Miscellany poems by Mr. Dennis with select translations of Horace, Juvenal, Mons. Boileau's Epistles, Satyrs, &c., and Æsop's Fables, in burlesque verse ; to which is added, The passion of Byblis, with some critical reflections on Mr. Oldham, and his writings ; with letters and poems.

Miscellany Poems, &c.

A Pindaric Ode on the KING, written Aug. 2. 1691.

I.

NOw at great Iove's supream command, Fortune, his Slave, with threatning hand, Furiously whirls about her wheel, Which turning like a vast machine, Changes the Worlds great stage, unseen, Whilst with the motion giddy Nations reel.

II.

Alecto has been rows'd from Hell, To punish a flagitious age,

In human Breasts her Serpents dwell, And sting the guilty world to rage. The Fury stalks about and raves, Germany trembles at her horrid yell, She rates the backward French, goads on th' aban∣don'd Slaves, To execute the black contrivances of Hell. On to prodigious villanies they go, Till they want sense their monstrous crimes to know Thro the Palatinate she with them flies, And whilst the native by his murderer dies, She her infernal Torch to ev'ry house applies. A Town she burns for each vast Fun'ral Pile, And, (grinning horribly a ghastly smile) Upon the flames, as terribly they blaze, Th' abominable fiend with dismal Joy doth gaze.

III.

As Deluges whole Kingdoms sweep, Urg'd by fierce Tempests and the Deep, Wars dreadful inundation swells, Rais'd both by wrath Divine, and Hells. Nor Art nor Nature has the force To stop its noisie course; Nor Alps, nor Pyreneans keep it out, Nor fortify'd Redoubt.

IV.

In vain the Irish, Straw-built Hutts forsake, And to their Bogs in vain they make, There soon does Fate her fugitives o'retake. And as with horror and with fear, Her grim attendants, she draws near, The bogs and men with one Convulsion shake.

V.

In vain to the AEtherial Skies, Climbing his Alps, th' amaz'd Savoyard flies, The Bloody French the wretch persue, Who pants with toil and terror too; And near to Heaven (deaf to his piercing cries) By impious hands he dies.

VI.

In Belgian Plains whilst th' English Lyon ramps, Terror's diffus'd thro Gallick Forts and Camps. See how his deadly listed paw Keeps couchant Luxemburgh in awe! At William's mighty name, All France, with its exalted Idol shakes; William's bright sounding same, Like Lightning, when from Heav'n it breaks, Troubles the great Offender's sight, And does his conscious Instruments affright;

And by its brightness and its noise, Confounds them e're his Arm, war's Thunder-bolt' destroys.

VII.

Glittering in glorious Arms he shines from far, Like the fifth Heav'ns ascendant Star, Whose very aspect gives success in War: Whose influential pow'r decides, And over fatal fields presides, Just like the Moon's o're-raging Tydes: Till by conjunction deadlier grown, By its confederate force some mighty State's o're-thrown.

VIII.

To William's Vertue stiff Rebellion yields In Aghrim's purple Fields. William, when at the Boyne he fought, The Shannon and the Suc to pass his fierce Battalions taught

His bravery kindled in their breasts the fire, Which does to glory by great acts aspire, And on to Aghrim hurried them, unknowing to retire.

IX.

Should fear in wretched man prevail, Who could condemn it in a thing so frail? The Universe has not a creature Which the condition of its nature, Subjects to more internal accidents, Or outward casual events. The least of which has often pow'r To antedate his fatal hour. William not only subject is to those, High pow'r, vast worth, him ev'ry hour expose To the perfidiousness & strength of all his Gallic foes▪ Domestic Villains who surround him too, In his Destruction wish the World t'undo: Yet see him in this dangerous state Dauntless as Gods secur'd by Fate.

X.

The numerous Squadrons of his soes, Th' accursed troublers of the Worlds repose, He with heroic rage desies; Surveying them, his sparkling eyes With Godlike transports rowl; And his brave Warriers second his great Soul. And (tho retrench'd old wary Bouteville lyes) Each for the onset cryes. He, wise in fury, keeps them back, Conduct profound desers the wish'd attack. Thus often when some desperate offence Does Heav'ns almighty pow'r incense, Its vengeance it delays, expecting fatal times, By high fore-knowledge pre-ordain'd to punish migh∣ty crimes.

XI.

When, William, the predestin'd hour T' o'rethrow that formidable pow'r,

Struck by the dire alarum comes, Struck by loud Cannon and tempestuous Drums: When Gods the bus'ness of the World forego, To be spectators of the fierce debate, Pleas'd to behold the Sanguinary show, The tragic play of Fortune and of Fate: In that great hour, that wondrous hour, controul thy noble fire, Which does to bright eternal Fame too suriously aspire. Ah! let not the transporting Rage, The Christian World's sole hope too dangerously engage! On thee depend thy Country and thy Friends, On thee the dreadsul day and vast event depends.

XII.

Think on the Boyne, on that great action think, Where can that man who thinks not on't be found? That action thro both Indies does resound, And as the golden Ganges, makes the wretched Boyne renown'd.

Think how expos'd thou mad'st its banks the brink Of ruine, into which we all were like to sink. Its banks, more famous for the threatned blow, Than for the signal overthrow. Canst thou one cursed moment there forget? Europe remembers it with horrour yet. Tho on those banks victorious Troops you led, And half the Rebels were already fled: Yet when the fatal shot approach'd thy sacred head, (But Schomberg destiny atton'd) Fair Liberty shriek'd out aloud, aloud Religion groan'd. How did they on their Champions danger look! Ev'n England's genius was with terror struck, And of the whole Consederate pow'r the guardian Angel shook.

XIII.

Manage thy Royal Life, by Heav'n design'd T' ensure Great Britain and Mankind: Thy safety for their own all necessary find.

Had Heav'n thy death made necessary too, Does not thy former conduct shew, That thou woud'st, ravish'd with thy glorious doom Do for the World what Curtius did for Rome?

XIV.

Ye Brittish Muses celebrate his fame, Where can you find a nobler theme T' illustrate yours or Britain's name? In valour soveraign, and in sense supream. He's over all his Subjects found, His Subjects thro the World renown'd, For lofty Spirit, and for Thought profound. To him your Britain owes, That nothing but the sound of War she knows. Ev'ry where else death and destruction reign, Our happy Isle does Peace within retain, Defended by a double guard, its Monarch & the Main.

Upon our Victory at Sea.

I Sing the Naval Fight, whose Triumph, Fame More loudly than our Cannon, shall proclaim. Which with Heroick Force burst Europe's Chain, And made fair Britain Empress of the Main. O Britain's mighty Genius, who wer't by, Who with new Warmth didst thy brave Sons supply, And drive the Gallic Doemon trembling thro' the Sky! My Breast with that immortal Fury fire, Which did thy Godlike Combatants inspire. Bold as their Fight, and happy be my Song, As fierce, as great, as sounding, and as strong. Then might my Verse be heard on ev'ry Shoar, And in its sound Express the thundring Cannons roar.

Now whilst their Line th' impatient English form, On comes proud Tourvile, ratling like a Storm

Sent by some Devil, to dissolve (in vain) The two vast Empires of the Land and Main. Whose transitory Rage the Globe annoys, And to disturb Mankind, it self destroys. With deafning Shouts the English rend the Skies, Whilst Victory hov'ring o're their Pendants flies. The Lust of Empire, and the Lust of Praise, Does vulgar Men to God-like Courage raise: All bravely bent the last Extreams to try, And Conquer, or magnanimously Dye.

Now the Fleets joyn, and with their horrid shocks Make England's Shores resound, and Gallia's Rocks, Ship against Ship with dire Encounter knocks. The more Resistance the brave English meet, They their Broadsides more furiously repeat. As th' Elm, which of its Arms the Ax bereaves, New strength and vigor from its Wounds receives; Their Rage, by loss of Blood, is kindled more, And with their Guns, like Hurricanes they roar:

Like Hurricanes the knotted Oak they tear, Scourge the vext Ocean, and torment the Air. Whilst Earth, Air, Sea, in wild Confusion hurl'd, With universal Wreck, and Chaos threat the World.

Such would the Noise be, should this mighty All Crush'd and confounded into Atoms fall. Bullets amain, unseen by mortal Eye, Fly in whole Legions thro' the darkned Sky, And kill and wound, like Parthians, as they fly.

Here a Granada falls, and blazing burns, Whilst pale as Death th' amaz'd Spectator turns. And now it bursts, and with a mortal sound Deals horrible Destruction all around.

There a red Bullet from our Cannon blown, Into a First-Rate's Powder-Room is thrown. Tost by a Whirlwind of tempestuous Fire, A thousand Wretches in the Air expire,

Howling, an impious Colony they go At once transported to the World below. There a Chain'd Shot with whirling Rage deprives More than one Ship of Entrails, Limbs and Lives. Death, who set out with it, does lagging stay, Or limps behind it, panting in its way.

And now from the Britannia, in a Crowd, Huge Bolts with Fury rend their nitrous Cloud, Not mighty Iove's could pass more fierce or loud, When brandish'd by the God, in dust they laid Those Sons of Earth who durst his Heav'n invade. Enceladus on Ossa Pelion casts, When lo! all Three th' avenging Thunder blasts. And the Britannia like Destruction hurl'd On the Invaders of its floating World. By her they with their moving Mountains sell, Like vast Typhoeus flaming sent to Hell.

Great Russel does their Admirals assail With Thunder, Lightning, and with Iron Hail.

That desperate fight t'have seen, one would have sworn Vulcanian Islands from their Seats were torn: That Strombolo afloat did thundring rush, And the inferiour Isles— With inextinguishable Fury crush.

O would that Fury animate my Verse, That God-like Rage, which is both wise and fierce; That Rage which in the Fight inspir'd thy Breast! Then might thy Praise be gloriously exprest; Thy Noble Acts in equal Numbers shown, Which thou mightst then, Triumphant Russel! own: But who could e're command celestial Fire? The God does whom and when he lists inspire: Now down he rushes, and my Breast he shakes, And now to Heav'n his towring Flight he takes. Then e're he leaves me, and my Blood grows cold, The Battels vast Event in haste be told.—

The French, at last, of treacherous Aid deceiv'd, By loudest Storms would gladly be reliev'd.

Their Ships, which in magnificent Array But just before did their proud Flags display, And seem'd with War and Destiny to play; Now from our Rage, despoil'd of Rigging, Tow, Or Burn, or up into the Air they blow.

Thus a large Row of Oaks does long remain The Ornament and Shelter of the Plain: With their aspiring Heads they reach the Sky, Their huge extended Arms the Winds defy, The Tempest fees their strength, & sighs, & passes by. When Iove, concern'd that they so high aspire, Amongst them sends his own revenging Fire, Which does with dismal Havock on them fall, Burns some, and tears up some, but rends them all: From their dead Trunks their mangled Arms are torn, And from their Heads their scatter'd Glories born; Upon the Heath they blassed stand and bare, And those whom once they shelter'd, now they scare.

Wish for the Kings Safety, in the Summers Expedition of 1692.

YE Pow'rs who watch o're sublunary Things, Ye guardian Pow'rs of Empires and of Kings, Angels and Genii of Empyreal kind, Who Christendom so near destruction find, Each trembling for the Crown to his high charge assign'd; Now leave your Posts, to WILLIAM all repair, Him guard alone, guard him with all your Care, Whilst He by your Protection stands secure, His Conduct and His Brav'ry will the Christian World ensure.

To Flavia who fear'd she was too kind.

AH! Flavia, still be gentle, let not fear, That makes all others mild, make thee severe.

How canst thou be too kind, who dost but use That Freedom, which I die if you refuse. There are, who think by Frowns Mankind to fire, As if Deformity could Love inspire. There are, who by their Coldness think t' enflame, Or, Parthian-like, by flying hope to tame. Others affect intolerable State, And think that Pomp becomes a Conqueror's Fate. But they who conquer in Love's beauteous Field, Must, if they would pursue their Victory, yield. Minds, from each others motions take their bent, In Love, Joy, Rage, and even in Hate consent. The Angry urge us, and the Fearful fright, The Sad disturb us, and the Gay delight; The Proud and Scornful, our Aversion prove, As all the Tender our Affections move. Tis true indeed some monstrous Fops are sound, Whom God did sure of the worst Dirt compound; Who Homage pay to Pride and fierce Disdain, The wretched Subjects of a Tyrant's Reign.

Just as enervate Eastern Climes obey Th' imperious Dictates of Despotic Sway. Let arbitrary Power mean Souls enslave, The Sov'reign must be good who rules the Brave. The Monarch of my Heart can't prove too kind; None e're too much oblig'd a gen'rous Mind. Too kind thou canst not be on the blest Night, When Heav'n it self procures for our Delight. When wanton on the Wings of Love I flee, To roul and revel in full Joys, and Thee. When o're thy panting Breasts dissolv'd I lie, And burn, and bleed, and sigh, and groan, and die: And by that Death at Happiness arrive, At perfect Bliss which none enjoys alive. Ev'n by that Bliss which thus transports my Mind, Then, when thuo grant'st me all, thou canst not prove too kind. For full Fruition will but raise Desire, As Heav'n possest exalts the Zealots fire.

And ev'ry Rapture but improve my Love, As earthly Charity's refin'd above. There mighty Love, amidst ambrosial Plains, With uncontroul'd, and boundless Empire reigns. AEtherial Minds eternally enjoy, Still plunge themselves in Bliss, and never cloy, Their mental Eyes upon each other fix; Then greedily they rush, and totally they mix: Then by delightful turns flie off and gaze, Then lose themselves again in Love's mysterious maze: Unite their Sustances, confound their Pow'rs, And ev'ry Virtue knit as we must ours. Like theirs, my Flavia! shall our Joys endure, Like generous Wines, the older the more pure, Or Nectar from devouring time secure. They through eternal Life, eternal Day, Mingling their Souls, pursue their am'rous Play, VVhen we our bodies mingle for Delight, Were we both doom'd to an eternal Night.

Through that with thee I hourly could expire, Nor light the joy of Life, nor Life would I desire.

The Tenth Ode of the Second Book of Horace.

I.

IF you thro Lise's uncertain Tyde, Your self, dear Friend, would safely guide, Do not the boundless Main explore, Where Boreas rages unconsin'd: Nor to get underneath the Wind, Venture the Rocks too near the Shore.

II.

The man stands equally exempt From dangerous envy and contempt, Who loves the middle golden state: He neither sordidly doth lye

In dust, nor stands exalted nigh Some ghastly precipice of Fate.

III.

Tempests the lofty Cedar rend, And on the ground its trunk extend, Whilst safe the humbler Plants are found. The Tow'r which insolently shrowds Its stately head amongst the Clouds, Its fall does into Atoms pound.

IV.

At Heads of Gyant Hills which rise With horrid Brows t' affront the Skies, Iove the impetuous Thunder whirls; The hillocks it flies grumbling o're, But raving mad, with hideous roar, Confusion on the Alps it hurls.

V.

He hopes when Fortune proves adverse, He, when she's kind, fears a reverse; Whom sacred wisdom doth direct; Since Iove so oft makes Tempests rise, Whose Fury shakes his native Skies, Can man a settled state expect?

VI.

But if the gods prove angry now, They'll one day with unclouded brow Dart joys into thy Soul again: Those gods as wretched were as we, If they should always angry be, And always hear their Slaves complain.

VII.

By bearing bravely the worst state, Shew thou deserv'st a better sate:

But if the wind comes fair about, Why then suspect the flattering gale; When it seems merriest, reef your Sail, And for the Sands look sharply out.

FABLE in Burlesque. The Pig, the Goat, and the Sheep.

A Goat, a Fat Pig and a Wether, To Fair in Tumbril jogg'd together: They were not thus to Smithfield jumbled, To see how Iacob danc'd or tumbled. No, story tells us that the Carter Went with design all three to barter. The Pig scream'd out, as he were just By Talgol going to be trus'd, Tore all their Ears and his own Throat; Mean while the Wether and the Goat,

Two very quiet harmless wretches, Astonish'd at Don Porker's screiches; Wonder'd from whence should come his fear, For they perceiv'd no danger near. Then says the Carter, what a Murrain Ails thee? what makes thre keep this stir in Such civil company as thou'rt in? Do thy two Comrades make this din? What a meek person is that Wether! And how demure the Goat! has either Open'd his mouth once? no I warrant They are both wiser. They are errant Dolts, says the Pig, both stark stone blind; Could they but see, like me, the Wind, Sheeps-head would set up such a larum, As would, were twenty Wolves here, scare 'um: And that grave Booby with the Beard, Would further than my self be heard. For Talgol's wheeson scraping whittle Will soon convert them both to victual:

They're lean, you'll say, and I'm mistaken: But how shall I man save my Bacon? Whom Wastcoateer has made a Fat Pig, For some Cits ravenous Spouse, with Brat big. 'Tis for her maw I'm grown this Squab bit; May the Jade choak with the first gobbet. Thus did the Pig his point maintain With subtile argument, but vain: Nor griefs, nor fears, change fates decrees, Then he's most wise who least foresees.

Moral.

IN vain by foresight we would mischiefs shun, What Fate has once determin'd must be done. The present with a dauntless mind enjoy: What wretched Fool would his own bliss destroy! Who lives in apprehension urges Fate; Too soon 'twill come, and he'll repent too late.

Better to hope for what we most desire, Than vainly into future ills inquire. Yet Man perhaps unjustly we accuse, Who ne're inquires but when he can't refuse. For as when Fate would undiscover'd lye, What it designs no Mortal can descry; So when it pleases to be understood, Mankind cannot be ignorant if it wou'd. Urg'd on by Destiny we headlong go, Forc'd to seek that which most we fear to know. But ah! how curst is he whom that decree, Which makes his doom obliges to foresee.

The Second Epistle of the first Book of Horace. To a Friend.

WHilst Philosophic studies you persue, My acquaintance here with Homer I renew;

Who rules of moral Life to man prescribes, Beyond the Stoic or Platonic Tribes. Why this is my opinion, hear— That part which the protracted war relates, Between the Grecian and Barbarian States, Instructively of the commotions sings, Of empty crowds, and their resembling Kings. By voting to restore the beauteous Prize, Peace to restore at once Antenor tries, Paris to be compell'd to happiness denies. Nestor makes haste the difference to compose, Which in the General, and Achilles rose. Whose injur'd Love in both strange fury breeds, Whilst for the madness of their Kings the Grecian Ar∣my bleeds. Sedition, Malice, Lust and Rage destroy, The Grecian Camp, and Garrison of Troy. But how far Wisdom joyn'd with Virtue goes, That pattern of them both Ulysses shows.

He, thro strange Climes with different customs, tost, After h' had taken Troy himself had almost lost. Suff'ring, he sail'd the boundless Ocean o're, And up against all Storms of Fate he bore, Whilst for himself and Friends he did a safe return explore. Why should I here Circoean Cups rehearse? Or Syrens singing in harmonious Verse? Those Cups if with his greedy Friends h' had drunk, Down to a Brute transform'd with them h'had sunk. Young Fops who sleep till noon, then dress till night, And make that Life their vanity and delight; These are Penelope's Suitors, Raskals born Only to plague the Fair, and consume Corn. Cyphers, who stand for nought alone, design'd But to compleat the number of Mankind.

Villains to cut mens Throats their Beds forsake, And wilt not thou to save thy self awake? 'Tis better now to try preventive arts, E're noxious Humors seize the nobler parts;

Then stay till their contagious influence force, The wretched Patient on too late a course. Now rouse by Night, watch o're th'instructive Page▪ For Love, or Envy, Discontent or Rage; Unless this useful gentler way you take, The rest you 'indulge will soon by Tortures break Why? when malignant Rheums thy sight obscure Art thou impatient to dispatch the Cure; Yet like a stupid Wretch delayst to find A cure for cares that overcast thy mind? Dare to tread Wisdoms paths, set forth apace: He who sets forth has finish'd half the race. Who till the letts of Lise are past, defers That happy minute, like the Peasant errs, Who stands expecting by the Rivers side Till running waters leave the Channel dry'd, Which from an unexhausted source eternally's sup∣plyd Vainly thou spend'st too great a part of Life In getting an Estate, or a fine Wife.

With greedy toil thou ploughst vast Forests o're, Let him who has enough expect no more. When the Great man lyes languishing in State, Not all his Pomp and Plenty can abate, That Feavor, which perhaps they might create. Nor Gold, nor Jewels, anxious cares expel, T' enjoy all these the Owner must be well. He whom Ambition fires, or Dangers fright, In Fortunes favors takes no more delight, Than men grown impotent, in Women's find; So Lutes the Deaf, so Beauty charms the Blind. Th' infected Vessel taints th' infusion too, Contemn all joys, which greater griefs persue. The Miser wants the more, the more h' acquires, Hear this, and bounds prefix to your desires. Not witty Cruelty by Revenge refin'd, In old Sicilian Tyrants e're design'd Tortures that vex'd the Limbs, as Envy wracks the Mind.

Temperate rising Fury whilst y' have pow'r, Who give't a loose, oft curse that Fatal hour. 'Tis a short madness: your desire restrain, That, that betimes confine, betimes enchain, Which must b' a Slave, or absolutely reign.

Th' unmanag'd Colt, the skilful Rider tames, And forms him to the course or to the battle frames Since first they flesh'd and enter'd the young Hound, His ratling tongue makes Hills and Dales resound. Now, now, these wholsome precepts of the Muse Into your young untainted breast infuse. Th' unseason'd Cask will long retain the scent, Of the rich Wines which in it first ferment. Thus my sweet Friend, in whom I most delight; To keep my pace in Vertues ways I'invite. But if you' outrun or lag I give you o're, I'le neither wait for those behind, nor urge on those before.

FABLE. Of the Aunt and the Grashopper.

THe Grashopper, the merriest Creature That ever was produc'd by Nature: Whilst Summer lasted ev'ry day, Did nought but eat and sing and play. When Winter came, and Heav'n look'd lowring, And Boreas thro the World ran fcowring. Grashopper saw her pleasure past, Her banquet's gone, and she must fast. Nature, wh' had serv'd, had ta'n away, She now can neither sing nor play. Nothing that's edible is at home, No not a Fly, a Mite, an Atome. Then she to neighbour Aunt does trudge, A little sneaking Country drudge.

Gossip, I come t' implore thy' assistance, And borrow something for subsistence: Lend me at most but twenty grain, I'll pay thee punctually again, In August, Gossip, if not sooner, As I an Insect am of honour. Lend! that's a case requires arguing; Two words, good Gossip, to a bargain. What! come to borrow of a Miser! Gossip! I thought thou hadst been wiser. Pray what might'st thou do all the Summer? Do, Gossip? why to ev'ry comer▪ I day and night sung oh be joyful! And hadst not thou a fine employ fool? But hark ye me, the Proverb cries, Neighbour be merry and be wise. He who is forc'd to go a borrowing, Neighbour, is forc'd to go a sorrowing, Why, as you could till Winter sing, I'saith you may go dance till Spring.

Moral.

WHo riots out Life's Summer and its Spring, He feels in Age of want and scorn the Sting. Not that from pleasure we the young would fright, For a young Stoic is a monstrous fight. That wretch runs counter to what Heav'n designs; To pleasure Heav'n and Nature Youth inclines. Youth is from Age distinguish'd but by Ioy; Which Youth still gives, and Age must still destroy. Yet let short Ioys with moderate Cares be mix'd. Ioy will like Mercury die, if once 'tis fix'd. Oft let it to returning Care give place, Oft from thy Breast that Care let Pleasure chase. So shall thy care nor anxious be nor long, Whilst thy delight is lasting found and strong. And thus deliciously you'l pass your Spring, And yet provide for ills which Age must bring:

Who in his Youth is a perpetual Drudge, That sordid Sot does his own Genius grudge. He must provide for Fourscore Years he crys, Then e're he has arriv'd to Fifty dyes; His Gold bequeathing to the Ass, his Son, That he may be more splendidly undone. Do not the Grashopper for pattern take, Nor▪ yet the Pismire thy example make; Whose▪ foolish Drudgery, so unjustly fam'd, Is like the Sot's, whom just before I blam'd. She day and night does up for Winter lay, Then e're the Fall, takes wings and sties away.

FABLE The Fox and the Grapes.

A Fox in Forraging did spy Grapes on a Treille some six foot high:

Th' artractive and the golden sight, The Thief did to repast invite; He ogles ev'ry goodly cluster, Judges its liquor by its lustre, Which sympathetick liquor draws Into his ravenous distant Jaws. But when he saw he should lose time, Unless he by his craft could climb: Why gaze I here, he slav'ring cries, On paultry stuff I should despise? Is such sowre geer for Renard's maw? Dost take thy self for a Jack Daw? Or for a chatt'ring greedy Pye? Foh! leave them for the Mob, say I.

Moral.

WHen men to what they wish, aspire in vain, To be reveng'd in rage contempt they feign;

But true Contempt to Rage is ne're ally'd, By Rage Esteem is constantly imply'd, And therefore Rage is oft conceal'd by Pride. Fantastic Pride! ev'n base whilst it aspires, Which falsly scorns whate're it most admires. The Stoic writing in contempt of Fame, To his vain-glorious Book, prefix'd his Name. That lofty Sect does Glory most deride, And yet is grounded on dogmatic Pride. Declaims against that Vice without whose power, Its feeble Virtue could not stand an hour. Whilst Heroes in the Field their Love proclaim, That rail's t' acquire the common Mistress Fame; Thus Sparks when other means are try'd, lampoon the Dame.

The Fourth Satyr of Boileau.

WHence does it come, dear Friend, that they alone, Think they engross all Wisdom, who have none;

That one Fop lolls his Tongue out at another, And shakes his empty Noddle at his Brother.

A Pedant who has stuff'd his brain with reading, So full, that there's no room for Wit or Breeding; Bristling with Greek, bloated with Pride and Bluff, And by long poring, surly grown and gruff. Who has by rote a Thousand Authors got, And of them all made one prodigious Sot. He on his dusty Volumes only dotes, Which he in talk, impertinently quotes. With him, if Aristotle says the word, Reason's ridiculous, and Sense absurd.

But the old Beau, and ev'ry modish Ass, Who half the Morning constantly does pass, Ogling his ugly Carkass in his Glass: (Which frightfully t' adorn three hours are spent, As if, like ancient Picts, 'twere his intent,

To native Ugliness acquir'd t'impart, And hideous grow, by Ornament and Art:) Who to the Park or Play rides jingling, where By his loud nauseous Chat, and graceless Air, He plagues the Sensible, and frights the Fair; Whilst all the little Loves that hover nigh, Our English Beauties from the Scare-crow fly; The Lumber of our Boxes and our Pits, And Beauties curst Incumbrance too, and Wits: This Chariot load of Blockhead hates all Science, And bids to all the learned World Defiance. Damns, as by Priviledge, whatever's writ, And makes his Ignorance his Claim to Wit. Proud Bigots who would all their faults conceal, And cheat ev'n God by their affected Zeal; With seeming Sanctity, and spiritual Spight, Damn all the rest of men with all their Might.

But th'Athiest who tow'rds Hell in Darkness strays, Whom want of Sense to want of Faith betrays, And whom no Law, but brutal Impulse sways;

Contemns Gods Wrath, and everlasting Fire, By which (he swears the State, and the Church Liar. Grey reverend Rogues, to awe bold Fools conspire. For his part, who to reason makes pretence, He laughs at Shams, which shock all common Sense.

But he that would this boundless Theme exhaust, And not in Crowds of various Fools be lost; He I'le maintain as soon might number all Whom in a Spring, or Pestilential Fall, Feavers, or more malignant Doctors, mawl. Or sum up all our Cuckolds on Record, From sneaking Cit to the gay strutting Lord. But that this matter may t' a point be brought, And in two words to sum up my whole thought; By leave of those sev'n Fools, so much renown'd By Greece for VVisdom, take the Globe around, On it no perfect VVisdom e're was found. All Men are Fools, and spight of all their pains, Their difference only in their rate remains.

As in a Wood which numerous paths divide, VVaysaring men are lost without a Guide; One on the right, one on the left hand strays, Both by one error rambling different ways: So we thro Life's grand journey blund'ring run, Stumbling at Scandals which we wish'd to shun, By one same error sev'ral ways all bubbled and un∣done.

Yet some grave Fops for wondrous wise would pass, But the grave Ass is an original Ass. Yet here let Satyr publish what it will, To Wisdom each exalts his Folly still: Does of his frailties as perfections boast, As doating Sires love weakly Children most. This to the man then who himself would know, He is most wise, who thinks he is least so. Who others viewing with indulgent thoughts, Does cynically censure his own faults: With rigour prosecutes them ev'ry one, And upon all sees strictest Justice done.

But here let Satyr what it will divulge, His darling vice who is not apt t' indulge? A Fool who doats on, nay adores his Gold, Amidst his Heaps enduring Want and Cold, His Folly does for a rare Prudence hold. His Pleasure, and his Pride's to heap up store, Which since 'twas his is guarded from him more, And less is in his power than 'twas before. But tell me mercenary, fordid Sot, Hast thou the plague of Tantalus forgot? Who to the very Chin in water set, Ne'r with one drop his burning Lips could wet. D' you laugh? how ignorant of your self are you, Who your own Image thus with scorn can view? The plague of Tantalus does thee destroy; Possessing wealth, which thou canst ne're enjoy. Numberless Sums your crowded Coffers burst, Yet after Gold eternally you thirst. Swimming in plenty still thy drought remains, And in thy Soul the Raging Feaver reigns.

Nor Fraud nor Sacriledge you shun for gain, Yet from what's yours religiously abstain, Thus Avarice but digs the Mine t' enter the Gold again. Why faith, the Miser in plain terms is mad, Cry's one whose Frenzy's diff'rent, but as bad. Who Gold, all day as up and down he wanders, On Rooks, cast Captains, Plotters, Parasites, squan∣ders, Whores, Horses, Taylors, Hawks, Pimps, Dogs, and Panders. Who counter after Happiness does run, And to be rectifi'd must be undone. From place to place he roams with restless mind, In search of Quiet, which he ne're could find: By Fortune's favours render'd discontented; So when the Mistriss is too fond, the Gallant is tor∣mented

For which of these d'you most despair of cure? Why their conditions both are dangerous sure.

An ancient Lord at the Groom Porter's cries, With a grave shrug and plaguy politick eyes, At the same time the bold adventurer knocks At all the Stakes with just Pandora's box. Whence the disasters flew that caus'd his ruine, And where his hope lay after his undoing. For Lands and Tenements being sold, he's fain, His Lacqueys and his Strumpets to maintain, By a Rent charge, upon the merry Main. Should Fortune her inconstant malice show, And turn the Dice with one unhappy throw, You might behold him strait with bristling Hair, Turn up his Eyes to Heav'n, and wildly stare; And swear like Devils, from some Wretches Breast By croney Priest unkindly dispossest. Bind him, or by his furious upcast Eyes, This modern Monster will invade the Skies: Which ev'n already loudly he defies. Yet leave him to the storm which tears his Breast, For his own Fury will chastise him best.

Errors there are, which do more pleasing harm, Whilst the weak Reason to debauch they charm. Like Wine delicious, Poison they dispense, And send up Fumes, intoxicating sense. Aristus Rhimes, and there his Folly lies, But tho those Rhimes ev'n Busby's Boys despise; Himself h' applauds, and in his vain account, Takes place of Virgil on th' Aonian Mount. But oh! should some bold man, severely kind, Dispel the mist, which thus obscures his mind; And all the bungling strokes h' admires display, In the full light of Reason's glittering ray; How would he curse that hour, and how be griev'd Of his sweet Error to be undeceiv'd.

Once an Enthusiast whom the Spleen did cheat, Into an odd and singular conceit: (The man concerning ev'ry thing beside, Discours'd like one whom Sense and Reason guide.)

Fancied that Angels hovering o're him hung, That Cherub plaid to him, and Seraph sung, Whilst in his ravish'd breast immortal Pleasures sprung. A Doctor undertook him with success, And cur'd him by his Art, or else by Guess. But when he did at last his Fees require: pay you, crys the Enthusiast all on fire, You, whose damn'd Art, in opening thus my Eyes, Has lost me Paradise, to make me wise.

His Rage was just; for man is not so curst, But Reason's yet of all his Plagues the worst: 'Tis she who fierce in midst of Joys remains, And with Remorse our gay Desires restrains: Our furious Passions she can never curb, And checking all the sprightlier does disturb. Her Rule's as troublesome, as 'tis severe, The Pedant's always bawling at our Ear.

Our thoughts she reprimands, our actions blames, To make us mad sh' eternally declaims, Till Patience turns to Rage and flings away; Then that her barbarous Lectures we may shun, Like Husbands forc'd by Shrews to go astray, To Wine, or kinder Mistrisses we run. In vain, some writers would with soveraign sway, Make her command, and every sense obey; Set up a God dess with presumpteous pride, Who might on Earth and in themselves reside. She they affirm can lasting joys bestow, Such as are her Votaries can only know, Who lead the lives of Demi-gods below. Why faith these things in Books are finely said, But hast not thou my Friend, who men hast read, Hast not thou found, after a strict survey, That your unthinking noisy Rogues are they, Who can be always satisfi'd, who can be always gay?

The Fifth Epistle of Monsieur Boi∣leau, to Monsieur Guillerague Secretary of the Kings Cabinet.

O Thou whose gallant and sagacious mind, The Power which form'd it for a Court design'd! Great Master in the art of pleasing! Who Know'st how to Speak, and to be silent too! What course would'st thou advise thy Friend to take, Say, had I best be silent now or speak? Shall I still signalize my self by Satyr, Fruitful in jolly Malice, gay ill Nature? And in the Field where I'have so often fought, Make Fopps still shake at ev'ry pointed thought? A Field that once with tumult gain'd me Fame, When my rash Youth transported with its flame, To wisdom and to ease preferr'd a noisie name.

But now since time has ripen'd my desires, * 1.1 Since Toys my thoughtful Soul no more admires, But at its fortieth rolling Year to wiser joys aspires. I bid adieu to the diverting Broil, And choose repose before the illustrious Toil. Then let a thousand of my scribling Foes Vainly Conspire to shake this firm repose. I whom each breath blew once into a flame, Am an old Lyon Tractable and Tame: I will no more my blu••••ed Talons arm, No more my Roar the Forest shall alarm. For as my sprightly rampant days are ore, So my provoking chagrin is no more, Nor the sharp Gall which stung me into rage before. Again let all the scribling Herd appear, I leave them now a full and free Carrear. Errour I only hate, and Good esteem, Studying my self my own perpetual Theme.

Let those who list thro' Tubes the Heavens explore; But me such vain inquiries touch no more. As vainly let Rohaut grow pale, t' inquire, If motion can with plenitu de conspire. Moisture and Drought, let Bernier too compound, Of bodies wandring thro the Void, of bodies hook'd and round, I who my reasons dreadful Shipwrack fear, Whilst on a Sea, thus infamous I steer, I to provide the Skiff, use all my care To sit its Rudder and its Oars prepare. Thus to prevent the storm, and reach the Shore, Whilst yet prevention may be us'd, before The Winds run mad, and for their prey the Waves begin to roar.

What do we aim at all but rest of mind? But we, within, that golden rest must find. A Blockhead full of faults, pursued by grief, To whom nor Town nor Country brings relief,

In vain takes Horse, with thought t'out-ride his trouble, That mounts behind, and with him gallops double. What think you Alexander then design'd, When, hurried by a vast and boundless mind, He laid all Asia waste, and plunder'd half mankind? What made him Graecia's gentle Clime forsake? What made him War on unknown Monarchs make? In Tumult, Horrour, and in Blood what pleasure could he take? Why' attack'd by trouble, which he could not tame, And which this Conquerour of the world o're came, Himself his deadliest Foe he sought to shun, And from reflecting solitude to run; Conquering, he fled before superiour Grief: This, this transported the Triumphant Thief T' Aurora's native regions, those gay shores O're which her purple flood of light she pours, Where the burnt Persian the bright Star which scorches him adores.

Self-Authors of the Plagues by which we groan, Far from our selves we're ev'ry moment thrown. Why all this hazard, all this mighty toil, T' exhaust the Gold of the Peruvian Soil? Why are we thro such various Climates hurl'd, To ransak both the new and antient World? Fatigu'd by Journies, or by Tempest tost? Murder'd on Land, or on the Ocean lost? Surely for happiness we need not roam, 'Tis easiest had with little and at home. He, whom the Gods best gift Content does bless, Possessing nothing, does the World possess.

A Letter sent with the following Speech.

SIR,

I Have here sent you inclos'd, what I pro∣mis'd you by the last Post, and I think my self oblig'd to give you some account of it. In the late Appendix to the new Ob∣servator, I find the Author reasonably com∣plaining of the corruption of History by the French, and giving a very reasonable guess, how false the History of this Age (as far as it is writ by them) is like to come out in the next. And particularly what Mounsieur Pelisson's History of the present King of France is like to be, which he is now writing by that King's own or∣der. Monsieur Boileau, who writ the en∣clos'd, has at least as great a share in that History as Monsieur Pelisson: And there∣fore you have in the enclos'd, in the which he has very artfully inserted a Panegyrick

of his Prince, a pattern of what his part of the History will be. For having flat∣ter'd his Master in this small Panegyrick, we have all the reason in the world to believe That he will flatter him too in his History. And that he has flatter'd him here, you will plainly find; not only by exaggerati∣ons, which are in some measure to be al∣low'd to an Orator; but in affirming things which are directly contrary to the truth. Such are those two remarkable passages of the French King's offering Peace to the ••••e Confederacy, for the general good of Chri∣stendom, (which not so much as a French∣man who has common Sense, believes) and of his Bombarding Genoa, only to be re∣veng'd of its Insolency and of its Perfidious∣ness, which every man who has heard the Story of Mr. Valdryon, must laugh at. Now since it is to be presum'd, that Mon∣sieur Boileau will flatter him in his History, because it is plain that he has flatter'd him in his Panegyrick; What are we to expect from Monsieur Pelisson, whose sincerity is by no means so much talk'd of as the other's?

I thought to have concluded here: but it comes into my mind to make two reflecti∣ons upon the Panegyrical part of the enclos'd. The first is this, that since Monsieur Boileau, who is in the main a man of sincerity, and a lover of truth; could not but flatter Lewis the Fourteenth when he commended him: we may conclude that it is impossible to give him a general commendation with∣out flattery. For, where a Satyrick Poet paints what other man must not daub? The second Reflection is this, that since this Panegyrick is scarce to be supported, not∣withstanding the most admirable genius of the Author, which shines throughout it; and an art to which nothing can be added (remember that I speak of the Original) and beyond which nothing can be desir'd; you may easily conclude how extreamly fulsome the rest of the Panegyricks upon Lewis the Fourteenth must needs be, whose Authors fall infinitely short of Boileau's, ei∣ther Genius, or Art, or Virtue.

The Speech of Monsieur Boileau, up∣on his admission into the French Academy.

Gentlemen,

THE Honour this day conferr'd upon me is some thing so great, so extraordina∣ry, so little expected; and so many several sorts of reasons ought to have for ever excluded me from it, that at this very moment in which I return my acknowledgements, I am doubtful if I ought to believe it. Is it then possible, can it be true, Gentlemen, that you have in effect judg'd me worthy to be admitted into this illustrious Society; whose famous Establishment does no less honour to the memory of Cardinal Rich∣lieu, than all the rest of the numerous wonders of his matchless Ministry? And what must be the thoughts of that great man? What must be the thoughts of that wise Chancellour, who after him enjoy'd

the Dignity of your Protectorship; and after whom it was your opinion, that none but your King had right to be your Protector? What must be their thoughts, Gentlemen, if they should behold me this day, becoming a part of this Glorious Body, the object of their eternal care and esteem; and into which by the Laws, which they have establish'd; by the Maxims which they have maintain'd, no one ought to be receiv'd, who is not of a spotless Merit, an extraordinary Wit, and comparable even to you? But farther, whom do I succeed in the place which you are pleas'd to afford me here? * 1.2 Is it not a Man who is equally▪ renown'd for his great Employments, and his profound Capacity? Is it not a Magistrate who fill'd one of the foremost Seats in the Council; and who in so many important Occasions has been Ho∣noured by his Prince, with his strictest Con∣fidence: A Magistrate, no less Wise than Experienc'd, watchful, laborious; and with whom the more I compare my self, the less Proportion I find.

I know very well, Gentlemen (and who can be ignorant of it,) that in the choice which you make of men who are proper to supply the vacancies of your learned Assem∣bly, you have no regard either to Place or to Dignity: That Politeness, Learning, and an acquaintance with all the more gentle Arts, have always usher'd in naked Merit to you, and that you do not believe it to be unbecoming of you, to substitute in the room of the highest Magistrate, of the most exalted Minister, some famous Poet, or some Writer, whom his Works have ren∣dred Illustrious; and who has very often no other. Dignity, than that which his de∣sert has given him upon Parnassus, But if you barely consider me as a man of Learn∣ing, what can I offer you that may be worthy of the favour, with which you have been pleas'd to honour me? Is it a wretch∣ed Collection of Poetry, successful rather by a happy temerity and a dexterous imi∣tation of the Ancients, than by the beau∣ty of its thoughts, or the richness of its expressions? Is it a translation that falls so

far short of the great Master-pieces with which you every day supply us; and in the which you so gloriously revive; Thu∣cydidis, Xonophon, Taoitus, and all the rest of the renown'd Heroes of the most learn'd Antiquity? No, Gentlemen, you are too well acquainted with the just value of things, to recompence at a rate so high, such low Productions as mine, and to offer me voluntarily upon so slight a foundation, an Honour, which the knowledge of my want of Merit, has discouragid me still from de∣manding.

What can be the reason then, which in my behalf has so happily influenc'd you upon this occasion? I begin to make some discovery of it, and I dare engage that I shall not make you blush in exposing it. The goodness which the greatest Prince in the World has shown in employing me, together with one of the first of your illu∣strious Writers, to make one Collection of the infinite number of his Immortal Actions; the permission which he has given me to do this, has supply'd all my defects with you.

Yes, Gentlemen, what ever just reasons ought to have excluded me for ever from your Academy; you believed that you could not with justice suffer, that a man who is destin'd to speak of such mighty things, should be depriv'd of the utility of your Lessons, or instructed in any other School than in yours. And by this, you have clearly shown, that when it is to serve your August Protector; whatever consideration might otherwise restrain you, your Zeal will not suffer you to cast your eyes upon any thing but the interest of your Master's Glory.

Yet suffer me, Gentlemen, to undeceive you, if you believe that that great Prince, at the time when he granted that favour to me, believ'd that he should meet within me a Writer, who was able to sustain in the least, by the Beauty of Style, or by the magnificent Pomp of Expression, the Grandeur of his Exploits. No, Gentlemen, it belongs to you, and to Pens like yours, to shew the World such Master-pieces; and he never conceiv'd so advantageous a

thought of me. But as every thing that he has done in his Reign is Wonderful, is Prodigious, he did not think it would be amiss that in the midst of so many re∣nown'd Writers, who with emulation de∣scribe his Actions in all their Splendour, and with all the Ornaments of the subli∣mest Eloquence; a man without artifice, and accus'd rather of too much sincerity than of flattery, should contribute by his labour and by his advice, to set to show in a proper light, and in all the simpli∣city of the most natural Style; the truth of those Actions, which being of them∣selves so little probable, have rather need to be faithfully related, than to be strong∣ly exaggerated.

And indeed, Gentlemen, when Poets and Orators, and Historians who are some∣times as daring as Poets or Orators, shall come to display upon so happy a Subject, all the bold strokes of their Art, all their force of Expression; when they shall say of Lewis the Great, more justly than was said of a famous Captain of old, that he

alone has atchiev'd more Exploit sthan other Princes have read; that he alone has taken more Towns, than other Monarchs have wish'd to take: When they shall assure us, that there is no Potentate upon the face of the Earth, no not the most Ambitious, who in the secret prayers that he puts up to Heaven, dares presume to Petition for so much Glory, for so much Prosperity as Heaven has freely grated this Prince: When they shall write that his Conduct is Mi∣stress of Events; That Fortune dares not contradict his designs: When they shall paint him at the Head of his Armies, marching with Gigantick Strides, over great Rivers and highest Mountains; thun∣d'ring down Ramparts, rending hard Rocks, and tearing into ten thousand pieces every thing that resists his impetuous Shock: These expressions will doubtless appear great, rich, noble, adapted to the lofty Sub∣ject; but at the same time that the World shall wonder at them, it will not think it self oblig'd to believe them, and the Truth may be easily disown'd or mistaken,

under the disguise of it pompous orna∣ments.

But, when Writers without artifice, and who are contented faithfully to re∣late things; and with all the simplicity of Witnesses who depose, rather than of Hi∣storians, who make a Narration, shall rightly set forth, all that has pass'd in France, ever since the famous Peace of the Pyrences; all that the King has done in his Domi∣nions, to re-establish Order, Discipline, Law: when they shall reckon up all the Provinces which he has added to his Kingdoms in succeeding Wars, all the Ad∣vantages, all the Victories which he has gain'd of his Enemies; Holland, Germany, Spain; all Europe too feeble all against him alone, a War that has been always fruitful in prosperity, and a more glorious Peace. When Pens that are sincere, I say, and a great deal more careful to write the Truth, than to make others admire them, shall rightly articulate all these Actions, dis∣pos'd in their order of time, and attended with their real circumstances; who is it

that can then dissent from them, I do not say of our Neighbours, I do not say of our Allies; I say of our mortal Enemies? And tho' they shou'd be unwilling to acknowledge the truth of them, will not their dimi∣nish'd Forces, their States confin'd within stricter Bounds, their complaints, their jea∣lousies, their furies, their very invectives in spight of themselves convince them? Can they deny that in the very year in which I am speaking, this Prince being resolv'd to constrain them all to accept of a Peace which he had offer'd them for the good of Christendom; did all at once, and that at a time, when they had pub∣lish'd that he was intirely exhausted of Men and Money: that he did then, I say, all at once in the Low Countries, cause to start up as twere out of the ground two mighty Armies, each of them consisting of Forty Thousand Men; and that he pro∣vided for them abundant subsistance there, notwithstanding the scarcity of Forrage, and the excessive drought of the Season? Can they deny that whilst with one of

these Armies, he caus'd his Lieutenants to Besiege Luxembourgh, himself with the o∣ther, keeping as it were block'd all the Towns of Brabant and Hainault; That he did by this most admirable Conduct, or rather by a kind of Enchantment, like that of the Head so renown'd in the an∣tient Fables, whose aspect transform'd the beholders to Stones; render the Spaniards unmov'd spectators of the taking of that important place, in the which they had re∣pos'd their utmost refuge. That by a no less admirable effect of the same prodigi∣ous Enchantment, that obstinate Enemy to his Glory, that industrious contriver of Wars and Confederacies, who had la∣bour'd so long to stir up all Europe against him, found himself, if I may use the ex∣pression, disabled and impotent, tyed up on every side, and reduc'd to the wretch∣ed vengeance of dispersing Libels; of sending forth Cries and Reproaches. Our very Ene∣mies, give me leave to repeat it, can they de∣ny all this? Must not they confess that at the time when these wonders were execu∣ing

in the Low Countries, our Fleet up∣on the Mediteranean, after having forc'd Algiers to be a Suppliant for Peace; Caus'd Genoa to feel, by an example that will be eternally dreadful, the just chastisement of its Insolence and of its Persidiousness; bu∣rying under the ruines of Palaces and state∣ly Houses that proud City, more easie to be Destroy'd than be Humbled? No, without doubt, our Enemies dare not give the lye to such known truths, especi∣ally when they shall see them writ with that simple and natural Air, & with that character of sincerity and probability, with which whate're my defects are, I do not absolutely despair to be able at least in part to supply the History.

But since this very simplicity, all enemy as it is to Ostentation and Pageantry, has yet its Art, its Method, its Beauties; from whence can I better derive that Art, and those Beauties, than from the source of all delicacies, this fam'd Academy, which has kept possession, for so many years, of all the Treasures, of all the Riches, of

our Tongue? These, Gentlemen, are the things which I am in hopes to find among you, this is what I come to study with you; this is what I come to learn of you. Hap∣py, if by my assiduity in frequenting you, by my address in bringing you to speak of these matters, I can engage you to con∣ceal nothing of all your most secret skill, from me. Your skill to render Nature decent and chast at the very time when she is most Alluring; and to make the Colours and Paint of Art, appear to be the genuine Beauties of Nature. Thrice hap∣py! if by my respects and by my sincere submissions, I can perfectly convince you of the extream acknowledgement, which I shall make all my life time for the unexpe∣cted Honour you have done me.

FABLE. The Fox and the Crow.

THE Crow sat perch'd upon a Tree, With Cheese in's Beak, and who but He? Renard the wind of him had got, And after he had smelt the Sot; Thus he accosts him, Noble Sir, You do, or may I never stir, Excell each two and four Legg'd Creature, Both in Complexion and in Feature; And sure to such a Shape as thine, The Gods have giv'n a voice Divine. Oh! could I hear that charming voice, How should I, Noble Sir, Rejoyce. Thus like the Dog, that's sly and pickled, Renard the Crow cajol'd and tickled. Behold the issue, whilst the Crow, That he his Charming Voice might show,

Gave two or three obstreperous Caws, His Cheese dropt into Renard Jaws. Sir Crow, says Renard, ev'ry Flatterer Uses his Cully for his Caterer. This lessen, or I'm much deceiv'd Deserves the Cheese; then be not griev'd. The Crow, tho late, with shame and trouble, Swore he'd no more be found a Bubble.

Moral.

GRoss Flattery only can by Fools be born: For it implies at once Design and Scorn. Now tho self-love as vain by praise is won, Self-love contempt and injury must shun. Well manag'd praise may still expect success; Praise shows esteem, when er'e it shows address. But only Fools gross flattery can brook, They love the bait, and can't suspect the Hook. Renard knew whom he prais'd, when he made choice, Of that egregious Topick of his Voice. To ape the Fox our Parasites think fit, To blind their fools, still more they praise their Wit.

FABLE. The Wolf and the Horse.

ISgrim had all the Winter far'd So very ill, his looks Men scar'd. He had (poor Dog!) got an evil habit, Of going to Bed with the Devil a bit; So that he had contracted a meen, Which truly represented Famine. A filthy Figure, rude and gruff, As hungry Bullies who lye rough. Whilst free from Pinching and from Danger, The Cattle lay at Rack and Manger. When Winter quarters they forsook, And to Encamp, the Field they took; Hight Isgrim spy'd a sleek plump Steed, Who with that appetite did feed, One would have sworn, that his fresh Sallad Was not distastful to his Palate.

At sight of Steed that's one huge bit of Fat, Hight Isgrim's heart for joy went pit a pat. Ah Rogue! have I found thee? how happy Would Isgrim be, if he could but nab thee? But I had rather now by half, Thou wert a Mutton or a Calf. Then could I truss thee▪ up as readily, As I could after eat thee greedily. But thou art such a damn'd great Beast, That I must plot before I feast. Come let us plot then, pray why not? Sure duller Dogs than I can plot. Then Isgrim puts on Phyz of Gravity, Phyz, that agrees with deeds of pravity; As does with Satan Phyz of Hag. Then Isgrim thus accosts the Nag: Your Servant, Sir, may, please your Worship, To let me inform you, that my Curship

Is, tho I say't, a Beast of Parts, And right well skill'd in medicinal arts. A Doctor who was ne'r yet gravell'd, Who, for experience long has travel'd. Who has had the luck to have confuted, All those with whom he e're disputed. I've had the honour to prescribe, Long to your Worships noble tribe. And several worthy generous Horses, Are now by my advice in Courses. Of which each honourable Palfrey Is from his ailings more than half free. I speak to your Worship in this fashion, Because I've of your Case compassion. For says our Art, to see a Steed, Thus foully like your Worship feed, Betokens great indisposition, And calls for a severe Physician.

Now if you will but only please To open to me your Disease; I Doctor Isgrim without failing, Will gratis cure your Worship's ailing. Palfrey gave Isgrim such a cross leer, As Horse at's Oats does roguish Ostler. Doctor, I have, as you will find; An Ulcer in my Foot behind. And offer here the part affected, To be by your Doctorship inspected. Then Palfrey, with his lifted Foot, Whilst Isgrim was approaching to't, With roguish treacherous intention, Wisely thought fit to use prevention: And had at's ugly Face a fling, Which Teeth from Jobbernoul did ding, Made his Eyes stare, and his Ears sing. Then to the bloody mangled Elf, Phyz, says the Horse, go cure thy self.

Introth, says Isgrim, wondrous sad, What thou hast e'en deserv'd thou hast had. You must go act the Doctor, Booby! Yes you! incorrigible Looby! You must go set up for a Leech! Tho by thy actions and thy speech, The veriest Sots may see with scorn, That thou art Butcher bred and born.

MORAL.

TO force thy Genius is a thing, Will scorn and mischif on thee bring. For affectation, Ape of Nature, Is soon found out, and then all hate her. Wh'as soon as seen no more escapes Being laugh'd at, than your true Apes. Who to surrounding Mob rehearse, By looks and gestures a dumb Farce. Of all affected Fools, the Grave A long preheminence must have. No folly ere can theirs surpass, For since gravity in an Ass, In whom 'tis natural's so ridiculous? How must the affected grave beast tickle us?

The place for which thou art unfit, Thou wilt decline if thou hast wit. To which if it should threaten danger, Take still more care to prove a Stranger. For if in such you'l needs be doing, Twill prove your Plague, if not your Ruine. You can't keep long in such a Station, Without the help of affectation; Andaffectation in this case, Has something worse than its Grimace; Betrays your blind side to your Foes, And lays you open to their Blows. As in a Stream if you plunge him, Who paddles and but half can Swim, He strait must in it or be lost, or With many an unnat'ral posture, With many a slounce and many a strain, Himself on th' adverse Flood sustain: And if he's there attack'd by Foe, At last must to the bottom go.

(For no Expedient can he try, Being neither free to fight nor fly). So one in place to which his Talent, Compar'd is not found equivalent; T'uphold himself in a wrong station, Must use eternal affectation. Must be by all Spectators seen, With a false Face and a forc'd Meen. By violence done to himself so harrass'd, So plagu'd, so pester'd, so embarrass'd; His puzled mind ne'r finds Vacation, To look before for Preservation; Too clogg'd for dextrous quick evasion, On any suddain nice occasion. Can such a one himself defend From deadliest Enemy, false Friend; The Villain with a smiling Face, Who stabs and damns with an Embrace? No, as the Body, so the Mind Can't on its guard be when consin'd

Isgrim might have been quick enouff, To have escap'd the Steed's Rebuff: If the grave Doctor had not been Too careful to maintain his meen; And too much taken up to heed The motion or design of Steed. For all who with dissembled meen, Fain what they are, not would be seen; Possessing but the Forms alone, And not the Powers of Gifts they own; Have for that reason Forms affected; The more, to pass the less suspcted. (And therefore Hypocritick Wight Seems more devout than the Upright). And when their thick and gross disguise Has serv'd to hoodwink their own Eyes: Like Children when themselves they blind, They' have thought no others could them find. Tho their proceeding works effect Contrary oft to what they expect:

As is apparent by our Fable: For Isgrim neither Learn'd nor able, Imagin'd he might fine for Sense, Out of his stock of Impudence, And positive grave Impertinence. And thought t'enjoy a Bliss that's double, The priviledge on't, without the trouble. But he o'reacted so his part, That he got nothing by't, but smart. Which shew'd him a confounded Sott, When he imagin'd he could Plot; Because he could a Mutton fegue: They're Brains, not Teeth that serve t'intregue. And there's requir'd much more skill in, A speculative than practick Villain.

Beware by him, and meddle not, If thou'rt no Statesman, with a Plot.

Plots, which are dangerous edge Tools, Have always Fatal been to Fools; Who after all the Snares they have laid, Have only found themselves betray'd. And most inextricably hamper'd, Unless they've seasonably scamper'd. As you perhaps have seen a Thrush, Fluttering tangled in a Bush, To which it has been glew'd and clung, By birdlime made of its own Dung. So Treason ill-contriv'd and dull, The very Excrement of Skull, Lays by the Heels its plotting Gull.

The Devil ow'd Tegue, without all question, A spight when Tegue by Devil's suggestion, Set up for Souldiering and Plotting, Whose only Talent was Bog-trotting.

What was th' event? at every Battle, We took whole thousands meer white Cattle, And more were mawl'd in one year i'th' Field, Than other Beasts, in three in Smithfield. One who was only drub'd ith' Fray, Like Isgrim howling ran a way, And as he ran was heard to say; Dear Ioy, thou hast both Killing scap'd and Hanging, And by my shoul, Ioy, thou'st deserv'd thy Banging.

To Mr. E H Physician and Poet.

H—the delight of Phoebus, who imparts To thee his Darling, both his sacred Arts, His healing Virtue, and his Heavenly flame, His power to give long Life, and endless Fame To a frail Body and an empty name: With constancy thy course of Glory run, Follow the leading God, as thou'st begun: Rise by vast Science and judicious rage, Like him t' enlighten and to warm our Age. At once his Favorite and his Rival be, 'Tis he his Daphne comes to share with thee, Till all his powers on thee conferr'd w'admire, His vital influence and eternal Fire; That Fire tho fierce, impetuous, never strays, But circling in sublime refulgent ways, By its just course spreads o're the World its Rays.

To a Young Gentleman, who was blam'd for marrying. Young.

CEnsur'd for being Happy made too Young! 'Tis by a foolish or an envious Tongue. 'Tis to be happy to be early joyn'd To a lov'd Nymph as charming as she's kind. Can Heaven it self bestow a greater Blessing, Than early mutual love, and long possessing? Tell those who blame thee that till Thirty they The noon of Life, for Love's chief meal may stay. So plagu'd by pinching hungery formal fools Stay for a Clock, and are enslav'd to Rules. Most to fall to that usual season wait; The Beasts, when half life's journey's over, bait. But tyr'd by the bad way, and ill at ease, What they in misery taste, but half can please. He who at once is fresh, sharp set and gay, With perfect pleasure does about him lay.

Upon the same Subject, in imitation of Anacreon's Manner.

AS young Sylvander did one day Wantonly with Celia play; The Boy, call'd Love, a third to make, Did his Bow and Quiver take. His Bow with golden Wire he strings, And with Feathers from his Wings; Imping a never failing Dart, Strikes at once, with wondrous art, Celia's and Sylvander's heart. The Dart in both their Breasts remain'd, Down they fell together Chain'd. Love clap'd his purple Wings for joy, Tis by Styx, like me a Boy! Joyn'd to a Nymph Young, Lovely, Kind; Look how by my Dart they're joyn'd!

The golden bearded Dart, to wrest Out from either Lovers breast, Both Gods and Men shall strive in vain; They shall ne'r be two again. For see how riveted they lye! How they Bleed, and how they Dye! As my Psyche does and I. I, tho a God, with her expire, And reviving Death desire. Again I dye, by death more blest, Than by Heaven before possess'd. I would not be immortal I, But for ever thus to dye.

Advice to Women, against Female Pride.

I.

THE Gods because they're good, we' invoke With their own gifts their Altars smoak; 'Tis not the pain and smart we feel Which makes their suppliant Creatures kneel; 'Tis not their Arbitrary sway Makes us implore what we obey. For were I sure that what I want, They would not hear, or would not grant, No not to them I would not pray.

II.

Much less to you, whom to beguile, We Goddesses or Angels style; Whom to Debauch Divine we call, And make you proud, to make you fall. Titles which we on you bestow, Oar own Despotick power may show.

The very names that make you vain, Prove your subjection and our reign; For 'tis from Kings that Honours flow.

III.

Your glory upon us depends, Begun by us, by us it ends. Woman by nature's law's a slave, Man may resume what e're he gave. Your power, to which our wills give date, We can confound who could create. Hear this, and laugh at your own Pride, Which all but easie Fops deride; Be humble, if you would be Great.

Upon a Ladys Picture.

AFter each skilful touch, and ev'ry Grace, The genuine form excells the painted Face. What wondrous Artist e're could draw so well, As charming Nature, where she strives t' excell? Heaven's work, before the Painter's we prefer, Since it design'd its Master-piece in her. God, whose resemblance in each Face we view, Ne'er his own Picture more exactly drew.

To a Painter Drawing a Lady's Picture.

HE who Great Ioves Artillery ap'd so well, By real Thunder and true Lightning fell. How then dar'st thou with equal danger try, To Counterfeit the lightning of her Eye? Painter, desist, or soon the event may prove, That Love's as jealous of his Arms as Iove.

FABLE. The Lyon and the Ass a Hunting.

THE Lyon would a Hunting go, His Game Wild Bore, Stag, Buck and Doe For his Assistant he made choice Of th' Ass, who had a Stentor's voice. Oft silliest Creatures make most noise. Hid under boughs, he made him lye, And then commanded him to cry. The Ass thus bid, began to Thunder, And struck the Beasts with fear and Wonder. The Tempest of his Voice to shun, Upon the Lyon's Toils they run. After that Prey enough was taken, Says the Ass, his Ambuscade forsaking,

What feats have I perform'd to day? Have not I here done Wonders pray? I marry didst thou bravely bray. Had I not known thy Self and Kindred, Ev'n I my self should have been in dread. This to the Ass was no way pleasing; Altho' he rallied was with Reason. For what a Dev'l! an Ass turn Bully! That is not fair, tho, frequent truly.

Moral.

I.

NE're boast thy self, of thy own Merit, For those who hear thee cannot bear it; Besides, it shows a little spirit.

II.

To Praise to which you may aspire, If you deserve it, you are nigher, The less you show your fond desire.

III.

But if a Man deserves it not, The Fame that is by vanity got, Is that of a vain-glorious Sot.

IV.

Then we your known defects of mind, Which t'excuse before we inclin'd, Expose and new ones strive to find.

V.

Thus whilst with vanity you take aim, Recoiling, it to flight puts fame, You hurt your self, and miss your Game.

Some Moral Reflections concerning Vanity, Written upon the occasion of Burlesquing the Fable of the Ass and the Lyon.

THO vanity in all we do not see, Yet a Vice 'tis from which no mortal's free. For Heaven with soveraign Wisdom did ordain, The thing it made so wretched, should be vain. The happiest has of misery such a share, As without Vanity he could not bear. But that into content our minds can cheat, Pleas'd to be wretched, whilst they dream they're great. Virtue to that, and Learning too we owe, For from our Pride our goodliest actions flow, And all that curious searching minds can know. For when we watch the live-long night to pore, And tedious Volumes are content t' explore:

Tis not to know our duty and do well, Tis with aspiring thoughts and hope to excell. By Vanity we know our selves; who'd dare To look within, if Vanity were not there? For all the rest so gloomy is and sad, The ghastly fight would make the wisest mad. But Vanity makes gay the ghastly sight, (As Cynthia guilds the dusky face of Night,) By its false light, a man his faults o'resees, Or it such Colours gives them that they please. Since we're oblig'd to't then, and to't ally'd, Why do we hate it still, and still deride? Indeed we hate it, when 'tis seen abroad; At home 'tis constantly caress'd and claw'd, The Vanity which is by others shown, We therefore hate, because it shocks our own, We would be upper-most, which they who boast Seem not t' allow; themselves esteeming most.

To Sift them then, we're angrily inclin'd To weigh their Virtues, and their faults to find: Whilst all our Pride grows furious in our mind, Which till their faults are shown, is ne're appeas'd; But fancying we're above them then, we're eas'd. Therefore the Wise, who would their Faults conceal, Never themselves their Merit will reveal. Praise, tho their due, they never care to claim, But by their Modesty advance their Fame. Praise claim'd our vanity will not pay, they know, Which of it self profusely 'twill bestow. For when we celebrate anothers praise, 'Tis not his Glory, but our own to raise, Provok'd and push'd t't by an itching lust, To show how Sensible and Just. Great Wits extreamly vain are sometimes found; They with fermenting Choler much abound: Thransported by whose rage they can't controul Th'impetuous saillies of th'aspiring Soul.

For they must own, who most admire great Wits, Tho still ingenious, they're but wise by fits. Ev'n them when vain, as Fools, we must despise; As we count Fools, as far as modest, wise. But Fools nere modest are but by Complexion, They're vain and noisie Rogues still by Election; For modesty by choice implies profound reflection. Nature, who acts by admirable rules; Wisdom with vanity supplies in Fools. As she the Wise, (who mad with pride would grow, Could they know others and themselves not know.) By self-reflection humble keeps and low. So she those Fools who nothing know, and Bliss Owe only to their ignorance of this. Those Fools, who if they could their inside spy, At the sad view, would strait despair and dye; Those she to make them drag dull Life can cheat, By monstrous vanity into self-conceit.

As empty Bodies most are puff'd with wind; So vanity most swells an empty Mind. From a Fools inside breaks with filthy sound, And does their Senses who are near him wound. Vain Rogues are pleas'd with vile noise they make As Brutal Sots brag of the wind they break. Fools like the Ass, first frightfully are loud, Then of that very noise the Beasts are proud. He sat at Council boasts himself most able, Who loudest blasts discharges at the Table.

FABLE. The Wolf and the Crane.

A Wolf once eating at a Club, To eat his Brethren out did sup Something too greedily on Mutton, (Wols's soon convertible to Glutton); Yet tho he made enormous hast, He was resolv'd to make no wast, A Bone which in his Throat did stray, Took up its lodging by the way. The Crane's arrival was opportune, Order'd for Isgrim's good by fortune. Who is a friend to Fools, and so To Rogues she can't be term'd a foe. Isgrim, no better was than such, Or Chronicle has wrong'd him much.

And now he to the Crane makes signs, And to assist him she inclines. Now th' Operatrix falls to work, And pulls the Bone out with a Jerk. When Isgrim saw the Feat was done, Neighbour, says he, I must begon. Sir, says the Crane, before we're parted, I'd for my labour be rewarded. Rewarded, sayst thou, for thy labour? Hey day! why sure you mock me, Neighbour. When in my Jaws I had thy slim Gullet, By special grace thou out didst pull it. And yet forsooth, before we're parted, You'd for your labour be rewarded. Go, Gossip, you're impertinent; And, let me tell you, impudent. Go, I hate such ungrateful wretches, 'Slife! come no more within my Clutches.

MORAL.

I.

HE who takes care t'oblige th'ungrateful, when After much time and pains he's sound a Bubble; Bilk'd in his hopes, mistaken in his men, Will be to shame abandon'd and to trouble.

II.

For we from Pride, or Love, or Interest see, That bounteous actions generally spring. And disappointment to either of these three, Rage, Discontent, or red hot Shame must bring.

III.

The brave mans bounties almost always flow, From generous pride of doing good to Merit. Such a one's highly then concern'd to know The worthy from the base ungrateful spirit.

IV.

For moderate benefits, this Rule may serve, If one's oblig'd, whose Sense and Iudgment's good; From Graitude he'l ne're be seen to swerve: Gratitude's Interest, rightly understood.

V.

But if you would oblige to that degree, That the oblig'd must make his fortune by't. For something in him besides Iudgment see, Since t'will not be his interest to requite.

VI.

He will not probably ungrateful be, Whose actions still have Faithful been and Iust. Who never unprovok'd did injury, And never tho provok'd betray'd his Trust.

VII.

Favours receiv'd are debts, and bounteous acts, Tho Bumble-case no Bond or Iudgment draws; Oblige us more to pay when time exacts, By frankly leaving us to Honour's Laws.

VIII.

Then twice th' ungrateful in one act offends, His falshood and Injustice toodisplays: Kind Benefactors basely wrongs and Friends, And the most free and generous Trust betrays.

Upon the Fleet then fitting out. Writ∣ten in 1682.

NOW floating Tow'rs the Royal Docks prepare, To scowre the Main, as Tempests purge the Air. Not Winds drive Seas with more impetuous rage, Nor Seas beat Shores, than they their Foes engage Those bold bad men they by their Thunder scare, Who Heav'ns dire Thunderbolts blaspheming dare. For Heav'n (they cry) at Land or in the Deep, Does good and bad without distinction sweep. Iove for diversion Bolts at random throws, Or else his rage misguides his erring blows: And his own sacred Oak that Thunder rends, Which to transfix some impious breast, he sends.

His gods the Syracusian Tyrant spoil'd, Yet sailing safe their impotence revil'd. AEneas in the same Sicilian Seas, (His piety the rigid'st pow'rs might please) Saw his Ships lost, and his brave men expire; Sunk by those Gods they sav'd from Grecian Fire. But in Great Britains formidable Fleet, Justice and Rage, those contradictions, meet. Tempests oft sweep the Just, the Just that always spares, And always scourges us, whom angry Heaven for, bears.

The Prosopoeia of Ostend.

I.

SEE the small Stage of a great War, On which fam'd Generals fight; Whilst wondring Nations from a far Oa'ze on the Tragick sight.

II.

Like Hydras Heads my Bastions rise, Their fall augments their State: Their re-ascending Tow'rs despise The Impotence of Fate.

III.

The Winters most inclement Sky, On the bleak beach I bear, Whilst jarring Winds the War supply, In their. vast Field the Air.

IV.

Phoebus returning warms my Shore, And with the Plague annoys: That God of Physick poysons more, Than murdring War destroys.

V.

War, Famine, Plague, together go, To slay one wretch conspire, Just as the fatal three below, Each others help require.

VI.

Here in a heap come all the ills, That shorten human breath. And 'tis an envied fate that kills But by a single Death.

VII.

Nor are my Sons consum'd alone: Ev'ry killing trouble, With which the Enemy makes him groan, He himself feels double.

VIII.

Th' impartial Plague sweeps either side, One Monument I'm grown; Then destiny, if thou canst, decide, Who shall call it his own.

IX.

Expiring men for Victory strain, And like Bellona rave: When all the Conqueror can gain, Is but the vainer Grave.

FABLE. Of the Cock and the Fox.

A Cock stood Sentry on a Tree, A shrowd experienc'd creature He, A damn'd arch Bird, as one shall see. Him Renard in his rounds espy'd, And near he drew, and thus he cry'd, Why how now, Coz! do'st hear the News? There's now an universal Truce; Which must be follow'd by a Peace, War amongst Animals must cease. Come down, and let me hug theè, Dear Rogue. Thought Chanticleer, thou art a meer Rogue, A damn'd false Dog as e're told lye, Ile shew thee a Dog trick by and by. Friend Renard, this is glorious News, Who could have hop'd for such a Truce.

And yet I doubt not but it's true, For look you hitherwards, come two Tall hide-bound Curs, who doubtless bring Expresses to confirm the thing. The first with meager mien and Phys-grim, Is he who in single fight slew Isgrim: The other's he with whom thy Sire Did in a close embrace expire. Full stretch along the plain they scower, And in a minute of an hour, Will tell us how th' affair has pass'd. Ah! Plague and Pox upon their hast; Cryes Renard, who ran scampering thence, So scar'd h▪ has ne're left stinking since. Thus was the wily Beast defeated: 'Tis just the Cheater should be cheated.

MORAL.

THere's no Man more obnoxious to deceit, Than an experienc'd, and successful Cheat; For he presuming on his own address, Draws deep Security from long Success. He's oft too vain, another to suspect, Now Caution of suspicion is th' Effect, And only Caution can from Fraud protect. Those Sharpers who by cheating throve so fast, They thought t'have topp'd upon the World at last; Did on the sudden one Tarpawlin meet, Who gull'd them of their Gold and of their Fleet.

FABLE. Of the Dunghill Cock.

A Cock by scraping in a Dungle, Rak'd up by chance a huge Carbuncle. To the next Jeweller he met, Take it says he, thou canst it set: The Stone they say is true and fine, Yet for two Barly Corns 'tis thine; For to what end should it be mine? A learned Manuscript was once, By Testament bequeath'd t'a Dunce; Who to convert it as was fitting, Strait trudg'd with it to Little-Britain. Says he t'a Bookseller, pray look, I've brought to sell thee here a Book. They say 'tis Learned, very Learned; But how a plague am I concerned? Friend, I am one of those damn'd Blockheads, Who had rather see the Cole in's Pockets.

MORAL.

THis Cock we may imagine to be, Some scraping or some sensual Booby. Moiling to satisfie in vain, His Gut, or his desire of gain. By th' precious Stone may be meant Wit, Which often is compar'd to it. For what comparison can be sitter? They're solid both, and they both glitter: And when they both are true and sine, Eternally they last and shine. They're both of mighty value too, Altho their worth be known to few. And they who know them not, contemn Both equally the Wit and Gem. And when they find them strait forsake 'um, For something that's more apt to take 'um. When I have been at a new Play, Well worth attention the first day;

Some Fopps with loud insipid raillery, Have talk'd to Drabs in the first Gallery. These Fopps now seem'd to me to say, Why should we Blockheads mind the Play, Our Talents lye another way? May not these Beasts now be averr'd To be more awkward than the Bird, That its discovery did contemn, Yet gave a Ieweller the Gem. But those Brutes acted by the Play, Iust as the Dog did by the Hay.

FABLE. Of the Wolf and the Fox.

A Fox in a deep Well, one Night Spy'd the full Moon, the goodly Sight Whey-colour'd, large and round, did appear, A swinging Cheese, which made him caper; He had a longing wild Distemper, Frequent to persons of his Temper. By th' learn'd in medicinal Lore call'd Canine Appetite, by the Mob call'd Famine. The two large Buckets which were there, Like Pollux and like Castor were. How so pray? For 'tis devilish odd, To liken a Bucket to a God; When one came up from towards the Center, That in our upper world strait went there. These drew by turns the liquid Element; Into one got Renard, and towards Hell he went,

To taste of Tantalus his Feast: Which finely Bob'd its gaping Guest. Arriv'd he soon was undeceiv'd, But frighted terribly and griev'd. Bilk'd of the bait he thought was his'n, And for his life he fear'd in prison. Since Renard Fate in Dungeon cast, She sentence on him seem'd t'have past. He had no way to be repreiv'd, Unless by a like Sot reliev'd, Who hoping on his Cheese to feed, Might in his place and pain succeed. Two days and nights h'had been in Dungeon, Water his Breakfast, Dinner, Nuncheon. Now in this space old Time did knaw From Renard's Cheese with Iron Jaw, A pritty handsome lusty Sliver. When Sharper Isgrim does arrive there, Who makes a shift with his small Sense, To live at Country Squires expence.

Now him as soon as Renard spies, What, Bully Isgrim there he cryes! In faith, dear Rogue, I'm glad to see thee: How hast thou far'd this long time, prethee? Poorly? but set thy heart at rest, To night, thou e'en shalt be my Guest. Dost see this Cheese, which I've been munching, Of which I've gobbled down this Lunching. Odd! 'tis a rare one, a neat Jade, Who ever was the Dairy-maid. I have on purpose set thee a Tub, In which thou mayst come down and Sup; Here's special Food and special Bub. And thus for want of Sense, was Bully Isgrim harangu'd to Renard's Cully. Down he goes swinging in the Bucket, Which hoisting Renard's, up does pluck it. He towards the top with merry Glee, Mounting Sung, Hey Boys up goe we.

Juvenals Eighth Satyre, Frag.

HOW vain a thing's discent! How poor the Fame Of a deriv'd hereditary Name! Or Rooms of State by proud Patricians hung, With mighty Conqu'rors from whose Loins they sprung? Where with the Pageantry of painted Pride, Th' AEmilians in triumphant Chariots ride. That such prodigious Coxcombs should be found, As to be proud of Shadow and of Sound! Deform'd, half, Headless Heroes to expose In Statues rotten, and consum'd as those: For what Advantage can at last be thine, Tho' the wide Arms of thy extended Line Renown'd old Roman Magistrates embrace, If thy vile Life brands thy whole glorious Race? If in thy brave Forefathers awful sight, Their Off-spring drinks all Day, and plays all Night;

Then at the Dawn lies down, at which they Arm'd, To the dire Field by Glories Trump alarm'd. Can Fabius value himself with any Face On Gallic Trophies, and th' Herculean Race, Fabius Rome's Scandal, and his Line's Disgrace. The vainest, lewdest Fop about the Town, Heavy and soft as Slumbers on the Down, Who by the Pumice-stone's preposterous Use, His pathick Loins adapting for Abuse, Doe's all his rusty Ancestors traduce. Till at the last his poys'ning Practice known, Defiles their Statues and destroys his own, By the just Laws for his high Crimes o'rethrown. Tho' your entail'd swol'n Titles Volumes fill, If you want Virtue you're but Rabble still. Paulus and Cossus Names set high by Fate, May bring some noisie Pomp, some empty State, But their rare Virtues make you truly Great. Consul, or private Man, let those be shown, Let those before your very Rods be known.

If Noble to be thought by me y' aspire, Know 'tis a Noble Mind that I require. If you're in Life unblam'd, in Practice just, True to your Friend, and faithful to your Trust, To your high Birth immediately I vail, Silan us or Getulicus all Hail! Or from whatever Stem thou com'st beside, It's Glory and thy exulting Countries Pride, With Rapture, I have found thee, strait I cry, Like the Egyptians when their God they spy. Who calls him Great, whose Life his Race belyes, And want of worth adulterate Blood descryes; Who calls him Noble does it by Abuse, For wicked Ironies are much in use. This let Rubellius Plancus ponder well, Whom the brave Drusi's lofty Line do's swell. As if such Virtues did in Plancus shine, That (could he yet be got) those Pow'rs Divine, Might claim to be incorporate in Rome's imperial Line:

As if such Things could not in haste be made By some lewd Rogue, and some Suburbian Jade: Had but his sporting Mother known that Thing Would from the pleasure which she toyl'd for spring, That very thought had damp'd her active Flame, And of approaching Bliss had bilk'd the panting Dame. Yet with disdain this haughty block head eyes Those of a lower Rank, and thus he cryes: "Base Scoundrels, you of Rome the Lees and Scum, "To whom your Fathers Countries are unknown, "As were your wretched Fathers to their own, "Whilst from Crown'd Heads and Demy-gods I come. Long may your Honour live, and, whilst you live, With joy t' your self your topping Titles give. Yet know amongst these Scoundrels some have Sense Adorn'd with Wit and Manly Eloquence.

And if you with litigious Foes contend, Amongst this Scum a Lord may want a Friend, Who can your Sots of Quality defend. Ev'n from the Lees of Rome brave Spirits rise, Who, searching Glory, Death and Wounds despise; Some to the Rhine, and tam'd Bavarians run, Some to Euphrates, and the rising Sun: Whilst thou contented with a borrow'd Fame, Stick'st to thy Father's Statues, like the same, A cold dull Mass, and a high sounding Name: True; Freakish Action Life in Plancus proves, Yet their rare shapes, tho' fix'd as stone behoves, Express more Soul than thine, whose sensless Figure moves.

Lyons, October 15. 1688.

SIR,

I Do not question but that you have for this month expected a Letter from me, and that perhaps with a little impatience: Since this is a time which may afford va∣riety of News, of which who must not be now desirous? But all the time I was at Paris, I had so much Sickness, that that might well supersede any obligation I lay under. For let a promise be never so bind∣ing, and never so much a Debt; who could take care of paying so trifling a one, when a most severe and importunate Cre∣ditor, Nature, was calling for hers. Nor now when at length that excuse is want∣ing to me, are you like to receive such a Let∣ter, as perhaps might be most welcome to you in this Conjuncture. For if I should send you the truth in disguise, perhaps you might not discover her. And is this a time to expose her naked to the World:

When her nakedness which is only the ef∣fect of her Innocence, by many would be mistaken for Lewdness, and by more for Barbarity. I will then say nothing of the Affairs of Europe nor ours, tho I could find much to say of them both. For I now converse with a People who are as full of Talk as they are Inquisitive. But since I am taking my leave of that People, I will confine my Discourse to them. But be∣fore I begin, I will use plain dealing with you, (a thing which they never did yet with any one) and tell you that I mortal∣ly hate them. Yet neither shall my Na∣tive nor acquir'd Antipathy suborn me to say any thing false of them. I will do like a Painter, who will draw the true resem∣blance of the Face that is most provoking. But then I must give you this Caution, that what I have to say, tho it be true in some measure of all of them; yet it is chiefly to be consin'd to the middle sort of the Nation. For besides that I have most con∣vers'd with them, as a Stranger must of necessity be suppos'd to do, the Genius

of a Nation most plainly appears in the middle sort of its People. For great Education, which attends high Birth, or high Fortune, very often improves or corrupts or sophisticates Nature, whilst in those of the middle State she remains unmixed and unalter'd. These then I have found in the first place excessively vain. Every Man is here a Narcissus, and in the flattering glass of his own false imagination is eternally gazing up∣on himself, or at least upon what he takes for himself. For in this their er∣rours are different, for as that melan∣choly Boy took himself for another, these merry Fools take something else for themselves. For nothing in Nature is more unlike than the Picture which a Frenchman draws of himself. It would be needless to insist longer on this. For they have so long made sport for their neighbouring Nations, by extra∣vagant and absurd commendations of their own, that to endeavour to bring proofs of their Vanity, would be some∣thing

more ridiculous than that. Now this is certain, that he who abounds in Vanity can want no affectation. For affectation is nothing but a fruitless at∣tempt to counterfeit and falsisie Nature, when a Man impotently endeavours to appear what he really is not, or what he is incapable of being. Nature grows impatient, and struggles to be freed from the constraint that is put upon her, and in the strife there appear'd something so odious that all who are lovers of her, can∣not but hate that person who endeavours so rudely to force her. Now Nature in man is various. She is Gay in one, and Froward in another: She is Delicate in a third, in a fourth she is Gross; and there is not a Man in a Million whom Heaven made fit for all things: yet how many are there, alas! who by senseless Self-love intoxicated, believe themselves fit for all things, and will be offering at all things. Now such have been al∣ways, and will be always affected. And such are the people with whom I have

lately convers'd; and I have more par∣ticularly remark'd in some of their Pro∣vincial Gentlemen, that in their endea∣vours to shew their admiration mingled with a gentle Passion, they are guilty of affectations so monstrous, that an Eng∣lish Fop is not capable of them. Ano∣ther necessary effect of their vanity is their assurance, or in our Language, their Im∣pudence. For modesty is nothing but the fear of displeasing, when a man believes or at least, suspects that he is defective; and it naturally includes in it a mistrust of our selves, and an esteem of others; which is the reason that renders it love∣ly to all, when ever it is joyn'd with good qualities. For it flatters and sooths our Self-love, of which no Man can wholly divest himself; by assuring us that we are esteem'd and preferr'd. Now how can any one have this fear of displeasing, who imagines himself all Perfection, and who swell'd with the

venom of Pride, like the Toad in the Fable, believes himself greater than those with whose greatness he holds not the least proportion. The French then are affected and impudent, which are but the necessary effects of that Na∣tional Vice, their Vanity. But then have they one very good quality, which pro∣ceeds from the same vanity. And that is their extraordinary civility to Stran∣gers. For they are civil to us, not for our satisfaction, but their own; not as they imagine it a duty, but an accom∣plishment. 'Tis to please himself that a Frenchman is officious to me, and 'tis to honour himself that he bows to others. I am pretty confident that I am not de∣ceiy'd here. For I have found by some observation, and some thinking, That there is little good Nature amongst them, For they will deceive or betray you at the very same time they oblige you. Thus have I giv'n you an imper∣fect account of such of their qualities,

as are most conspicuous in them. There are some which lye more hidden. But I have said enough to tire my Self and You.

I am, &c.

Turin, Octob. 25. 88.

I Have here sent you a Journal of my Journey from Lyons hither, in which you will find that account of the Alpes, which you so earnestly desired of me, before I came out of England. I have taken no notice of the Towns in Savoy; nor so much as the Rock of Montmelian, but have confin'd my self to a Subject which you seem'd to affect so much.

On the nineteenth of October, we set out from Lyons, and came that night to Venpellier, thro a fair Plain, which was sometimes Arable, and sometimes Pa∣sture, and bounded with Rows of Hills at that just distance, as gave tho not a large, an agreeable Prospect.

Octob. 20. We came by Noon thro the same Plain, which grew to be some∣times a Marsh to a Bourg, call'd Tour Du Pin. From thence, after Dinner, we continued our way, thro whole

Groves of Walnut and Chestnut. Trees to Pont Beauvoisin, being the Bridge that separates France and Savoy.

Octob. 21. We entred into Savoy in the Morning, and past over Mount Ai∣guebellette. The ascent was the more easie, because it wound about the Mountain. But as soon as we had conquer'd one half of it, the unusual heighth in which we found our selves, the impending Rock that hung over us, the dreadful Depth of the Precipice, and the Tor∣rent that roar'd at the bottom, gave us such a view as was altogether new and amazing. On the other side of that Torrent, was a Mountain that equall'd ours, about the distance of thirty Yards from us. Its craggy Clifts, which we half discern'd, thro the misty gloom of the Clouds that surrounded them, sometimes gave us a horrid Prospect. And sometimes its face appear'd Smooth and Beautiful as the most even and fruitful Vallies. So different from themselves were the dif∣ferent parts of it: In the very same place

Nature was seen Severe and Wanton. In the mean time we walk'd upon the very brink, in a litteral sense, of Destruction; one Stumble, and both Life and Carcass had been at once destroy'd. The sense of all this produc'd different motions in me, viz. a delightful Horrour, a terrible Joy, and at the same time, that I was infinitely, pleas'd I trembled.

From thence we went thro a pleasant Valley bounded with Mountains, whose high but yet verdant Tops seem'd at once to forbid and invite Men. After we had march'd for a League thro the Plain, we ar∣riv'd at the place which they call La Cave; where the late Duke of Savoy in the Year Seventy, struck out a Passage thro a rocky Mountain that had always before been im∣passible: Performing that by the force of Gun-powder, which Thunder-bolts or Earthquakes could scarce have effected. This Passage is a quarter of an English Mile, made with incredible labour, and the ex∣pence of four Millions of Livers. At the Entrance into it is the following pompous Inscription.

Carolus Emanuel Secundus, Subaudiae Dux, Pedemontani princeps, Cypri Rex, publicâ felicitate partâ, singulorum commodis in∣tentus, breviorem, securioremque hanc viam regiam, a naturâ occlusam, Roma∣nis intentatam, caeteris desperatam, eversis Scopulorum repagulis, aequatâ Montium in∣iquitate, quae cervicibus impendebant prae∣cipitia pedibus substernens, eternis popu∣lorum Commerciis patefecit.

At Chambery we din'd, the Capital Town of Savoy. In our way from thence to Mont∣melian, Nature seem'd quite to have changd her Face. There craggy Rocks look'd hor∣rid to the Eye, and Hills appeard on every side of so stupendous an heighth, that the Company was divided at a distance, whe∣ther they should believe them to be sunny Clouds, or the Snowy tops of Mountains. Here appear'd a Hill with its top quite hid in black Clouds, and beyond that Hill, & a∣bove those Clouds some higher Mountain show'd its hoary Head. With this strange entertainment by the way, we came that Night to Montmelian.

On the 22. we set forward in the morn∣ing. The Mountains appear'd to grow still more Lofty. We din'd that day at Aigue∣belle. In the Afternoon we proceeded on our way, sometimes thro the Plain, and sometimes on the side of the Alps; with which we were hemm'd in on all sides. We then began that day to have the additional diversion, of a Torrent that ran sometimes with fury beneath us, and of the noise of the Cas∣cades, or the down fall of Waters, which sometimes came tumbling a main from the Precipices. We lay that night at La Chambre.

On the 23. The morning was very cold, which made us have dismal apprehensions of Mount Cenis, since we felt its influence so severely at so great a distance. We arriv'd by Noon at St. Michel. In the Afternoon we continued our Journey mostly upon the sides of the Mountains, which were some∣times all cover'd with Pines, and sometimes cultivated, ev'n in places where one would swear the thing were impossible, for they were only not perpendicular. We lay that Night at Modanen.

Oct. 24. Modane is within a dozen Miles of Mount Cenis, and therefore the next morning we felt the Cold more severely. We went to Dinner at Laneburgh, situate at the foot of Mount Cenis.

As soon as we had din'd, we sent our Horses about, and getting up upon Mules began to ascend the Mountain. I could not forbear looking back now and then to contemplate the Town and the Vale be∣neath me. When I was arriv'd within a hundred Yards of the Top, I could still discern Laneburgh at the Bottom, distant Three tedious Miles from me. What an amazing distance? Think what an impres∣sion a place must make upon you, which you should see as far under you as 'tis from your House to Hampstead. And here I wish I had force to do right to this re∣nown'd Passage of the Alpes. 'Tis an easie thing to describe Rome or Naples to you, because you have seen something your self that holds at least some resemblance with them; but impossible to set a Mountain before your eyes, that is inaccessible al∣most

to the slght, and wearies the very Eye to Climb it. For when I tell you that we were arriv'd within a hundred yards of the Top: I mean only the Plain, thro which we afterwards pass'd, but there is another vast Mountain still upon that. If these Hills were first made with the World, as has been a long time thought, and Nature design'd them only as a Mound to inclose her Garden Italy: Then we may well say of her what some affirm of great Wits, that her, careless irregular and boldest Strokes are most admirable. For the Alpes are works which she seems to have design'd, and executed too in Fury. Yet she moves us less, where she studies to please us more. I am delighted, 'tis true at the prospect of Hills and Valleys, of flowry Meads, and murmuring Streams, yet it is a delight that is consistent with Reason, a delight that creates or im∣proves Meditation. But transporting Pleasures follow'd the sight of the Alpes, and what unusual transports think you were those, that were mingled with horrours,

and sometimes almost with despair? But if these Mountains were not a Creation, but form'd by universal Destruction, when the Arch with a mighty flaw dissolv'd and fell into the vast Abyss (which surely is the best opinion) then are these Ruines of the old World the greatest wonders of the New. For they are not only vast, but horrid, hideous, ghastly Ruins. After we had gallop'd a League over the Plain, and came at last to descend, to descend thro the very Bowels as it were of the Mountain, for we seem'd to be enclos'd on all sides: What an astonishing Pros∣pect was there? Ruins upon Ruins in mon∣strous Heaps, and Heaven and Earth con∣founded. The uncouth Rocks that were above us, Rocks that were void of all form, but what they had receiv'd from Ruine; the frightful view of the Preci∣pices, and the foaming Waters that threw themselves headlong down them, made all such a Consort up for the Eye, as that sort of Musick does for the Ear, in which Horrour can be joyn'd with Har∣mony.

I am afraid you will think that I have said too much. Yet if you had but seen what I have done, you would surely think that I have said too little. However Hyperboles might easily here be forgiven. The Alpes appear to be Nature's extra∣vagancies, and who should blush to be guilty of Extravagancies, in words that make mention of her's. But 'tis time to proceed. We descended in Chairs, the descent was four English Miles. We past thro Novalese, situate at the Foot of Mount Cenis on the side of Italy, and lay that Night at Suse. We din'd the next day at Villane, and thro a pleasant Valley came that Night to this place.

I am, &c.

Rome Decemb. 1. 1688.

TO perform the promise which I made you in my last, I venture to say something of the Ancient and Modern Italians, tho you do not con∣sider that when you made that request to me, you put me upon a necessity of disobliging my Friend by a refusal, or exposing my self by treating of a Subject for which I am wholly unqualified. It is true, when I was at Lyons in compliance with your desire, I ventur'd to say something of the French. But besides that I had been longer in France than I have in Italy, the French lye so open, that a Man who will observe them, may as well venture to give their Character in a Months time, as he may in several years. For they who are ex∣cessivly vain, take as much pains to show them∣selves, as a Stroler at a Fair does a Monster. 'Tis the constant business of their Lives to paint out their Virtues to you; nay, and their Defects which their Vanity mistakes for their Virtues. But the Italians are as reserv'd to Strangers as the French are open: and one would wonder how they who show much Flegm before they are very well ac∣quainted, should be able afterwards, in so strange a manner, to animate Conversation. But to come to my business, 'tis wonderful you say, that the Modern Italians should appear so different from the Ancient, since they breath the same Air, and are nourish'd by the same Soil. For since the affinity

is so near betwixt the Soul and the Body, and they work so strongly upon each other, you say it is but reasonable to believe that the Climate which helps to give the Body its Complexion, should help to give the Mind its Temper. Now since you have reason, you say, to suppose that the Climate of Italy is very near the same at this day, that it was two Thousand Years agoe, you cannot but wonder that the Modern Italians should appear so different from the Ancient. The French are the very same now that Caesar described them formerly, excepting that they are grown a more polish'd sort of Barbarians. The Carthaginians were fam'd for their Cruelty & their Perfidiousness; and those two Vices are at present, inseparable from the Inhabitants of the Coasts of Barbary. But the Italians, you say, are at present renown'd for several extraordinary Vices, which were utterly unknown to the Ancient Romans, to whose Virtues the Modern are utterly Strangers.

In answer to this, give me leave to tell you that you are mistaken in part of your Assertion. For the Vices which are to be found at this day in Italy, were the Vices of the Ancient Romans. Their Empire ow'd its Rise to the same Crimes which dissolv'd it, and there were proportionably as many Villains in the Rome of Romulus, as there are in that of Innocent the Eleventh. Consider the Factions of Marius and Sylla, and the two Triumvi∣rats following, and you will find infinitely more ex∣amples of black Revenge than you can amongst Modern Italians. What can be more bloody than

those times? Or more treacherous and base than those of Tiberius? 'Tis true from the time of the first Consuls, to the end of the Punick War, there flourish'd a continual Race of Heroes, with whom if you compare the Modern Italians, they seem to be Men of quite different frames, and Inhabitants of a different part of the World. A capacity to practise those glittering Virtues which the World so much admires, depends very much upon force of mind, which depends in some sort on the Com∣plexion, as that does in some sort on the Climate. But then is it certain that there is the very same force of mind requir'd to be prodigiously wicked, that is required to be heroically Virtuous. Weak people are but wicked by halves, but whenever we hear of high and enormous Crimes, we may conclude, that they proceed from a power of Soul and a reach of Thought, which are altogether extraordinary. So that the Modern Italians, who by your own confession are skill'd in all the ways of exquisite wickedness, come into the World with as much natural capacity to exert he∣roick Virtue, as ever the Ancient Romans did.

Force of Mind makes a Man capable of great Vir∣tues, or of great Vices; but it determines him to neither. Education, Discipline and Accidents of Life constitute him either a great Philosopher, or an illustrious Libertine.

As strongest bodies cannot be secure from Infe∣ction in pestilential Seasons, so Minds that have most force are apt to be tainted by the Contagion of Epidemick Vices.

The two most glittering Virtues that shin'd a∣mongst the ancient Romans, were greatness of Mind and heroick Fortitude: 'Twas that greatness of Mind that made one of their Generals reject with disdain, the offer that was made him to poy∣son the most formidable Enemy to their State: whereas the modern Italians have at every turn recourse to Stilletto and Poyson, which are almost their only offensive Weapons.

Do but compare the happy and flourishing state of the old Commonwealth, with the wretched con∣dition of the modern Italians, and you will soon find the reason why the Romans were Brave and Honourable Enemies; and why the Italians at pre∣sent are base ones. For this is most certain, That no Man can basely offer violence to another without doing some to himself. From whence it follows that no Man will do it, unless in some measure he believes it necessary. No Man then will take a base revenge of another who believes that he can take an honourable one. No Man will ever have recourse to Treachery who is confident of prevailing by open force. Now great success most commonly in∣fuses great Thoughts, and inspires a noble Presump∣tion, which renders Men Brave and Magnanimous: whereas we frequently see that Men with their Fortunes and Liberties lose their very Spirits and Souls, according to the observation of the Comick Poet. Ut res nostrae sint, ita nos magni atque humi∣les sumus.

FINIS.

Notes

• * 1.1

  Boileau, when he writ this, was about Six and Forty Years Old; but Poetry admits of no odd Numbers above Nine.
• * 1.2

  Monsieur de Besons