University of Virginia Library

TO FLAVIA.

What! Flavia, is your Bounty ceast,
With the poor Blisses I possest;
Possest, but as a Brother shou'd,
By halves you have been always good,
At least to me, when much I fear,
For others nothing is too dear.
Ah! Flavia, I would fain believe,
You are not skilful to deceive;
Such Youth from Artifice is free,
And you are only kind to me;
Tho' did you Love, as you profess,
You'd give me more, or give me less,
If you at first had us'd me ill,
You might with reason do it still;
You wou'd have had a mock excuse,
To torture me, or to refuse.
But when you can so far comply,
The rest 'tis folly to deny,
Unless uncommon ways you use,
And smile on those you would abuse.

THE CONTEST.

Help me, help me! Gentle Love;
All my wandring thoughts remove;
Fix 'em where they should be true,
They are all Corinna's due,
If a long and awful Reign,
Can in Love a Right obtain.
Or convince me, I am wrong,
Tell me! She has rul'd too long:
Tell me! That she was unkind;
That to Love she ne're inclin'd;
That her Arbitrary sway
Taught me first to disobey,
Oh! instruct me what to say.
I, confounded with my shame,
Dare not own another Flame.
Subjects, when they change a King,
Should some Lawful Reasons bring;
All my Reasons seem too weak,
I am Dumb and cannot speak;
How can I such Beauty wrong,
One so Witty, Gay and Young;
Every Charm, and every Grace,
Dwells in my Corinna's Face:
But my Cloe is as Fair,
Happier in a Charming Air:
So much Beauty, so much youth,
So much Innocence and Truth,
'Tis impossible to see,
And for Loving censure me.
Sure Corinna cannot blame,
Such a hopeful, happy Flame;
When she knows that if I burn,
Tis in hopes of a return.
Love, thy Dictates I persue,
Tell me therefore, what to do;
Shall I with Corinna part,
Shall I throw her from my Heart?
She does still my suit refuse,
Is not that a good excuse?
Oh! if 'tis not, tell me how
Justice can my Change allow?
Thou didst first my Soul Inspire,
Thou dost set my Heart on Fire,
When Corinna I remove,
Witness, all the fault is Love;
Let the Treachery be thine,
And the Frailty only mine.

TO CLOE.

Prethee Cloe, not so fast,
Let's not run and Wed in hast;
We've a thousand things to do,
You must fly, and I persue;
You must frown, and I must sigh;
I intreat, and you deny.
Stay—If I am never crost,
Half the Pleasure will be lost;
Be, or seem to be severe,
Give me reason to Despair;
Fondness will my Wishes cloy,
Make me careless of the Joy.
Lovers may of course complain
Of their trouble and their pain;
But if Pain and Trouble cease,
Love without it will not please.

ON A PERFUME Taken out of a Young Ladie's Bosom.

Begon! Bold Rival from my Fair,
Thou hast no Plea for Business there;
'Twere needless where the Lilly grows,
To add Perfumes, or to the Rose;
Faint are the Sweets which thou canst give,
To those which in her Bosom Live;
Thence tender Wishes, Amorous Sighs,
Love's Breath, the richest Odours rise.
Not all the Spices of the East,
Nor Indian Grove nor Phænix Nest,
Send forth an Odour to compare
With what we find to please, us there
Where Nature has been so profuse,
Thy little Arts are of no use.
Thou canst not add a grace to her,
She's all Perfection every where.
Speak sawcy thing, for I will know
How much to her, and me you owe.
Whence comes this sweetness so Divine?
Speak, is it hers, or is it thine?
Ha! Varlet, by the fragrant smell
'Tis her's, all her's, I know it well;
I know you rob'd Olivia's Store,
But hence! For you shall steal no more.
Be gone! She has no room for thee,
Olivia's bosom must be free,
For nothing but for Love and me.

The GROVE.

Oh! 'tis sweet, 'tis wondrous sweet,
When I and Amarilis meet,
In a fragrant Shady Grove,
Full of Wishes, full of Love:
Oh! What pretty things we say,
How the Minutes fly away,
When with glances mingling Kisses,
We prepare for softer Blisses;
On some Mossey-bank we lye,
Play and touch, imbrace and dye:
Then from little feuds and jars,
We proceed to Amorous Wars.
Oh! how many Heavens we find,
I am Young and she is Kind.
Kind and Free without design,
Mine at Will, and only mine;
Smiling always, always toying;
Ever fond, yet never cloying;
Could the coldest Hermit see
Half the sweets Enjoy'd by me.
Happy once to see her Eyes,
Press her Lips, and hear her Sighs,
Clasp her Wast, and touch her Skin,
Soon he would forget the Sin,
All his darling hopes of Bliss
In a distant Paradise,
All with ease he would resign
For a minute's taste of mine.

To CORINNA.

Fair Corinna tell me why
You are often heard to sigh,
Why your Eyes are often seen
Kind as Lovers should have been;
Tell me, Madam, what you mean?
Something does your Soul imploy,
Love or Anger, Grief or Joy,
By the Symptoms we discover,
Something even of a Lover.
Love, like Murder, will appear,
Tho' you take the greatest care.
Every motion will reveal
What you strugle te conceal,
Hide it not, for I perceive
When your Breasts begin to heave,
When they rise, and when they fall,
Then I see, and know it all;
They in spite of all your Art,
Tell the Conflicts of your Heart,
Every throb and pant repeat,
Equal time and motion beat,
But for whom your Wishes grow,
That, Oh! that, I cannot know.

The PICTURE.

Painter I have often seen,
What a Flatterer thou hast been,
Take thy Pencil now and shew
What thy Art with Truth can do,
Paint me with the nicest care,
One that's young and wondrous fair,
Paint Corinna's Mein and Air,
On her Eyes imploy thy skill,
Make 'em Kind, but make 'em Kill,
Make 'em soft, and make 'em bright,
Let 'em, like her own, delight,
Draw her Fore-head, then her Nose,
All that's Beautiful suppose,
Made for Love and Lovers blisses,
Cheeks and Lips design'd for kisses,
Lips so red and Teeth so white.
Fancy cannnot do her right.
Such a white and such a red,
Never can be thought or said;
All thy Colours will not do,
Search abroad and seek for new.
See if nature can supply,
Colours of so fine a dye;
Draw her Neck, and then her Breast
Draw—What must not be Exprest.
Charm me with her shape and Skin,
Let her be all o're Divine,
In her Picture let her see;
What she still deny's to me,
Make her smile, and she will own,
Naught so hateful as a frown.

TO Mr. Sergeant

Inviting him into the Country.

Come my Thyrsis, come away,
Don't your Joy and mine delay;
But to make 'em both compleat,
Come and taste of my retreat.
'Tis not such as Hermits boast,
When by men or Fortune crost,
To some Cell the Fools repair,
And imagine blessings there.
Make their virtue a pretence,
For ill nature and offence.
Shun the World which in return,
Treats them with neglect and scorn.
Nothing looks in my retreat,
Discontented or unsweet.
True—'tis private, and you know,
Love and Friendship should be so,
Solitude dissolves the mind,
Makes it pleasant, free, and kind;
All our nicest beauties here,
Scorn th' appearance of severe.
Seldom, very seldom known,
To be fierce, or force a frown:
Seldom are untimely coy,
When invited to the joy;
But with wondrous ease comply,
Or with equal Grace deny.
When from my Caresses free,
Love shall force thy thoughts from me;
Happy in such sweet amours,
We will pass our hasty hours.
You with Sylvia, or with Phillis,
Constant I, with Amaryllis,
Court and Kiss 'em all the Day;
All the Ev'ning toy and play,
All the night-hold—None shall know,
What at night we mean to do.
Be it how it will, you'll find
Nature only makes 'em kind,
Oft such pleasures may be known,
You have felt 'em in the Town;
Yet my, my Thyrsis, you'll confess,
Fears and Dangers make 'em less.
Crouds, Diseases, feuds and noise,
Render 'em imperfect joys;
But in shades and silence given,
Every Extasy is Heaven.

THE Country Wit.

A Country Wit who came to Town,
Was wondrous willing to be known,
And that he might not tarry long,
He saw a Play and writ a Song.
But this however not enough,
He went to Will's and borrow'd snuff,
From Dryden's box with many more,
Who beg'd the liberty before;
For you must know amongst the Beaux,
Wit always enters by the Nose,
And passing quickly to the Brain,
Comes tickling down in verse again.
Our Wit thus favour'd writes apace.
You read the Author in his face.
With Sonnet, Elegy and Ode,
He crams a Book and comes abroad.
But Oh! the fate of human things,
In vain he writes, in vain he sings,
The Town uncivilly refuse,
To listen to a Country Muse;
And scarce will condescend to damn,
This mighty Candidate of fame,
Down to his Seat, the Cox-comb goes,
He rail's at Criticks Wits and Beaus.
He swears that non-sence is prefer'd,
That merit never meets reward,
That envy makes the Criticks curse,
His Poems while they publish worse;
That spite of what they think or say,
He'll write or print as well as they.

TO The Bath and Zelinda in it.

Oh! could I change my form like Jove,
In show'rs like him, I'de feast my Love,
And mingling with the waters play,
Around Zelinda's breast as they.
Ah! happy waves you may at large,
Sport in the bosom of your Charge,
Survey her Limbs and all her Charms;
And wanton in her Virgin Arms.
Be civil yet and have a care,
You be'nt, too Saucy with my fair,
Your Rival I shall jealous grow,
Nor can one eager touch allow;
You wildly rove, you kiss, embrace
Her body and reflect her face.
You're too Officious, and presume,
To wander where you should not come.
You croud too thick, you stay too long,
You hurt her with your eager throng;
But warm her into Love and stay,
It shall excuse your bold delay,
Soften her frozen heart and Move,
Zelinda's Soul to think of Love:
Ah! melt her brest, for pitty, do,
That I may be as blest as you.

TO Corinna.

Say, Corinna, do you find,
Nothing in your bosom kind,
Is it never less severe,
Or d' ye never wish it were.
Yes, I read it in your eyes,
Hear it, know it by your sighs;
Sighs that gently steal their way,
Tell me all that you should say,
Tell me when you seem serene,
You're not always calm within;
But are vext with tumults there,
Such as oft disturb the fair.
Say, Corinna, is it true?
Say, for I'm a Lover too,
And can tell you what to do;
He that's worthy to be blest,
Should be first of Truth possest.
Young and constant he must be,
Fixt like you and Fond like me,
One that all affronts can bear,
Exil's, Jealousies, Despair;
One on whom you may depend,
For a Lover and a Friend,
Plead not now for an excuse,
Man does naught like this produce:
Justice, Madam, bids you see,
All these qualities in me.
Justice tells you I am He.

TO A GENTLEMAN ON HIS Being Jilted.

Jilted! 'Tis strange that you who know,
What women think as well as do,
Should in your guesses be deceiv'd,
But yet 'tis stranger you believ'd.
Have not you often said that none,
About this dam'd intriguing Town,
Could scape your knowledge but you knew,
How matters went and who Kept who;
What Cit, or Worship, or my Lord,
Allow'd for Lodgings, Pins, or board;
What tricks the keeping fools were play'd,
Where, when, by whom and how betray'd,
No int'rest, Sir, could yours destroy,
You still came in and shar'd the Joy.
But when you pleas'd Keep your self,
And throw away a little Pelf,
Your Mistress's were all so true,
They would not touch a man but you:
F---! After this 'tis something hard,
That others should be now prefer'd.
But come, consider 'tis no more
Than Thousands have endur'd before;
Consider this will be the Trade,
While such as sell their Love are paid,
And there are Cullyes to be had.
Whilst women, if they once begin
To wanton, doat upon the sin,
Whilst nature teaches them to cheat,
Or they find pleasure in deceit;
In short, while men and women live,
Tho One will ask, the Other give.

TO LUCINDA,

ON HER Recovery from an Indisposition.

Heaven, Lucinda, could not long,
Suffer one so Fair and Young,
Little able to sustain,
All the injury of pain;
To be toucht with a disease,
Which might interrupt her Ease,
Heaven always guards the fair,
Beauty's always heavens care.
Yes, Lucinda is we find,
Still the Same in face and mind.
See her Beauties how they shine,
Perfect all and all divine.
See how each returning grace,
Points her eyes and paints her face;
The Lilly and the rose succeed
The sickly white and Glowing Red,
Ah! but see that cruel Pride,
Which we only wish had dy'd,
Waits at every glance again,
Little mortifi'd by Pain,
Settles in her eyes and shows,
Love and she will still be foes;
Had her Sickness with its smart
Toucht and mollifi'd her Heart,
Then her illness would have prov'd
Happy ills for such as Lov'd;
Had it made her undergo
Half the Torments Lovers know,
Pitty would not now at least
Have been a stranger to her Breast;
And pitty when it comes so near,
Tells us Passion is not far,
Unconcern'd at Health or Pain,
Still she flatters her disdain,
Ever fixt to be severe,
Se it Lovers and Despair.

THE Respectful Lover.

My Mistress is I own above
The humble proffer of my Love;
In Justice yet she must confess,
That nothing can disturb her less;
It never durst offend her Ear,
With what she is averse to hear:
But yielding to a just Despair,
'Tis modest still, as she is Fair;
It wishes much, and none that see
Such Beauty are from Wishes free;
It hopes for little, naught requires,
Nor yet discover'd its desires;
It dares not, or it knows not how,
To tell her what she ought to know;
How long I have endur'd the Pain,
To Love, and wish, and not obtain;
To find my Passion is unknown,
Or, what she sees she will not own,
Or what she coldly may regard,
She thinks unworthy a Reward.

THE Secend ODE OF ANACREON.

Nature for defence affords
Fins to Fish, Wings to Birds,
Hoofs to Horses, Claws to Bears,
Swiftness to the fearful Hares,
To Man, their Master, Wit and Sense,
But what have Women for defence?
Beauty is their shield and Arms,
Women's Weapons are their Charms;
Beauties Weapons make us feel
Deeper Wounds than those of Steel,
Beauty kindles warm desires,
Stronger than the fiercest Fires;
Strength and Wit before it fall,
Beauty Triumphs over all.

Written Extempore in a Young Lady's Almanack.

TO Cleora.

OUT OF PETRONIUS.

An Imitation.

Fruition is at best but short,
A silly fulsom fleeting sport,
Which when we've perfectly enjoy'd,
We 're quickly weary, quickly cloy'd;
Let's then no more pollute our Breasts,
With fires becoming only Beasts,
Or rush on pleasures, which when known,
We wish it never had been done:
But thus, Oh! thus let's lye and Kiss
Eternity away in bliss,
No trouble here, or pain you'll find,
Nor need you blush for being kind;
These Raptures, Cloe, never cease,
They please us now, and still will please,
They ne're decay as others do,
But thus, Oh! Thus are always new.

OUT OF CATULLUS.

Lisbia let us Live and Love,
All our little time improve;
Mirth and Pleasure crown our daies,
Spite of what the Dotard says,
If the Suns may set, they rise
Bright again, and gild the Skies.
But our Day depriv'd of Light,
Sleep succeeds, and endless night,
An Hundred, now a Thousand more,
Another hundred warm and close,
Another thousand, press 'em thus;
Give me kisses, I am poor,
When the thousands num'rous grow,
Kiss again that none may know
What you lend, or what I owe,
While I in gross with hast repay,
And kiss Eternity away.

SONG

[Fye Cælia! Scorn the little arts]

SONG Sung at York-Buildings.

SONG

[When with Flavia I am toying]

SONG

[Those arts which common Beauty's move]

Epigram. On a pert, slovenly Satyrist.

Prithee W---s don't write Satire,
Thou know'st nothing of the matter;
If thou would'st be wise and dapper,
Keep clean thy Face and eke thy paper.

Some Epigrams OF BOILEAU's Imitated.

THE Seventh Satire OF BOILEAU,

English'd.

No more, my Muse, since Satire don't prevail,
Let's change our Stile for once, and cease to rail;
'Tis an ill Trade, and we have often found,
Instead of giving, we receive the wound.
Many a poor Poet, by his Rage inflam'd,
Has mist his aim, and seen his Writings damn'd,
And where, perhaps, he thought he rally'd best,
Some surly Rogue has drub'd him for the jest.
A tedious Panegerick coldly wrote,
Is bundl'd up, and may at leisure rot:
It fears no Censures; differing or unjust,
And has no Enemies but moth and dust.
But such malitious Authors are not safe,
Who laugh themselves, and make their Readers Laugh;
Whom when we Read, we blame, yet still read on,
Who think that all is Lawful they have done,
And can't, alas! their merry Fits forego,
Tho' every grin engages them a foe.
A Poem soon offends, if too severe,
For each will think he sees his Image there;
And he who reads it, may applaud your Art,
Yet Curses, Fears, and Hates you form his Heart.
Forget it then, my Muse, and change thy strain,
The Itch of Satire makes thee write in vain;
Go learn to Praise, and search among the Throng
Of Hero's, one deserving of thy Song;
But oh! For what would I thy Spirits raise,
I scarce can blunder out a Rhime for praise;
As soon as I indeavour thus to rise,
My fancy flags, and all my fury dies,
I scratch my Head, I bit my Nails in vain,
For all this mighty Labour of my Brain,
Brings nothing less unnatural abroad,
Than Blackmore's Poem, or than C---'s Ode,
I think I'm rack'd when Praises must be wrote,
My Pen resists me, and my Paper blots;
But when I am to rail my thoughts are fir'd,
Then, only then, I know I am Inspir'd.
As soon as I invoke, Apollo hears,
The God is ready still to grant my Pray'rs:
I think with pleasure, and I write with ease,
My Words, my Numbers, and the Subject please.
Were I to Paint the Raskal of the Town,
My Hand, before I think, writes T---r down.
Were I to mark you out a perfect Sot,
My Pen points presently to M---ot.
I find my Genius with my Wit agrees,
To mawl a trifling Rhimer as I please,
My Verse comes breaking like a Tempest down,
At once you meet with B---y, Banks and Crown;
With Y---n, G---n, P---, Durfey, Brown,
And for one scribling Blockhead I have nam'd,
I find a Thousand more stand ready to be damn'd.
In Triumph then my Fury hastens on,
And I in private joy at what is done;
In vain amidst its course I would engage,
To stop the Impetuous Torrent of my Rage;
In vain, I would at least some persons spare,
My Pen strikes all, and will not one forbear.
When the mad Fit has master'd me, you know
What follows—Fly,—if you would miss the Blow.
Merit, however, I will always prize,
But Fools provoke me, and offend my Eyes:
I follow 'em as a Dog pursues his Prey,
And bark when e're I smell 'em in my way:
I know, to say no more, if Wit is scarce,
To gingle out a Rhime, or tag a Verse:
Or Cobble wretched Prose to numerous Lines:
There, if I have a Genius, there it shines.
Thus tho ev'n Death, with all the Fears he brings,
Were hov'ring o're to seize me in his ghastly Wings;
Tho Heaven secur'd me in a lasting Peace,
With all the City Pomp, or Countrey Ease:
Tho the whole world should think themselves abus'd,
At what my Pen had in its rage produc'd;
Yet merry, melancholly, rich or Poor,
I should not cease to Rhime, but write the more,
Poor Muse, I pity thee, some Fop will say,
Cease your Resentments, and your Heats allay,
The fool you publish in an angry mood,
May quench this thirst of Satire in your Blood:
But why? When Horace and Lucilius shew
What wit in Vertues Quarrel ought to do.
The Vapours of their Choller thus exhal'd,
Their Satire faught for Vertue, and prevail'd
With all the Transports of a Noble Rage,
They baffl'd and unmask'd the Vices of the Age.
Why! When the furious Pen of Juvenal
Ran o're with Floods of Bitterness and Gall,
Insulting freely o're the Roman Crimes,
And lashing all the Follies of the Times,
Yet safely to the Last the Wits did rave,
Not one of them was cudgell'd to his grave,
Why then should I a Coxcomb's anger fear?
Where do's my manner or my name appear?
I don't, like W---, Impudently great,
With Rhimes and Satires every fool I meet,
Or tumble o're my Verses in the Street.
Sometimes indeed, yet what I always dread,
Where Satire pleases, I am forc'd to read,
Where, if they praise the work I often see,
They Laugh a loud at that, and Low at me;
Perhaps I'm pleas'd with what they disapprove,
And will, in short, still follow what I Love;
For when a pleasant Thought is once my own,
I am not easie till I write it down;
When with a sacred Fury I am seiz'd,
I can't resist whoever is displeas'd.
Enough—No more of this—let's breath a while,
My Hand at last grows weary of the Toil,
'Tis time, my Muse, to end so harsh a strain,
Enough—to morrow we'll begin again.

THE Second Satire OF BOILEAU,

English'd.

O happy Wit! whose rare and fruitful Vein.
In writing still is ignorant of pain,
For whom Apollo opens every store,
Shews you his Mines, and helps you to the Ore,
Who knows so well, in the disputes of Wit,
Where sometimes to Defend, and where to hit;
Teach me, Great Master of your Art, to Rhime,
To spare my Study, and to save my time;
When e're you please, the happy Rhimes attend,
And wait your Summons at the Verses end;
They ne're perplex you, but observe your pace,
And where you want, you find them in their place;
Whilst I, whom Caprice, Vanity and Whim;
Have for my Sins, I fear condemn'd to Rhime,
Rack my poor thoughts in such attempts as these,
And sweat in vain for what you find with ease.
When the fit takes me, oft from Morn to Night
I study hard, but scribble Black for White,
To draw the Picture of a perfect Beau,
The Rhime obliges me to name B---;
To name an Author of the first degree,
Reason's for Dryden, but the Rhime for Lee;
Vext at these difficulties, I give o're,
Sad, weary and confus'd, resolve to write no more;
I curse the Spright, with which I am possest,
And swear to drive the Dæmon from my Breast;
In vain I curse Apollo and the Nine,
They quickly tempt me from my late design;
My Fire's rekindle, I retake my Pen,
And spite of all my Curses, write again;
My Oaths forgot, my Paper I resume,
From Verse to Verse attending what will come.
If for a Rhime, my Muse in such a fit,
Would frigid words and Epithites permit,
Or take the next I meet, and tack 'em on,
To piece a Line, 'tis what the rest have done;
To praise a Phillis for a thousand Charms;
The next verse shews the Poet in her Arms;
When Cloris is inform'd how much he Loves,
The Rhime informs you that she cruel proves:
When he would talk of Stars or glittering Skies,
Will he not think of Cælia's sparkling Eyes?
Cælia, Heavens Master-piece, Divinely Fair,
The Rhime makes Cœlia still without compare;
With all these shining words by chance compos'd,
The Noun and Verb an hundred times transpos'd,
How many Poems could I, piece by piece,
Stitch to my own, and fill a Book with ease.
But when I write —
My Judgment trembling at the choice of words,
Not one improper to the sense affords?
It ne're allows that an insipid Phrase,
Should justle in to fill a vacant place,
But Writes, and adds, and razes what is done,
And in four words it seldom passes one.
Curse on the Man, who in a senseless fit,
To Rhimes and Numbers first confin'd his wit,
And giving to his words a narrow bound,
First lost his Reason for an empty sound:
Had I ne're Travell'd in such dangerous ways,
No Pains nor Envy had disturb'd my days;
But o're my Bottle with a Jest and Song,
My pleasant Minutes would have rowl'd along,
Like a Fat Prebend, careless and at Ease,
Content and Lazy, I had liv'd in peace,
Slept well at Night, and loiter'd all the Day.
From Passion ever free, and ever gay;
Then limiting th' Ambition of my mind,
I had not courted Fortune to be kind,
Despising all her Pomp, I should have known,
No state of Life more happy than my own;
Then fond of Rest, and negligent of Fame,
I had ne're gone to Court to get a Name,
But liv'd in private, and in full delight,
If no Malitious Power had made me write.
From the sad hour this frenzy first began,
With its black Vapours to molest my Brain,
That some cross Dæmon, Jealous of my Ease;
Flatter'd my Muse, she had the Power to please,
Nail'd to my Works, and adding something new,
Or razing out, or still on the Review,
Still in this wretched Trade I pass my days.
So low, that B--- can my Envy raise,
Oh! happy B--- thy Prodigious Muse,
Huge Books of Verse can in a year produce.
True-Rude and Dull, to some she gives offence,
And seems Created in despite of sense;
Yet she will find whatever we have said,
Both Sots to Print her Works, and Fools to read.
If thy verse Jingle with a lucky Rhime,
Ne're mind the Thought, but Prosecute the Chime:
Unhappy those who would to Sense confine
Their Verse, and Genius will with Method joyn,
Since Fools have all the pleasure, who dispence
With Art in writing, and despise the Sense,
Who always Fond of what they last brought forth,
Admire their skill, and wonder at their worth;
While Wits sublime their utmost Fancies stretch,
To get those heights at last they cannot reach;
And discontented still at what they write,
Can't please themselves, when others they delight;
What all the World applaud they scarce will own,
And wish for their repose it was undone.
You then, who see the Ills my Muse endures,
Shew me a way to Rhime, or teach me yours,
But least I should in vain your care implore,
Teach me Oh!—how to Rhime no more.

TO Dr. Turberville Of Salisbury.

What was but little, or but faintly known,
In former Ages, ripens in our own,
The sacred Art which we did once believe;
Too much for man to ask, or Heaven to give,
The bounteous God at last to you reveals,
Directs your skill, and as you use it, Heals.
Of old, when thick Suffusion veil'd the sight,
'Twas Darkness all, and ever during night;
The wretch despair'd, and sought no more for Aid,
But yeilded to the Horror of the shade;
You quickly now the Solid Clouds dispel,
The fogs disperse, the rising Vapours Quell;
You force, you melt, you drive the mists away,
And shew the Ravish'd Patient, Gladsom Day;
The Sun before with useless Lustre shin'd,
On half the World, for they, Alas! were blind.
Till his full Empire was by you restor'd,
And Man receiv'd the Blessing he Implor'd,
Lookt on the Light, beheld it and Ador'd.
Pretenders, tho they do not understand,
Their Art, by chance, may have a Lucky hand;
Yet if one sees amongst a thousand Blind
They strive to help, we think their fortune kind.
But when you touch, you give a certain cure,
Speedy and Gentle, as the methods sure;
Like Fate you Doom, and where you promise Light,
The Patient rises from the threatned Night;
Or sinks beyond the hopes of human care,
When Heaven and you confine him to Despair.
A common Knowledge weak Distempers cures,
But great are left, for such advice as yours;
And fam'd Physitians for a known disease,
Start at the Wonders you perform with ease,
To you the Blind in every case repair,
The Old, the Young, the Ugly and the Fair;
In all their wants, your Judgments you Display,
The Old grow strong, and the unhandsom Gay;
Their Sight by you defended from the rage
Of sickness, force, of Accident and Age.
Ev'n Beauty is indebted to your aid,
For many of the Conquests it has made;
Those Eyes where Love before in triumph sate,
Remov'd, we thought above the rage of fate,
Wore once the Tokens of a rude Disease,
And scarce had left the little charm to please;
Hopeless of help, from any other powers,
To you they come, and find relief by yours:
At your command the Vapours disappear,
The Clouds are scatter'd, and the Sight is clear;
Their Eyes shake off the Burthen of the Night,
And break thro all, with the returning Light,
With vast success they reassume their state,
As the Sun rises Brighter than he sate.
New Graces, in those radiant Circles move,
And what before we pity'd, now we Love,
With grateful Souls your Wonders they Proclaim;
They wish, you were Immortal as your Fame:
But Nature shortly will we fear decline,
And Death succeed to make you more Divine,
Oh! Could our Pray'rs th' Amighty pow'r Engage;
To spare you yet below another Age;
Another still we should be apt to crave,
And scarce consent to yield you to the Grave;
Whilst Darkness spreads, and there are men to save:
For robb'd of you, they must Embrace their Doom,
And Grope for ever in a Starless Gloom.

TO A Young Lady Who Commanded me To write Satire.

Your Sex, Lucinda, other Theams should choose,
And not impose such hardships on a Muse,
Who ne'r durst venture, yet on nobler flights,
Than those which every common Rhimer writes;
Feilds, flowry Meadows, shady Woods and Groves,
The Nymphs diversions, and the Shepherds Loves.
But now you bid me change an Idle tale,
To stretch my Voice and use my self to Rail.
A thousand wrongs provoke me to the Fight,
And what is more, Lucinda bids me write,
My Coward Muse yet durst not trust her wings,
And only what she can with safety, sings;
She knows that Satire is a dangerous course,
And calls for wit, sublimity and force.
That ev'ry Scribler ought not to engage,
To fall on vice with despicable rage;
For vertue suffers by the vain pretence,
When Fools affect to draw in its defence;
When such as by their Spleen and Choller fir'd,
On every Whim shall think themselves Inspir'd.
Who rob, the Markets, Billingsgate and stews,
Of names, and terms, and Curses which they use,
Or furnish'd by their breeding with enough
Of such base matter and Plebeian stuff,
Publish their senseless Ribaldry for Rage,
And pass the cheat on a believing Age.
Thus we have known a strange uneasy fool,
Come snarling up to Town from Country School,
Fall on the World with Impudence and Noise,
And as much freedom as he Whipt his Boys;
None in his Brutal passion he could spare,
Ev'n Vertues self his insolence must bear,
Nor aw'd, nor temper'd, by a form so bright,
He grew incens'd and sickn'd at the sight;
Disgorg'd his fury and devulg'd his shame,
The Mob approv'd it, and the Sot had Fame.
You know, Lucinda, we by Satire mean,
No course Lampoon uncivil or obscene,
Where a vile Wit shall nauseous railing use,
Or to his passion prostitute his Muse;
A Libeller might then pretend to sense,
Whose only property is Impudence;
Then common Whores for scolding we should praise.
And Carmen have a Title to the Bayes,
No—Satire will in brighter Colours shine,
Her form is Dreadful, but 'tis all Divine,
In her true shape, she always will appear,
Just and Impartial as she is severe;
The Court and State to her Remarks be long,
She will but seldom touch a private wrong,
Unless th' Example should be understood,
Or private Errors threaten publick good.
But where of Late in England can we find,
A Pard of such a vast extended mind?
Who, scorning Loss of fortune or of blood,
Dares venture boldly for the common good;
Whose Genius, fits him for the great design,
Where strength with Grace and Majesty shall joyn;
One justly raving, and Correctly Mad,
To raise the Good and Mortify the Bad?
Since Dryden will, or must not speak at least,
There are None now, None like to be possest,
No Pens rise up in Injur'd merits cause,
And Mine must never be the first that draws.
Let Love be still the subject of my Song,
For Love's the proper business of the Young,
Ah! suffer me to tread the beaten ways,
Where I find pleasure, if I meet no praise.