University of Virginia Library

DIALOGUES OF THE DEAD AND OTHER WORKS IN PROSE AND VERSE

A SUPPLEMENT TO Mr. Prior's POEMS. Consisting Of such Pieces as are Omitted in the late Collection of his Works, and Others, now first Published, from his Original Manuscripts, in the Custody of his Friends.

To the Right Honourable the Countess Dowager of DEVONSHIRE, ON A Piece of Wissin's; Whereon were all her Grandsons Painted.

The Female PHAETON.

The Judgment of VENUS.

SONG To his Mistress.

AN ODE,

In Imitation of the Second Ode of the Third Book of Horace.

AN EPISTLE TO Sir Fleetwood Sheppard.

The sum of all I have to say,
Is, that you'd put me in some way,
And your Petitioner shall pray—
There's one thing more I had almost slipt,
But they may do as well in Post-script;
My Friend Charles Mountague's preferr'd,
Nor would I have it long observ'd,
That one Mouse eats while t'other's starv'd.

A SATIRE ON THE Modern Translators.

A Satire upon the Poets, in Imitation of the Seventh Satire of Juvenal.

SIR,

All my Endeavours, all my Hopes depend
On you the Orphans, and the Muses Friend;
The only great good Man, who will declare
Virtue and Verse the object of his Care;
And prove a Patron in the worst of Times,
When hungry Bayes forsakes his Empty Rhymes,
Beseeching all true Cath'licks Charity,
For a poor prostitute which long did lie,
Under the Mortal Sins of Verse, and Heresy.
Shadwell, and starving Tate I cease to name,
Poets of all Religions are the same:
Recanting Settle brings the tuneful Ware,
Which wiser Smithfield damn'd to Sturbridge Fair;
Protests his Tragedies and Libels fail
To yield him Paper, Penny-loaves and Ale,
And bids our Youth by his Example fly
The Love of Politicks, and Poetry.
And all Retreats except New-Hall refuse
To shelter Durfey, and his Jocky Muse;
There to the Butler, and his Grace's Maid,
He turns, like Homer, Sonneteer for Bread;
Knows his just Bounds, nor ever durst aspire
Beyond the swearing Groom, and Kitchin fire.
Is there a Man to these Examples blind,
To clinking Numbers fatally design'd?
Who by his Parts would purchase Meat, and Fame,
And in new Miscellanies plant his Name;
Were my Beard grown, the Wretch I'd thus advise,
Repent, fond Mortal, and be timely wise;
Take heed, nor be by gilded Hopes betray'd,
Clio's a Jilt, and Pegasus a Jade;
By Verse you'l starve: John Saul cou'd never live,
Unless the Bellman made the Poet thrive;
Go rather in some little Shed by Pauls,
Sell Chevy-chase, or Baxter's Salve for Souls,
Cry Raree-Shows, sell Ballads, transcribe Votes,
Be Carr or Keach, or any thing but Oates.
Hold, Sir, some Bully of the Muses cries,
Methinks you're more Satyrical, than Wise;
You rail at Verse indeed, but rail in Rhyme,
At once encourage, and condemn the Crime.
True, Sir, I write and have a Patron too,
To whom my Tributary Songs are due;
Yet with your leave I'd honestly disswade
Those wretched Men from Pindus barren shade:
Who tho' they fire their Muse, and rack their Brains
With blustering Heroes, and with piping Swains,
Can no great patient giving Man engage
To fill their Pockets, and their Title-Page.
Were I, like these, unhappily decreed
By Penny Elegies to get my Bread,
Or want a Meal unless George Croom and I
Could strike a Bargain for my Poetry,
I'd damn my Works to wrap up Soap and Cheese,
Or furnish Squibs for City Prentices
To burn the Pope, and celebrate Queen Bess.
But on your Ruin stubbornly pursue,
Herd with the hungry little chiming Crew,
Obtain the empty Title of a Wit,
And be a free-cost, Noisy in the Pit;
Print your dull Poems, and before 'em place
A Crown of Laurel, and a meager Face.
And may just Heav'n thy hated Life prolong,
Till thou, blest Author, seest thy deathless Song,
The dusty Lumber of a Smithfield Stall,
And find'st thy Picture starch'd 'gainst Suburb Wall,
With Johnny Armstrong, and the Prodigal.
And to compleat the Curse—
When Age and Poverty comes faster on,
And sad Experience tells thou art undone.
May no kind Country Grammar-School afford
Ten Pounds a Year to pay for Bed and Board;
Till void of any fix'd Employ, and now
Grown useless to the Army and the Plow,
You've no Friend left, but trusting Landlady,
Who stows you on hard Truckle, Garret high,
To dream of Dinner, and curse Poetry.
Sir, Iv'e a Patron, you reply. 'Tis true,
Fortune and Parts you say may get one too:
Why faith e'en try, Write, Flatter, Dedicate,
My Lord's, and his Forefathers Deeds relate:
Yet know he'll wisely strive ten thousand ways,
To shun a needy Poets fulsom Praise;
Nay, to avoid thy Importunity,
Neglect his State, and condescend to be
A Poet, tho' perhaps a worse than Thee.
There was a Time when Otway charm'd the Stage,
Otway the Hope, the Sorrow of our Age;
When the full Pit with pleas'd attention hung,
Wrapt with each accent from Castalio's Tongue.
With what a Laughter was his Soldier read!
How mourn'd they when his Jaffier struck, and Bled!
Yet this best Poet, tho' with so much ease,
He never drew his Pen but sure to please;
Tho' lightning were less lively than his Wit,
And Thunder-claps less loud than those o'th' Pit,
He had of's many Wants much earlier dy'd,
Had not kind Banker Betterton supply'd,
And took for Pawn the Embryo of a Play,
Till he could pay himself the next third Day.
Were Shakespear's self to live again, he'd ne'er
Deg'nerate to a Poet from a Player.
Now Carlisle in the new-rais'd Troop we see,
And chattering Mountfort in the Chancery;
Mountfort how fit for Politicks and Law,
That play'd so well Sir Courtly and Jack Daw.
Dance then attendance in slow Mulgrave's Hall,
Read Maps, or court the Sconces till he call;
One Actor's Commendation shall do more
Than Patron now, or Merit heretofore.
Some Poets I confess, the Stage has fed,
Who for Half Crowns are shown, for two Pence read;
But these not envy thou, but imitate,
Much rather starve in Shadwel's silent Fate,
Then new vamp Farces, and be damn'd with Tate.
For now no Sidneys will three hundred give,
That needy Spenser and his Fame may live;
None of our new Nobility will send
To the King's Bench, or to his Bedlam Friend .
Chymists and Whores by Buckingham were fed,
Those by their honest Labours gain'd their Bread;
But he was never so expensive yet,
To keep a Creature meerly for his Wit;
And Cowley from Hall-Clifden scarce could have
One grateful Stone, to shew the World his Grave.
Pembroke lov'd Tragedy and did provide
For Butcher's Dogs, and for the whole Bankside;
The Bear was fed, but Dedicating Lee,
Was thought to have a larger Paunch than he.
More I could say, but care not much to meet
A Crabtree Cudgel in a narrow Street.
Besides, your Yawning prompts me to give o'er:
Your humble Servant, Sir, not one word more.

[POEMS FROM THE New Collection, 1725]

Epitaph Extempore.

Heralds, and Statesmen, by your leave,
Here lye the Bones of Matthew Prior;
The Son of Adam and of Eve,
Can Bourbon, or Nassau, go higher?

THE Turtle and the Sparrow.

A TALE.

T.

S.
Poor Turturella, hard thy Case,
And just thy Tears, alas, alas!

T.
And hast thou lov'd, and canst thou hear
With piteous Heart a Lover's Care?
Come then, wi[t]h Me thy Sorrows join,
And ease My Woes by telling Thine:
For Thou, poor Bird, perhaps may'st moan
Some Passerella dead and gone.

S.
Dame Turtle, this runs soft in Rhime,
But neither suits the Place nor Time;
That Fowler's Hand, whose cruel Care
For dear Columbo set the Snare,
The Snare again for Thee may set;
Two Birds may perish in One Net.
Thou shou'd'st avoid this cruel Field,
And Sorrow shou'd to Prudence yield.
'Tis sad to Die.

T.
It may be so;
'Tis sadder yet, to Live in Woe.

S.
When Widows use their canting Strain,
They seem resolv'd to wed again.

T.
When Wid'wers wou'd this Truth disprove,
They never tasted real Love.

S.
Love is soft Joy and gentle Strife,
His Efforts all depend on Life:
When he has thrown Two Golden Darts,
And struck the Lovers mutual Hearts;
Of his black Shafts let Death send One,
Alas! the pleasing Game is done,
Ill is the poor Survivor sped,
A Corps feels mighty cold in Bed.
Venus said right, nor Tears can move,
Nor plaints revoke the Will of JOVE.

T.
I therefore weep Columbo dead,
My Hopes bereav'd, my Pleasures fled;
I therefore must for ever moan
My dear Columbo dead and gone.

S.
Columbo never sees your Tears,
Your Cries Columbo never hears;
A Wall of Brass, and one of Lead,
Divide the Living from the Dead.
Repell'd by this, the gather'd Rain
Of Tears beats back to Earth again,
In t'other the Collected Sound
Of Groans, when once receiv'd, is drown'd.
'Tis therefore vain one Hour to grieve
What Time it-self can ne'er retrieve,
By Nature soft, I know, a Dove
Can never live without her Love;
Then quit this Flame, and light another;
Dame, I advise you like a Brother.

T.
What, I to make a second Choice?
In other Nuptials to rejoyce?

S.
Why not my Bird?

T.
No Sparrow no,
Let me indulge my pleasing woe:
Thus sighing, coeing, ease my Pain,
But never wish nor love again:
Distress'd for ever let me moan
My dear Columbo, dead and gone.

S.
Our winged Friends thro' all the Grove
Contemn thy mad Excess of Love:
I tell thee, Dame, the t'other Day
I met a Parrot and a Jay,
Who mock'd thee in their mimick Tone,
And wept Columbo, dead and gone.

T.
Whate'er the Jay or Parrot said,
My Hopes are lost, my Joys are fled;
And I for ever must deplore
Columbo dead and gone.—

S.
Encore!
For Shame forsake this BION-style,
We'll talk an Hour, and walk a Mile.
Does it with Sense or Health agree,
To sit thus mopeing on a Tree?
To throw away a Widow's Life,
When you again may be a Wife.

T.
Sparrow, I take thee for my Friend,
As such will hear thee, I descend;
Hop on and talk, but honest Bird,
Take care that no immodest Word
May venture to offend my Ear.—

S.
Too Saint-like Turtle, never fear,—
By Method Things are best discours'd,
Begin we then with Wife the first:
A handsome, senseless, awkward Fool
Who wou'd not Yield, and cou'd not Rule:
Her Actions did her Charms disgrace,
And still her Tongue talk'd off her Face:
Count me the Leaves on yonder Tree,
So many diff'rent Wills had she,
And like the Leaves, as Chance inclin'd,
Those Wills were chang'd with every Wind:
She courted the Beau Monde To-night,
L'Assemblèe her supreme Delight.
The next she sat immur'd, unseen,
And in full Health enjoy'd the Spleen.
She censur'd that, she alter'd this,
And with great Care set all amiss;
She now cou'd chide, now laugh, now cry,
Now sing, now pout, all, God knows why:
Short was her Reign, she Cough'd and Dy'd,
Proceed we to my Second Bride;
Well Born she was, genteely Bred,
And Buxom both at Board and Bed,
Glad to oblige, and pleas'd to please,
And, as Tom Southren wisely says,
No other Fault had she in Life,
But only that she was my Wife.
O Widow-Turtle! every She,
(So Nature's Pleasure does Decree)
Appears a Goddess till enjoy'd,
But Birds, and Men, and Gods are cloy'd.
Was Hercules One Woman's Man?
Or Jove for ever Leda's Swan?
Ah! Madam, cease to be mistaken,
Few marry'd Fowl peck Dunmow-Bacon.
Variety alone gives Joy,
The sweetest Meats the soonest cloy:
What Sparrow, Dame? what Dove alive?
Tho' Venus shou'd the Char'ot drive,
But wou'd accuse the Harness-Weight,
If always Coupled to One Mate;
And often wish the Fetter broke,
'Tis Freedom but to Change the Yoke.

T.
Impious to wish to Wed again,
E'er Death dissolv'd the former Chain.

S.
Spare your Remark, and hear the rest,
She brought me Sons, but Jove be blest,
She Dy'd in Child-Bed on the Nest.

T.
Those Points indeed you quaintly prove,
But Logick is no Friend to Love.

S.
My Children then were just pen feather'd:
Some little Corn for them I gather'd,
And sent them to my Spouse's Mother,
So left that Brood to get another.
And as Old Harry Whilome said,
Reflecting on Anne Bullen Dead,
Cocksbones, I now again do stand
The jolly'st Batchelor i'th' Land.

T.
Ah me! my Joys, my Hopes are fled;
My first, my only Love is Dead.
With endless Grief let me bemoan
Columbo's Loss. S. Let me go on.
As yet my Fortune was but narrow,
I woo'd my Cousin Philly Sparrow,
O'th' Elder House of Chirping-End,
From whence the younger Branch descend;
Well seated in a Field of Pease
She liv'd, extreamly at her Ease:
But when the Honey-Moon was past,
The following Nights were soon o'ercast,
She kept her own, could plead the Law,
And Quarrel for a Barley-Straw;
Both, you may judge became less kind,
As more we knew each other's Mind:
She soon grew sullen, I, hard-hearted,
We scolded, hated, fought, and parted.
To LONDON, blessed Town, I went,
She Boarded at a Farm in Kent:
A Magpye from the Country fled,
And kindly told me she was Dead:
I prun'd my Feathers, cock'd my Tail,
And set my Heart again to Sale.

T.
Whate'er of Light our Eye may know,
'Tis only Light it-self can show:
Whate'er of Love our Heart can feel,
'Tis mutual Love alone can tell.

S.
My pretty, amorous, foolish Bird,
A Moment's Patience, in one Word,
The Three kind Sisters broke the Chain,
She Dy'd, I mourn'd, and woo'd again.

T.
Let me with juster Grief deplore
My dear Columbo, now no more;
Let me with constan[t] Tears bewail.—

S.
Your Sorrow does but spoil my Tale.
My Fifth she prov'd a jealous Wife,
Lord shield us all from such a Life!
'Twas Doubt, Complaint, Reply, Chit-Chat,
'Twas This, To-day, To-morrow, That.
Sometimes forsooth, upon the Brook,
I kept a Miss; an honest Rook
Told it a Snipe, who told a Stear,
Who told it those, who told it her.
One Day a Linnet and a Lark
Had met me stroleing in the Dark;
The next, a Woodcock and an Owl
Quick-sighted, grave, and sober Fowl,
Wou'd on their Corp'ral Oath alledge,
I kiss'd a Hen behind the Hedge.
Well, Madam Turtle, to be brief,
(Repeating but renews our Grief)
As once she watch'd me, from a Rail,
Poor Soul! her Footing chanc'd to fail,
And down she fell, and broke her Hip,
The Fever came, and then the Pip:
Death did the only cure apply;
She was at quiet, so was I.

T.
Cou'd Love unmov'd these Changes view?
His Sorrows, as his Joys are true.

S.
My dearest Dove, One wise Man says,
Alluding to our present Case,
We're here To-day, and gone To-morrow:
Then what avails superfl'ous Sorrow?
Another full as wise as he,
Adds; that a Marry'd Man may see
Two happy Hours; and which are they?
The First and Last, perhaps you'll say;
'Tis true, when blithe she goes to Bed,
And when she peaceably lies Dead;
Women 'twixt Sheets are best, 'tis said,
Be they of Holland or of Lead.

T.
Thy Tale has rais'd a Turtle's Spleen,
Uxorious Inmate, Bird obscene,
Dar'st thou defile these Sacred Groves,
These silent Seats of faithful Loves?
Begone, with flagging Wings sit down
On some old Pent-house near the Town;
In Brewers-Stables peck thy Grain,
Then wash it down with puddled Rain:
And hear thy dirty Off-spring Squall
From Bottles on a Suburb-Wall.
Where Thou hast been, return again,
Vile Bird! Thou hast convers'd with Men;
Notions like these, from Men are giv'n,
Those vilest Creatures under Heav'n.

APPLICATION OF THE TURTLE and SPARROW.

O dearest daughter of two dearest friends,
To thee, my muse, this little tale commends;
Loving, and lov'd, regard thy future mate,
Long love his person, tho' deplore his fate.
Seem young, when old, in thy dear husband's arms,
For constant virtue has immortal charms;
And when I lie low sepulcher'd in earth,
And the glad year returns thy day of birth,
Vouchsafe to say e'er I cou'd write or spell,
The Bard, who from my cradle wish'd me well,
Told me I should the prating Sparrow blame,
And bid me imitate the Turtle's fame.

DOWN-HALL;

A BALLAD.

VERSES Spoke to the Lady Henrietta-Cavendish Holles Harley, In the LIBRARY of St. John's College, Cambridge

Madam,

PROLOGUE TO THE ORPHAN.

Represented by some of the Westminster-Scholars at Hickford's Dancing-Room, the 2d of February, 1720.

THE CONVERSATION,

A TALE.

Patron thro' Life, and from thy Birth my Friend,
Dorset, to Thee this Fable let Me send:
With Damon's Lightness weigh Thy solid Worth;
The Foil is known to set the Diamond forth:
Let the feign'd Tale this real Moral give,
How many Damons, how few Dorsets Live.

COLIN's MISTAKES.

Written in Imitation of Spenser's Style.

[MISCELLANEOUS POEMS ETC., FROM THE COLLECTION OF DRIFT]

Considerations on part of the 88th Psalm.

A College Exercise. 1690.

ON THE TAKING OF NAMUR, 1692.

The town which Loüis bought, Nassau reclaims,
And brings instead of bribes avenging flames.
Now Loüis take thy titles from Above,
Boileau shall sing, and we'll believe thee Jove.
Jove gained his mistress with alluring gold,
But Jove like Thee was impotent and old:
Active and young he did like William stand,
And stunn'd the Dame, his Thunder in his Hand.

TO A CHILD of QUALITY, FIVE YEARS OLD, The AUTHOR Forty.

TWO RIDDLES.

A FABLE.

The Fox an actor's vizard found,
And peer'd, and felt, and turn'd it round:
Then threw it in contempt away,
And thus old Phædrus heard him say:
What noble part can'st thou sustain,
Thou specious head without a brain?

A SONG.

[_]

SET BY Mr ABEL.

[Reading ends in melancholy]

Reading ends in melancholy,
Wine breeds vices and diseases,
Wealth is but care, and love but folly,
Only Friendship truly pleases:
My wealth, my books, my flask, my Molly,
Farewel all, if Friendship ceases.

CONSUMMATION.

To a Friend.

When Jove lay blest in his Alcmæna's charms,
Three nights, in One, he prest her in his arms;
The sun lay set, and conscious nature strove
To shade her God, and to prolong his love.
From that auspicious night Alcides came,
What less could rise from Jove, and such a Dame?
May this auspicious night with that compare,
Nor less the joys, nor less the rising heir,
He strong as Jove, She like Alcmæna fair.

THE FORTUNE-TELLER.

To a YOUNG LADY in search of HER DESTINY.

AN ENIGMA.

By birth I'm a slave, yet can give you a crown,
I dispose of all honours, my self having none.
I'm obliged by just maxims to govern my life,
Yet I hang my own master, and lie with his wife.
When men are a gaming, I cunningly sneak,
And their cudgels and shovels away from them take.
Fair maidens and ladies, I by the hand get,
And pick off their diamonds, tho' ne'er so well set.
For when I have comrades, we rob in whole bands,
Then presently take off your lands from your hands.
But this fury once over, I've such winning arts,
That you love me much more than you do your own hearts.

CUPID Turned STROLLER.

FROM ANACREON, ODE III.

At dead of night, when stars appear,
And strong Bootes turns the Bear;
When mortals sleep their cares away,
Fatigu'd with labours of the day,
Cupid was knocking at my gate;
Who's there, says I, who knocks so late?
Disturbs my dreams, and breaks my rest?
O fear not me a harmless guest,
He said, but open, open pray;
A foolish child, I've lost my way,
And wander here this moon-light night,
All wet and cold, and wanting light.
With due regard his voice I heard,
Then rose, a ready lamp prepar'd,
And saw a naked boy below,
With wings, a quiver, and a bow:
In haste I ran, unlockt my gate,
Secure and thoughtless of my fate;
I set the Child an easy chair
Against the fire, and dry'd his hair;
Brought friendly cups of chearful wine,
And warm'd his little hands with mine;
All this did I with kind intent;
But he, on wanton mischief bent
Said, dearest friend, this bow you see,
This pretty bow belongs to me:
Observe, I pray, if all be right,
I fear the rain has spoil'd it quite:
He drew it then, and strait I found
Within my breast a secret wound.
This done, the rogue no longer staid,
But leapt away, and laughing said,
Kind host adieu, we now must part,
Safe is my bow, but sick thy heart.

SNUFF.

AN EPIGRAM.

Jove once resolv'd (the Females to degrade)
To propagate their Sex without their aid.
His brain conceiv'd, and soon the pangs, and throws
He felt, nor could th' unnatural birth disclose:
At last when try'd, no remedy would do,
The God took Snuff, and out the Goddess flew.

DAPHNE and APOLLO.

IMITATED.

APOLLO.
Abate, fair fugitive, abate thy speed,
Dismiss thy fears, and turn thy beauteous head,
With kind regard a panting lover view,
Less swiftly fly, less swiftly I'll pursue;
Pathless alas, and rugged is the ground,
Some stone may hurt thee, or some thorn may wound.

DAPHNE.
(Aside.)
This care is for himself, as sure as death,
One mile has put the fellow out of breath;
He'll never do, I'll lead him t' other round,
Washy he is, perhaps not over sound.

APOLLO.
You fly, alas, not knowing who you fly,
Nor ill bred swain, nor rusty clown am I;
I Claros-isle, and Tenedos command—

DAPHNE.
Thank ye, I wou'd not leave my native land.

APOLLO.
What is to come, by certain arts I know:

DAPHNE.
Pish, Partridge has as fair pretence as you.

APOLLO.
Behold the beauties of my locks.

(Daph.)

APOLLO.
I sing.

(Daph.)

APOLLO.
Of ev'ry herb I tell the mystic pow'r,
To certain health the patient I restore,
Sent for, caress'd;

(Daph.)

APOLLO.
For learning fam'd fine verses I compose,

DAPHNE.
So do your brother quacks and brother beaux,
Memorials only, and reviews write prose.

APOLLO.
From the bent yew I send the pointed reed,
Sure of its aim, and fatal in its speed.—

DAPHNE.
Then leaving me whom sure you wou'd n't kill,
In yonder thicket exercise your skill,
Shoot there at beasts, but for the human heart
Your cousin Cupid has the only dart.

APOLLO.
Yet turn, O beauteous maid, yet deign to hear
A love-sick Deity's impetuous pray'r;
O let me woo thee as thou wou'dst be woo'd,

DAPHNE.

PROLOGUE, SPOKEN BY Lord BUCKHURST, AT WESTMINSTER-SCHOOL,

At a Representation of Mr Dryden's CLEOMENES, The Spartan HERO.

At Christmas. 1695.

Pish, lord, I wish this Prologue was but Greek,
Then young Cleonidas would boldly speak:
But can Lord Buckhurst in poor English say,
Gentle spectators pray excuse the play?
No, witness all ye Gods of ancient Greece,
Rather than condescend to terms like these,
I'd go to school six hours on Christmas-day,
Or construe Persius while my comrades play.
Such work by hireling actors should be done,
Who tremble when they see a critic frown.
Poor rogues that smart like fencers for their bread,
And if they are not wounded are not fed.
But, Sirs, our labour has more noble ends,
We act our Tragedy to see our Friends:
Our gen'rous scenes are for pure love repeated,
And if you are not pleas'd, at least your treated.
The candles and the cloaths our selves we bought,
Our Tops neglected, and our Balls forgot.
To learn our parts we left our midnight bed,
Most of you snored whilst Cleomenes read;
Not that from this confession we would sue
Praise undeserv'd; we know our selves and you:
Resolv'd to stand or perish by our cause,
We neither censure fear, or beg applause,
For those are Westminster and Sparta's laws.
Yet if we see some judgment well inclin'd,
To young desert, and growing virtue kind,
That critic by ten thousand marks should know,
That greatest souls to goodness only bow;
And that your little Hero does inherit
Not Cleomenes more than Dorset's spirit.

[THE SECRETARY.]

While with labour assid'ous due pleasure I mix,
And in one day atone for the bus'ness of six,
In a little Dutch-chaise on a Saturday night,
On my left hand my Horace, a Nymph on my right.
No Memoire to compose, and no Post-Boy to move,
That on Sunday may hinder the softness of love;
For her, neither visits, nor parties of tea,
Nor the long-winded cant of a dull refugée.
This night and the next shall be her's, shall be mine,
To good or ill fortune the third we resign:
Thus scorning the world, and superior to fate,
I drive on my car in processional state;
So with Phia thro' Athens Pysistratus rode,
Men thought her Minerva, and him a new God.
But why should I stories of Athens rehearse,
Where people knew love, and were partial to verse,
Since none can with justice my pleasures oppose,
In Holland half drowned in int'rest and prose:
By Greece and past ages, what need I be try'd,
When the Hague and the present, are both on my side,
And is it enough, for the joys of the day;
To think what Anacreon, or Sappho would say.
When good Vandergoes, and his provident Vrough,
As they gaze on my triumph, do freely allow,
That search all the province, you'd find no man there is
So bless'd as the Englishen Heer SECRETARIS.

THE MICE

A TALE.

TO Mr ADRIAN DRIFT, in the Year 1708–9.

THE VICEROY.

A BALLAD.

[_]

TO The Tune of The Lady Isabella's Tragedy: Or: The Step-Mother's Cruelty.

UPON THIS PASSAGE IN SCALIGERIANA.

Les Allemans ne ce soucient pas quel Vin ils boivent pouveu que ce soit Vin, ni quel Latin ils parlent pouveu que ce soit Latin.

When you with High-Dutch Heeren dine,
Expect false Latin, and stumm'd Wine,
They never Taste who always Drink,
They always Talk who never Think.

Nell and John.

An Epigram.

Bibo.

An Epigram.

When Bibo thought fit from the world to retreat,
As full of Champagne, as an egg's full of meat;
He wak'd in the boat, and to Charon he said,
He wou'd be row'd back, for he was not yet dead.
Trim the boat, and sit quiet, stern Charon reply'd,
You may have forgot, you were drunk when you dy'd.

Gabriel and his Wives.

An Epigram.

Silvia.

An Epigram.

Her time with equal prudence Silvia shares,
First writes her Billet-doux, then says her pray'rs,
Her mass and toilet; vespers, and the play;
Thus God and Ashtaroth divide the day:
Constant she keeps her Ember-week, and Lent,
At Easter calls all Israel to her tent:
Loose without band, and pious without zeal,
She still repeats the sins she would conceal;
Envy her self from Silvia's life must grant,
An artful woman makes a modern saint.

Richard and Nelly.

An Epigram.

Quoth Richard in jest, looking wistly at Nelly,
Methinks child you seem something round in the belly:
Nell answer'd him snapishly, How can that be?
My husband has been more than two years at sea.
Thy husband! quoth Dick, why that matter was carry'd
Most secretly, Nell, I ne'er thought thou wer't marry'd.

CUPID IN AMBUSH.

It oft to many has successful been,
Upon his arm to let his mistress lean,
Or with her airy fan to cool her heat,
Or gently squeeze her knees, or press her feet.
All public sports to favour young desire,
With opportunities like this conspire;
Ev'n where his skill, the Gladiator shows,
With human blood, where the Arena flows.
There oftentimes love's quiver-bearing-Boy,
Prepares his bow and arrows to destroy:
While the spectator gazes on the fight,
And sees 'em wound each other with delight.
While he his pretty mistress entertains,
And wagers with her who the conquest gains;
Slily the God takes aim and hits his heart,
And in the wounds he sees he bears his part.

Nannette.

A Song.

The Priest and the Shepherd.

An Imitation OF A GREEK EPIGRAM.

When hungry wolves had trespass'd on the fold,
And the robb'd shepherd his sad story told;
“Call in Alcides, said a crafty priest,
“Give him one half, and he'll secure the rest.”
No, said the shepherd, if the Fates decree,
By ravaging my flock to ruin me;
To their commands I willingly resign,
Pow'r is their character, and patience mine:
Tho', troth to me, there seems but little odds,
Who prove the greatest robbers, wolves or Gods?

ON A FART, LET IN THE HOUSE of COMMONS.

Reader I was born, and cry'd;
I crack'd, I smelt, and so I dy'd.
Like Julius Cæsar's was My death,
Who in the senate lost his breath.
Much alike entomb'd does lie
The noble Romulus and I;
And when I dy'd, like Flora fair,
I left the Common-Wealth my heir

On Hall's Death.

An Epigram.

Poor Hall caught his death standing under a spout,
Expecting till midnight, when Nan would come out;
But fatal his patience, as cruel the Dame,
And curst was the Weather that quench'd the Man's flame.
“Who e'er thou art that reads these moral lines,
“Make love at home, and go to bed betimes.”

Prometheus.

An Epigram.

Prometheus forming Mr Day,
Carv'd something like a man in clay.
The mortal's work might well miscarry;
He that does heav'n and earth controul,
Has only pow'r to form a soul,
His hand is evident in Harry.
Since One is but a moving clod,
T'Other the lively form of God,
'Squire Wallis, you will scare be able,
To prove all poetry but fable.

THE WANDERING PILGRIM.

HUMBLY ADDRESSED TO Sir Thomas Frankland, Bart. Post-Master, and Pay-Master-General to Queen Anne.

THE ADVICE OF VENUS.

Thus to the Muses Spoke the Cyprian-Dame;
Adorn my altars, and revere my name.
My Son shall else assume his potent darts,
Twang goes the bow, my Girls, have at your hearts.
The Muses answer'd,—Venus we deride,
The Vagrant's malice, and his Mother's pride.
Send him to Nymphs who sleep on Ida's shade,
To the loose dance, and wanton masquerade:
Our thoughts are setled, and intent our look,
On the instructive verse, and moral book;
On female idleness his pow'r relies,
But when he finds us studying-hard he flies.

CUPID TURNED PLOWMAN.

FROM THE GREEK OF MOSCHUS.

His lamp, his bow, and quiver, laid aside,
A rustic wallet o'er his shoulders ty'd:
Sly Cupid always on new mischief bent,
To the rich field, and furrow'd tillage went.
Like any Plowman toil'd the little God,
His tune he whistled, and his wheat he sow'd;
Then sat and laugh'd, and to the skies above
Raising his eye, he thus insulted Jove.
Lay by your hail, your hurtful storms restrain,
And, as I bid you, let it shine or rain.
Else you again beneath my yoke shall bow,
Fell the sharp goad, and draw the servile plow,
What once Europa was Nannette is now.

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

AN EPIGRAM.

H.
O with what woes am I opprest!

W.
Be still you senseless Calf:
What if the Gods should make you blest?

H.
Why then I'd sing and laugh:
But if they won't, I'll wail, and cry.

W.
You'll hardly laugh, before you die.

TO FORTUNE.

ANOTHER.

Whilst I in Prison on a Court look down,
Nor beg thy favour, nor deserve thy frown,
In vain malicious Fortune, hast thou try'd,
By taking from my state to quell my Pride:
Insulting Girl, thy present rage abate;
And would'st thou have me humble, make me Great.

CHAST FLORIMEL.

PARTIAL FAME.

A SONG.

[_]

SET BY Mr PURCEL.

[Whither would my passion run]

NON PAREIL.

In Praise of Phyllis.

UPON HONOUR.

A FRAGMENT.

Honour, I say, or honest Fame,
I mean the substance, not the name;
(Not that light heap of tawdry wares,
Of Ermin, Coronets, and Stars,
Which often is by merit sought,
By gold and flatt'ry oft'ner bought.
The shade, for which Ambition looks,
In Selden's or in Ashmole's books:)
But the true glory which proceeds,
Reflected bright from honest deeds,
Which we in our Own breast perceive,
And Kings can neither take nor give.

THE OLD GENTRY.

THE INCURABLE.

AN EPIGRAM.

Phillis you boast of perfect health in vain,
And laugh at those who of their ills complain:
That with a frequent fever Cloe burns,
And Stella's plumpness into dropsy turns.
O! Phillis, while the patients are nineteen,
Little, alas! are their distempers seen.
But Thou for all Thy seeming health art ill,
Beyond thy lover's hopes, or Blackmore's skill;
No lenitives can thy disease asswage,
I tell Thee, 'Tis incurable—'tis Age.

THE Insatiable PRIEST.

DOCTORS Differ.

AN EPIGRAM.

When Willis of Ephraim heard Rochester preach,
Thus Bently said to him, I pr'ythee, dear brother,
How lik'st Thou this Sermon? 'Tis out of My reach,
His is One way, said Willis, and Ours is Another.
I care not for carping, but this I can tell,
We preach very sadly, if he preaches well.

PONTIUS AND PONTIA.

Cautious Alice.

So good a Wife doth Lissy make,
That from all company She flieth.
Such virtuous courses doth She take,
That She all evil tongues defieth.
And for her dearest Spouse's sake,
She with His brethren only lieth.

TO A POET of Quality, PRAISING THE Lady HINCHINBROKE.

The PRATER.

An Epigram.

Lysander talks extremely well;
On any subject let him dwell,
His tropes and figures will content Ye:
He should possess to all degrees
The art of talk, he practises
Full fourteen hours in four and twenty.

TRUTH TOLD AT LAST.

AN EPIGRAM.

Says Pontius in rage, contradicting his Wife,
“You never yet told me one Truth in your life:”
Vext Pontia no way could this Thesis allow,
“You're a Cuckold, say's she, do I tell you Truth now?”

AN ENIGMA.

Form'd half beneath, and half above the earth,
We Sisters owe to art our second birth:
The Smith's and Carpenter's adopted Daughters,
Made on the land, to travel on the waters.
Swifter they move, as they are straiter bound,
Yet neither tread the air, or wave, or ground:
They serve the poor for use, the rich for whim,
Sink when it rains, and when it freezes swim.

TWO BEGGARS Disputing their Right to an Oyster they had Found; a Lawyer thus decides the Cause.

Blind Plaintiff, lame Defendant, share
The friendly Laws impartial care.
A Shell for Him, A Shell for Thee,
The Middle is the Lawyer's-Fee.
So Judge's Word decrees the People's Right,
And Magna Charta is a Paper-Kite.

A FRENCH SONG.

HUMAN LIFE.

What trifling coil do we poor mortals keep;
Wake, eat, and drink, evacuate, and sleep.

A CASE STATED.

FOR My own Monument.

TO My Lord HARLEY.

EXTEMPORE.

Pen, ink, and wax, and paper send,
To the kind Wife, the lovely Friend;
Smiling bid Her freely write,
What her happy thoughts indite;
Of Virtue, Goodness, Peace, and Love,
Thoughts which Angels may approve.

A LETTER TO The Honourable LADY Miss Margaret-Cavendish-Holles-Harley.

TRUTH AND FALSHOOD.

A TALE.

Nelly's Picture.

A SONG.

PROLOGUE FOR DELIA's PLAY.

The Royal Mischief. A Tragedy.

AMARYLLIS.

A PASTORAL.

It was the fate of an unhappy Swain
To love a Nymph, the glory of the plain;
In vain he daily did his courtship move,
The Nymph was haughty, and disdain'd to love.
Each morn as soon as the Sun's golden ray
Dispers'd the clouds, and chaced dark night away,
The sad despairing Shepherd rear'd his head
From off his pillow, and forsook his bed.
Strait he search'd out some melancholy shade,
Where he did blame the proud disdainful Maid,
And thus with cruelty did her upbraid:
Ah! Shepherdess will you then let me dye;
Will nothing thaw this frozen cruelty:
But you, lest you should pity, will not hear,
You will not to my suff'rings give ear;
But adder-like to listen you refuse
To words, the greatest charm that man can use.
'Tis now noon-day, the Sun is mounted high,
Beneath refreshing shades the beasts do lie,
And seek out cooling rivers to asswage,
The Lion's sultry heat, and Dog-Star's rage:
The Oxen now can't plow the fruitful soil,
The furious heat forbids the reaper's toil.
Both beast and men for work are now unfit,
The weary'd Hinds down to their dinner sit;
Each creature now is with refreshment blest,
And none but wretched I, debarr'd of rest,
I wander up and down thro' desart lands,
On sun-burnt mountain-tops, and parched sands.
And as alone, restless I go along,
Nothing but eccho answers to my Song.
Had I not better undergo the scorn
Of Jenny? is it not more easy borne?
The cruelty of angry Kate? altho'
That She is black, and you as white as snow.
O! Nymph don't, too much, to your beauty trust,
The brightest steel is eaten up with rust:
The whitest blossoms fall, sweet roses fade,
And you, tho' handsom, yet may dye a maid.
With Thee I could admire a country life,
Free from disturbance, city noise, or strife:
Amongst the shady groves and woods we'd walk,
Of nothing else but love's great charms we'd talk,
We would pursue, in season, rural sports,
And then let knaves and fools resort to courts;
I could, besides, some country-presents find,
Could they persuade you, but to be more kind:
But since with scorn you do those gifts despise,
Another Shepherdess shall gain the prize.
O! Amaryllis, beauteous Maid, observe,
The Nymphs themselves are willing Thee to serve,
See where large baskets full of flowers they bring,
The sweet fair product of th' indulgent spring.
See there the Pink, and the Anemony,
The purple Violet, Rose, and Jessamy.
See where they humbly lay their presents down,
To make a chaplet thy dear head to crown.
See where the beasts go trooping drove by drove,
See how they answer one another's love:
See where the Bull the Heifer does pursue,
See where the Mare the furious Horse does woo:
Each Female to her Male is always kind,
And Women, only cruel Women blind,
Contradict that for which they were design'd.
So Corydon loves an ungrateful Fair,
Who minds not oaths, nor cares for any prayer.
But see the Sun his race has almost run,
And the laborious Ox his work has done.
But I still love without the thought of ease,
No cure was ever found for that disease,
But Corydon, what frenzy does thee [seize].
Why dost thou lie in this dejected way?
Why doest thou let thy Sheep and Oxen stray?
Thy tuneful Pipe, why dost Thou throw away.
Had not you better dispossess your mind
Of Her who is so cruel and unkind;
Forget Her guile, and calm those raging cares,
Take heart again, and follow your affairs,
For what altho' this Nymph does cruel prove,
You'll find a thousand other Maids will love.

CUPID's Promise.

PARAPHRASED.

Lamentation for DORINDA.

On Absence.

TO LEONORA.

TO LEONORA.

ENCORE.

ON A PRETTY MADWOMAN.

The Torment of ABSENCE.

THE NEW-YEAR'S GIFT TO PHYLLIS.

Coy Jenny.

A SONG.

TO CELIA.

AN EPIGRAM.

You need not thus so often pray,
Or in devotion spend the day,
Since without half such toil and pain,
You surely Paradise will gain.
Your Husband's impotent and jealous,
And Celia that's enough to tell us
You must inhabit Heaven herea'ter,
Because you are a Virgin-Martyr.

Upon a FRIEND, WHO HAD A Pain in his Left-Side.

THE EXAMINER. 7 SEPTEMBER 1710

To the Earl of Godolphin.

[MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, FROM THE COLLECTION OF EVANS, INCLUDING TWENTY-FOUR SONGS.]

I.

[_]

SET BY Mr. DE FESCH.

[Strephonetta, why d' ye fly me]

II. PARTING WITH FLAVIA.

[_]

SET BY Mr. SMITH.

III.

[_]

SET BY Mr. DE FESCH.

[Let perjur'd fair Aminta know]

IV. TO PHILLIS.

[_]

SET BY Mr. SMITH.

V.

[_]

SET BY Mr. DE FESCH.

[Phillis, this pious talk give o'er]

VI.

[_]

SET BY Mr. SMITH.

[Still, Dorinda, I adore]

VII.

[_]

SET BY Mr. DE FESCH.

[Is it, O Love, thy want of eyes]

VIII. A TWO PART SONG.

[_]

SET BY Mr. SMITH.

[Why, Harry, what ails you? why look you so sad?]

Why, Harry, what ails you? why look you so sad?
To think and ne'er drink, will make you stark-mad.
'Tis the mistress, the friend, and the bottle, old boy!
Which create all the pleasure poor mortals enjoy;
But wine of the three's the most cordial brother,
For one it relieves, and it strengthens the other.

IX.

[_]

SET BY Mr. DE FESCH.

[Morella, charming without art]

X.

[_]

SET BY Mr. SMITH.

[Since my words, though ne'er so tender]

XI.

[_]

SET BY Mr. DE FESCH.

[Love! inform thy faithful creature]

XII.

[Since, Moggy, I mun bid adieu]

XIII.

[_]

SET BY Mr. SMITH.

[Once I was unconfin'd and free]

XIV.

[Some kind angel, gently flying]

XV.

[_]

SET BY Mr. DE FESCH.

[Farewel, Amynta, we must part]

XVI. LES ESTREINES.

[_]

SET BY Mr. SMITH.

XVII.

[_]

SET BY Mr. DE FESCH.

[Nanny blushes when I woo her]

XVIII.

[_]

SET BY Mr. SMITH.

[Since we your husband daily see]

XIX. ADVICE TO A LADY.

[_]

Set by Mr. C. R.

XX.

[_]

SET BY Mr. DE FESCH.

[Since by ill fate I'm forc'd away]

XXI.

[_]

SET BY Mr. DE FESCH.

[Touch the lyre, on every string]

Touch the lyre, on every string,
Touch it, Orpheus, I will sing,
A song which shall immortal be;
Since she I sing 's a deity:
A Leonora, whose blest birth
Has no relation to this earth.

XXII.

[_]

SET BY Mr. DE FESCH.

[In vain, alas! poor Strephon tries]

XXIII.

[_]

SET BY Mr. DE FESCH.

[Well! I will never more complain]

XXIV.

[_]

Set by Mr. C. R.

[Chloe beauty has and wit]

TO THE REV. DR. FRANCIS TURNER, BISHOP OF ELY WHO HAD ADVISED A TRANSLATION OF PRUDENTIUS.

A PASTORAL.

TO DR. TURNER, BISHOP of ELY; ON HIS DEPARTURE FROM CAMBRIDGE.

DAMON.
Tell, dear Alexis, tell thy Damon, why
Dost thou in mournful shades obscurely lie?
Why dost thou sigh, why strike thy panting breast?
And steal from life the needful hours of rest?
Are thy kids starv'd by winter's early frost?
Are any of thy bleating stragglers lost?
Have strangers' cattle trod thy new-plough'd ground?
Has great Joanna, or her greater shepherd frown'd.

ALEXIS.
See my kids browze, my lambs securely play:
(Ah! were their master unconcern'd as they!)
No beasts (at noon I look'd) had trod my ground;
Nor has Joanna, or her shepherd, frown'd.

DAMON.
Then stop the lavish fountain of your eyes,
Nor let those sighs from your swoln bosom rise;
Chase sadness, friend, and solitude away;
And once again rejoice, and once again look gay.

ALEXIS.
Say what can more our tortur'd souls annoy,
Than to behold, admire, and lose our joy;
Whose fate more hard than those who sadly run,
For the last glimpse of the departing sun?
Or what severer sentence can be given,
Than, having seen, to be excluded Heaven?

DAMON.
None; shepherd, none—

ALEXIS.
Then cease to chide my cares!
And rather pity than restrain my tears;
Those tears, my Damon, which I justly shed,
To think how great my joys; how soon they fled;
I told thee, friend, (now bless the shepherd's name,
From whose dear care the kind occasion came,)
That I, even I, might happily receive
The sacred wealth, which Heaven and Daphnis give:
That I might see the lovely awful swain,
Whose holy crosier guides our willing plain;
Whose pleasing power and ruling goodness keep
Our souls with equal care as we our sheep;
Whose praise excites each lyre, employs each tongue:
Whilst only he who caus'd, dislikes the song.
To this great, humble, parting man I gain'd
Access, and happy for an hour I reign'd;
Happy as new-form'd man in paradise,
Ere sin debauch'd his inoffensive bliss;
Happy as heroes after battles won,
Prophets entranc'd, or monarchs on the throne;
But (oh, my friend!) those joys with Daphnis flew:
To them these tributary tears are due.

DAMON.
Was he so humble then? those joys so vast?
Cease to admire that both so quickly past.
Too happy should we be, would smiling fate
Render one blessing durable and great;
But (oh the sad vicissitude!) how soon
Unwelcome night succeeds the chearful noon;
And rigid winter nips the flowery pomp of June!
Then grieve not, friend, like you, since all mankind
A certain change of joy and sorrow find.
Suppress your sigh, your down-cast eyelids raise,
Whom present you revere, him absent praise.

THE REMEDY WORSE THAN THE DISEASE.

EPIGRAM, EXTEMPORE.

EPIGRAM ON BISHOP ATTERBURY.

Meek Francis lies here, friend: without stop or stay,
As you value your peace, make the best of your way.
Though at present arrested by Death's caitiff paw,
If he stirs, he may still have recourse to the law.
And in the King's-bench should a verdict be found,
That by livery and seisin his grave is his ground,
He will claim to himself what is strictly his due,
And an action of trespass will straightway ensue,
That you without right on his premises tread,
On a simple surmise that the owner is dead.

ON BISHOP ATTE[R]BURY'S BURYING THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM, MDCCXX.

“I have no hopes,” the Duke he says, and dies;
“In sure and certain hopes,” the Prelate cries:
Of these two learned Peers, I pr'ythee, say, man,
Who is the lying Knave, the Priest or Layman?
The Duke he stands an infidel confest,
“He's our dear brother,” quoth the lordly priest.
The Duke though Knave, still “Brother dear,” he cries;
And who can say, the Reverend Prelate lies?

LINES WRITTEN UNDER THE PRINT OF TOM BRITTON, the Small-coal-man, PAINTED BY Mr. WOOLASTON.

Though doom'd to small-coal, yet to arts ally'd,
Rich without wealth, and famous without pride;
Musick's best patron, judge of books and men,
Belov'd and honour'd by Apollo's train:
In Greece or Rome sure never did appear
So bright a genius, in so dark a sphere:
More of the man had artfully been sav'd,
Had Kneller painted, and had Vertue grav'd.

WRITTEN IN LADY HOWE'S OVID'S EPISTLES.

However high, however cold, the fair,
However great the dying lover's care,
Ovid, kind author, found him some relief,
Rang'd his unruly sighs, and set his grief;
Taught him what accents had the power to move,
And always gain'd him pity, sometimes love.
But, oh! what pangs torment the destin'd heart,
That feels the wound, yet dares not shew the dart!
What care could Ovid to his sorrows give,
Who must not speak, and therefore cannot live!

AN EPISTLE, MDCCXVI.

I Pray, good Lady Harley, let Jonathan know,
How long you intend to live incognito.

ANOTHER EPISTLE.

I Pray, Lady Harriot, the time to assign
When she shall receive a turkey and chine;
That a body may come to St. James's, to dine.

TRUE'S EPITAPH.

EPIGRAM.

To Richmond and Peterburgh, Matt gave his letters,
And thought they were safe in the hands of his betters.
How happen'd it then that the packets were lost?
These were Knights of the Garter, not Knights of the Post.

UPON Playing at OMBRE, WITH TWO LADIES.

I know that Fortune long has wanted sight,
And therefore pardon'd, when She did not right;
But yet till then it never did appear,
That as She wanted Eyes, She could not Hear.
I begg'd, that She would give me leave to lose,
A thing She does not commonly refuse:
Two Matadores are out against my game,
Yet still I play, and still my Luck's the same:
Unconquer'd in Three suits it does remain;
Whereas I only ask in One to gain;
Yet She still contradicting, Gifts imparts;
And gives success in ev'ry suit—but Hearts.

ON MY BIRTH-DAY.

POEMS FROM THE LONGLEAT MSS.

To Madam K. P.

A Pastoral Dialogue.

DAMON.
See Strephon see what a refulgent ray
Dispells yon Clouds, and gilds the rising day
The smiling Feilds their early Treasures bring
And warbling Birds proclaim the coming spring
Young tender Plants and swelling buds appear
Whilst Nature smiling seems to bless the Year
Lively the Nymphs and sportive are their Swains
All sorrows Banish'd from the cheerful Plains
Save only what Thy troubl'd Soul contains
Then tell me Strephon, prythee tell me why
Dost Thou in mournful shades obscurely lye?
Why dost Thou sigh, why strike Thy panting breast
And steal from life the needful hours of rest?
Are thy Kids starv'd by rig'rous Winter's frost?
Are any of thy bleating straglers lost?
Have Strangers Cattle trod thy new Plow'd ground
Or (what is worst) has great Joanna frown'd.

STREPHON.
On yonder Hills my bleating straglers play
(Ah! were their Master unconcern'd as they)
No beasts (at Noon I look'd) had trod my ground
Nor have I lost my Kids, nor has Joanna frown'd.

DAMON.
Then stop the lavish fountains of your Eyes
Nor let those Sighs from your swoln bosom rise,
Send all these melancholy thoughts away
And once again rejoice, and once again look gay.

STREPHON.
Ah Damon what can add to Sorrows more
Then thoughts of happyness enjoy'd before?
What more disturbs the slighted Lovers breast
Then sad remembrance how he has been bless'd
What kind reception once his Passion found
And how he flourish'd e'er his fair one frown'd
What more the wretched Exil's soul annoys
Then recollection of his former Joys?
Or what severer Sentence can be giv'n
Then having seen to be excluded Heav'n.

DAMON.
None Shephard none—

STREPHON.
—then cease to chide my Cares
And rather pitty then restrain my Tears,
Those tears, my Damon, which I justly shed
To think how great my Joys, how soon they fled;
I told the[e], Friend (when I forsook those Sheep
Which Thou the while with equal care didst keep)
That I wou'd visit fair Celinda's Shrine
And pay those Vows which gratitude enjeyn
Since then how happy did thy Strephon live
Happy ------
In all kind Heav'n or kinder She cou'd give
Happy as new form'd Man in Paradice
E'er Sin debauch'd his inoffensive bliss
Happy as Heroes after Battles won
Prophets entranc'd or Monarchs on their Throne.
Then chide not if I sometimes drop a Tear
When I remember how I triumph'd there
And with past pleasures present woes compare.

DAMON.
But were those pleasures so extremely vast?
Wonder not then that they so quickly past.
Too happy shou'd we be wou'd smiling Fate
Render one blessing durable and great
But (Ah! the sad Vicisitude) how soon
Unwelcome Night succeeds the chearful Noon
And rigid Winter nips the flow'ry pomp of June.
Then grieve not Friend, like The[e] since all Mankind
A certain change of Joy and sorrows find
Come give thy anxious Soul its wonted peace
And from this Hour let all sad troubles cease
Suppress thy Sighs, those down cast Eyelids raise
Tune thy neglected Harp, and sing the Goddess' praise.

To a Lady Sleeping.

Still Sleep stil fold those lovely Arms
Stil be free from noise and harms
Whilst all the Gods of Love defend Thee
(The Gods of Love which stil attend thee)
Whilst around in humble state
A Thousand wanton Angels wait
Whilst Gods officiously find
Pleasing Dreams to charm thy mind,
Dreams of things (if such there are)
Like yourself Serene and fair,
And when You open those bright Eyes
When Morpheus with the wel-cloath'd Vision flyes
May You that happyness renew
And all the pleasures of your Dream prove true.

Charity never faileth.

1 Cor: xiii. 8.

There be Those that leave Their Names behind them.

Ecc: 44. 8.

In Praise of the Lady Margaret Foundress of St John's.

I.

CHORUS.
Margaretta's Name shal live
And lasting Tribute of just Fame receive
Long as the Sacred Walls she founded stand,
The Pride, the light, the glory of our Land.
Long as the learned Youth shal flourish there
Inspir'd with Thoughts of Heav'n and Her.
Shal press with pleasing force the grateful String
And thanks and Praises to their Godess sing.

II.

CHORUS.
Long as Three Nations gratefully shal show
The mighty Thanks they to her goodness owe
Long as the sacred Page shal be Carress'd
Which tells Us Charity and She are bless'd.

III.

CHORUS.
One of the best the brightest Seats in Heav'n
With Saints and Marty'rs she shal live
Encircl'd round with lasting Joy
Which no mischance, no Sorrow can destroy
Which Man desires, and God alone can give.

Many Daughters have done well, But Thou Excellest them all.

Prov: 31. 29.

As spoken in a Vision to the Lady Margaret Foundress of St John's.

On the Coronation.

Not Writing to K. P.

So from Divinity and things above
The Zealots thoughts have sometimes chanc'd to rove
Till on his life he does with grief reflect
Compares heav'ns goodness with his own neglect.
Abhors his crime and vows he'l now begin
With double Penitence to clear his Sin
Then sighing trembling doubting he draws near
His Piety stil vanquish'd by his fear.
Till heav'n beholds and Pittys what he feels
And with glad Omens his wish'd Pardon Seals
Pleas'd with the truth of his repent[a]nce more
Then with his constant Pray'rs and drudging Zeal before.

Arria and Petus out of Martial.

Paraphrase.

With Roman constancy and decent pride
The dying Matron from her wounded side
Drawing forth the guilty blade
To her lov'd Lord the fatal gift convey'd
But then in streams of blood and sorrow drown'd
Pardon she crys an unbecoming Tear
(The Womans weakness will appear)
Yet think not tis that I repent the Deed
Or that my firm resolves give ground
Witness just Heav'n 'tis nothing that I bleed
But that You must, there Petus, there's the Wound.

To the Countess of Dorset walking in a Garden.

To the E. of D. upon His Marriage.

DAMON.
Let this bless'd day our fruitless Quarrels end
Soften the Rival to the friend
And make our kindness not our skil contend.

LYCIDAS.
Begin, raise Thou thy tuneful Voice
So may my Muse approve thy happy choice.

DAMON.
May Venus so my choice approve
As I begin with mighty things and Love.
When first Heav'ns Eldest offspring Light,
Sprang from the fertile Womb of solid night;
What made the melancholy discord cease
And charm'd the warring Elements to peace?
From what great cause what brooding influence came
This well proportion'd frame?
From Thee, blest Queen of Harmony and Love;
Thou greatest pow'r on Earth, thou brightest star above.

LYCIDAS.
When Loves great Dictates were obey'd,
And Heav'ns last noblest Master Piece was made
To make the new form'd Monarch truly blest
And in one richer Gift compleat the rest
What secret pow'r unlock'd his pregnant side,
To the soft Yoak bow'd his delighted mind
Taught the unpractic'd Lover to be kind
And bless the wound whilst he embrac'd the Bride
'Twas Thou Almighty King of Heav'n and Love
That Govern'st all below, and blesse'st all above.

DAMON.
'Twas Love subdu'd the noble Daphnis heart
Love gave the welcome happy wound,
And with this triumph all his Conquest crown'd
Whilst Daphnis blest the wound and met the Dart
Pleas'd with the grateful bondage more
Then with his early spoyls, and boasted Liberty before.

LYCIDAS.
'Twas Love subdu'd the fair Dorinda's breast
Love to her heart a secret warmth convey'd
With pleasing Pain surpris'd the wond'ring Maid
And kindly for her Joys disturb'd her rest.
Whilst Daphnis stronger charms with Love's conspire
To make her own the Diety and fan the growing fire.

DAMON.
But thy rude Music Swain, my ruder Tongue
The glories they shou'd reach wou'd wrong,
For Daphnis Love
Shou'd only prove
The Theam of Daphnis' Song.

LYCIDAS.
Nor can the Joys of Angells be exprest
Nor know we ought of Heav'n above yon Skies
Which yet we bless with Pray'rs and please with Sacrifice.

DAMON.
Lett's then the hasty Sun arrest
Time will stay till they are blest;

LYCIDAS.
Nay rather blame the Suns too hasty flight
Bid him withdraw his tedious light
And kindly send the wish for night.

DAMON.
May Daphnis wound her with a lure,

LYCIDAS.
And may Dorinda's flames endure
Like Vesta's fires ------

DAMON.
------ for these like them are pure.

LYCIDAS.
Let Heaven its utmost Care employ
To make Their life but one continu'd Joy.

DAMON.
Let Nature all her Tribute bring
To make their Year but one continu'd Spring.

LYCIDAS.
With softest Violetts strow her bed,

DAMON.
With freshest Myrtill crown his head.

LYCIDAS.
With Hymens Tree Apollo's joyn,
And round his brow their mingl'd honors twine
Their mingl'd honors sure to him are due
Who with the Nymph has gain'd the Lawrel too.

DAMON.
The Joys of Harvest crown their Cares,
And stil encrease their Plenty with their Years.

LYCIDAS.
The Joys of Vintage swell their Bowers,
And if they overflow, o'erflow on Ours:

DAMON.
Fly swift the smiling Hours, let each glad Morn
The fruitful pleasures of the last return.

LYCIDAS.
Fly smiling Hours, let each succeeding Night
Improve the transports of the first delight.

DAMON.
In glad Procession let each rolling Year
See the joyful Mother bear
A beauty Second only to her own.

LYCIDAS.
Or if the kinder Gods conspire to crown
Her stronger wishes with a Son
His Parents great Perfections let him share
And prove her Beauty's, and his Virtue's Heir.

Journey to Copt-Hall.

On Mr Fleetwood Shephards Killing the French K***

To the E. of D*****

The joyful Slaves, whom your report set free
From Taxes, wooden Shoes, and Slavery;
Their Neighbours too, who by the Bully scar'd,
His Warlike Bombs and Politic Rats bane fear'd;
All that have trembling shook at his Alarms,
Dutch-Men and Protestants that felt his Arms,
And wisely hop'd, his less Religious Son
Wou'd tolerate the Mass or Alcoran:
Last, German Bishops, who began to think,
They now might see less Fighting, and more drink:
All these their humblest Thanks to S****** send,
France's Deliv'erer, and the Muses Friend.
S********* the glory of whose lasting Name
Shal crack Time's Iron Teeth and swel the cheeks of fame
S******** whose mighty Monarch-murthering word
Rivals the force of St Raviliac's Sword
Say, (for Thou knowest,) thou hero-heart'ning Muse!
What wou'd his presence, what his Arms produce?
Whose bare Report has nobler Mischiefs done,
Then Oates's Mustard Balls, or Pickerin's gun:
That at more distance kills, and Ecchoes louder,
Than Aurum fulminans or German Powder?
Say, how at Paris, free from zealous fear,
S********* and Reformation shal appear:
Brutus at Rome less honor'd than he there!
How the swift Bumpers shal with joy go round,
Whilst every Bowl with S********'s Name is crown'd;
And to his health the Mawdlin Protestants
Shal first drink Bourdeaux dry, then beggar Nantz.

Advice to the Painter, Upon the defeat of the Rebels in the West, and the Execution of the late D. of Monmouth.

To the Bishop of Rochester Upon His Account of the Whiggish Conspir[a]cy by His late Majesty's order.

My Lord,

God is Love.

To the E. of Dorset on the Birth of His Son.

I.

Wake Goddess wake Thy drousy Lyre
Let the neglected Chords to louder Strains be strung,
And raise Thy voice, and swell thy numbers higher,
No common Theme requires Thy Song
For loe! from old Eternities glad Womb
The promis'd day, the glorious Birth is come:
'Tis come; the noble Babe securely lies
On his fair Mothers joyful breast;
(Happy his Age whose Infancy enjoys
A Seat of Plenty and a Heav'n of rest.)
But Oh! what Clouds of glory, clouds of light
Too strong for feeble Mans external Eye
Roll round the noble Babe, and mock my drowned sight:
That Light, that glory I wou'd see;
Hear, Goddess, hear thy Votary
The meanest of thy Sons inspire
Come to my breast, and with Thy pow'rful ray
Drive dimm humanity away
Wake, Goddess, wake thy Lyre.

II.

Hark the quicken'd Lyre awaks
Each willing string melodious tremblings makes:
And see! the appeas'd Air, and opening sky
Proclaim the Goddess nigh.
She's here, I feel the generous rage within
Enliven each extended vein.
I feel the kind the cruel Goddess roll
All through each part of my exalted Soul
And prest with Joy and pain'd with extacy
Loe! what mighty things I see.

III.

Mids't a fair Troop of smiling Deities:
Grave Janus with Majestic pace draws near
The sacred place where the blest Infant lies
Janus with pleasing Care and easy Joy
Does all his happy Eyes imploy
The lovely Babe to view
Employs 'em all, and thinks them all too few.
Pleas'd and ravish'd with the sight
He wings the coming Hours with new delight
No more looks backward now, but here
From this blest Birth dates the enobl'd Year.

IV.

Jocund Hymen next appears
His fragrant head with chearful joy he rears
With freshest wreaths his hair was bound
With brightest flames his torch was crown'd
Onward he came and coming smil'd
And saw and kist and blest the happy Child
He saw and kist and blest, and laugh'd aloud
Whilst all the little lovely crowd
Who with officious Joy stood hov'ring by
Laugh'd aloud with Him, and blest the Augury.

V.

A Hymn to the Spring.

A Session of the Poets

[_]

(imperfect).

To a Friend on his Marriage.

Letter to J****

My little Wid: to you I send
Or as my Doctress or my Friend
Hoping these Lines may find You S*****g
As I am at this present writing
I yesternight read Nendicks bills
Believ'd his lies and took his Pills
No sooner was the Rascall swallow'd
Ah J***y can you guess what follow'd?
I'l swear I thought I shou'd have quicken'd,
And from that moment fondly reckon'd.
At last my Physic like your Marriage
Brought nothing forth but a Miscarriage.
When I had suffer'd as I tell Yee
Those plaguey wamblings in my Belly
Backwards I much Dismist, and after
Indeed I scarse cou'd hold my Water.
Faith J**e those Pills are past enduring
That work at once by Stool and Urine;
I shou'd not, were you here, intreat Yee
To give me liberty to beat Yee;
For gentle walking will alone
Bring neighbor Nendick kindly down.
Thus having Thirty times I think
Drank your dear health in posset drink
I Answer to my Billet doux Require
And rest
Sweet J**e
Your filthy Friend
M. Pr***r.

To Dr F********* in a Letter to Beverley disswading him from drinking Waters.

To clear the Brain or purge the thought
Your Waters are not worth a Groat,
The Spaw it self cou'd never do't
Unless Your Brain lay in your Gutt.
Your Costive fancy if You'd stir up,
Add to your Waters Pills or Syrrup.
So your loose Muse may chance to store yee
With Arguments a Posteriori
You (like the Spaniard) may be writing
Some handsom Tract of easy Sh****g,
Or making some clean Returnello
Of who Sh***s white or who Sh***s yellow.
But if some labour you design
Like all its Breth'ren fair and fine
Lay by your Element and rather
Drink (by my Lords good leave) Forefather.
When Jove his Godhead purg'd with water
He got some Sneaking Fountain Daughter.
But for the Offspring of his brain
His head ak'd much, and he cry'd Alass!
Twas Wine that brought the generous pain
The God drank hard, and out sprang Pallas.
To her pale Sons, insipid Isis
The draught of her own Stream advises;
But well We know, our Alma-Mater
Holds Claret wholsomer than Water:
And by her Caudle and her Cup
Bids Sitt up late, and drink all up.

[Inspired Wit.]

If ever I had any Wit t'was when I had the Honor to be with Your Lordship, and then too it was not mine by Nature but inspiration.

Epistle to Lord ---.

To My Lady Exeter, on New Years day.

Her Birth-Day.

[Answer to an] Orange.

Song

[_]

Set by Mr K.

[Love has often threaten'd War]

Song

[_]

Set by Messrs Pickering and Tudway.

[Love I confess I thought Thee but a Name]

Love I confess I thought Thee but a Name
The Painters fancy and the Poets Theme,
The Old Wives Tale, the wishing Virgins dream
But if indeed Thou art a God
Supreme in Goodness and in Pow'r
Now make it clearly understood
And I'l repent and I'l adore.
Or use thy Mercy, and withdraw the dart
Gently! Ah! gently, from my fester'd heart;
Or strike the weapon thrô my Cælia's breast
And be Thy Godhead by thy Pow'r exprest.
For whilst I follow and my Cælia flies
Whilst I entreat and She denys
I own my Self a harden'd Atheist stil
And must deny thy Power, or blame thy Will.

[Great Nassau rise from Beauty]

Cælia.

Were Cælia Absent and remembrance brought
Her and past Pleasures thick upon my thought
With Bacchus' Liquors I'd Loves flames defeat
He'd soon leave flut'ring, if his Wings were wet.
Else to my Books I'd dedicate my Days,
Forget my Daphne whilst I sought the Bays.
Or shou'd all other Cures successless prove
To some kind Present She my Suit I'd move
Burns are expell'd by fire and Love by Love
But when I want my Friend, when my vext heart
Beats short, and pants and seeks its nobler part
That absent one not millions can attone
Amidst a Multitude I'm stil Alone
My mind like Telephus's hurt is found.
The cause that gave can only Cure the wound.

The same Varied.

Were C[æ]lia absent and remembrance brought
Her and past raptures thick upon my thought
The next kind She might meet my rais'd desire
And beastly Lust quench Loves disabl'd Fire.
But when I want my Friend, when my vex't heart
Beats short, and pants and seeks its nobler part
For the sad Ill no medi'cine can be found
'Tis You that made, 'tis You must cure the Wound.

A Hymn to Venus, upon a Marriage.

A Fable.

A new Answer to an Argument against a Standing-Army.

[A Prophecy.]

Ballad.

[The Factions which Each other claw]

[A Ballad of Vigour.]

Seneca, Troas. Act 2d.

The Chorus Translated.

Is it a Truth, or but a well told Lye
That Souls have being, when their Bodies Dye.
When the sad Wife has clos'd her Husbands Eyes
And pier[c]'d the ecchoing Vaults with doleful crys,
Is not the Husbands life entirely fled,
His Soul extinguish'd as the Body dead;
Or does that other part of Him remain
Stil chain'd to Life, and stil condemn'd to Pain?
No no, before Our Friends officious Care,
Can light the Torch and solemn rites prepare,
Our breath is mix'd, and lost, with common air.
As far as East or West extended go,
As far as Sun-beams gild or Waters flow,
All beings have a destin'd space to run,
And all must Perish, as they all begun.
The Sun, the Moon, and every Sign above
Fix'd by strong Fate, in destin'd Courses move
Like Us for certain Periods they endure,
Their life much longer, but their end as sure.
As smoke which rises from the kinling Fires
Is seen this moment, and the next expires;
As empty Clouds by rising winds are tost,
Their fleeting forms scarce sooner found, then lost,
So vanishes our State, so pass our days,
So life but opens now, and now decays
The Cradle and the Tomb alas! too nigh
To live is scarce distinguish'd from to Dye
After Death nothing is, and very Death,
It self is nothing, 'tis but want of breath,
The utmost Limit of a narrow span,
An end of Motion which with life began.
Death shows us only what we know was near,
It cures the Misers wish, and checks the Cowards fear,
Where shalt Thou be when thou art laid in Earth
Where we'rt Thou timorous thing, before thy birth?
Disolv'd in Chaos, on the formless Mass,
Of what may be contending with what was,
Old Night and Death extend their noxious Pow'r,
O'er all the Man, the Body they devour,
Nor spare the Soul, a Kingdom in the dark
Furies that Howl three headed Dogs that bark
Are empty Rumors form'd in Childrens Schools
The Tales of Pedants, and the Dreams of Fools.

Translated from the Original French.

[Reality and Image.]

For instance, when You think You see a
Fair Woman, 'tis but her Idea:
If You her real Lips Salute,
Or but their shade, will bear dispute.
“Look there (say You) I see a Horse”—
Lord Sir how Idly you discourse?
“I see a Horse, I'm sure thats true.”
I say the Devil a Horse see You;
You see a Horse's Image, lain
In Miniature upon your brain;
But what you take for fourteen Hand,
Is less than half a grain of Sand.
Things must be stated by their Nature;
The less cant comprehend the greater:
Now, if your Groom wou'd n'er be able
To set old Crop into the Stable,
Unless (pray mind) the Door at least
Was something larger than the beast:
The Fellow sure wou'd never be
Devoid of Sense to that Degree,
As to desire, much less to try,
To thrust his Nagg into your Eye.

Verses Intended for Lock and Montaigne.

Fragments Written At Down-Hall.

Fragments for Alma.

The World was 200 Year in the Dark following Aristotle.

Till great Des-Cart and his Sectators
Light up their Philosophic papers
Which say th' Aristotelians again
Were but Jack-a-lents by which men
Thinking they saw mistook their way
More then before.

Fragments.

Anaxarchus being upon the Torture in hopes of some discovery bitt off his Tongue and spit it into the Tyrants face—The Tongue thus separated from the dear root

To Florimel.

Careless and Young O Florimel
Thou little Think'st of whats to come
O it wou'd fright Thee shou'd I tell
What soon must be Thy Countries Doom.

Written under a Picture painted by Mr Howard.

Invocation to Fortune.

Assist my Cause with Honour, Justice, Truth,
And Thou great Fortune wont to favor Youth
For me Thy Godhead by Thy Mercy prove
Chain cruel rage, and aid afflicted Love
Great Heavens Decrees undaunted let me try
And live with Empire or with Virtue dye.

True Statesmen.

Simile.

The Courtier.

Fragment.

Fragments.

Beauty.

Narcissus.

O happy Youth what can destroy
The long Excesses of thy Joy
For nothing in the whole Creation
Will prove a Rival to thy Passion.

On the Marchioness of Caermarthen.

[OMITTED] future time shal say
How Harleys Daughter studious past the day
While four-fold to the Patriot Father She restor'd
Blessings, which from him She at Morn implor'd.

Virgils Georgic 4 Verse 511 Qualis ------ implet

Translated.

So Philomel beneath the Poplar shade
Mournful bewails her Brood whom the rough hind
Finding has taken Callow from the Nest
All night she weeps and sitting on the branch
Often repeats her Melancholly song
And fills the Country with her sad complaint.

Answer to the Female Phaeton.

In a Window in Lord Villiers house.

1696.

In Vain by Druggs and rules of Art
Poor Ratcliff wou'd my Lungs ensure
They lye too near a wounded heart
Whose sickness Death alone can cure.

To a Painter (fragments).

A Prologue intended to the Play of Chit Chat, but never finished.

Prelude to a Tale from Boccace in blank Verse.

To the Ds of Shrewsbury Frederick &c:

[_]

Brouillon of a Poem Begun at Wimpole in August 1721. Transcribed from the Authors Papers since his Death.

PREDESTINATION.

A POEM.

All was settl'd by Gods primeval Will.

Nor do I ask whence Sin came, but it was such that to Save the World from it the Son of God must Dye.

Could the Heathen by the dictates of Nature obtain Salvation, where was the necessity of Christs coming, and if they could not, how happens it that they were not called to pertake the benefit of His passion.

Nor matters it that God gave a free Will to Man since by his Prescience he had ordered that Man could not employ that free will otherwise then he had forseen Man should employ it.

If we had not freedom of Will there would be neither Good or ill in our Actions. There would be no occasion for a Judgement, nor Punishment, nor reward.

[Fragment from Britanicus.]

Who would prevail o'er Men must first Observe
Their Darling passion of their hearts, and thence
Govern their Ductile reason, in Britanicus
The power of Love prevails the Dazl'd Lover.

To Cloe.

There's all Hell in her Heart, and all Heaven in her eye
He that sees her must love, he that loves her must Dye.

Epigram.

My Lord there's a Christ'ning the Officer said,
The Gossips are ready, the Cushions are laid:
What, without my leave ask'd? said the Prelate inflam'd
Go lock up My Font, let the Infant be damn'd.

Translation of an Epitaph upon Gilbert Glanville Bishop of Rochester as written in Rochester Cathedral.

Gilbertus Glanville whose heart was as hard as an Anvil
Always litigious who shou'd have been highly religious
Full fraught with Law suits he to that Court aptly descended
Where quiet appears not, and quarrels never are ended.

From Ronsard's Franciade Book the IVth Folio 465.

On yonder Guilty Plain, long Seasons hence
Perhaps a thousand Years, Helmets and Shields,
And plated harnois shal be found, sad marks
Of memorable War, with sudden wonder
Appal'd the Villager lab'ring the Glebe
Shal hear his Plow-Share crash on buried Armour,
And throw up bones of Horses slain in Battle.

[Fragments in Prose and Verse.]

The same Man in Place and at Court or turned out and removed from thence has a different way of Voting and speaking, as some Pictures that in another Light she[w] a quite different figure. On one side it is a Pope, on the other side a Devil, here it is a Magistrate, and there a Monkey.

Everybody Commends Modesty, Few Practice it, and None get by it.

We often yield to Importunity, and do good to those who do not Deserve it, meerly for our own Ease. This kind of Generosity is at best Blameable, and shews Us rather the Weakness of our Tempers than the goodness of Our Inclinations.

Song.

[Let Us my Dear my life be Friends]

[Jinny the Just.]

FRAGMENTS FROM PRIOR'S LETTERS, ETC.

FROM A LETTER TO THE EARL OF DORSET.

Spare Dorsett's sacred life, decerning fate,
And death shall march thro' courts and camps in state,
Emptying his quiver on the vulgar great;
Round Dorsett's board lett peace and plenty dance,
Far off lett famine her sad reign advance,
And war walk deep in blood thro' conquered France.
Apollo thus began the mystic strain,
The muses' sons all bow'd and sayd Amen.

ON THE DEATH OF QUEEN MARY.

From the Lexington Papers, 1851. In a Letter from Prior to Lord and Lady Lexington, 1 March, 1695.

‘Written on Scheveling Sands, with the point of my sword.’

Number the sands extended here;
So many Mary's virtues were:
Number the drops that yonder roll;
So many griefs press William's soul.

WRITTEN IN THE LIBRARY, [Wimpole] Dec. 2, 1720. M.P.

Fame counting thy books, my dear Harley, shall tell,
No man had so many and knew them so well.

POEMS ATTRIBUTED TO PRIOR

AN ANSWER TO THE Curious MAID. A TALE.

[_]

Of doubtful attribution.

THE LYON AND THE FOX.

[_]

Of doubtful attribution.

THE MORAL.

A Man in Pow'r shou'd always cautious be
In off'ring any one an Injury;
Lest fickle Fortune shou'd Reduce his State,
And bring him Low, and make the other Great;
When of his help perhaps he'll stand in need,
If not, He's able to revenge the Deed.

An EPISTLE from the Elector of BAVARIA to the FRENCH King, after the Battle of Ramillies.

[_]

Of doubtful attribution.

An Apology to a Lady, who told me, I cou'd not love her heartily, because I had lov'd others.

[_]

Of doubtful attribution.

In Imitation of Mr. Waller.

Fair Sylvia, cease to blame my Youth
For having lov'd before;
So Men, e'er they have learnt the Truth,
Strange Deities adore.
My Youth ('tis true) has often rang'd,
Like Bees o'er gawdy Flow'rs;
And many thousand Loves has chang'd,
Till it was fixt in yours.
For, Sylvia, when I saw those Eyes,
'Twas soon determin'd there;
Stars might as well forsake the Skies,
And vanish into Air,
If I from this great Rule do err,
New Beauties to explore;
May I again turn Wanderer,
And never settle more.

Against Modesty in Love.

[_]

Of doubtful attribution.

For many unsuccessful Years
At Cynthia's Feet I lay;
And often bath'd 'em with my Tears,
Despair'd, but durst not pray.
No prostrate Wretch before the Shrine
Of any Saint above,
E'er thought his Goddess more divine,
Or paid more awful Love.
Still the disdainful Dame look'd down
With an insulting Pride;
Receiv'd my Passion with a Frown,
Or toss'd her Head aside.
When Cupid whisper'd in my Ear,
Use more prevailing Charms,
Fond, whining, modest Fool, draw near,
And clasp her in your Arms.
With eager Kisses tempt the Maid,
From Cynthia's Feet depart;
The Lips he warmly must invade,
Who wou'd possess the Heart.
With that I shook off all my Fears,
My better Fortune try'd;
And Cynthia gave, what she for Years
Had foolishly deny'd.

On a young Lady's going to Town in the Spring.

[_]

Of doubtful attribution.

When the Cat's away, The Mice may play.

[_]

Of doubtful attribution.

A FABLE,

Humbly inscribd to Dr. Sw------t.

A FABLE OF THE WIDOW AND HER CAT.

[_]

Of doubtful attribution.

A Paraphrase on the French.

[_]

Of doubtful attribution.