the dull Fool,
Curse on the Sot, who so discreet can prove,
Thus to command his Passion, and his Love:
Let Her be guarded with Officious Spies,
Her Mother's Fears, and Husband's Jealousies;
To Cens'ring Coxcombs let my Love be known,
And whisper'd round by ev'ry Fool in Town,
Till Murmurs, and the common Breath of Fame
Loudly divulge, and spread abroad my Flame:
I the vain Murmurs of those Fools despise,
With her stern Lord's quick-sighted Jealousies,
And the old Mother's ever watchful Eyes.

201

I wou'd my Love shou'd court the publick Ear
Of noisy Fops, that crowd each Theatre;
Let 'em grudge me Success, while they despair.

Thus the first Lovers did their Joys dispense
In happy Freedom, tender Innocence;
In gentle Pairs the blooming Nymphs, and Swains
Met and caress'd upon the flow'ry Plains;
In soft Discourse, gay Sports, and artless Play
They entertain'd the Hours, prolong'd the Day;
A Thousand tender Things they look'd, and said,
And whisp'ring Sighs their yielding Hearts betray'd:
Their naked Beauties charm'd the ravish'd Sight,
Till Love provok'd each other to Delight:
Exchanging Lips, their panting Breasts they join'd,
The Youths were constant, and the Virgins kind.
Let Others seem reserv'd, Disguises try,
And mask their Love in mean Hypocrisy;

202

Our good Old Fathers Frankness I approve,
And by their Standard regulate my Love:
Is it a Fault, or has it ever been
To pay Obedience to the Cyprian Queen?
If so, nor Heav'n, nor Gods themselves can be
Absolv'd from Censures and Impiety.
Fair Ariadne's Eyes so bright did shine,
They doubly cou'd enrage the God of Wine;
Beauty the God of Day with Love inspires,
And with new Force augments his former Fires.
For Love Great Jove a Thousand Forms put on,
Forms that were all more pow'rful than his own,
The am'rous Lowings of a Bull cou'd do
More than his Godhead, and his Thunder too;
Europa made him leave his Bright Abode,
And to be Happy, he depos'd the God.

203

Then, Dearest, let us live, and close pursue
The Pleasures Love, and Beauty prompt us to;
Th' Examples follow that the Gods have giv'n,
Nor think that Sin, which is approv'd by Heav'n.
If 'tis a Sin, 'tis such as I wou'd chuse,
For Her I, like the Gods, wou'd Heav'n refuse:
Nay, I shou'd think it as a Judgment sent,
If for so sweet a Crime I shou'd relent,
Or ever be so graceless to repent.

204

SONG in a MASQUE.

First MOVEMENT.

What Pangs we endure, and what Torments we prove,
When first we're enslav'd by the Passion of Love:
The Soul is with Fury possest,
All the Blood is on Fire,
While we flame with Desire,
And we carry our Hell in our Breast.

Second MOVEMENT.

Thro' all the Universe it rules,
And makes the whole Creation Fools:
An Epidemick Plague 'tis grown;
Love singly contains
All Tortures, and Pains,
Love, Love is all Torments in One.

205

Third MOVEMENT.

To the Wheel of Ixion poor Lovers are bound,
And are ever, for ever, for ever turn'd round:
They in a giddy Circle move,
And still in Pursuit, still are snatch'd from their Love.

Fourth MOVEMENT.

Beauty deludes, and we assist the Cheat:
It is a Vis'onary Treat
That tempts us with a thousand Charms;
But when we think to clasp the Joy,
The treach'rous Phantom slips away,
And leaves us to repent with empty Arms.

CHORUS.

Yet, Love, thou bear'st such Charms about thee,
Nor Men, nor Gods can live without thee,

206

Tho' wounded, we seek for no Cure;
But proud of our Chains,
W' enjoy all the Pains,
And our Pleasure's the greater, the more we endure.

The WEDDING-RING,

OR, An Infallible Remedy against Cuckoldom.

A Ballad.

I

Rouze Cuckolds elect, both Ye Old, and Ye Young;
Be attentive, and prick up your Ears to my Song,

207

Which Words of Solace shall impart
To ease the Brow, and chear the Heart.

CHORUS.

Then all wedded Mortals in Town, or in City,
Pray listen a-while, and give Ear to my Ditty.

II

Says the Proverb, Who takes a foul Gypsie to Wife,
Does Penance for ever, yet Sins all his Life.
They all will jilt You, but a Beauty
Will most infallibly Cornute Ye;
And He that's entail'd to a Punk that is fair,
Shall ne're want good Plenty of Horns, and much Care.