Poetical recreations consisting of original poems, songs, odes, &c. with several new translations : in two parts / part I, occasionally written by Mrs. Jane Barker, part II, by several gentlemen of the universities, and others.

Miscellany POEMS. PART I.

By Mrs. IANE BARKER.

An Invitation to my Friends at Cambridge.

IF, Friends, you would but now this place accost, E're the young Spring that Epithet has lost, And of my rural joy participate; You'd learn to talk at this distracted rate.

Hail, Solitude, where Innocence do's shroud Her unvail'd Beauties from the cens'ring Croud; Let me but have her Company, and I Shall never envy this World••s Gallantry:

We'll find out such inventions to delude And mock all those that mock our solitude, That they for shame shall fly for their defence To gentle Solitude and Innocence: Then they will find how much they've been deceiv'd, When they the flatt'ries of this World believ'd. Though to few Objects here we are confin'd, Yet we have full inlargement of the Mind. From varying Modes, which do our Lives inslave, Lo here a full Immunity we have. For here's no pride but in the Sun's bright Beams, Nor murmuring, but in the Crystal streams. No avarice is here, but in the Bees, Nor is Ambition found but in the Trees. No Wantonness but in the frisking Lamb••, Nor Luxury but when they suck their Dams. Nor are there here Contrivances of States, Only the Birds contrive to please their Mates; Each minute they alternately improve A thousand harmless ways their artless love. No Cruel Nymphs are here to tyrannize, Nor faithless Youths their scorn to exercise; Unless Narcissus be that sullen he That can despise his am'rous talking she.

No Emulation here do's interpose, Unless betwixt the Tulip and the Rose; But all things do conspire to make us bless'd, (Yet chiefly 'tis Contentment makes the Feast) 'Tis such a pleasing solitude as yet Romance ne're found, where happy Lovers met: Yea such a kind of solitude it is, Not much unlike to that of Paradise, Where all things do their choicest good dispence, And I too here am plac'd in innocence. I shou'd conclude that such it really were, But that the Tree of Knowledge won't grow here•• Though in its culture I have spent some time, Yet it disdains to grow in our cold Clime, Where it can neither Fruit nor Leaves produce Good for its owner, or the publick use. How can we hope our Minds then to adorn With any thing with which they were not born; Since we're deny'd to make this small advance, To know their nakedness and ignorance? For in our Maker's Laws we've made a breach, And gather'd all that was within our reach, Which since we ne're could touch; Altho' our Eyes Do serve our longing-Souls to tantalize,

Whilst kinder fate for you do's constitute Luxurious Banquets of this dainty Fruit. Whose Tree most fresh and flourishing do's grow, E'er since it was transplanted amongst you; And you in Wit grow as its branches high, Deep as its Root too in Philosophy; Large as its spreading Arms your Reasons grow, Close as its Umbrage do's your Iudgments show; Fresh as its Leaves your sprouting fancies are, Your Vertues as its Fruits are bright and fair.

To Mr. HILL, on his Verses to the Dutchess of YORK, when she was at Cambridge.

WHat fitter Subject could be for thy Wit? What Wit for Subject could there be more fit Than thine for this, by which thou'st nobly shew'd Thy Soul with Loyal Sentiments endew'd? Not only so, but prov'd thy self to be Mirrour of what her Highness came to see: VVho having seen the Schools of Art, the best She found concenter'd in thy matchless Breast;

And doubtless when she saw the eager joys Of Ears no less ambitious than their Eyes, She did conclude their coming was not there To see her only, but thy Wit to hear: Thine whose ascent shall learned Cambridge grace, And shew it's no such foggy level place As most a••firm; for now the VVorld shall know That * 1.1 Woods and Hills of wit in Cambridge grow, VVhose lofty tops such pleasing Umbrage make, As may induce the Gallants to forsake Their dear-lov'd Town, to gather in this place Some witticisms of a better race, Than what proceed from swearing Criticks, who Kick Tavern Boys, and Orange-Wenches wooe, Are Machavillians in a Co••fee-house, And think it wit a poor Street-Whore to chouse; And for their Father Hobbs will talk so high, Rather than him they will their God deny: And lest their wit should want a surer proof, They boast of crimes they ne're were guilty of. Thus hellish cunning drest in Masquerade Of Wit's disguise, so many have betray'd, And made them Bondslaves, who at first did fly Thither Wit's famine only to supply.

But now I hope they'll find the task too great, And think at last of making a retreat: Since here's a Pisgah-Hill whereon to stand To take a prospect of Wit's holy Land, Flowing with Milk of Christian innocence, And Honey of Cic'ronian Eloquence.

To my Cousin Mr. E. F. on his Excellent PAINTING.

SHould I in tuneless lines strive to express That harmony which all your lines confess, Ambition would my judgment so out-run, Ev'n as an Archer that would hit the Sun. My Muse, alas! is of that humble size, She scarce can to a Counter-tenour rise; Much less must she to treble notes aspire, To match the Beauties of your pencil••s Quire: Yet quite forbear to sing, she can••t, since you Such ample objects for her praises shew. No Poet here can have his tongue confin'd, Unless he's, like his Master Homer, blind,

But must in spight of all his conscious fears, Say something where such Excellence appears. VVhere each line is in such due order plac'd, Nature stands by afraid to be disgrac'd. Lo in the Eye such graces do appear, As if all Beauties were united there. Yet diff••rent Passions seem therein to move, Grave ev'n as VVisdom, brisk and sweet as Love: The lips, which always are committing rapes, (To which the Youths fly more than Birds to th' Grapes) With colour that transcends the Indian-lake, And harmless smiles they do their Conquests make. I should be tedious should I mention all VVhich Iustice would the chiefest Beauties call, VVhose line'ments all harmony do shew, And yet no less express all Beauty too, A strange reverse of nature seems to be, That now we Beauty hear, and Musick see; Yet just proportion in true numbers meer, VVhich make a Chorus even heav'nly sweet.

Could I think Antient Painters equall••d thee, I should conclude Romance true History;

Not think it strange that Pictures could excite Those Gallant Hero's then to love and fight; Nor say that Painters did on them impose, Since they made Gods and Mortals like to those; As Poets did create the Deities, So Painters gave them their ubiquities: For had not Painters them to th' Vulgar shown, They only to the Learned had been known: Nor are we less than they oblig'd to you, VVho give us Beauty, and immortalize it too.

To my Reverend Friend Mr. H—. on his Presenting me The Reasonableness of Christianity, and The History of King CHARLES the First, &c.

GOod Sir, if I could my Resentments shew In words, how much I am oblig'd to you, I wou'd invoke some Muse to teach me how T' express my gratitude in number now; But, Sir, the kindness which to me you shew'd, Transcends the bounds of finite gratitude:

What number then, alas, can there be fit To cypher kindness which is infinite? And such is that which teaches us to know God and our selves, and what we ought to do: For whilst I in your Parish spent my Youth, I gain'd the knowledge of all saving Truth; And when my Exit was by fate design'd, To shew, you'd not impos'd upon my Mind (In its Minority, what Reason might In its mature and full-grown vigour slight) You kindly gave me in Epitome, The Reasonableness of Christianitie. Which shews there's no necessity to make Us discard Reason when our Faith we take. For God, who knew how apt we were to slide From Faith, if we'd no reason sor our Guide, Made all his Precepts, which on Faith were fix'd, To be with reason, and our int'rest mix'd; For howsoe'er by some they're understood, I'm sure it is our int'rest to be good: And lest Example should be wanting to Excite us to what Precepts bid us do, He always gave us some, whose Virtues did Exalt good deeds, and wicked ones forbid;

Whose Christian strength was able to subdue The busie World, Flesh, and the Devil too. 'Mongst whom there's none more Eminently good Than he who seal'd the Truth with's Royal Blood; Who prov'd himself by's Royal Sufferings The best of Men, as well as best of Kings: As David was Christ's Sire, and Servant, so Charles was his Brother, Son and Servant too. Much might be said to call our Wonder forth, And fall much short of his transcendent VVorth; For he so far all praises do's surpass, That who speaks most, speaks short of what he was. For nothing can his matchless worth express, Nor characterize his mighty Soul, unless VVisdom her self assume religious dress. Thanks then, Good Sir, to you, for giving me This compleat Mirrour of Christianitie.

To Mr. G. P. my Adopted Brother; on the nigh approach of his Nuptials.

Dear Brother, THy Marry'ng humour I dare scarce upbraid; Lest thou retort upon me Musty Maid; Yet prithee don't its joys too much esteem, It will not prove what distance makes it seem: Bells are good musick, if they're not too nigh, But sure 'ts base living in a Belfery. To see Lambs skip o're Hills is pretty sport, But who wou'd justle with them in their Court? Then let not Marriage thee in danger draw, Unless thou'rt bit with Love's Tarantula; A Frenzy which no Physick can reclaim, But Crosses, crying Children, scolding Dame: Yet who would such a dang'rous Med'cine try, Where a disease attends the remedy; Whilst Love's Diaryan it assays to cure, It introduces Anger's Calenture. Ah, pity thy good humour should be spoil'd, The glory of thy wit and friendship soil'd:

From Married Man wit's Current never flows, But grave and dull, as standing Pond, he grows; Whilst th' other like a gentle stream do's play, With this World's pebbles, which obstruct his way. What should I talk, this and much more you know Of all the troubles you must undergo. Yet if we'll eat Tythe-pig, we must endure The punishment to serve the Parson's cure.

A VIRGIN LIFE.

SInce, O ye Pow'rs, ye have bestow'd on me So great a kindness for Virginity, Suffer me not to fall into the Pow'rs Of Mens almost Omnipotent Amours; But in this happy Life let me remain, Fearless of Twenty five and all its train, Of slights or scorns, or being call'd Old Maid, Those Goblings which so many have betray'd: Like harmless Kids, that are pursu'd by men, For safety run into a Lyon's Den. Ah lovely State how strange it is to see, What mad conceptions some have made of thee,

As though thy Being was all wretchedness, Or foul deformity i'th' ugliest dress; Whereas thy Beauty's pure, Celestial, Thy thoughts Divine, thy words Angelical: And such ought all thy Votaries to be, Or else they're so, but for necessity. A Virgin bears the impress of all good, In that dread Name all Vertue's understood: So equal all her looks, her mien, her dress, That nought but modesty seems in excess. And when she any treats or visits make, 'Tis not for tattle, but for Friendship's sake; Her Neighb'ring Poor she do's adopt her Heirs, And less she cares for her own good than theirs; And by Obedience testifies she can Be's good a Subject as the stoutest Man. She to her Church such filial duty pays, That one would think she'd liv'd i'th' pristine days. Her Closet, where she do's much time bestow, Is both her Library and Chappel too, Where she enjoys society alone, I'th' Great Three-One— She drives her whole Lives business to these Ends, To serve her God, enjoy her Books and Friends.

To my Friend EXILLUS, on his persuading me to Marry Old Damon.

WHen Friends advice with Lovers forces joyn, They'll conquer Hearts more fortify'd than mine•• For mine lyes as it wont, without defence, No Guard nor Art but its own innocence; Under which Fort, it could fierce storms endure, But from thy Wit I find no Fort secure. Ah, why would'st thou assist my Enemy, Who was himself almost too strong for me? Thou with Idolatry mak'st me adore, And homage do to the proud Conquerour. Now round his Neck my willing Arms I'd twine, And swear upon his Lips, My Dear, I'm thine, But that his kindness then would grow, I fear, Too weighty for my weak desert to bear. I fear 't wou'd even to extreams improve, And Iealousie, they say, 's th' extream of Love; That after all my kindness to him shown, My little Neddy, he'll not think't his own: Ev'n thou my Dear Exillus he'll suspect, If I but look on thee, I him neglect:

Not only He-friends innocent as thou, But he'll mistrust She-friends and Heav'n too. Thus best things may be turn'd to greatest harm, As saying th' Lord's Prayer backward proves a charm. Or if not thus, I'm sure he will despite, Or under-rate the easie-gotten prize. These and a thousand fears my Soul possess, But most of all my own unworthiness; Like dying Saints, I wish for coming joys, But humble fears that forward wish destroys. What shall I do then? hazard the event? You say, Old Damon's, all that's excellent. If I miss him, the next some Squire may prove, Whose Dogs and Horses shall have all his love; Or some debauch'd pretender to lewd wit, Or covetous, conceited, unbred Citt. Thus the brave Horse, who late i'th' Coach did neigh, Is forc'd at last to tug a nasty Dray.

To Dr. R. S. my indifferent Lover, who complain'd of my Indifferency.

YOu'd little reason to complain of me, Or my unkindness or indiff'rency, Since I by many a circumstance can prove, That int'rest was the motive of your love; But Heav'n it self doth ever hate th' address, VVhose crafty Motive's only interess; No more can honest Maids endure to be, The objects of your wife indiff'rency. Such wary Courtship only should be shown To cunning jilting Baggages o'th' Town: For faithfull Love••s the rhetorick that persuades, And charms the hearts of silly Countrey Maids. But when we find your Courtship's but pretence, Love were not Love in us, but impudence. At best I'm sure it needs must prove to us (VVhat e're you think on't) most injurious. For had I of that gentle nature been, As to have lov'd your Person, Wit, or Mien,

How many sighs and tears it would have cost, And fruitless expectations by the Post, Saying he is unkind; oh, no, his Letter's lost; Hoping him sick, or lame, or gone to Sea, Hope any thing but his inconstancy. Thus what in other Friends cause greatest fear, To desp'rate Maids, their only comforts are. This I through all your Blandishments did see, Thanks to ill nature that instructed me: Thoughts of your sighs, would plead sometimes for you, But second thoughts again would let me know, In gayest Serpents strongest Poysons are, And sweetest Rose-trees sharpest prickles bear: And so it proves, for now it do's appear, Your Flames and Sighs only for Money were. As Beggers for their gain turn Blind and Lame; On the same score a Lover you became: Yet there's a kindness in this false Amour, It teaches me ne'er to be Mistress more. Thus Blazing Comets are of good portent, If they excite the People to repent.

On the DEATH of my Dear Friend and Play-fellow, M^rs E. D. having Dream'd the night before I heard thereof, that I had lost a Pearl.

I Dream'd I lost a Pearl, and so it prov'd; I lost a Friend much above Pearls belov'd: A Pearl perhaps adorns some outward part, But Friendship decks each corner of the heart: Friendship's a Gem, whose Lustre do's out-shine All that's below the heav'nly Crystaline: Friendship is that mysterious thing alone, Which can unite, and make two Hearts but one; It purifies our Love, and makes it flow I'th' clearest stream that's found in Love below; It sublimates the Soul, and makes it move Towards Perfection and Celestial Love. We had no by-designs, nor hop'd to get Each by the other place amongst the great; Nor Riches hop'd, nor Poverty we fear'd, 'Twas Innocence in both, which both rever'd:

Witness this truth the Wilsthorp-Fields, where we So oft enjoyd a harmless Luxurie; Where we indulg'd our easie Appetites, With Pocket-Apples, Plumbs, and such delights. Then we contriv'd to spend the rest o'th' day, In making Chaplets, or at Check-stone play; When weary, we our selves supinely laid On Beds of Vi'lets under some cool shade, VVhere th' Sun in vain strove to dart through his Raȳs•• Whilst Birds around us chanted forth their Lays; Ev'n those we had bereaved of their young, VVould greet us with a Querimonious Song. Stay here, my Muse, and of these let us learn, The loss of our deceased Friend to Mourn: Learn did I say? alas, that cannot be, We can teach Clouds to weep, and Winds to sigh at Sea, Teach Brooks to murmur, Rivers too re-flow, VVe can add Solitude to Shades of Yeaugh. VVere Turtles to be witness of our moan, They'd in compassion quite forget their own: Nor shall hereafter Heraclitus be, Fam'd for his Tears, but to my Muse and Me; Fate shall give all that Fame can comprehend, Ah poor repair for th' loss of such a Friend.

The Prospect of a LANDSKIP, Beginning with a GROVE.

WEll might the Antients deem a Grove to be The Sacred Mansion of some Deity; For it our Souls insensibly do's move, At once to humble Piety and Love, The choicest Blessings Heav'n to us has giv'n, And the best Off'ring we can make to Heav'n; These only poor Mortality make bless'd, And to Inquietude exhibit rest; By these our rationality is shown, The cognisance by which from Brutes we'r known. For who themselves of Piety devest, Are surely but a Moral kind of Beasts; But those whom gentle Laws of Love can't bind, Are Salvages of the most sordid kind. But none like these do in our Shades obtrude, Though scornfully some needs will call th••m rude Yet Nature's culture is so well exprest, That Art her self would wish to be so drest:

For here the Sun conspires with ev'ry Tree, To deck the Earth with Landskip-Tapistry. Then through some space his brightest, Beams ap∣pear•• VVhich do's erect a Golden Pillar there. Here a close Canopy of Bows is made, There a soft grassie Cloth of State is spread, VVith Gems and gayest Flow'rs embroider'd o••re, Fresh as those Beauties honest Swains adore. Here Plants for health, and for delight are met, The Cephalick Cowslip, Cordial Violet. Under the Diu••e••ick Woodbine grows The Splenetick Columbine, Scorbutick Rose; The best of which, some gentle Nymph doth tak••, For saithfull Corydon a Crown to make; VVhilst on her Lap the happy Youth's head lyes, Gazing upon the Aspects of her Eyes, The most unerring, best Astronomy, VVhereby to Calculate his destiny; VVhilst o're their heads a pair of Turtles Coo, VVhich with less zeal and constancy do woo••••; And Birds around, through their extended throats, In careless Consort chant their pleasing Notes; Than which, no sweeter Musick strikes the Ear, Unless when Lover's sighs each other hear;

Which are more soft than Austral Breeses bring, Although they say they're harbingers of th'Spring.

Ah silly Town! wil't thou near learn to know, What happiness in Solitude do's grow? But as a hardn'd Sinner for's defence, Pleads the insipidness of innocence; Or some whom Vertue due respect would grant, But that they feign they're of her ignorant: Yet Blindness is not laudable to plead, When we're by wilfull Ignorance mis-led. Should some, who think't a happiness to get Crouds of acquaintance, to admire their Wit; Resolve their Sins and Follies to discard, Their Cronies quickly would them disregard.

'Tis hard we must (the World's so wicked grown) Be complaisant in Sin, or live alone: For those who now with Vertue are endu'd, Do live alone, though in a multitude. Retire then all, whom Fortune don't oblige, To suffer the distresses of a Siege. Where strong temptation Vertue do's attacque, 'Tis not ignoble an escape to make: But where no Conquest can be hop'd by ••ight, 'Tis honourable, sure, to 'scape by flight.

Fly to some calm retreat, where you may spend Your life in quietude with some kind Friend; In some small Village, and adjacent Grove, At once your Friendship and your Wit improve; Free from those vile, opprobrious, foolish Names, Of Whig or Tory, and from sordid aims Of Wealth, and all its train of Luxuries; From Wit sophisticate, with fooleries. From Beds of Lust, and Meals o're-charg'd with Wine, Here temp'rately thou may'st on one Dish dine: In wholsome Exercise thou may'st delight Thy self, and make thy rest more sweet at night. And i•• thy mind to Contemplation leads, Who God and Nature's Books has, surely needs No other Object to imploy his thought, Since in each leaf such Mysteries are wrought; That who so studies most, shall never know Why the straight Elm's so tall, the Moss so low. Oh now, I could inlarge upon this Theam, But that I'm unawares come to the stream, Which at the bottom of this Grove do's glide; And here I'll rest me by its flow'ry side.

Sitting by a Rivulet.

I.

AH lovely stream, how fitly may'st thou be, By thy immutability, Thy gentle motion and perennity, To us the Emblem of Eternity: And to us thou do'st no less A kind of Omnipresence too express. For always at the Ocean thou Art always here, and at thy Fountain too; Always thou go'st thy proper Course, Spontaneously, and yet by force, Each Wave forcing his Precursor on; Yet each one runs with equal haste, As though each fear'd to be the last. With mutual strife, void of contention, In Troops they march, till thousands, thousands past. Yet gentle stream, thou'rt still the same, Always going, never gone; Yet do'st all Constancy disclaim, Wildly dancing to thine own murmuring tunefull Song; Old as Time, as Love and Beauty young.

II.

But chiefly thou to Unity lay'st claim, For though in thee, Innumerable drops there be, Yet still thou art but one, Th'Original of which from Heav'n came: The purest Transcript thereof we I'th' Church may wish, but never hope to see, Whilst each Pretender thinks himself alone The Holy Catholick Church Militant; Nay, well it is if such will grant, That there is one else where Triumphant.

III.

But gent••e stream, if they, As thou do'st Nature, would their God obey; And as they run their course of life, would try Their Consciences to purify: From self-love, pride, and avaricy, Stubbornness equal to Idolatry; They'd find opinion of themselves, To be but dang'rous sandy Shelves,

To found or build their Faith upon, Unable to resist the force Of Prosperity's swelling violent sorce, Or storms of Persecution: Whose own voracity (were't in their power) Wou'd not only Ornaments devour, But the whole Fabrick of Religion.

IV.

But gentle stream, thou'rt nothing so, A Child in thee may safely go To rifle thy rich Cabinet; And his Knees be scarcely wet, Whilst thou wantonly do'st glide, By thy Enamell'd Banks most beauteous side; Nor is sweet stream thy peacefull tyde, Disturbed by pale Cynthia's influence; Like us thou do'st not swell with pride Of Chastity or Innocence.

But thou remain'st still unconcern'd, Whether her Brows be smooth or horn'd; VVhether her Lights extinguish'd or renew'd, In her thou mindest no Vicissitude.

Happy if we, in our more noble State, Could so slight all Vicissitudes of Fate.

A HILL.

OH that I cou'd Verses write, That might express thy praise, Or with my Pen ascend thy height; I thence might hope to raise My Verse upon Fame's soaring wing, That it might so advance, As with Apollo's Lyre to Sing, And with the Spheres to Dance.

This was never Finished.

To Sir F. W. presenting him Cowley's first Works.

WHen vacant hours admit you to peruse, The mighty Cowley's early Muse; Behold it as a bud of wit, whose growth O're-tops all that our Isle brought forth: And may it still above all others grow, Till equall'd, or out-done by you••

To Ovid's HEROINES in his Epistles.

BRight Shees, what Glories had your Names acquir'd, Had you consum'd those whom your Beauties fir'd, Had laugh'd to see them burn, and so retir'd:

Then they cou'd ne'er have glory'd in their shames, Either to Roman, or to English Dames, Had you but warm'd, not melted in their flames.

You'd not been wrack'd then on despair's rough coast, Nor yet by storms of Perjuries been toss'd, Had you but fix'd your flowing Love with Frost.

Had you put on the Armour of your scorn, (That Gem which do's our Beauties most adorn) What hardy Hero durst have been forsworn.

But since they found such lenity in you, Their crime so Epidemical do's grow, That all have, or do, or would be doing so.

To my Honourable Unkle Colonel C— after his Return into the Low-Countries.

DEar Sir, the joys which range through all your Troops, Express'd by Caps thrown up, and English Whoops, Were the old marks of Conquest, which they knew They should obtain, when they obtained you;

As being the Soul, which animation gave To all their Valours, and to all their brave Atchievements, by which your honour'd Name Shall be Eternaliz'd in th' Book of Fame: Though we partakers of your Glories are, And of your Ioys by sympathy do share; Yet Absence makes the pleasure but in part, And for your safety, Fear our joys do's thwart: Fear, which by you's the worst of Sins esteem'd, At best is a Mechanick Passion deem'd; Yet when your danger she presents to us, She's then both good and meritorious. Think then how we're excited by this Fear, To mourn your Absence, though your Worth revere: Besides, methinks 'tis pity that you shou'd, For sordid Boors, exhaust your Noble Blood. Think then, dear Sir, of making your return, And let your Presence Britain's Isle adorn.

On the Apothecary's Filing my Bills amongst the Doctors.

I Hope I shan't be blam'd if I am proud, That I'm admitted 'mongst this Learned Croud; To be proud of a Fortune so sublime, Methinks is rather Duty, than a Crime: Were not my thoughts exalted in this state, I should not make thereof due estimate: And sure one cause of Adam's fall was this, He knew not the just worth of Paradise; But with this honour I'm so satisfy'd, The Antients were not more when Deify'd: For this transcends all common happiness, And is a Glory that exc••eds excess. This 'tis, makes me a fam'd Physician grow, As Saul 'mongst Prophets turn'd a Prophet too. The sturdy Gout, which all Male power withstands, Is overcome by my soft Female hands: Not Deb'ra, Iudith, or Semiramis Could boast of Conquests half so great as this; More than they slew, I save in this Disease.

Mankind our Sex for Cures do celebrate, Of Pains, which fancy only doth create: Now more we shall be magnified sure, Who for this real torment find a Cure. Some Women-haters may be so uncivil, To say the Devil's cast out by the Devil; But so the good are pleas'd, no matter for the evil•• Such ease to States-men this our Skill imparts, I hope they'll force all Women to learn Arts. Then Blessings on ye all ye learned Crew, Who teach me that which you your selves ne'er knew•• Thus Gold, which by th' Sun's influence do's grow, Do's that i'th' Market Phoebus cannot doe. Bless'd be the time, and bless'd my pains and fate, Which introduc'd me to a place so great. False Strephon too I now could almost bless, Whose crimes conduc'd to this my happiness. Had he been true, I'd liv'd in sottish ease; Ne'er study'd ought, but how to love and please: No other flame my Virgin Breast had fir'd, But Love and Life together had expir'd. But when, false wretch, he his forc'd kindness paid, With less Devotion than e'er Sexton pray'd.

Fool that I was to sigh, weep, almost dye, Little fore-thinking of this present joy•• Thus happy Brides shed tears they know not why. Vainly we blame this Cause, or laugh at that, Whilst the Effect with its how, where and what, Is an Embryo i'th' Womb of Time or Fate. Of future things we very little know, And 'tis Heav'ns kindness too that it is so. Were not our Souls with Ignorance so buoy'd, They'd sink with fear, or over-set with pride. So much for Ignorance there may be said, That large Encomiums might thereof be made. But I've digress'd too far, so must return, And make the Medick Art my whole concern; Since by its Aid I've gain'd this mighty place Amongst th' immortal AEsculapian Race; That if my Muse will needs officious be, She too to this must be a Votary. In all our Songs its Attributes reherse, Write Recipes (as Ovid Law) in Verse; To measure we'll reduce Febrifick heat, And make the Pulses in true measure beat: Asthma and Phthisick shall chant lays most sweet, The Gout and Rickets too shall run on feet:

In fine, my Muse, such Wonders we will doe, That to our Art Mankind their ease shall owe; Then praise and please our selves in doing so: For since the Learn'd exalt and own our Fame, It is no Arrogance to do the same, But due respects and complaisance to them.

To my Unkind STREPHON.

WHen last I saw thee, thou did'st seem so kind, Thy Friendship & thy Mirth so unconsin'd; Thy Mind serene, Angelical thy Face, Wit and good humour ev'ry part did grace; That nought unkind appear'd to my dull sence, To cloud the Glories of Love's Excellence. Thus e're the Sun his leave of us he takes, Behind the Trees a glorious Landskip makes; So in thy Mien those Glories did appear, To shew it seems Friendship was setting there: But now't's obscured, whether it descends Into the Ocean of more worthy Friends;

Or that it do's to State or bus'ness move, Those Regions of th' Antipodes of Love, I know not, only it withdraws its light, Exposing of our Microcosm to night: A night all clad in Sorrows, thickest Air, Yet no less cold than those that are most clear: But as when heat by cold contracted is, Grows stronger by its Antiperistasis; So shall my Passion in this frigid state Grow strong in fervent love, or torrid hate; But should I frown, or scorn, or hate, 'twould be But laughter and divertisement to thee: Then be thou still unkind, I am resolv'd I'th' like unkindness ne'er to be involv'd; But those whom Frowns and Anger cannot move, It is but just to persecute with Love, Like good Old Romans, although banish'd I Shall still retain my first integrity. But what should make thee thus to banish me, Who always did do, and will honour thee; Unless thou'rt like those jealous Romans grown, And falsly fear I should erect a Throne Within thy Breast, and absolutely prove My self the mighty Monarch of thy Love:

No sure, thy Iudgment never could be wrought, To think that I should harbour such a thought; Thou could'st not think I aim'd at such a state, Who in thy Breast had no confederate; Nor Worth wherewith the * 1.2 Nobles to engage, Nor Wealth to stifle the Plebeian Rage: Nor had I Troops of Beauties at Command, For Grief long since those Forces did disband: Besides, thou know'st I always did despise, In Love, those Arbitrary tyrannies: Nor do I less abhor the Vulgar croud Of sordid Passions, which can bawl so loud For Liberty, that they thereby may grace Pride, Lust, or Av'rice, with a Tribune's place; But might I chuse, Love's Regiment should be, By Friendship's noble Aristocracy. But now, alas, Love's Powers are all deprest, By th' pow'rfull Anarchy of Interest: But although Hell and Earth therein combin'd, I little thought what now too well I find, That ever Strephon could have been unkind.

To my Friend Mr. S. L. ON HIS Receiving the Name of Little Tom King.

FEar not, dear Friend, the less'ning of thy Fame, Because here's Little fix'd upon thy Name; Thy matchless Worth, alas, is too well known, To suffer damage by detraction. Nor can the Splendour of thy glorious Rays Gain Augmentation by our worthless praise; But as the faithfull Diamonds luster's shown, Whether set on Foils, or in the Fire thrown; So art thou Little King, whose Worth cross Fate, By no Vicissitude can vitiate: So sweet thy Humour, so genteel thy Mien; So wise thy Actions, all thy Thoughts serene; That Envies self, who do's all praise regret, Must own in thee Virtue and Wisdom's met; For were't thou really such as is thy Name, I'm sure thy Wisdom wou'd adorn the same; And to the silly World it shou'd be shown, That Virtue cou'd add Splendour to a Throne.

Necessity of Fate.

I.

IN vain, in vain it is, I find, To strive against our Fate, We may as well command the Wind, Or th' Seas rude Waves to gentle manners bind, Or to Eternity prescribe a date, As frustrate ought that Fortune has design'd. For when we think we're Politicians grown, And live by methods of our own; We then obsequiously obey Her Dictates, and a blindfull Homage pay.

II.

For were't not so, surely I cou'd not be Still slave to Rhime, and lazy Poetry; I who so oft have strove, My freedom to regain; And sometimes too, for my assistance took Business, and sometimes too a Book; Company, and sometimes Love:

All which proves vain, For I can only ••hake, but not cast off my Chain.

III.

Ah cruel Fate! all this thou did'st sore-show, Ev'n when I was a Child; When in my Picture's hand My Mother did command, There shou'd be drawn a Lawrel-bough: Lo then my Muse sat by and smil'd, To hear how some the Sentence did oppose, Saying an Apple, Bird, or Rose Were objects which did more be••it My childish years, and no less childish wit.

IV.

But my smiling Muse well knew that cons••ant Fate, Her promise wou'd compleat; For Fate at my initiation, In the Muses Congregation, As my Responsor promis'd then for me, I shou'd forsake those three,

Soaring honours, and vain sweets of pleasure, And vainer fruits of worldly treasure; All for the Muses Melancholy Tree, E're I knew ought of its great Mystery. Ah gentle Fate, since thou wilt have it so, Let thy kind hand exalt it to my brow.

To my Honoured Friend, Mr. E. S—.

OH had I any Charms of equal Powers, To lay those spirits which are rais'd by yours; I would employ them all, rather than now Suffer my babbling Rhimes to trouble you: But ah! alas my Spells are all too weak, To keep a silence which you urge to break; Though I remember justly where and when I promis'd ne'er to trouble you agen; And when I spoke, I meant my words for true, But those Resolves were cancell'd at review Of your obliging Lines, which made me know Silence to be the greater fault o'th' too:

For where Perfection do's in triumph sit, 'Tis rude to praise, but sinfull to omit. I often read your Lines, and oft admire, How Eloquence and Fancy do conspire, With Wit and Iudgment to make up a Quire, And grace the Musick of Apollo's Lire. But that which makes the Musick truly sweet, Virtue and Innocence in Chorus meet: So smooth, so gentle all your Writings are, If I with other Authors them compare, Methinks their Modish Wit to me do's shew, But as an Engyscope to view yours through: Nor do your Writ••ngs only smoothly glide, Whilst your whole life's like some impetuous tide; But both together keep a gentle pace, And each other do each other grace. There's very few like you that do possess The Stoicks strictness, Poets gentleness. I much admire your Worth, but more my Fate, That worthless I thereof participate; Ev'n so the Sun disdains not to dispence On meanest Insects his bright influence; But gives them animation by his Rays, Which they requite, like me, with worthless praise;

Which now I'm sure's grown troublesome to you, But you must bear that fate which others do: For those that needs will taste of Parents joys, Must too indure the plague of Cradle-noise.

On my Mother and my Lady W—. who both lay sick at the same time under the Hands of Dr. Paman.

LIke two sweet Youths strip••d naked on the Strand, Ready to plunge, in consternation stand, Viewing the dimples of that smiling Face, Whose frigid Body they design t' imbrace, Till by their Guardian Angel's care, some friend Snatches them from the danger they intend: So did these Pious Souls themselves prepare, By putting off the Robes of worldly care. Thus fitted (as they were) in each degree, To lanch into a bless'd Eternity; They both had shot the Gulph— Had not thei•• Guardian-God, good Paman sent, Who by his Skill a longer time them lent.

Ah happy Paman, mightily approv'd, Both by thy Patients, and the Poor belov'd. Hence let no Slander light upon the Fame Of thy great Art, much less upon thy Name: Nor to bad Druggs let Fate thy Worth expose, For best Receipts are baffl'd oft by those: Nor let no Quack intrude where thou do'st come, To crop thy Fame, or haste thy Patients doom; Base Quackery to Sickness the kind Nurse, The Patients ruine, and Physicians curse: Let no infectious Sickness seize thy Blood, But that thou may'st live long to do much good. May all the Blessings light on thee that can Attend a Doctor, or a Christian Man. Since by thy care thou hast restor'd to us, Two in whom Virtue's most conspicuous: Better, I'm sure, no Age can ever shew, Whose Lives are Precepts, and Examples too.

In Commendation of the Female Sex. Out of SCIPINA.

AH Beauteous Sex, to you we're bound to give Our thanks for all the Blessings we receive; Ev'n that we're Men, the chief of all our boast Were without you, but a vast blessing lost. In vain would Man his mighty Patent show, That Reason makes him Lord of all below; If Woman did not moderate his rule, He'd be a Tyrant, or a softly fool. For e'er Love's documents inform his Breast, He's but a thoughtless kind of Houshold Beast. Houses, alas, there no such thing wou'd be, He'd live beneath the umbrage of a Tre••: Or else usurp some free-born Native's Cave; And so inhabit, whilst alive, a Grave: Or o'er the World this Lordly Brute wou'd rove, Were he not taught and civiliz'd by Love. 'Tis Love and Beauty regulate our Souls, No rules so certain as in Venus Schools:

Your Beauty teacheth whatsoe'er is good, Else good from bad had scarce been understood. What's eligible by your smiles we know, And by your frowns refuse what is not so. Thus the rough draught of Man you have refin'd, And polish'd all the Passions of his mind. His Cares you lessen, and his Ioys augment; To both extreams set the just bounds Content. In fine, 'tis you to Life its relish give, Or 'twere insipid, not worth while to live: Nay more, we're taught Religion too by you: For who can think that such Perfections grew By chance? no, 'twas the divine Pow'rs which thus Chose to exhibit their bright selves to us: And for an Antepast of future bliss, Sent you their Images from Paradise.

To my BROTHER, whilst he was in France.

DEar Brother, So far as you advance Your knowledge, by your Iourney into France•• So far and more I'm sure I backward go, For I can't say As in praesenti now; Nor ever shall (I am so much concern'd For your dear safety) whilst you are return'd. Nothing at present wonted pleasure yields, The Birds nor Bushes, or the gaudy Fields; Nor Osier holts, nor Flow'ry banks of Glen; Nor the soft Meadow-grass seem Plush, as when We us'd to walk together kindly here, And think each blade of Corn a Gem did bear. Instead of this, and thy Philosophy, Nought but my own false Latin now I see; False Verse, or Lovers falsest of the three: Ev'n thoughts of formor happiness augment My Griefs, and are my present punishment;

As those who from a state of Grandeur fall, Find adverse Fate hard to dispence withall. Had Devils never Heaven seen, Their Hell a smaller Curse had been.

On the DEATH of my Brother.

COme Sorrow, come, embrace my yielding heart, For thou'rt alone, no Passion else a-part; Since of my Dear by Death I am bereft, Thou art the faithfull'st Lover I have left; And so much int'rest thou hast got in me, All thoughts of him prove only Pimps to thee: If any joy s••em to accost my Soul, One thought of him do's presently controle Those fawning Rivals; all which steal away, Like wand'ring Ghosts at the approach of day. But hold, fond Grief, thou must forbear a while, Thy too too kind Caresses, which beguile Me of my Reason,—retire whilst I Repeat the Life, the Death, the Elogy,

Of him my Soul ador'd with so much pride, As makes me slight all worldly things beside; Of him who did by his fraternal Love, More noble Passions in my Bosome move, Than e'er cou'd be infus'd by Cupid's Darts, Or any feign'd, adulterate, sordid Arts; Of him whose blooming Youth pleas'd each Man's Eye, And tempted Women to Idolatry; Of him whose growing Art made Death afraid, He shou'd be vanquish'd, and his Throne betray'd•• 'Cause with success, and yet no less applause, He rescu'd many from the Tyrant's jaws: At last the Tyrant raging full with spight, Assaults his Enemy with all his might; And for his Second brings a Feavour too; In this Attacque what could our Champion doe? He bravely fights, but forc'd at last to yield, Nature, his Second, having lost the Field: * 1.3 Many bring in their Aid, but 'tis too late, Grim Death had gotten a Decree from Fate; Which retrograded all that g••eat supply, Whose pow'rfull Arms makes Death and Feavers fly••

But why, great Fate! would'st thou so cruel be, Of Ioy at once to rob the World and Me! What joys so e'er we to our selves propose, Fate still will frustrate, or at least oppose; 'Tis her Ambition sure to let us know, She has the Regiment of all below. If it be so, command some mournfull Muse T' inspire my Soul, and then my Heart infuse With Essence of some Dirges, that I may His Matchless worth to all the World display. Nor Fate, nor Muse will help us now, I find, All flee the Wretched, ev'n as Ships the Wind. My Dear, had'st thou to me bequeath'd thy Wit, Thy Character had long ago been writ I'th' most sublime and lasting Verse, That e'er Adorn'd the greatest Hero's Herse. But were thy great Encomium writ by me, 'Twou'd be the ready way to lessen thee: Therefore I must desist from that design, And the attempt to better hands resign; Only repeat what mournfully was said, As in thy cold and narrow Bed was't laid

By the Apollo's (a) 1.4 of thy noble Art, (Who seem'd to grudge me in their grief a part) Alas, he's gone who shou'd have liv'd to be An honour to our Great Society. "Alas, he's gone who shou'd supply the place "Of some of us, when time has left no space "Betwixt us and the Grave; but now we see "How they're deceiv'd, who hold no vacancy: "And all the Gallant AEsculapian (b) 1.5 Crow, "Whose great Example from Spectators drew "Such floods of tears, that some mistook their aim, "And thought a real show'r from Heav'n came. But I, as if the Fountain of this Source, With Handkerchiefs strove to retard the course; But all in vain, my real loss was great, As many thought, whose Words I here repeat: "I cannot blame you for lamenting so, "Since better friend no friend did e'er forego; "A publick Sorrow for this loss is due, "The Nation surely, Madam, mourns with you.

On the same. A Pindarique ODE.

I.

WHat have I now to hope or fear, Since Death has taken all that's dear In him, who was my joy, my love, Who rais'd my Passion far above What e're ••he blind God's shafts cou'd doe, Or Nymph or Swain e'er knew: For Friendship do's our Souls more gently move, To a Love more lasting, noble, and more true, Than dwells in all the Amorous Crew; For Friendship's pure, holy, just, Without canker, soil, or rust Of Pride, Cov••tousness, or Lust; It to Ambition makes no room, Nor can it be by Int're••t overcome, But always keeps its proper state, I'th' midst of most injurious Fate; Ev'n Death it self to 'ts Bonds can give no date.

II.

But O Tyrant! thou Canst at one blow Destroy Fruition's happiness, Wherein we Lovers place our bliss; For without it, Love's but an ample theam Of Imaginary joys, Those gay-deluding toys, By which our most fix'd thoughts are cros••'d; Or as one that wakes out of a dr••am, Finds all the pleasing Objects lost: Or as Sodom's beauteous fruit, Whose out-side makes a fair pretence, To gratifie another sence; But touch it, and you'll find how destitute It's of all good, Much more unfit for food: So may our pleasures make a specious shew To th' vulgar view; But his absence whom I now deplore, Makes all my Ioys but Ashes at the core.

III.

Ah Death, thou wast severe, Thus from me to tear, The Hopes of all my future Happiness, The Co-partner of my present Bliss, The Alleviator of my Care, The partaker of what ever Fate did share, To me in my Life's progress; If bad, he wou'd bear half at least, Till the Storm was over-blown or ceas'd; If good, he wou'd augment it to excess, And no les•• joy for me than for himself express.

IV.

Of my Youth he was the Guide, All its extravagance with curious ey••, He wou'd see and rectify: And in me he infus'd such humble pride, As taught me this World's pleasures to deride: He made me know I was above All that I saw or cou'd enjoy,

In this giddy toy, Of the whole World's happiness: And yet again this Paradox wou'd prove, That to my self shou'd seem less, Than ought I saw i'th' mighty Universe.

V.

Nor was his kindness only fix'd on me, For freely he Did on all friends his Love and Wit dispence, As th'Heavens do their influence; And likewise did no diminution know, When his Wit he did bestow, Amongst his wond'ring Auditors, Who cou'd not chuse where Wit was so pro••ound, And Vertue did so much abound, But to become his faithfull Plauditors: All which he did receive, With less concern than they could give; Which proves that Pride his Heart did never touch: For this he always understood, That best Ambition still was such, As less desir'd to be wise than good.

VI.

But thus his Vertues to enumerate, Serves but my Sorrows to accumulate, As cyphers in Accompt, Till the Sum ad infinitum mount; A Sum which none but Death can calculate; Which he most dext'rously can doe, By subtracting the one Figure ••rom ••he row; For one's but one, if taken from the train Of Pleasures, Riches, Honours, Wit: Nor can a King his Power maintain; If all these cyphers should recede ••rom it. What matter then what our attendance be, Whether happiness or miserie: For when the mighty Leveller do's come, It seems we must be all but one, One in equality.

VII.

How soon he comes, I need not care, Who may to me a better fortune share;

For of all happiness I here despair, Since he is gone who Animation gave To all that's pleasant to my thoughts, or brave: Ev'n my Studies he inspir'd, With lively vigour, which with him retir'd, And nought but their Bodies (Books) remain: For Sorrow do's their Souls inchain So fast, that they can ne'er return again.

Part of the XIX. PSALM.

I.

THE Heav'ns declare the Glory of God, And th' Firmament doth shew To all Mankind dispers'd abroad, What Works his mighty hands can doe: The silent Nights and speechless Days, To each other chant their lays, Which make a tunefull Serenade,

To th' mighty Universe; And find a Language to reherse The praise of him who them and us has made.

II.

And in them he hath fix'd a place For the Glorious Sun, Which comes forth with Bridegroom's strength and grace, The Earth his happy Bride t' imbrace. And as a Gyant do's rejoyce to run His course, where he is sure to be Crown'd with glorious Victory: For nothing in this World's circumference, Can be hid from his bright influence.

Coming from—in a Dark Night.

I.

FArewell, O Eyes, which I ne'er saw before, And 'tis my int'rest ne'er to see ye more; Though th' deprivation of your light, I'm sure, will make it doubly Night; Yet rather I'll lose my way i'th' dark than stay; For here I'm sure my Soul will lose her way.

II.

Oh 'tis not dark enough, I wish it were, Some Rays are still on my Eyes Atmosphere; Which give sufficient light, I find, Still to continue me stark blind; For to Eyes that's dazl'd with too radiant light, Darkness proves best restorative o'th' light.

To my Dear Cousin Mrs. M. T. after the Death of her Husband and Son.

DEar Coz. I hope by this time you have dry'd, At least set bounds to th'almost boundless tide Of flowing Tears: I'm sure my wish is so, Which Love and Int'rest does oblige me to; For you can bear no Sufferings alone, All yours are mine by participation; And doubtless all your Friends, in some degree, Must bear a share, if they can love like me: Then if not for your own sake, yet for ours, And in submission to th' Eternal Powers, Not only dry your Eyes, but chear your Brow, And lend us Ioys, and we'll repay them you. Rouse up your Soul, and shew your self indu'd With Mothers Prudence, Fathers Fortitude; In other Vertues you have equall'd them, In these strive to out-doe your worthy Stem; For here Ambition can't excessive be, Neither esteemed pride or vanity:

(For when we to the top of Vertue climb, We're sure in no mistake, much less a crime.) But by this brave attempt you shall subdue Cross Fate, which otherwise wou'd conquer you. But after all that can be said on this, I am not ignorant how hard it is To conquer Passions, and our selves subdue; Though advis'd by Friends, and assisted too By the prevailing Powers of Grace from Heav'n, Still Counsel's harder to be took than giv'n: Not that I thought your Griefs profuse, but knew Much to a Son, more to a Husband's due: Only remember that our Lord has taught, Thy will be done; therefore we must in thought, As well as words, submit to his intents, Who can bring good out of the worst Events; Whose Mercy oft protracts the bad Man's doom, And takes the good Man from the ill to come.

TO MY Young Lover.

INcautious Youth, why do'st thou so mis-place Thy fine Encomiums on an o'er-blown Face; Which after all the Varnish of thy Quill, Its Pristine wrinkles shew apparent still: Nor is it in the power of Youth to move An Age-chill'd heart to any strokes of Love. Then chuse some budding Beauty, which in time May crown thy Wishes in thy blooming prime: For nought can make a more preposterou•• show, Than April Flowers stuck on St. Michael's Bow. To consecrate thy first-born Sighs to me, A superannuated Deity; Makes that Idolatry and deadly Sin, Which otherwise had only Venial been.

TO MY Young Lover ON HIS VOW.

I.

ALas, why mad'st thou such a Vow, Which thou wilt never pay, And promise that from very now, Till everlasting day? Thou mean'st to love, sigh, bleed, and dye, And languish out thy breath, In praise of my Divinity, To th' minute of thy Death.

II.

Sweet Youth, thou know'st not what it is To be Love's Votary;

Where thou must for the smallest bliss, Kneel, beg, and sigh, and cry. Probationer thou should'st be first, That thereby thou may'st try, Whether thou can'st endure the worst Of Love's austerity.

III.

For Worlds of Beauties always stand To tempt thy willing Eye, And Troops of Lusts are at thy hand, To vanquish thee, or dye. And now this Vow exposes thee To th' third (of all the worst) The Devil of inconstancy, That Tempter most accurs'd.

TO MY Young Lover. A SONG.

TO praise sweet Youth, do thou forbear, Where there is no desert; For, alas, Encomiums here, Are Iewels thrown i'th' dirt.

For I no more deserve Applause, Now Youth and Beauty's fled; Than a Tulip, or a Rose, When its fair Leaves are shed.

Howe'er I wish thy Praises may, Like Prayers to Heaven born; When holy Souls for Sinners pray, Their Prayers on them return.

To my Unkind Friend, Little Tom King.

I.

WEll, by experience now I see, This World's made up of flattery, Complements and formality; Since nought but int'rest now can bind Ev'n old acquaintance to be kind. 'Twere madness then to hope to find True Friendship in the Modern Crew Of late-contracted Friends. Hence then acquaintance all adieu, I can't oblige my Friendship to pursue Such dull insipid ends, As nought but to a Ceremony tends. Since Friendship from old Friends is flown, Rather than endure the pratlings, The flatteries and the censurings,

Which a Modish Friendship brings, My pensive Dove shall sit and coo alone.

II.

But perhaps it will be said, Unlucky Business has this mischief made: Business, that plausible excuse Of all unkindness to a Friend, That Bankrupt, that ne'er pays Principle nor Use, Of all the Time that e'er we to him lend. Yet Bus'ness now's a Merchant of such Fame, That he has got the whole Monopoly Of Time, Love, Friends, and Liberty; Of which, if there be scarcity, Bus'ness is to blame; For nought can vended be, but in his Name.

III.

Since then the World's so much to Bus'ness pro••e, 'Tis time that idle I was gone:

Alas, why do I stay, VVhen that canker bus'ness (which I hate) VVith Int'rest is confederate, Eats our pleasant shady Friends away? VVe're left obnoxious to the storms of Fate; Nay ev'n then the hottest Gleams Of Prosperities brightest Beams, Help but to make us dwindle and decay. And though we strive our selves to shade Under the closest Rules of Constancy; Yet when the Powers of Fate invade, That too, alas, will shake and fade, And make us see, That though our best Ambition strives To keep a reg'lar harmony: Yet Fate will ring her Changes on our Lives, Till discordant Death arrives; VVho informs us by his latest Knell, Whether we have made up this World's Consort well.

IV.

Hence I'll not murmur then, Though some grow Proud, and others really Great Or heap up Riches by deceit, Since they must pay it all again To Death, who rapaciously devours All, for which we drudge in vain, And sell our ease for fruitless pain: All which we like mistaken fools call ours, Whilst in some lazie Solitude may I Enjoy my self alone, Free from this VVorld's buzzing frantick feuds, And sweets and stings of Fate's Vicissitudes, Have nothing else to do but dye. I care not who esteems me as a Drone, For out o'th' World so secretly I'll steal, That babbling Fame shall not the theft reveal; And when I to my long repose am gone, My dearest Brother, who is gone before, Half way will meet me in the Air, or more;

Where we'll be happy in Excess, In Mansions of Eternal blessedness. Yet if there can be Any allay of this felicity; It will be this, when he shall find, That I no other news can bring, From his Old Friend, my Little King, But that he was unkind.

A Second EPISTLE. To my Honoured Friend Mr. E. S.

I.

OFt has my Muse and I fall'n ou••, And I as oft have banish'd her my Breast; But such, alas, still was her interest, And still to bring her purposes about: So great her cunning in insinuation, That she soon gain'd her wish'd-for restoration: But when I found this wou'd not do, A Violent Death I put her to. But see, my Friend, how your All-pow'rfull Pen (O Miracle!) has rais'd her from the Dead again.

II.

And now, alas, what can she doe, Or speak or shew, How very much she is oblig'd to you? For where the Boon's so great, it were a rude Presumption to pretend to Gratitude; And a mad project to contrive to give To you, from whom she do's her All receive: Yet if she Traffick on your Stock, and thrive, 'Tis fit, how e'er the Principal be spent, To pay the Int'rest of Acknowledgment.

III.

And with her I must acknowledge too, The honour which you did on me b••stow, Though I unworthy were of it: Not but your Iudgment knew well how to chuse A worthier Subject than my Muse, To exercise th' Exu'brance of your Wit;

But that your Goodness over all presides, And nobly in Triumph rides; Whilst other Vertues march in Troops behind, Friendship do's the Chariot guide, Which may perhaps run too much of one side: Friendship, as well as Love, sometimes is blind; And that she may be always so, My Prayers shall ever tend, 'Cause I no other Title have to show, Or tenure to the love of any Friend.

A PASTORAL DIALOGUE Betwixt Two Shepherd Boys.

1 Boy. I Wonder what Alexis ails, To sigh and talk of Darts, Of Charms which o'er his Soul prevails, Of Flames and bleeding Hearts: I saw him yesterday alone, Walk crossing of his Arms; And Cuckow like was in a tone, Ah Caelia, ah thy charms!

2 Boy. Why sure thou'rt not so ignorant, As thou would'st seem to be; Alas the cause of his complaint, Is all our destiny.

'Tis mighty Love's All-pow'rfull Bow, Which has Alexis hit; A pow'rfull Shaft will hit us too, E'er we're awar•• of it.

1 Boy. Love, why, alas, I little thought There had been such a thing; Only for Rhime it had been brought, When Shepherds use to Sing. I'm sure, what e're they talk of Love, 'Tis but conceit at most; As Fear i'th' dark our fancies move, To think we see a Ghost.

2 Boy. I know not, but the other day, A wanton Girl there were, Who took my Stock-Dove's Eggs away, And Black-birds Nest did tear. Had it been thee, my dearest Boy, Revenge I shou'd have took; But she my Anger did destroy, With th' sweetness of her Look.

1 Boy. So t'other day a wanton Slut, As I slept on the Ground, A Frog into my Bosom put, My Hands and Feet she bound: She hung my Hook upon a Tree, Then laughing, bad me wake; And though she thus abused me, Revenge I cannot take.

Chorus. Let's wish these Overtures of State, Don't fatal Omens prove; For those who lose the Power to hate, Are soon made slaves to Love.

To Mr. C. B. On his Incomparable SINGING.

THE Honour that the Air receives From thy Melodious Voice, Sure makes it grieve it•• cannot giv•• More Echoes to the noise.

Whilst Atoms joyfully advance, In happy Consort they Do in a nimble careless Dance, Thy charming Notes obey.

Birds have been said to fall down dead At th' shouting of a throng; Had'st thou been there, it had been said, Thou'dst rais'd 'em with a Song.

If th' Mind upon the Body works By secret Sympathies; Who knows what in thy Musick lurks, To cure all Maladies.

If Fate this Physick shou'd prefer, Thy Practice is decreed; All London and Montpelier- Physicians shall exceed.

Hence forward then let Poets Sing No more of Orpheus; Since we have one, whose Voice may bring Health to attend on us.

THE COMPLAINT.

I.

HOw oft, ah wretch, hast thou profusely swore Me, as the Gods thou did'st adore; And that my Words shou'd be to thee, As of Divine Authority: In this my Power exceeded theirs, To me thou ne'er did'st wander in thy Prayers.

II.

And oft thou prayest, bathed in thy Tears, Drop'd from the clouds of loving fears; And on my Hand thy Faith confess, And after that beg for redress; Whilst on the Altar of my lip, For Sacrifice, let no occasion slip.

III.

But now thou'rt grown prophane Atheistical, Not chang'd thy Faith, but cast off all: So Sacrilegious too thou art, Thou'rt not c••ntent to rob in part, To bear my Rites (thy Vows) away; But by thy cruelty thou do'st assay To bring the beauteous Fabrick to decay.

A SONG in SCIPINA.

IN vain do's Nature her free gifts bestow, To make us wise or fair; If Fortune don't her Favours show, Scorn'd or neglected we may go, Not worth a Look, much less a Lover's care.

Or if we shou'd some pitying Eyes command, Or those of admiration; So unendow'd fair Structures stand, Admir'd; but not one helping hand Will rescue them ••rom Time's dilapidation.

Then surely vain it is for me to strive With native Charms or Art; For Beauty may as well survive Her Climacterick Twenty-five, As without Wealth to get or keep a Heart.

A SONG.

I.

THE Heart you lest, when you took mine, Proves such a busie Guest; Unless I do all Pow'r resign, It will not let me rest.

It my whole Family dis••urbs, Turns all my Thoughts away; My stoutest Resolutions curbs, Makes Iudgment too obey.

If Reason interpose her Pow'r, Alas, so weak she is; She's check'd with one small soft Amour, And conquer'd with a Kiss.

A SONG.

GIve o'er my Fidelius, my Fidelius give o'er, Since Menaelus your Father dislikes our Amour, In silence let us our misfortunes deplore.

Not that his ••air Flocks or green Pastures so wide, He will betwixt Sylvia and Damon divide, But that duty forbids thee to make me thy Bride.

And if for our duty we suffer well here, Heav'n shall for such Lovers choice Blessings pre∣pare, Honey-moon shall eternally wait on us there.

A SONG.

I.

AS Am'rous Corydon was laid I'th' shady Myrtle Grove; Thus did his Words his Sighs upbraid, For telling of his Love. Ah Trayterous Rebels, without sence, Of what her Scorn can doe; 'Tis I must dye for your offence, And be thought guilty too.

II.

Nor can I blame ill Fate, for this My wretched hopeless state; Nor yet Philena's Cruelties, Who kills me with her hate. But your audacious Villani••s Occasions this my fall; Else I had dy'd a Sacrifice, But now a Criminal.

A Bachanalian SONG.

TRoy had a Breed of brave stout Men, Yet Greece made shift to rout her; 'Cause ••ach Man drank as much as Ten, And thence grew Ten times stouter.

Though Hector was a Trojan true, As ever Piss'd 'gen Wall, Sir; Achilles bang'd him black and blue, For he drank more than all, Sir.

Let Bacchus be our God of War, We shall fear nothing then, Boys; We'll drink all dead, and lay 'em to bed; And if they wake not conquered, We'll drink 'em dead again, Boys.

Nor were the Graecians only sam'd For Drinking, and for Fighting; Bnt he that drank, and wa'n't asham'd, Was ne'er asham'd on's Writing.

He that will be a Souldier then, Or Witt, must drink good Liquor; It makes base Cowards fight like Men, And roving Thoughts sly quicker.

Let Bacchus be both God o•• War, And God of Wit, and then, Boys, We'll drink and ••ight, and drink and write; And if the Sun set with his light, We'll drink him up again, Boys.

An ODE.

I'Ve often thought, but ne'er till now cou'd find Why Heroes so much strove, Their Greatness to improve; 'Tis only this, that Women might be kind, And answer Love with Love.

Fortune no Goddess is, but for their sake; Alas! she can't be prest, Nor kiss'd, nor do the rest: Riches and she, of which Men so much make, Are only Pimps at best.

One this way stalks, another that to's game; One's brave, this Hector's high, This pretends Piety: But I'm deceiv'd if Woman ben't their aim, Still Woman's in their Eye.

Scepters and Crowns were silly trifling things; 'Twou'd be but poor repast, To please the sight and tast, But that they make Men absolutely Kings, And Kings chuse Queens at last.

Absence for a Time.

I Dread this tedious Time more than A Fop to miss a Fashion, Or the Pope's Head Tavern can Dread the long Vacation.

This time's as troublesome to me, As th'Town when Mony's spent; Grave Lectures to a Debauchee, Or Whigs to th' Government.

Methinks I almost wish 'twas torn Out of the Rolls of Fate; Or that some Pow'r, till his return, Wou'd me annihilate.

But I, alas, must be content, Upon necessity; Since him, untill this time be spent, I cannot hope to see.

No more than we can hope to have The Life of perfect bliss, Till by Afflictions, and the Grave, We're separate from this.

Parting with—

ALthough thou now put'st me in doubt, By going I know not where; Yet know my Soul will beat about, Not rest till she have sound thee out, And tend upon thee there.

Look to your actions then, for she So strict a watch will keep; That if you give one thought from me, She'll swear it is ••lat Felony, Though 't be when you're asleep.

But if a sigh, or glance, or smile Shou'd to my Rival 'scape, She'd cry out Robbery and spoil; But if a kiss thy Lips shou'd soil, Then Murther and a Rape.

All this a Metaphor may seem, Or mad Philosophy To the unthinking World, who deem That but a fancy or a dream, Which Souls do really hear and see.

THE Anchorite IN SCIPINA.

AH, happy are we Anchorites that know Not Womens Ebbs, nor when their Love will flow. We know no Storms that rage in Womens Breasts, But here in quiet build our Halcyon Nests; Where no deceitfull Calm our Faith beguiles, No cruel frowns, nor yet more cruel smiles; No rising Wave of Fate our hopes advance, Nor fear we fathomless despair of Chance; But our strong Minds, like Rocks, their firmness prove, Defying both the Storms of Fate and Love.

Iane, Nan, and Frank, their Fare∣well to Captain C. going to Sea.

I.

SInce thou wilt needs go To Sea, God knows whether, We wish thee good Company, Good Wine and good Weather; The best of Sea-Cates we wish for thy Diet, And, if it were possible, good Sea-men and quiet; And on every Strand, Where e'er thou shalt land, We wish there may be Girls buxom and free, To bid thee a thousand kind welcoms from Sea.

II.

And the worst Enemy, E'er thou may'st meet,

May be a small stragler I'th' seam of thy Sheet: To which let no Sickness thee ever confine, But what comes by drinking our Healths in choice Wine; And on every Strand, Where e're thou shalt land, We wish thou may'st find True Topers o'th' kind, That can turn off Iane, Nan, and Frank in a Wind.

To her Lovers Complaint. A SONG.

I.

IF you complain your Flames are hot, 'Tis 'cause they are impure, For strongest Spirits scorch us not, Their Flames we can endure.

II.

Love, like Zeal, shou'd be divine, And ardent as the same; Like Stars, which in cold Weather shine, Or like a Lambent Flame.

III.

It shou'd be like the Morning Rays, Which quickens, but not burns; Or th' innocence of Childrens plays, Or Lamps in Antient Urns.

To my Adopted BROTHER, Mr. G. P. On my frequent Writing to Him.

DEar Brother, You will think that now, Epistles grow on every Bow, O'th' multitude of Shin-gay Trees, And so drop off like Soland Geese. In this the Analogie holds forth, They are produc'd of airy froth; But how they'll answer in the rest, Without conjuring, may be guess'd: For when you find they want the heat Of Wit and Sence to make them meat; And that the inside's only down, Soft as the scope they grew upon: You'll curse the Winds officious wings, Because to you no good it brings;

And swear the Proverb's now revers'd, Which so oft has been rehers'd: For now it must be understood, It's happy Wind blows any good; But thank your self for so being serv'd, And praise no more where 'ts not deserv'd: For praise, the Gad-fly of the mind, To pure desert shou'd be confin'd, Lest it set it Cock-a-hoop, And make it run with Tail turn'd up, Through the Woods, and o'er the Downs, Through Cities, Villages, and Towns; And plague both genteel Fops and Rabble, With its Nonsence, Rhime and Babble, Till by its follies they are urged, To send it home severely scourged, With the keenest Whips of Scosfing, Damming, Censuring and Laughing.

Then prithee, George, prevent this wretched Fate, And all their damning Censures antedate.

To my Friends against POETRY.

DEar Friends, if you'll be rul'd by me, Beware o'th' Charms of Poetry; And meddle with no fawning Muse, They'll but your harmless Loves abuse. Though to Orinda they were ty'd, That nought their Friendship cou'd divide; And Cowley's Mistriss had a Flame As pure and lasting as his Fame: Yet now they're all grown Prostitutes, And wantonly admit the Suits Of any Fop, that will pretend To be their Servant or their Friend. Though they to Wit no Homage pay, Nor yet the Laws of Verse obey, ••ut ride poor Six-foot out of breath, ••nd wrack a Metaphor to death; ••ho make their Verse imbibe the crimes, ••nd the lewd Follies too o'th' times; ••ho think all Wit consists in Ranting, ••nd Vertuous Love in wise Gallanting:

And Thousand sorts of Fools, like these, Make Love and Vertue what they please: And yet as silly as they show, Are Favourites o'th' Muses now. Who then would honour such a Shee, Where Fools their happier Rivals be•• We, surely, may conclude there's none, Unless they're drunk with Helicon, Which is a Liquor that can make A Dunce set up for Rhiming Quack: A Liquor of so strange a temper, As can our Faculties all hamper; That whoso drinks thereof is ours'd Unto a constant Rhiming thirst; I know not by what spell of Witch, It strikes the Mind into an itch; Which being scrub'd by praise, thereby Becomes a spreading Leprosie; As hard to cure as Dice or Whore, And makes the Patient too as poor; For Poverty's the certain Fate Which attends a Poet's state.

TO THE Importunate ADDRESS OF POETRY.

KInd Friend, I prithee cease t' infest This barren Region of my Breast, Which never can a Harvest yield, Since Sorrow has o'er-grown the Field. If Int'rest won't oblige thee to't, At least let Honour make thee do't; 'Cause I ungratefully have chose Such Friends, as will thy Charms oppose•• But nought I see will drive thee hence, Grief, Bus'ness, nor Impertinence: Still, still thou wilt thy Ioys obtrude Upon a Mind so wholly rude, As can't afford to entertain Thee with the welcom of one strain: Few Friends, like thee, will be so kind, To come where Int'rest do's not bind:

Nay some, because they want excuse To be unkind, will feign abuse. But thou, kind Friend, art none of those, Thy Charms thou always do'st oppose 'Gainst all Inqui••tudes o'th' Mind: If I'm displeas'd, still thou art kind; And by thy Spells do'st drive away Dull Spirits, which with me wou'd stay; And fill'st their empty places too With Thoughts of what we ought to doe. Thoughts to the Soul, if they be good, Are both its physick and its food: They forti••ie it in distress, In joy th' augment its happiness: Thoughts do attend us at all times, They urge us to good deeds, and crimes: They do assist us in all states, To th' Wretched they're Associates. And what's more strange than all before, They're Servants to the innocent and poor; But to the Rich and Wicked, Lords or something more.

A Farewell to POETRY, WITH A Long Digression on ANATOMY.

FArewell, my gentle Friend, kind Poetry, For we no longer must Acquaintance be; Though sweet and charming to me as thou art, Yet I must dispossess thee of my Heart. On new Acquaintance now I must dispence What I receiv'd from thy (a) 1.6 bright influence. Wise Aristotle and Hippocrates, Galen, and the most Wise Socrates; AEsculapius, whom first I should have nam'd, And all Apollo's younger brood so fam'd, Are they with whom I must Acquaintance make, Who will, no doubt, receive me for the sake Of Him (b) 1.7, from whom they did expect to see New Lights to search Nature's obscurity.

Now, Bartholine, the first of all this Crew, Does to me Nature's Architecture shew; He tells me how th' Foundation first is laid Of Earth; how Pillars of strong Bones are made; How th' Walls consist of carneous parts within, The out-side pinguid, over-laid with Skin; The Fretwork, Muscles, Arteries, and Veins, With their Implexures, and how from the Brains The Nerves descend; and how they do dispence To ev'ry Member, Motive Pow'r and Sence; He shews what Windows in this Structure's fix'd, How tribly Glaz'd,(c) 1.8 and Curtains drawn betwixt Them and Earths objects; all which proves in vain To keep out Lust, and Innocence retain: For 'twas the Eye that first discern'd the food, As pleasing to it self, then thought it good To eat, as b'ing inform'd it wou'd refine The half-wise Soul, and make it all Divine. But ah, how dearly Wisdom's bought with Sin, Which shuts out Grace, lets Death and Darkness in!

And because we precipitated first, To Pains and Ignorance are most accurs'd; Ev'n by our Counter-parts, who that they may Exalt themselves, insultingly will say, Women know little, and they practise less; But Pride and Sloth they glory to profess. But as we were expatiating thus, Walaeus and Harvey cry'd, Madam, follow us, They brought me to the first and largest (d) 1.9 Court••, Of all this Building, where as to a Port, All necessaries are brought from far, For sustentation both in Peace and War: For War this Common-wealth do's oft infest, Which pillages this part, and storms the rest.

We view'd the Kitchin call'd (e) 1.10 Ventriculus, Then pass'd we through the space call'd Pylorus; And to the Dining-Room we came at last, VVhere the (f) 1.11 Lactaeans take their sweet repast. From thence we through a Drawing-room did pass, And came where Madam Iecur busie was;

Sanguificating (g) 1.12 the whole Mass of Chyle, And severing the Cruoral parts from bile: And when she's made it tolerably good, She pours it forth to mix with other Blood. This and much more we saw, from thence we went Into the next Court, (h) 1.13 by a small ascent: Bless me, said I, what Rarities are here! A Fountain like a Furnace did appear, Still boyling o'er, and running out so fast, That one shou'd think its Efflux cou'd not last; Yet it sustain'd no loss as I cou'd see, VVhich made me think it a strange Prodigie. Come on, says Harvey, don't stand gazing here, But follow me, and I thy doubts will clear. Then we began our Iourney with the Blood, Trac'd the Meanders of its Purple flood. Thus we through many Labyrinths did pass, In such, I'm sure, Old Daedalus ne'er was; Sometimes i'th' Out-works, sometimes i'th' first Court; Sometimes i'th' third these winding streams wou'd sport

Themselves; but here methought I needs must stay, And listen next to what the Artists say: Here's Cavities, says one; and here, says he, Is th' Seat of Fancy, Iudgment, Memory: Here, says another, is the fertile Womb, From whence the Spirits Animal do come, Which are mysteriously ingender'd here, Of Spirits from Arterious Blood and Air: Here, said a third, Life made her first approach, Moving the Wheels of her Triumphant Coach: Hold there, said Harvey, that must be deny'd, 'Twas in the deaf Ear on the dexter side. Then there arose a trivial small dispute, Which he by Fact and Reason did confute: Which being ended, we began again Our former Iourney, and forsook the Brain. And after some small Traverses about, We came to th' place where we at first set out: Then I perceiv'd how all this Magick stood By th' Circles of the circulating Blood, As Fountains have their Waters from the Sea, To which again they do themselves conveigh.

But here we find great Lower by his Art, Surveying the whole (i) 1.14 Structure of the Heart: Welcome, said he, sweet Cousin, are you here, Sister to him (k) 1.15 whose Worth we all revere? But ah, alas, so cruel was his Fate, As makes us since almost our Practice hate; Since we cou'd find out nought in all our Art, That cou'd prolong the motion (l) 1.16 of his Heart.

I.

BUT now, my Dear, thou know'st more than Art can, Thou know'st the substance of the Soul of Man; Nay and its Maker too, whose Pow'rfull breath Gave Immortality to sordid Earth. What Ioys, my Dear, do Thee surround, As no where else are to be found, Love, Musick, Physick, Poetry; And in each Art each Artist do's abound, And all's converted to Divinity.

II.

No drooping Autumn there, No chilling Winter do's appear; No scorching Heat, nor budding Spring, Nor Sun do's Seasons there divide, Yet all things do transcend their native pride; Which fills, but do's not naus••ate, No change or want of any thing, Which time to periods or perfection brings; But yet diversity of state, And of Souls happiness there is no date.

III.

Should'st thou, my Dear, look down on us below, To see how busie we•• Are in Ana••omie, Thoud'st laugh to see our Ignorance; Who some things miss, & some things hit by chance, For we, at best, do but in twilight go, Whilst thou see'st all by th' most Transcendent light, Compar'd to which the Sun's bright Rays are night:

Yet so Coelestial are thine Eyes, That Light can neither dazzle nor surprize; For all things there So perfect are, And freely they their qualities dispence, Without the mixture of Terrestrial dross, Without hazard, harm or loss; O joys Eternal satiating Sence, And yet the Sence the smallest part in gross.

On the DEATH of my Brother. A SONNET.

I.

ASk me not why the Rose doth fade, Lillies look pale, and Flowers dye; Question not why the Myrtle shade Her wonted shadows doth deny.

II.

Seek not to know from whence begun The sadness of the Nightingale: Nor why the Heliotrope and Sun, Their constant Amity do fail.

III.

The Tur••les grief look not upon, Nor reason why the Palm-trees mourn; When, Widow-like, they're left alone, Nor Phoenix why her self doth burn.

IV.

For since He's dead, which Life did give To all these things, which here I name; They fade, change, wither, cease to live, Pine and consume into a Flame.

Notes

• * 1.1

  Wood•• Auth•••• anoth•••• Spee••••
• * 1.2

  The noble and sordid Passions.
• * 1.3

  Doctors.
• (a) 1.4

  Old Doctors.
• (b) 1.5

  Young Physi••ians.
• (a) 1.6

  Having learned Latin by reading the Latin Poets.
• (b) 1.7

  My Brother.
• (c) 1.8

  The Three Humours of the Eye, and its several Tunicks.
• (d) 1.9

  Ad infimum ventrem.
• (e) 1.10

  Morbi in infimo ventre, Di••rrhaea, &c.
• (f) 1.11

  Venae Lactea.
• (g) 1.12

  Secundum Opinionem Galinist. contra receptaculum commune.
• (h) 1.13

  Per Diaphragma.
• (i) 1.14

  De cordis Structura.
• (k) 1.15

  My deceased Brother.
• (l) 1.16

  De Motu Cordis.