PART II. Written by several Authors.
A Paraphrase on an HYMN Sung when the Corps is at the Grave.
HOW full of Troubles is the Life of Man!
Vain like a bubble, shorter than a span;
He springs and blossoms as an early Flower,
Whose silken Leaves the Frosts and Snow devour:
He, like the •leeting Shadow, hastes away,
Unable to continue in one stay;
It disappears, and can't survive the day.
The Noon-tide of our Life is plac'd in Death,
We're not secure of one light puff of Breath;
To whom, O God, can we for succour fly,
But unto thee, by whom we live and dye?
'Tis for our Sins thou dost employ this Sting,
Thou justly angry art, our God and King,
But takest no delight in punishing.
O Holy, Mighty Lord and Saviour,
Declare thy signal Mercies, and thy Pow'r;
Condemn us not unto the pains of Hell,
Where Horror reigns, and endless Torments dwell;
From whence no ransom ever can be made,
Since we our bless'd Redeemer have betray'd,
And both his Will and Laws have disobey'd.
Thou know'st the secret Closet of our Hearts,
Thy divine Presence fills our secret parts;
Therefore be mercifull unto our Pray'r,
Most worthy Iudge, thy wretched People spare.
Forsake us not when on our Death-beds thrown,
Lest through despair we deeply sigh and groan,
And Hell grow proud of the Dominion.
Advice to his Friends, lamenting the Death of I. F.
RIse and rejoyce all ye that Mourn,
Dry ev'ry Eye that weeps;
The Body in this hollow Urn,
Is not quite dead, but sleeps.
See how the Leaves in Autumns falling Dew
Forsake the weeping Tree;
And how the jocund Spring renews
With Buds their infancie.
What though the Root lye under-ground,
The Boughs to Heav'n aspire;
Thus Bodies in the Grave are found,
The Souls are mounted higher.
Hark! hark! I hear the Trumpet's Voice
Cry, Come ye Blessed, come;
Methinks I hear our Friend rejoyce,
That he is Summon'd home.
Now Dronish Death hath lost her Sting,
The Grave her Victorie;
For Christ in Triumph rides as King
Of this great Iubilee.
Arise, my Friends, and wipe your Eyes,
Salvation's drawing nigh;
Let's live to dye, and dye to rise,
T' enjoy Eternity.
EPITAPH on Mrs. E. F. who sickned of the Small Pox, and Deceased December the 31st. 1686. being the Day before her intended Nuptials.
THis fair young Virgin, for a Nuptial Bed
More fit, is lodg'd (sad Fate!) among the Dead;
Storm'd by rough Winds, so falls in all her pride
The full-blown Rose design'd t' adorn a Bride.
Truth is, this lovely Virgin from her Birth,
Became a constant strife 'twixt Heav'n and Earth.
Earth claim'd her, pleaded for her; either cry'd
The Nymph is mine, at length they did divide;
Heav'n took her Soul, the Earth her Corps did seize,
Yet not in Fee, she only holds by Lease,
With this proviso; When the Iudge shall call,
Earth shall give up her share, and Heav'n have all
An EPITAPH to the Memory (and fix't on the Tomb) of Sir PALME FAIRBORN, Governour of Tangier, who, in Execution of his Command, was Mor∣tally Wounded by a Shot from the Moors, that then besieged the Town, Octob. 24. 1680.
YE Sacred Reliques, which this Marble keep,
Here, undisturb'd by Wars, in quiet sleep:
Discharge the Trust, which when it was below,
Fairborn's undaunted Soul did undergo,
And be the Towns Palladium from the Foe.
Alive and dead he will these Walls defend,
Great Actions, Great Examples must attend.
The Candian Siege his early Valour knew,
Where Turkish Blood did his young hands embrew
From thence returning with deserv'd applause,
Against the Moors, his well-flesh'd Sword he draws;
The same the Courage, and the same the Cause.
His Youth and Age, his Life and Death combine,
As in some great and regular design,
All of a piece throughout, and all Divine.
Still nearer Heav'n
shone more bright,
Like rising Flames expanding in the height,
The Martyrs Glory crown'd the Souldiers Fight.
More bravely Brittish Gen'ral never fell,
Nor Gen'rals Death was e'er reveng'd so well;
Which his pleas'd Eyes beheld before their close,
Follow'd by Thousand Victims of his Foes.
An ELEGY on the Death of N. D. Doctor of Physick.
WHat, will my Mourning yet no period find!
Must sighs & sorrow still distract my Mind?
My Sense grows •eeble, and my Reason's gone,
Passion and Discontent usurp the Throne.
With blubber'd Eyes my veiled sight grows dim;
Ah, cruel Death, cou'd you •ind none but him
To gratifie your hungry Iaws withall;
Or, if in haste, none but a Doctor's fall?
Howe'er, you might forbore your stroke a while;
But possibly you thought, he might beguile
Your craving Appetite of many more,
Which you expected to strike long before.
But sure my Mind's disturb'd, my Passions rav•,
To censure Death, and quarrel with the Grave•
Alas, he's bound, the blow he cannot give,
Till his Commission shews we must not live.
Yet hence we learn, and may this inf'rence make,
That if Physicians Souls their Iourney take
Into a distant Climate, well may Ours:
Then with what care ought we to spend those hours,
Or rather few remaining Sands, which are
In so much Bounty tender'd to our care?
The purest Druggs, compos'd with greatest Skill,
Can't preserve Life, when Death has pow'r to kill:
Peasant and Prince are both to him alike,
And with an equal blow doth either strike.
All must surrender when his Arm is stretch't,
With such a weighty force his blow is fetch't.
But oh! I wander from my Virtuous Friend;
'Tis true indeed he's dead, but yet no end
Can e'er obscure or hide his Honour'd Name,
For o'er the World the Golden Wings of Fame
Shall spread his praise, and to his Friends proclaim,
That whilst alive, His Soul was always drest
VVith Robes of Innocence; the peacefull Guest
Of a good Conscience, ever fill'd his Breast.
His smiling Countenance abroad wou'd send
His hearty Wishes to his real Friend;
His Words were few, but of important weight,
Mix'd with no stains of flatt'ry, or deceit.
Too much in's way his Library has stood,
Himself he minded not for others good.
'Tis strange! to think he shou'd himself neglect,
VVhose study 'twas to cure what e'er defect
Nature might fall into; yet this he did:
In short, his Worth, though smother'd, can't be hid.
To sound his Praise may th' utmost Skill ingage,
Since that he dy'd the Wonder of his Age.
VVell may his friends then, and acquaintance weep,
VVhen such a brave Physician's fall'n asleep.
OH thou Theanthropos! who did'st contain
In one joint Body here both God and Man;
And thou who'rt Alpha and Omega still,
To blazon forth thy Courts, assist my Quill;
Inlarge my Fancy, and transport my Mind,
Above the common pitch of Humane kind.
Oh represent and spread before my Muse
One glimpse of Heav'ns great light, which when she views,
May make her soar in Raptures, and make known
The glorious Seat of Heav'ns triumphant Throne
But first, before my Tongue begins to speak
Such unknown joys, which no Man yet cou'd make
A true description of (though Poets have
Feign'd an Elyziums bliss beyond the Grave)
I crave thy pardon for my bold attempt,
In showing Sense what here for Faith was meant,
Like the bright Amathyst and Onyx Stone,
This glorious Fabrick is erected on;
The entrance Gates of this great Court excell
The most Magnificent and Orient Pearl;
Brighter than burnish't Gold her Walls appear;
Of spangled Stars her Floor and Pavements are;
Her high-built Pillars from the dazling ground,
Look as beset all o'er with Diamond;
Like purest Sardonyx her Roof do's show,
Whilst as green Emeralds are spread below
The blushing Ruby, and the glitt'ring Saphir,
Mix't with bright Chrysolites, and Stones of Iasper,
Make but a poor Resemblance of this light,
Whose gilt and radiant Beams appear too bright;
For ought of humane Race to view or see,
Unless transform'd to Immortalitie.
Thousands of Angels guard the outward Gate
From th' utmost spleen and rage of Devil's hate;
Who keep this Palace from or Siege or Storm,
For all those Martyrs, who have bravely born
With an undaunted patience th' utmost Ill,
That Men or Devils could bethink or will;
But when once past from th' outward Gates, you'll spy
Millions of Angels bless'd Eternally;
Also Illustrious Cherubs, Seraphins,
Clapping their gilded and rejoycing Wings;
Numbers unnumbred of the Saints in light,
Singing their Hymns to God both day and night;
There nought but simple Love and Rest abide,
All worldly Grief and Cares are laid aside;
Freed from all cross Events, and slavish Fear,
In Ioy and Peace they live for ever there.
ON THE MARTYRDOM OF King CHARLES the First.
THE crimson Theam on which I now do treat,
Is not unregistred, or out of date;
No, it's wrote deep in ev'ry Loyal Breast,
And with loud Accents will be still exprest;
Though Time shou'd take more wings, and faster hast
His sudden flight from hence; yet soon as past
Such Tragick cruelty, this mournfull Theam
In bloody Characters wou'd still remain.
I wish my Pen had ne'er had cause to write
This one day's Prodigie, more black than Night;
The very Fiends themselves are now out-done,
For Men the shape of Devils have put on.
What but the spawn of Hell cou'd thus design!
Or hatch such treachery to undermine
The best of Kings on Earth, nay pull him down
From his own Regal and Establish'd Throne?
What, was there none but Charles the First, the Great
And most indulgent worthiest Potentate,
To vent their rage upon? Oh barb'rous Crew!
A King beheaded! by's own Subjects too!
Ecclesiastical and Civil Writ
Unto the World did ne'er as yet transmit
So Tragical a Scene, or mournfull News,
Save one alone, Iesus the King of th' Iews;
Who was like Charles our Sovereign betray'd,
Whom the same shew of Iustice did degrade:
But now the Iews from these do differ hence,
Their Errours did from Ignorance commence,
Because they thought not Christ their lawful Prince:
But these curs'd Regicides did fully know
Charles was their King, and had proclaim'd him so•
The Antient Fathers always own'd their Prince
God's Representative in Truth's defence.
And since that Kings to God Vicegerents are,
Their Subjects ought true Loyalty to bear,
Who are protected by their Princely care.
But as if Nature had these Miscreants left,
And of Humanity they were bereft;
'Stead of Allegiance, they preach up Intrusion;
Sound a Battalia, and make all confusion;
And then delude and cheat the Common-weal
With a pretence, that all was done through Zeal•
Whilst an unnat'ral War they do b•gin,
And persevere in their Rebellious Sin,
Till they've intrench'd upon their Soveraign's Rig••
By Usurpation, and by lawless Might.
Then next they seize his Person with pretence,
That they're his chiefest Bulwark of defence;
At last his Head and Crown lop off at once,
Without a Reason, or a just Response.
At which black deed, shou'd th' Elements dissolve•
And th' Universal World it self involve
In present ruin, shou'd th' infernal Lake
Flash out in Flames; Or shou'd the Waters break
Through their strong Banks, and so a Deluge make,
Shou'd Sun and Moon at once Eclipsed be,
And to compleat a full Calamity
Stars fall from Heav'n, and dash in pieces those
Who did their Sov'raign and his Laws oppose:
This we might judge is to their Merit due,
Who such perfidious treachery pursue.
Forgive my passion, if I do transgress
Beyond the limits of true Holiness.
I wish that all effectually repent
This bloody Sin, whereby they may prevent
Those heavy Iudgments which predict th' Event.
And may those Persons, who were Actors in
This cursed Cause against the Father, bring
Their true Obedience to his Son, now King;
That so they may to him, and all his Race,
And to themselves, bring a continu'd Peace:
And after crown'd with honour and success,
At last enjoy Eternal happiness.
UPON ONE'S Birth-Day.
LOok upwards, O my Soul! and thou may'st see
Once more thy Birth-days Anniversary.
Another year of Time is passed by,
And now methinks hath slid so silently,
As if unmeasur'd yet; and thus will seem
Most of thy Days, when spent, in thy esteem.
Man's Life is fitly liken'd unto Fire,
Which unsupply'd with fuel, do's expire.
And thus no sooner's run our •leeting Sand,
But the Glass breaks by Death's destroying hand.
Since then, my Soul, that Time so fast doth slide,
How much art thou obliged to provide
That which may beautifie thy nobler part,
And also cleanse and purifie thy Heart
From all pollution, which within doth reign,
And in that Empire such Dominion gain?
Make firm Resolves, by new Engagements tye
Thy Passions up, restrain their liberty.
Place thy affections
upon things above,
Try then to surfeit i• thou canst on Love;
In time secure that which alone can last,
When youth and beauty, strength and life are past.
Then as thy Sands do was•e, and Years increase,
Thou shalt at last expire with Ioy and Peace.
UPON CHRIST's NATIVITY.
BEhold an Universal Darkness has o'er-spread
This lower World, and Man in Sin lyes dead.
Now black Despair his heavy burthen's made,
And being fall'n, God's Wrath can ne'er be paid:
For since his Native Innocence is flown,
All the first promises of Bliss are gone.
Think then, O Adam! on the state thou'rt in,
And all Ma•kind by reason of thy Sin.
Alas poor Man! thy Paradise is lost,
And thou might'st justly from thy Bliss be toss'd
Into th' infernal Lake; where with great pain,
B'ing exercis'd, thou might'st lament in vain.
But stay a while, What Musick's this I hear!
Which sounds so sweetly from the heav'nly Sphere!
Look here, O Man! are thine Eyes upwards bent?
Here's Angels, surely, on a Message sent.
Man. What Anthem's this, sweet Angels, that you sing
Unto us Men? do ye glad tydings bring?
Ang. We come from Heaven, we declare no Ill,
But Peace on Earth, and unto Men Good-will.
M. How so, we pray? can God be friends agen?
Will he be reconcil'd to sinfull Men?
Is God so kind, so mercifull a God,
So soon to cast away his angry Rod?
A. You need not doubt, wou'd you but with the Eye
Of stedfast Faith, pierce through the Starry Sky,
You might behold there God himself contriving,
Not for your Death, but your Eternal Living.
M. But how shall we of this assured be?
What sign or token may we find or see?
A. Want ye a sign? then do but us believe:
Here's one, behold a Virgin does conceive:
true and chast
do's now bring forth
A Son unto you of Transcendent Worth:
This is the true Messias, whom of old
The Patriarchs and Prophets so fore-told;
This is the Seed to Adam, promised
By God, to break the subtle Serpent's Head:
M. This being then the day of Iesus Birth,
Let us affect our Hearts with godly Mirth;
Let us, I say, both triumph, joy, and sing,
Glory be to our Christ, our Priest, our King.
On the same.
EArly i'th' Morn I wak'd, and first my Ear
The Bell-man did salute with th' time of Year.
And next the joyfull Cock, who'd left his Nest,
Ceases not crowing Christus natus est.
The lesser Birds in sweeter Notes do sing,
And louder Sounds Echo from Bells that ring.
Amidst this joy, I upward cast my Eyes,
And saw more brighter Rays adorn the Skies;
Where e'er I look'd, a happy change I view'd,
Nature her self did seem as if renew'd:
But when surpriz'd with such a beauteous Scene,
I then resolv'd to think what this might mean;
And presently my Thoughts inlarged were,
And Christ his Incarnation did appear,
In the most great and highest Acts of Love,
Such as will Reason to amazement move:
For who can think on Man, lost and undone,
To be redeem'd from Death by God's own Son,
And not be stricken with the quickest sence
Of so much Love, and charming Excellence?
Rouse then thy Minds best faculties, and soar
Up to a pitch, thou never reach't before:
Strive to come near, at least to imitate
The holy Angels, in their happy state;
Who always in a constant circle move,
Of giving praises unto God above;
And when to them the happy tydings came,
They gladly were the Heralds to proclaim
The joyfull news to us; then shall not Man
Sing the same Anthem they on Earth began?
Give praises therefore unto God most high,
And joyn thy Soul to the bless'd Hierarchy.
When thus Seraphick-Love thy thoughts employ,
Thou shalt anticipate that Heav'nly Ioy.
More on the same Subject.
LEt this days triumph o'er the World be crown'd,
A day of Iubilee for ever own'd,
With Harp and Violin our Mirth we'll show,
Unto this day all gratitude we owe.
Let Lute and Timbrel, and Majestick touch
Of the sweet Vial too proclaim as much.
Let Talbrot also, and the loud-spoke Cymbal
Ioyn with the sweeter of the Virginal;
Let all the Voices, both of Base and Trebble,
Ioyn in this harmony; let polish't Marble,
To future Ages, keep his honour'd Name,
That they with equal pleasure speak the same:
And that a p•rfect joy may be express'd,
At the Solemnity of such a Feast,
Let the whole Earth
put on her Robes of Green,
And be in Triumph when this day is seen;
And also let the pretty winged Quire,
From their warm Nests with joyfulness retire;
And fill the Air with sweet melodious Notes,
Which they sing forth from out their warbling Throats:
Let the Floods clap their hands, and therein show,
That they rejoyce with all the World below;
Let Angels too above bedeck the Sky,
And in soft strains divulge their Harmony;
Let the Illustrious Cherubins descend
With their delicious Carrols to attend
Man's happy change, which Christ alone did bring,
Who is become our Prophet, Priest, and King.
O bless'd Redeemer! why would'st thou come down,
Rather so lowly, than with great Renown?
As soon as born, why did'st thou not give order
To be proclaim'd the World's great Emperour?
Or cam'st not vailed in an Angel's Shrine,
Or took the Nature of a Seraphin?
But this had been contrary to thy Will,
Who came the Prophet's Sayings to fulfill:
Besides, thy Message had a nobler End,
Namely, the World of Sin to reprehend;
And to refine and purge our thoughts from Earth,
Conveying to us Grace by second Birth;
To influence our Minds from Heav'n above,
And to possess us here with Peace and Love.
OH Time, with Wings thou well may'st painted be,
For that shows swiftness and celerity;
And thy keen Scythe as truly doth bespeak,
What mighty devastations thou do'st make.
That which thy hand incircles is a Glass,
VVhose Sands with fleeting constancy do pass
An Emblem, which adapted is to show,
VVhat short duration all things have below;
The Revolution of another Year,
Do's plain and obvious to each Eye appear:
is in Infancy begun,
And to its latter period soon will run;
For when the last Years Scene of things are gone,
The Revolutions of the New post on.
View the Creation made with curious Art,
And you'll see motion run through ev'ry part;
For whensoe'er that ceases, presently
The Object do's begin to wast and dye.
But now this Festival of New-years-day,
A more exalted Subject doth display;
For it exhibiteth upon Record
The Circumcision of our blessed Lord;
VVhich Institution was by God decreed
For a distinction unto Abr'am's Seed:
But when our Saviour came, what need was there
But that this Iewish Rite shou'd disappear?
The Circumcision of the Heart was then
E•teem'd more proper for the Sons of Men;
Instead of Circumcision and the Passover,
Our Saviour therefore did enjoyn two other
More Sacred Sacraments, which Christians now
Do celebrate with a most solemn Vow.
This a more comprehensive meaning brought;
To wash off Adam's Sin is the intent,
As Water is a cleansing Element.
And all the Laws our Saviour did enjoyn,
Than those he has remov'd, are more sublime;
Since nothing came from him but what's Divine.
Each Festival that keeps his Memory,
Shou'd not without our due respe•t pass by.
'Tis fit we shou'd commemorate such days
With an ecstatick and exalted praise,
And all our Faculties in Transport raise.
EYES and TEARS.
HOW wisely Nature did decree,
VVith the same Eyes to weep and se•!
That having view'd the Object vain,
VVe might be ready to complain.
What in the World most fair appears,
Yea ev'n laughter turns to tears;
And all the Iewels which we prize,
Melt in these Pendents of the Eyes?
Lo, the All-seeing Sun each day
Distills the World with Chymick Ray;
But finds the Essence only show'rs,
Which straight in pity back he pow'rs.
Yet happy they whom Grief doth bless,
That weep the more, and see the less:
And to preserve their Sight more true,
Bathe still their Eyes in their own Dew.
So Magdalen in Tears more wise,
Dissolv'd those Captivating Eyes;
VVhose liquid Chains cou'd flowing meet,
To fetter her Redeemers Feet.
The sparkling Glance that shoots desire,
Drench't in these Waves, do's lose its •ire:
Yea oft the Thunderer pity takes,
And here the hissing Lightning slakes.
Ope then mine Eyes your double sluice,
And practise so your noblest use;
For others too can see, or sleep,
But only humane Eyes can weep.
Now like two Clouds dissolving drop,
And at each Tear in distance stop:
Now like two Fountains trickle down;
Now like two Floods return and drown.
Thus let your Streams o'er-•low your Springs,
Till Eyes and Tears be the same things:
And each the others diff'rence bears,
These weeping Eyes those seeing Tears.
To Mrs. IANE BARKER, on her most Delightfull and Ex∣cellent Romance of SCIPINA, now in the Press.
HAil! Fair Commandress of a gentle Pen,
At once the Dread, and dear Delight of Men;
Who'll read with Transports those soft joys you've writ,
Then fear their Laurels do but loosely •it,
Since You invade the Primacy of Wit.
Accept, kind Guardian, of our sleeping Fame,
Those modest Praises, which your Merits claim.
'T'as been our Country's Scandal, now of late,
For want of Fancy, poorly to Translate:
Each pregnant Term, some honest, labouring brain
With toilsome drudgery, and mighty pain,
Has told some new Amour from France or Spain.
Running us still so shamefully o'th' score,
That we have scarcely credit left for more.
But Thou, in whom all Graces are combin'd,
And native Wit with equal Iudgment joyn'd,
Hast taught us how to quell our Bankrupt Fear,
By bravely quitting all the long Arrear.
Thy single Payment, they'll with thanks allow
A just return for all those Debts we owe.
What though their Tale more numerous appear?
Our Coyn's more noble, and our Stamp more fair.
So have I seen a Score o'th' Dunning Race,
Discharg'd their Paltry Ticks with one Broad∣pi••
Nor hast Thou more engag'd thy Native Home•
Than the bare Memory of ancient Rome:
So far thy generous Obligations spread,
As both to bind the Living and the Dead.
'Twould please thy Hero's awfull Shade, to see
His Part thus Acted o'er again by Thee;
Where ev'n his bare Idea has that pow'r,
Which Real Scipio only had before:
Such tenderness his very Image moves,
That ev'ry gentle Maid that reads it, Loves.
o see with what new Air
•ill doubly bless'd in fair Clarinthia's Arms.
•riumphs of War were less than those of Peace;
Nor was He e'er so Great in any Arms, as these.
What crowds of Weeping Loves wilt Thou create,
When in thy Lines they find their Pictur'd Fate?
Thou'st fram'd each Passion with so soft an Art,
As needs must melt the hardest Stoick's heart.
Did Zeno live to see thy moving sence,
He'd sure in Love an Epicure commence;
•he cold Insensible would disappear,
And with each Mourning Fair he'd shed a Tear.
But when He reads the happy Lover's Ioys,
He'd tell the rapturous pleasures with his Eyes:
On's wrinkl'd brows a smiling Calm would shine,
He'd think each Period of thy Book Divine,
And with impatience kiss each tender line.
Yet all this while, such are thy harmless Flames,
As neither Age it self, nor Envy blames:
The Precise-Grave-Ones cannot disapprove
Thy Gallant Hero's honourable Love.
may pass severest Virtue
More than Astraea's soft, more than Orinda's chast.
Young Country Squires may read without offence,
Nor Lady Mothers fear their debauch't Innocence.
Only beware, Incautious Youths beware,
Lest when you see such lovely Pictures there;
You, as of old the Fair Enamour'd Boy,
Languish for those feign'd Beauties you descry,
And pine away for Visionary Ioy.
Then if by day they kindle noble Fire,
And with gay thoughts your nightly Dreams in∣spire,
Bless, Bless the Author of your soft desire.
To Mrs. IANE BARKER, on her Resolution of Versifying no more.
MAdam, I can't but wonder why of late,
What you so lov'd, you now so much shou'd hate.
Your Muse, with whom you thought your self once blest,
That now shou'd banish'd be from your fair Breast:
'T may convince some (but that it ne'er shall me)
That in your Sex there is inconstancy;
Whom formerly with name of (a)Gallant
By you so suddenly shou'd be displac'd.
Is this the recompence which you intend
Now to bestow on your so early Friend?
Who when a Child, put in your hand a Bough(b)
Hoping, in time, it might adorn your Brow.
Methinks you do't, as if you did design
Fate's all resistless pow'r to countermine.
What else shou'd be the cause, I cannot see,
That makes you so averse to Poetry;
Unless't be this, 'Cause each poor rhiming Fool,
To get a place i'th' Ballad-maker's School,
Spews forth his Dogrel-rhimes, which only are
Like rubbish sent i'th' Streets, and every Fair.
Is this an Argument, 'cause Beggars Eat,
Therefore you'll fast, and go without your Meat?
So Vertue may as well aside be laid,
Because a Cloak for Vice too oft it's made.
Shall a true Diamond of less value be,
Because abroad some Counterfeits we see?
But when compar'd, how eas'ly may we know
Which are for sale, and which are for a show.
Then give not o'er, for in this Town they'll say,
A new Gallant has stol'n your Heart away:
Besides, the Muses cannot chuse but pine;
In losing You, they'll lose their Number Nine.
To the Incomparable AUTHOR, Mrs. IANE BARKER, On her Excellent ROMANCE of SCIPINA.
FAir Female Conquerour, we all submit
To the joynt force of Beauty, and of Wit:
And thus like vanquish'd Slaves in Triumph led,
Lawrels and Crowns before the Victor spread.
What stupid Enemy to Wit and Sence,
Dares to dispute your Sexes Excellence?
That Sex which doth in you Triumphant come,
To praise with Wit of Greece the Arms of Rome;
Secur'd by solid Sence, you soar sublime
Above the little flutt'ring flights of Rhime.
Antient Philosophy, embrac'd by few,
Smiles and looks young to be caress'd by you;
and drives him from your Breast,
And is alone of your whole self possest:
No Word of yours the nicest can reprove,
To show a more than modest sense of Love:
But something still like inspiration shines,
Through the bright Virgin Candor of your lines.
How well are all your Hero's toyls and fights,
His long laborious Days, and restless Nights,
Re-paid with Glory by your charming Pen?
How gladly wou'd he act them o'er again?
The Great Cornelian Race with wonder view,
The Asian Conquerour, thus adorn'd by you;
And th' younger Scipio willingly wou'd quit
His Titles for your more Triumphant Wit.
On then, brave Maid, secure of Fame advance,
'Gainst the Scaroons and Scudderies of France.
Shew them your claim, let nought your Merit awe,
Your Title's good spight of the Salique-Law;
Safe in the Triumphs of your Wit remain;
Our English Laws admit a Woman's Reign.
ON THE POSTHUME and Precious POEMS OF Sir MATTHEW HALE, Late Lord Chief Iustice of His Majesty's Court of King's-Bench.
THE Rose and other fragrant Flow'rs smell best
When they are pluck'd and worn in Hand or Breast;
So this fair Flow'r of Vertue, this rare Bud
Of Wit, smells now as fresh as when he stood,
And by his Poetry doth let us know,
He on the Banks of Helicon did grow:
The Beauties of his Soul apparent shine,
Both in his Works and Poetry Divine;
In him all Vertues met, th' Exemplary
Of Wisdom, Learning, and true Piety.
Farewell Fam'd Iudge, Minion of Thespian Dame•,
Apollo's Darling born with Enthian Flames;
Which in thy numbers wave, and shine so clear,
As sparks refracted in rich Iems appear;
Such Flames as may inspire, and Atoms cast,
To make new Poets not like him in hast.
To the Admir'd AUTHOR, Mr. THOMAS WRIGHT, ON HIS Incomparable HISTORIES, ENTITULED, God's Revenge against Murther and Adultery, with the Triumphs of Friendship and Chastity. Newly published in a small Vol. 80.
SInce the too bold aspiring Angel fell
(By his Ambition and his Pride) to Hell;
And since Rebellious Man lost Paradise,
The World is fill'd with various sorts of Vice;
Murther and Lust, twin Tyrants, long have reign'd,
And a vast Empire through the World maintain'd.
The Sword of Iustice
could not stop their rage,
They've boldly tyranniz'd in ev'ry Age;
Nor cou'd Divines their furious heat asswage.
Yet doubtless, Friend, th' Examples you have giv'n,
May give them prospect of revenging Heav'n.
Your Pen with Eloquence divine inspir'd,
Will cool the Souls with Lust and Murther fir'd.
Tame all the Passions, regulate the Will,
And stop that Rage which guiltless blood wou'd spill.
Such charming Oratory it doth give,
As teacheth us by others Death to live;
And from a Life of Chastity and Love,
A great Advantage to our selves improve.
To tell thy Fame, I want great Spencer's Skill,
The gentle charming pow'r of Cowley's Quill:
All Men of Sence will praise thy matchless Prose,
For sharpest Briar bears the sweetest Rose.
To his Ingenious FRIEND, Mr. THOMAS WRIGHT, ON HIS Compendious HISTORIES OF Murther, Adultery, Friendship and Chastity. Some of the former being Epitomiz'd from Mr. Reynold's Murthers.
MAny, 'tis true, knew of this Golden Mine,
But all their Skill cou'd not the Ore Refine:
Th' inimitable REYNOLD's very Name,
Startled at first our greatest Men of Fame;
Each one by fear, from that great task was hurl'd,
And tho'lanch'd out their Sails, were quickly furl'd.
Wanting thy courage, they cou'd never soar
To this high pitch, which none e'er reach'd be•or•.
The Vulgar paths thou shun'st, soaring sublime,
Till with quaint Eloquence thou fraught'st each line.
None yet so sweetly charm'd with Sence the times,
So gently, and so well rebuk'd such crimes,
As you, my Friend, have done; for you present
Vice so deform'd, the Wicked will repent;
And by Examples of the chast and kind,
Fix bright Embellishments upon the Mind,
Such as may make us to improve, and be
Like patterns of Heroick Piety.
Thy Wit and Skill may former Artists blame,
And Reynold's Murthers now we must not name.
As sable Darkness, which attends the Night,
To the Days Sun-beams is its opposite:
So Vice from Vertue, Wrong from Right's the same;
Then how canst thou write wrong, when WRIGHT's thy Name?
O God! who art most Excellent and Wise!
I see the Morning Beams break through the Skies;
And with great admiration view the Light
Which dissipates Nights darkness from my sight.
But with a greater wonder I look on
Those bright Illuminations, which thy Son
Hath brought to light by's Incarnation.
Look and admire I may, but can't express
Such heights and depths of Love, in Prose or Verse:
'Tis beyond th' art of Rhet'rick to display,
What Chris•ians solemnize this F•stal day.
Two sacred Words, are an Epi•ome
Of what's effected in this Mystery,
Redemption and Salvation; heav'nly Letters!
Which freed fall'n Man from th' Bondage of his Fetters:
Lust and Ambition, Avarice and Fraud,
Was then his Master, and his Passions Lord:
his great Redeemer,
broke the Chain,
And placed him in Paradise again.
O Love most infinite! O Love divine!
This Mystery of Love was truly thine;
For neither Men nor Angels could atone
Th'Almighty's Wrath, but God and Man in one:
Wherefore Divinity submits to be
Lodg'd in a Vessel of Humanity.
How ioyfully •he heav'nly Host above,
Proclaim to Man, glad tydings of thy Love?
And shall Mankind so much ungrateful be,
Or rather sink into stupidity,
As not with equal Ioy this Message hear,
And all due Rev'rence to their Saviour bear?
And finally, Let's end these Festal days,
With sweet Doxologies, and Songs of Praise.
NAked I came from out my Mother's Womb,
And naked must return unto my Tomb;
Disrob'd of all Injoyments here below,
Or what my Fancy had esteemed so;
Laid down in silence, and by all forgot;
Left in an Earthly Sepulchre to rot,
And turn to noisome and corrupted Clay,
My Manly Shape and Figure worn away:
Thus when our little breath, and life's once gone,
We make a Feast for Worms to feed upon.
And though we shou'd the most Endearments have,
Of Wife and Children too, yet we must leave
Them, and their Fortunes, unto Providence,
When pale-fac'd Death shall summon us from hence
Why do we stand amaz'd, and seem to fear,
When e'er the news of a Friend's Death we hear?
And not much rather to applaud the Tongue,
That brought intelligence, he liv'd so long;
's so mutable, each little blast
May the whole Fabrick unto ruin hast:
Life is a Bubble, which now you see here,
And in a moments time do's disappear;
Full as inconstant as the Wind; alas!
'Tis far more brittle than a Venice-Glass;
'Tis as a Shadow, which is quickly fled;
Or as a Word, which in as small time's said;
'Tis as a Vapour rising from the Earth,
But at the most 'tis but a little Breath.
And is this truly so? and shall my Eyes,
Together with my Souls bright Faculties,
Be cheated with the Worlds gay Vanities?
Certainly no! Adieu ye cheating Pleasures,
Which only bear the empty name of Treasures;
No Sophistry, or stratagem, can hide
Your gilded Vanity, your Lust and Pride:
And as for Honour, that I'll most avoid,
My lonesome Cottage shall not be annoy'd
By th' noisome Breath of a confused Rabble;
Void of calm Reason, full of nonsence, babble.
Besides, my Eyes are both too weak and dimm
To guide my Feet, whilst I so high must climb,
To reach her Pinacles
; which if I do,
'Tis but to make me fall from thence more low.
And as for worldly Wealth, my bounds I set,
According to what Prudence do's direct.
Our honest Industry is not deny'd,
When all disponding Thoughts are laid aside:
So much I can most lawfully desire,
As may with decency my Life attire;
And bear me up, lest I too much shou'd Mourn,
Before I fill my dark and silent Urn.
Such serious Thoughts as these delight me best;
Death, when fore-seen in time, do's quite devest
A Man of dubious Thoughts, and frightful Fears,
And with a Plaudit closeth up his Years.
ON THE Divine Spirit.
AS when the lab'ring Sun hath wrought his track
Up to the top of lofty Cancer's back,
The Icie Ocean cracks the Frozen Pole,
Thaws with the heat of Celestial Coal;
So when thy absent Beams begin t'impart
Again a Solstice on my •rozen Heart,
My Winter's o'er, my drooping Spirits sing,
And every part revives into a Spring:
But if thy quickning Beams a while decline,
And with their Light bless not this Orb of mine,
A chilly Frost surprizeth every Member,
And in the midst of Iune I feel December.
O how this Earthly temper doth debase
The noble Soul, in this her humble place!
VVhose wingy Nature ever doth aspire
To reach that place, whence •irst it took its •ire.
These Flames I feel, which in my Heart do dwell,
Are not thy Beams, but take their fire from Hell.
O quench them all, and let thy Light Divine
Be as the Sun to this poor Orb of mine;
And to thy Sacred Spirit convert those Fires,
VVhose Earthly fumes crack my devout Aspires!
To the Memory of the Illustrious Prince GEORGE, Duke of Buckingham.
WHen the dread Summons of Commanding Fate
Sounds the Last Call at some proud Palace-Gate,
When both the Rich, the Fair, the Great, and High.
Fortunes most darling Favourites must die;
Strait at th' Alarm the busie Heraulds wait
To fill the Solemn Pomp, and Mourn in State:
Scutcheons and Sables then make up the Show,
Whilst on the Herse the mourning Streamers flow,
With all the rich Magnificence of Woe.
If Common Greatness these just Rights can claim,
What Nobler Train must wait on Buckingham!
When so much Wit, Wit's Great Re•ormer, dyes,
The very Muses at thy Obsequies,
(The Muses, that melodious cheersull Quire,
Whom Misery could ne'er untune, nor tire,
But chirp in Rags, and ev'n in Dungeons sing,)
Now with their broken Notes, and flagging Wing,
To thy sad Dirge their murm'ring Plaints shall bring.
Wit, and Wit's god, for Buckingham shall mourn,
And His lov'd Laurel into Cypress turn.
Nor shall the Nine sad Sisters only keep
This mourning Day: even Time himself shall weep,
And in new Brine his hoary furrows steep.
Time, that so much must thy great Debtor be,
As to have borrow'd ev'n new Life•rom Thee;
Whilst thy gay Wit has made his sullen Glass
And tedious Hours with new-born Raptures pass.
What tho'black Envy with her ranc'rous Tongue,
And angry Poets in embitter'd Song
(Whilst to new tracks thy boundless Soul aspires)
Charge thee with roving Change, and wandring Fires•
Envy more base did never Virtue wrong;
Thy Wit, a Torrent for the Banks too strong,
In twenty smaller Rills o'er-flow'd the Dam,
Though the main Channel still was Buckingham.
Let Care the busie Statesman over-whelm,
Tugging at th' Oar, or drudging at the Helm.
With lab'ring Pain so half-soul'd Pilots plod,
Great Buckingham a sprightlier Measure trod:
When o'er the mounting Waves the Vessel rod,
Unshock'd by Toyls, by Tempests undismay'd,
Steer'd the Great Bark, and as that danc'd, He play'd.
Nor bounds thy Praise to Albion's narrow Coast,
Thy Gallantry shall Foreign Nations boast,
They Gallick Shore, with all the Trumps of Fame,
To endless Ages shall resound thy Name.
When Buckingham, Great CHARLES Embassador,
With such a Port the Royal Image bore,
So near the Life th' Imperial Copy
As ev'n the Mighty Louis could not View
With Wonder only, but with Envy too.
His very Fleur-de-Lize's •ainting Light
Half droopt to see the English Rose so bright.
Let Groveling Minds of Nature's basest mould
Hug and Adore their dearest Idol, Gold:
Thy Nobler Soul did the weak Charms defie,
Disdain the Earthly Dross to mount more High.
Whilst Humbler Merit on Court-Smiles depends
For the Gilt Show'r in which their Iove descends;
Thou mount'st to Honour for a Braver End;
What others borrow, Thou cam'st there to lend:
Did'st sacred Vertues naked Self adore,
And left'st her Portion for her sordid Woer;
The poorer Miser how dost thou out-shine,
He the Worlds Slave, but thou hast made it thine:
Great Buckingham's Exalted Character,
That in the Prince liv'd the Philosopher.
Thus all the Wealth thy Generous Hand has spent,
Shall raise thy Everlasting Monument.
So the fam'd Phoenix builds her dying Nest
Of all the richest Spices of the East:
Then the heap'd Mass prepar'd for a kind Ray
Some warmer Beam of the Great God of Day,
Do's in one hallow'd Conflagration burn,
A precious Incense to her Funeral Urn.
So Thy bright Blaze felt the same Funeral Doom,
A wealthier Pile than old Mausolus Tomb.
Only too Great, too Proud to imitate
The poorer Phoenix more Ignoble Fate,
Thy Matchless Worth all Successors defies,
And scorn'd an Heir shou'd from thy Ashes rise:
Begins and finishes that Glorious Spheer,
Too Mighty for a Second Charioteer.
UPON THE DEATH OF OLIVER CROMWELL, In Answer to Mr. W—'
'TIS well he's gone, (O had he never been!)
Hurry'd in Storms loud as his crying Sin:
The Pines and Oaks fell prostrate to his Urn,
That with his Soul his Body too might burn.
Winds pluck up Roots, and fixed Cedars move,
Roaring for Vengeance to the Heavens above:
For Guilt from him like Romulus did grow,
And such a Wind did at his Ruin blow.
Praying themselves the lofty Trees shou'd fell
Without the Ax, so Orpheus went to Hell:
At whose descent the sturdiest Oaks were cleft,
And the whole Wood its wonted Station left.
In Battle Herc'les
wore the Lyon
But our Fierce Nero wore the Beast within;
Whose Heart was Brutish, more than Face or Eyes,
And in the shape of Man was in disguise.
Where ever Men, where ever pillage lyes,
Like rav'nous Vultures, or wing'd Navy flyes.
Under the Tropicks he is understood,
And brings home Rapine through a Purple Flood.
New Circulations found, our Blood is hurl'd,
As round the lesser, so the greater VVorld.
In Civil Wars he did us first engage,
And made Three Kingdoms subject to his rage.
One fatal stroke slew Iustice, and the cause
Of Truth, Religion, and our Sacred Laws.
So fell Achilles by the Trojan Band,
Though he still fought with Heav'n it self in hand.
Nor cou'd Domestick Spoil confine his Mind,
Nor limits to his fury, but Mankind.
The Brittish Youth in Foreign Coasts are sent,
Towns to destroy, but more to Banishment.
VVho since they cannot in this Isle abide,
Are confin'd Pris'ners to the VVorld beside.
No wonder then if we no tears allow
To him who gave us Wars and Ruin too:
Tyrants that lov'd him, griev'd, concern'd to see
There must be punishment to crueltie.
Nature her self rejoyced at his Death,
And on the Halter sung with such a Breath,
As made the Sea dance higher than before,
While her glad Waves came dancing to the shore.
ON THE LAST DUTCH WAR.
RObb'd of our Rights! and by such Water-Rats!
We'll doff their Heads, if they won't doff their Hats.
Affront from Hogen Mogen to endure!
'Tis time to box these Butter-Boxes sure.
If they the Flag's undoubted Right deny us,
And won't strike to us, they must be struck by Us.
A Crew of Boors,
Themselves they to our Blood and Valour owe.
Did we for this knock off their Spanish Fetters,
To make 'em able to abuse their Betters?
If at this rate they rave, I think 'tis good
Not to omit the Spring, but let 'em Blood.
Rouse then, Heroick Britains, 'tis not Words,
But Wounds must work with Leather-Apron-Lords.
They're deaf, and must be talk'd withall, alas,
With Words of Iron, spoke by Mouths of Brass,
I hope we shall to purpose the next bout
Cure 'em, as we did Opdam of the Gout.
And when i'th' bottom of the Sea they come,
They'll have enough of Mare Liberum.
Our brandish't Steel (tho' now they seem so tall)
Shall make 'em lower than Low-Countries fall:
But they'll e'er long come to themselves you'll see,
When we in earnest are at Snick-a-snee.
When once the Boars perceive our Swords are drawn,
And we converting are those Boars to Brawn.
Methinks the Ruin of their Belgick Banners
Last Fight, almost as ragged as their Manners,
Might have perswaded 'em to better things,
Than to be sawcy with the best of Kings.
Is it of Wealth so proud they are become?
Charles has a Wain, I hope, to fetch it home;
And with it pay himself his just Arrears
Of Fishing Tribute for this Hundred years;
That we may say, as all the Store comes in,
The Dutch, alas, have but our Factors bin:
They fathom Sea and Land, we, when we please,
Have both the Indies brought to our own Seas;
For Rich and Proud they bring in Ships by Shoals;
And then we humble them to save their Souls.
Pox of their Pictures! if we had 'em here,
We'd find 'em Frames at Tyburn, or elsewhere.
The next they draw be it their Admirals,
Transpeciated into Finns and Scales;
Or which wou'd do as well, draw, if they please,
Opdam with th' Seven sinking Provinces;
Or draw their Captains from the conqu'ring Main,
F•rst beaten home, then beaten back again.
And after this so just, though fatal strife,
Draw their dead Boars again unto the Life.
Lastly, Remember to prevent all Laughter;
Drawing goes first, but Hanging follows after.
If then Lampooning thus be their undoing,
Who pities them that purchase their own Ruin;
Or will hereafter trust their treacheries,
Untill they leave their Heads for Hostages.
For as the Proverb thus of Women's said,
Believe 'em nothing, though you think 'em dead.
The Dutch are stubborn, and will yield no Fruit
Till, like the Wallnut-Tree, ye beat 'em to't.
THE LAST SAYINGS OF A MOUSE, Lately Starved in a Cupboard. As they were taken in Short-hand by a Zealous Rat-catcher, who listned at the Key-hole of the Cupboard Door.
WRetch that I am! and is it come to this?
O short continuance of Earthly bliss.
Did I for this forsake my Country Ease,
My Liberty, my Bacon, Beans, and Pease?
Call ye me this the breeding of the Town,
Which my young Master bragg'd when he came down?
Fool that I was! I heard my Father say
(A Rev'rend Mouse he was, and his Beard gray)
"Young Hunt-crum, mark me well, you needs must rome,
"And leave me and your Mother here at home:
"Great is your Spirit, at high food you aim,
"But have a care—believe not lying Fame;
"Vast Bodies oft are mov'd by slender Springs,
"Great Men and Tables are two diff'rent things:
"Assure thy self, all is not Gold that shines;
"He that looks always fa•, not always dines:
"For oft I've seen one strut in laced Cloak,
"And at th' same instant heard his Belly croak.
By sad experience now I find too well,
Old Hunt-crum was an arrant Sydrophel.
And must I dye? and is there no relief?
No Cheese, though I give over thoughts of Beef.
Where is grave Madge, and brisk Grimalkin now,
Before whose Feet our Race was wont to bow?
No Owl, no Cat, to end my wofull days?
No Gresham Engine my lean Corps to squeese?
I'd rather fall to Foes a noble prey,
Than squeek my Soul out under Lock and Key•
What's this? a pissing Candles latter end,
My dear beloved Country-Save-all Friend?
Thou dreadfull Emblem of Mortality,
Which nothing savour'st of solidity:
Detested Droll'ry of my cruel Fate!
This shadow of a Comfort comes too late.
Now you my Brethren Mice, if any be
As yet unstarv'd in all our Family,
From your obscure Retreats rise and appear,
To your, or to your Ghosts I now draw near.
Unto my pristine dust I hast apace,
Observe my hollow Eyes, and meager Face;
And learn from me the sad reverse of Fate,
'Tis better to be innocent than great.
Good Consciences and Bellies full, say I,
Exceed the pomp that only fills the Eye.
Farewell you see (my friends) that knew me once
Pamper'd and smooth, reduc'd to Skin and Bones.
Poor as a Church-Mouse! O I faint! I dye!
Fly, fly from Cat in shape of Famine, f•y;
VVhilst at •y Death I my Ambition rue,
In this my Cupboard, and my Coffin too;
Farewell to Victuals, Greatness, and to you.
TO THE SECRETARY OF THE MUSES. A NEW-YEARS-GIFT.
WIth care peruse the lines I send,
Which when you've done, you'll find I am your friend;
I write not for Applause, or if I doe,
Who'd value the Applause that comes from you,
Or from your Patrons, who of late we see,
However they're distinguish'd in degree,
Forget themselves, and grow as dull as thee?
As often drunk, as awkward in their dress,
Fight with thy courage, Court with thy success.
And when their fond Impertinences fail,
They strait turn Satyrists, and learn to rail;
With false Aspersions whitest truths they touch,
And will abuse, because they can't debauch.
No, Iulian, 'tis not my design to glean
Applauses either from thy self, or them;
But meerly to assume a friendly care,
And give thee Counsel for th' ensuing Year.
For if all pow'rfull dullness keep its station,
Dullness chief Manufacture of the Nation,
Thou certainly must starve the next Vacation.
To prevent which, observe the rules I give,
We never are too old to learn to live.
First then, to all thy railing Scriblers go,
Who do their wit and worth in Libels show;
Bid 'em correct their Manners, and their Style,
For both of 'em begin to grow so vile,
They are beneath a Carr-man's scornfull smile:
Tell 'em their false Coyn will no longer pass;
Nay, tell 'em that thou know'st it to be Brass:
But above all, beg 'em to mend their strain,
And yet I fear thy pray'rs will be in vain;
For though the Old year, Iulian, now is done,
We know there comes another rowling on,
And still another too when that is gone.
the barren stor•
Is ebbing out—I fear 'twill flow no more.
'Tis well thou dost not live on Wit alone,
For the dull trash the Men of Sence disown,
Thy duller Coxcombs with Applauses crown.
Since folly then, and nonsence find success,
Let this dull trifle pass amongst the rest:
But swear withall the Author is a Wit;
Nay, when thou'rt in th' Enthusiastick fit,
Swear 'tis the highest thing that e'er was writ.
Thus with thy noise prepare 'em by degrees,
Thou'rt us'd to dullness, and thou know'st 'twill please,
Dull then as 'tis, this New-years-gift of mine,
If manag'd well, may help to get thee thine.
EPITAPH ON THE SECRETARY to the MUSES.
UNder this weeping Monumental Stone
There lies a Scribe, who, while he liv'd, was known
To ev'ry Bawd, Whore, Pimp, Fop, Fool in Town,
For scandal he was born, and we shall find,
That now he's dead, there's little left behind:
Vast was his Courage, witness all the store
Of noble Scars, that to his Grave he bore;
All got in War, for he abhorr'd a Whore.
Of spreading Libels nothing shall be said,
Because 'twas that which brought him in his Bread,
And 'tis a crime to vilifie the Dead.
His Honour for Religion still was great,
In Covent-Garden Church he'd slumb'ring sit,
To shew his Piety was like his Wit.
But above all, Drink was his chief delight;
He drank all day, yet left not off at night:
Drink was his Mistress; Drinking was his Health;
For without Drinking he was ne'er himself.
Ah, cruel Gods! what Mercy can ye boast
If the poor Secretary's frighted Ghost
Shou'd chance to touch upon the Stygian Coast?
But ah his loss, 'tis now too late to Mourn;
He's gone, and Fate admits of no return.
But whither is he gone? to's Grave, no doubt;
Where, if there's any Drink, he'll find it out.
A SATYR, In Answer to the SATYR against MAN.
WEre I a Sp'rit, to chuse for my own share,
What case of Flesh and Blood I'd please to wear,
I'd be the same that to my joy I am,
One of those brave and glorious Creatures, Man;
Who is from Reason justly nam'd the bright
And perfect Image of the Infinite:
Reason's Mankind's Prerogative, no less
Their Nature's honour, than their happiness:
With which alone, the meanest Creature blest,
Were truly styl'd the Lord of all the rest;
Whence Man makes good his Title to the Throne,
And th' whole Creation his Dominion own.
Whence he o'er others, and himself presides,
As safe from Errour as Ten thousand Guides:
Through Doubt's distracting Lab'rinths it directs,
And all the subtil Windings there detects.
As safely steers through Life's wide Ocean,
As Skilful Pilates through the boundless Main;
It shews here Scylla, there Charybdi• lyes,
And between both securely leads the Wise;
VVho Quick-sands, Rocks & Gulfs supinely braves,
A desp'rate Fool may perish in the Waves;
VVho mad and heedless wou'd his Guide refuse•
Can't blame that reason which he cannot use.
He that will close, or leave his Eyes behind,
Shou'd not accuse his Eyes, because they're blind.
If knowingly, vain Man, his Iourney makes
Through Error's fenny Bogs, and thorny Brakes,
And craggy, steep, untrodden Paths he takes;
'Tis down-right Nonsence then to look upon
His Errors (Nature's Imperfection,)
And all Mankind endite with a wrong Bill,
Which reaches not his Nature, but his Will.
Besides, it's better reason to infer,
That is most perfect, which can mostly Err;
The Hound that's fam'd for far more politick Nose,
Than Men in Parliament or Coffee-house;
or Old Caesar's Horses,
A Consul's made for's Skill in State-affairs;
Who closest Plots can scent and spoil alone,
With as much ease as he devours a Bone:
Iowler the Wise the plodding Iowler is,
Oft at a fault, and oft his Hare doth miss;
While through unerring-paths a Stone descends,
And still arrives at that tow'rds which it tends.
If therefore those are wisest which attain
By surest means the Ends at which they aim:
The latter, doubtless, will be wiser found,
Though this is but a Stone, th' other a Hound.
So much for Reason, th' next Attempt's for Man,
For him I must defend, and him I can.
Well then: Man is compos'd of Cruelty and Fear,
From these his great, and his best Actions are;
The charge runs high, and deeply Man's arraign'd,
His Blood is poyson'd, and his Nature stain'd.
But I shall make it straight with ease appear,
That the brisk accusation's too severe;
For undertaking to disparage him,
They leave their Text, and make the Beast their Theme.
And first the Fears that trouble him within,
Proceed not from his Nature, but his Sin;
Which, like pale Ghosts, while they the Murth'rer haunt,
Do cramp his Soul, and all his Courage daunt.
Frame gastly Fantomes in his guilty Mind,
Frightfull above, below, before, behind:
If in the House, alas the House will fall;
If in the Street, each is a tot'ring Wall;
If in the Fields, what if the Poles shou'd crack,
And the vast Orbs come tumbling on his back?
A Bird, a Wasp, a Beetle, and a Fly,
With no small dread approach his trembling Eye;
For lately 'tis evinc'd, all Creatures are
No less than Man, in the wild state of War;
VVhich long ago the wary Emp'rour knew,
VVho hostile flies, with Princely Valour slew.
Is he alone? he startles when he sees
His moving shadow, and his shadow flees.
For who can evidence but that may be
No meer privation, but an Enemy?
So when alone a tim'rous Wretch is scar'd,
And when he's not, he's fearfull of his Guard.
VVhat shall he do? or whither shall he fly?
VVho durst not live, and yet he durst not dye:
Say you who e'er have felt those painfull stabs;
Say wretched Nero, or more wretched Hobbs.
Guilt is of all, and always is afraid,
From fear to fear successively betray'd;
'Tis guilt alone breeds cow'rdise and distrust,
For all Men wou'd be Valiant if they durst;
Those only can't, who swear, and whore, and cheat,
And sell their Honour at the cheapest rate:
Whom brawling Surfeits, Drunkenness and Claps;
Hurry on head-long to the Grave perhaps:
Such some call Devils, but we think the least,
And therefore kindly head them with the best.
Chuse they themselves whose Case they'll please to wear,
The Case of Dog, the Monkey, or the Bear.
So far, I doubt not, but you'll find it clear,
He's no true Man, who's thus compos'd of Fear:
He o'er whose Actions Reason doth preside,
Who makes the radiant Light his constant Guide;
Vain fear can never o'er his Mind prevail,
Integrity to him's a Coat of Mail;
Of Vertues and of Honesty possest,
Against all ills h'as trebly arm'd his Breast:
Steel, Bra•s, and Oak, are but a weak defence,
Compar'd to firm-resolved Innocence.
This makes the Champion, 'midst the Bloody Field,
Bolder than he who •ore the sev'n-fold Shield,
To brave the World, and all the dangers there,
Though Heav'n, Air, Sea & Land all constant were.
As unconcern'd as were the Forrest Oak,
He feels the Lightning, and the Thunder-stroak:
He meets the Lyon, and the Ragged Bear,
With a great mind that never stoop'd to fear.
If the Winds blow, they spend their Breath in vain,
Tho' they enrage and swell their boist'rous Main.
Till Waves arise, and foaming Billows rowl,
For calm in spight of Tempest is his Soul;
And Syren-like he sings amongst the Storms:
The brave can dye, but can receive no harms.
But Men are cruel: no, they're never so
While they continue Men, not Monsters grow:
But when degen'rate, they their pow'r employ,
Not to preserve their kind, but to destroy.
When once unnat'ral, they themselves engage
In Blood and Rapine, Cruelty and Rage.
Then Beasts on Beasts with greater Mercy prey,
The rav'nous Tygers are less fierce than they.
The greatest Good abus'd, turns greatest Evil,
And so fall'n Lucifer became a Devil.
But who'd not therefore Blessed Michael be,
'Cause Devils are Angels too as well as he?
Or else to instance in their proper sphere,
Pale and corrupted Wine turns Vinegar,
Will they beyond it therefore praise small Beer?
While they debauch't, are to each other Fiends,
True Men are good unto themselves and Friends.
Whose kindness, affability and Love,
Make these aboad below, like those above:
Good without self, and without fawning kind,
And own no Greatness but a Vertuous Mind:
Grave, Learned, Noble, Valorous and Wise;
High without pride, and meek without disguise.
Having at large compleated our defence,
We will in short describe the Men of Sence.
And first their Prowess, next their Learning shew;
Lastly their Wit, and then we'll let them go:
"For that which fools the World, Religion,
"Your pains are sav'd, because the Wise have none•
Here Hell's great Agent Hobbs i'th' front appears•
Trembling beneath a load of guilt and fears:
The Devil's Apostle sent to preach up Sin,
And so convert the debauch'd World to him;
Whom Pride drew in as Cheats, their Bubbles catch,
And made him venture to be made a Wretch.
Hobbs, Natures pest, unhappy England's shame,
Who damns his Soul to get himself a Name.
The Resolute Villain from a proud desire,
Of being Immortal, leaps into the fire:
Nor can the Caitiff miss his desp'rate aim,
Whose luscious Doctrine Proselytes will gain,
(Though 'tis sufficiently absurd, and vain)
Whilst proud, ill-natur'd, lustfull Men remain.
And that's as long as Heav'n and Earth endure;
This th'Halter once, but nothing now can cure.
Next him his learn'd and wise Disciples view,
Persons of signal parts, and honour too,
As the ensuing Catalogue will shew.
Huffs, Fops, Gamesters, Highway-Men, and Players,
Bawds, Pimps, Misses, Gallants, Grooms, Lacquies, and Pages;
Such as the Poet justly thought a crime,
To place in Verse, or grace them with a Rhime.
But now methinks I see towards me Iig,
Huge Pantaloons and hu•fing Periwig;
With Hat and gaudy Feather o'er it spread,
And underneath looks something like a Head.
Bless me! what is this Antick shape? I can
Believe it any thing besides a Man:
But such it is, for I no sooner ask,
But he bears up, and takes me thus to task.
The Devil—straight down drop I,
And my weak under-hearted Friend that's by:
A Fiend broke loose, cry'd he, I fear him worse,
He shou'd a Hobbist be by th'size of's Curse.
Plague—for a peevish snarling Curr;
Mercy, I cry your Mercy, dreadfull Sir;
For a Broad-side these Weapons fitter are,
Three wou'd at least sink a Dutch Man of War.
These are the Sparks, who friends with stabs do greet,
And bravely Murther the next Man they meet;
With boldness break a sturdy Drawer
If the Wine's bad, or Reck'ning is too great.
Kill a poor Bell-man, and with his own Bell,
'Tis a rare jest to ring the Rascal's Knell:
Cry, Dam you to a Dog that takes the Wall,
And for th' affront the ill-bred Cur must fall:
Swear at a Coach-man, and his Horses kill,
To send th' uncivil Sons of Whores to Hell.
Upon a rude and justling Sign-post draw,
Though the fam'd Champion George look't down and saw.
Assault Glass-windows, which like Crystal Rock,
Had firmly stood the sharp impetuous shock
Of Twenty Winters, and despis'd their pow'r,
Yet can't withstand their matchless Rage one hour.
From all th' Atchievements of Romantick Knights,
Their bold Encounters and heroick Fights;
One only Parallel to this is brought,
When furious Don the Gyant Windmill fought.
Oh that this Age some Homer wou'd afford!
Who might these deeds in deathless Verse record.
Here wou'd his large Poetick Soul obtain
A subje•t worthy his immortal vein;
Where greater deeds wou'd his great Muse
Than when she sang the tedious Siege of Troy.
Then stout Achilles, Ajax, Diomede,
The future Ages with contempt wou'd read;
Despise their Name, and undeserv'd Renown,
Who Ten years spent to win a paultry Crown;
For War-like boldness, and Advent'rous deeds,
The Camp of Venus that of Mars exceeds.
'Tis an Exploit, no doubt, that's nobler far
T'attempt the Dangers of a Female War;
Where in vast numbers, resolute and bold,
Viragoes fight for Honour, and for Gold;
And with unweary'd Violence oppose
The fiercest Squadrons of assaulting Foes;
With just such weapons, and such courage too,
Did war-like Amazons their Men subdue,
Such venom'd Arrows from their Quiver flew.
Next we'll describe, from a few gen'ral hints,
Their usual Learning, and Accomplishments.
In the starch't Notions of the Hat and Knee,
T' excell them, they defie the bravest He.
How long they cringe, when within doors they greet,
And when y' accoast one in the open Street.
VVhether a Lady
led must have the Wall
And if there's none, which Hand to lead withall.
Which of the two the House first enters in,
And then which first shou'd the vain prate begin.
VVhen three full hours, without one word of sense,
They'll talk you on genteel impertinence;
And all shall be surprizing Complement,
And each shall have at least five Madams in't;
Besides the Courtish A-la-modish He,
Intriegue Divine, and pleasant Repartee.
Ladies of Pleasure, they from Honour know,
By the Hood-knot, and the loose Gestico:
They'll tell exactly, if her temper Red
Be bounteous Nature's gift, or borrowed.
Descry a Beauty through her Mask and Shroud,
Call her a Sun that's got behind a Cloud.
The vigour of those fopperies I lose
For want of breeding, but you must excuse
For this a Clownish, rude and Cloyster'd Muse.
Nor must we all their Acts of Lust forget,
In Excellence surpassing any yet:
For Lust's more beastly, and more num'rous too,
Than Nero's Pimp, Petronius, ever knew:
More than Albertus,
or the Stagyrite,
Though both profoundly on the Subject write.
Now for their Wit.
They have one waggery the top o'th' rest,
VVhich we'll put first, because it is the best;
To cheat a Link-Boy of three-half pence pay,
By slily stealing through some blind back-way.
But what compleats the Iest, the Boy goes on,
Untill the place appointed he's upon,
Never suspects the cunning Hero's gone.
Having thus chous'd the Boy, and 'scap'd by flight, speed
He scarcely sleeps for laughing all the Night.
Tricks himself up th' next Morn, and hies with
To tell his Miss th' intriegue of what he did;
Who makes reply, 'Twas neatly done indeed.
Then he all Company do's tire and worry
For a whole week with that ridic'lous Story:
Last night I hapned at the Tavern late,
To be where five of these great Wits were sate,
And was so nigh as to o'er-hear their prate:
I dare to swear, that three amongst the five,
Were Woodcock, Ninney, and Sir Loslitive.
Had Shadwell heard them, he had stol'n from thence•
A Second part of his Impertinence:
Prologues and Epilogues they did reherse,
With scraps and ends of stiff untoward Verse;
And strong Almansor Rants cull'd from the Plays
Of Goff and Settle, and great Poet-Bays.
An hour or two being spent in this discourse,
And all their store quite drein'd, they fall to worse;
T' applaud th' invention of a swinging Oath,
And better-humour'd Curse that fills the Mouth.
A Bawdy Iest commands the gen'ral Vogue,
And all admire and hug the witty Rogue.
And if you once but chance to break a Iest,
On the dull phlegmatick and formal Priest:
Or rather vent a Droll on Sacred Writ,
For th' more ingenious still, the better Wit.
If he can wrest a scrap to's present Theme,
And pretty often daringly blaspheme;
Oh, 'tis the Archest Rogue, the wittiest Thing,
He shall e'er long be Iester to the King:
He parallels the Thrice-renown'd Archee,
And he shail write a Book as well as He:
Nay more, Sir, he's an excellent Poet too,
He'll all the City Ballad-men out-doe;
Their formal high-bound Muse waits to expect,
When pensive Mony-wanters will contract
With Clov'n-foot Satan, or some wanton Maid,
In shape of Sweet-heart is by him betray'd.
Each common trivial humour of the City,
Fills him with Rapture, and creates a Ditty.
The bawlers of Small-coals, Brooms, Pins & Spoons,
Afford him matter to endite Lampoons.
If Sir Knight take a Purge a Tunbridge Waters,
He'll shew in rhime how oft, how far he Squatters.
In forty couples of Heroick Verse,
Express the features, and the springs of's A—.
Had Hopkins burlesqu'd David with design,
These Wits had styl'd his silly rhimes divine:
But since he did it with an honest Heart,
Tom Hopkins Muses are not worth a F—.
Certainly if the Dev'l struck up and sung,
After a pawse so many Ages long;
And play'd the Poet after once again,
Though in that old abominable strain,
He once deliver'd his dark Oracle;
'Twoud pass for Wit, because it came from Hell.
But being of Patience totally bere•t,
The Room and house in rage and haste I left.
Now sum up all their Courage, Wit, and then
Tell me if Reason will allow them Men;
Rather a large and handsome sort of Apes,
Whom Nature hath deny'd our Sulphur, giv'n our Shapes.
Such in hot Africk Travellers relate,
Mankind in folly only imitate.
But if a thing s' unlikely shou'd be true,
That they both wear our Shape and Nature too;
I'd live contented under any state,
Rather than prove so vain, absurd, degenerate:
An Owl, a Kite, a Serpent, or a Rat,
If a more hated thing, let me be that.
Let them laugh on, and site the thinking Fools
In Rev'rend Bedlam's Colledges and Schools.
When Men distracted do deride the Wise,
'Tis their concern to pity and despise;
Let me to Chains and Nakedness condemn'd,
My wretched life in frantick Bedlam spend;
There sigh, pick straws, or count my fingers o'er,
Weep, laugh, swagger, huff, quarrel, sing and roar;
Or with Noll's heav'nly Porter preach and pray,
Rather than live but half so mad as they.
A Congratulatory POEM To His most Sacred Majesty IAMES the Second, &c. On His late Victories o'er the Rebels in the West.
SInce Heav'n your Righteous Cause has own'd,
And with success your pow'rful Army Crown'd;
Silence were now an injury as rude,
As were the Rebel's base ingratitude.
While th' Glories of your Arms & Triumphs shine,
Not to Congratulate, were to repine,
Your Enemies themselves wou'd strangely raise
By dis-ingenious and inglorious Ways;
By means no Vulgar Spirit wou'd endure,
But such as either Courage want, or Power.
But while your Clemency
Compassion to the miserable Croud.
Your Royal Breast with Love and Anger burns,
And your Resentment into Pity turns.
But they your Princely Pardon did refuse,
And were resolv'd all Outrages to use.
Stern Murtherers, that rise before the light
To kill the Innocent, and rob at Night:
Unclean Adulterers, whose longing Eyes
Wait for the Twilight; Enter in disguise,
And say, Who sees us? Thieves, who daily mark
Those Houses which they plunder in the dark.
Yet whilst your Loyal Subjects Blood they seek,
With th' Gibbet or the Ax at last they meet.
On the same.
COu'd I but use my Pen, as you your Sword,
I'd write in Blood, and kill at ev'ry Word:
The Rebels then my Muse's pow'r shou'd feel,
And find my Verse as fatal as your Steel.
But sure, Great Prince, none can presume to write
With such success as you know how to Fight;
Who carry in your Looks th' Events of War,
Design'd, like Caesar, for a Conquerour.
The World of your Atchievements are afraid,
And th' Rebels sly before you quite dismay'd.
And now, Great Prince, may you Victorious be,
Your Fame and Arms o'er-spreading Land and Sea.
May you our haughty Neighbours over-come,
And bring rich Spoils and peaceful Laurels home;
Whilst they their Ruine, or your Pardon meet,
Sink by your Side, or fall before your Feet.
A PANEGYRICK On His Present Majesty IAMES the SECOND: Occasionally Written since His late Victories ob∣tained over the Scotch and Western Rebels.
WHilst with a strong, yet with a gentle hand,
You bridle Faction, & our Hearts command;
Protect us from our selves, and from the Foe;
Make us Unite, and make us Conquer too.
Let partial Spirits still aloud complain,
Think themselves injur'd, 'cause they cannot reign;
And own no liberty, but whilst they may,
Without controul, upon their Fellows prey.
Above the Waves, as Neptune shew'd his Face,
To chide the Winds, and save the Trojan Race:
So has your Majesty (rais'd above the rest)
Storms of Ambition tossing us represt:
Your drooping Country
torn with Civil
Preserv'd by you remains a Glorious State.
The Sea's our own, and now all Nations greet
With bending Sails, each Vessel of our Fleet.
Your Power extends as far as Winds can blow,
Or swelling Sails upon the Globe can go.
Heav'n, that has plac'd this Island to give Law
To ballance Europe, and her States to awe:
In this Conjunction do's o'er Brittain smile,
The greatest Monarch, and the greatest Isle.
Whether the portion of this World were rent
By the rude Ocean from the Continent:
Or thus Created, it was sure design'd
To be the sacred refuge of Mankind.
Hither th' Oppressed shall henceforth resort,
Iustice to crave, and Succour from your Court.
And then, Great Prince, you not for ours alone,
But for the VVorld's Defender shall be known.
Fame, swifter than your Winged Navy, flyes
Through ev'ry Land that near the Ocean lyes;
Sounding your Name, and telling dreadfull News
To all that Piracy and Rapine use.
With such a King
the meanest Nation
Might hope to lift her head above the rest.
What may be thought impossible to doe,
For us embraced by the Sea and You;
Lords of the Worlds vast Ocean, happy We,
Whole Forrests send to reign upon the Sea:
And ev'ry Coast may trouble or relieve,
But none can visit us without our leave.
Angels and we have this Prerogative,
That none can at our happy Seat arrive:
Whilst We descend at pleasure to invade,
The Bad with Vengeance, and the Good with Aid.
Our Little World, the Image of the Great,
Like that about the Boundless Ocean set:
Of her own Growth, has all that Nature craves;
And all that's rare, as Tribute from her Slav•s.
As Egypt do's not on her Clouds rely,
But to her Nile owes more than to the Sky.
So what our Earth, and what our Heav'n denies,
Our ever constant friend the Sea supplies.
"The tast of hot Arabia Spice we know,
"Free from the scorching Sun that makes it grow.
"Without the Worm
Silk we shine,
"And without Planting drink of ev'ry Vine.
"To dig for Wealth, we weary not our limbs;
"Gold, though the heaviest Metal, hither swims:
"Ours is the heaviest where the Indians mow;
"We plough the deep, and reap what others sow.
Things of the noblest kind our own Sail breeds;
Stout are our Men, and war-like are our Steeds.
Here the Third Edward, and the Black Prince too,
France conquering, did flourish, & now you,
Whose conqu'ring Arms whole Nations might sub∣due;
Whilst by your Valour, and your Courteous Mind,
Nations, divided by the Seas, are joyn'd.
Holland, to gain your Friendship, is content
To be your safe-guard on the Continent:
She from her Fellow Provinces will go,
Rather than hazard to have You her Foe.
In our late Fight, when Cannons did diffuse
Preventing Posts, the terrour and the news;
Our Neighb'ring Princes trembled at the roar,
But our Conjunction makes them tremble more.
Your Army's Loyal Swords made War to cease,
And now you heal us with the Acts of Peace.
Less pleasure take, brave Minds,
in Battles won,
Than in restoring such as are undone.
Tygers have courage, and the Ragged Bear;
But Man alone can, whom he conquers, spare.
To pardon willing, and to punish loth;
You strike with one hand, but you heal with both.
As the vex't World, to find repose at last,
It self into Augustus Arms did cast:
So England now doth, with like toil oppress'd,
Her weary Head into your Bosom rest.
Then let the Muses with such Notes as these,
Instruct us what belongs unto our Peace.
Your Battles they hereafter shall indite,
And draw the Image of our Mars in fight.
Illustrious Acts high raptures do infuse,
And ev'ry Conquerour creates a Muse.
Here in low strains thy milder deeds we sing,
And then, Great Prince, we'll Bays and Olive bring,
To Crown your Head, while you Triumphant ride
O'er vanquish'd Nations, and the Sea bestride;
While all the Neighbouring Princes unto you,
Like Ioseph's slaves, pay reverence and bow.
A Congratulatory POEM ON HIS SACRED MAIESTY IAMES the SECOND's Succession to the Crown.
NO sooner doth the Aged Phoenix dye,
But kind indulging Nature gives supply.
Sick of her Solitude, she first retires,
And on her Spicy Death-bed then expires.
Thus God's Vicegerent unconcern'd, declines
The Crown, and all his Dignities resigns:
Like dying Parents, who do first commend
Their Issue to th' tuition of a Friend;
And then, as if their chiefest care was past,
Pleas'd with the Settlement, they breathe their last:
So he perceiving th' nigh approach of Death,
That with a Period must close his Breath.
he first to God
Then parts from's dearest Brother, and best Friend•
Contentedly resigns his dying claim,
To him Successor of his Crown and Fame:
One whose wise Conduct knows how to dispence,
Proper rewards to Guilt and Innocence:
A Prince, within the Circle of whose Mind
All the Heroick Vertues are confin'd;
That diff'rently dispers'd, have made Men great,
A Prince so just, so oft preserv'd by Fate.
On then, Great Potentate, and like the Sun,
Set with the splendid Glory you've begun.
Disperse such hov'ring Clouds as wou'd benight,
And interpose themselves 'twixt us and light.
You boldly dare Iehovah's Trust attest,
Without a base perswading interest.
When pleasing •lattery puts on her charms,
To take with gentle Arts and so•t Alarms;
Fix't with a Gallant resolution, you
Uncase the Hypocrite, who bids adieu
To this confus'd and ill-digested State,
Where Plots new Plots to Counter-plot create:
Trusting to Reason
's Conduct as your guide,
You leave the threatning Gulphs on either side•
And then erect such marks as may appear,
To caution others from a Shipwrack there.
And since your Reign the Rebels plainly see
The mean effects of their black Treachery,
The Puritans may now expect in vain,
To Gull with Pious Frauds the Land again:
You, like a Great Columbus, will find out
The hidden World of deep intriegues and doubt•
England no more of Iealousies shall know•
But Halcyon Peace shall build, and Plenty flow.
And the Proud Thames, swell'd high, no more com∣plains,
But smilingly looks on the peaceful Plains.
No Angry Tempest then shall curl her Brow.
Glad to behold revived Commerce grow;
Whilst We to IAMES the Second make Address•
Striving who most shall Loyalty express.
No Faction shall us from our selves divide,
More than the Sea from all the World beside,
But link'd together in one Chain of Love,
And with one Spring Unanimous we'll move;
That to our Foes
regret it may be said,
VVe are again one Body, and one Head:
Which God preserve, and grant that long you may,
In Righteousness and Peace the Scepter sway.
ON THE PRESENTATION OF A BIRD to his MISTRISS.
WAlking abroad to tast the welcom Spring,
And hear the Birds their lays mos• sweetly sing;
Plac'd on a spreading Elm amongst the rest,
(Whose rare harmonious warbling pleas'd me best)
Was one I tempted to my lure, and caught,
Which now (fair Saint) I send you to be taught:
'Tis young, and apt to learn; and sure no Voice
VVas e'er so full of Art, so clear and choice
As yours, t' instruct it, that in time 't may rise
To be the sweet-tongu'd Bird of Paradise.
ADVICE TO SILLY MAIDS•
WIthin a Virgins Bosom of Fifteen,
The God of Love doth place his Magazeen:
Hoards up his treasure, all his pow'rfull Charms;
Her Breasts his Quiver, and his Bow her Arms.
Beauty sits then triumphant on her brow,
She doth command the World, all Mortals bow,
And worship at the Altars of her Eyes;
She seems a Goddess, and Men Idolize.
At these years Nature hath perform'd her part,
And leaves the rest to be improv'd by Art;
Which with such skill is manag'd •ive years more,
Each day fresh Glories add to th' former store.
The motion of the Body, rich attire,
Obliging look, kind language; all conspire
To catch poor Man, and set his Heart on fire.
During this harvest, they may pick and choose;
But have a care, fair Virgins, lest you lose
Th' advantage which this happy season yields:
Cold Winter-frosts will nip your blooming Fields,
Wither your Roses, make your Lillies dye,
And quench the scorching Flambeau of your Eye.
For when the clock of Age has Thirty told,
And never Man yet touch'd your Copy-hold,
A sudden alteration then you'll find,
Both in your state of Body, and of Mind:
You then shall pine, for what you now do slight;
Fret inwardly all day, and cry all night;
Devour the Sheets with folded Arms, complain,
And wish you had him there, but wish in vain.
Then in your Thoughts insipid pleasures steal,
And on lean Fancy make a hungry meal.
Your Bodies too will with your Minds decay;
As those grow crais'd, so these will wast away.
All nauseous food your Appetites will please,
And nourish indigested Crudities.
When once your Mind's disturb'd, Nature begins
To furl her Trophies up in wrinkled Skins.
Who can expect the Body e'er shou'd thrive,
And lack its natural preservative?
VVanting due seasoning, all flesh will taint;
'Tis Man preserves Complexion more than Paint;
So high a Cordial he doth prepare,
In Natures Limbeck, if apply'd with care,
It will perform the very work of Fate;
Not only Life preserve, but Life create.
Be wise in time, lest you too late repent,
And by some prudent choice those ills prevent:
Get a brisk Consort to supply your want,
But let him be a Husband, no Gallant.
There lies much virtue in a Levite's Spell;
But more in th' active part, performing well;
There's the intrinsick worth, the charming bliss,
That do's conveigh your Souls to Paradise;
'Twill make you dye with a delightfull pain,
And with like ecstasie revive again.
Part with that Virgin Toy, while in the prime,
The Fruit will rot o'th' Tree, not took in time.
But if you will continue proud and coy,
And slight those Men who court you to enjoy;
Here you in wretched Ignorance shall dwell,
And may deservedly lead Apes in Hell.
〈1 page duplicate〉Page 98〈1 page duplicate〉Page 99
Farther ADVICE TO Young Ladies.
BE prudent, Ladies; Marry while you may,
Lest, when too late, you do repent and say,
You wish you had, whilst Sun had shone, made Hay.
If in th' principium of your youthfull days,
Your Beauties 's like to Sol's bright shining Rays,
Then are you Critical, and hard to please.
When as you do begin to chuse your Mate,
You chuse him first for Name and great Estate,
And qualify'd, as I shall here relate.
Good-natur'd, handsome, Eloquent and wise,
Well learn'd, and Skill'd in Arts, of equal size,
'Tis Lady's Niceties to be precise.
But when to Twenty-one arriv'd you be,
You do begin to chuse reservedly,
Then the young Squire who keeps his Coach is he.
But when as your Meridian is past,
As posting Time doth swiftly passing hast,
So will your Crystal Beauties fade as fast.
Vesper succeeds Aurora in small space,
And Time will soon draw wrinkles in that Face,
Which was of late ador'd in ev'ry place.
ADVICE TO A Town-Miss.
DEar Mrs. Anne, I'm certain you'll find true
The late Advice, in writing sent to you;
And I assure you now with Pen in hand,
In Verse or Prose I'm still at your command.
If by Poetick Art I could assay
To Stigmatize the blackness of your way,
I'd fright you from that brutish, lustfull Sin,
Which you so much delight to wallow in.
Soar with your thoughts, and penetrate the Sky,
And view the Wing'd Celestial Hierarchy.
Think to what Heav'nly joys
you'r free-born Heir,
If you'll but follow vertuous Actions here,
And that your Ransom cost your Saviour dear.
Strive still for Vertue's Paths with strong desire,
For flames of Lust will end in flames of Fire.
If once to Drunkenness inclin'd you be,
You've sprung a Leak to all debaucherie;
And drinking Healths, the Body heats with Liquor,
Which makes it prostitute to Lust the quicker.
Shun then those paths, don't foster in your Breast
Such wicked Sins, they'll but disturb your Rest.
Torture your Mind till Atropos divide
The fatal twist, and send you to reside
In horrors darksome shades, without a guide;
Where you will find for your lascivious tricks,
Charon must wa•t you o'er the River Styx:
Too sure you'll find he'll not his way mistake,
But row you safe unto Averna's Lake;
And where you'll surely be compell'd to land,
Pluto himself will let you understand.
The Preference of a Single Life before Marriage. Written at the Request of a Lady.
SHE that intends ever in rest to be,
Both for the present and the future, free
From cares and troubles, intermix't with strife,
Must flee the hazard of a Nuptial Life:
For having once had touch of Cupid's Dart,
Once overcome by th' crafty Courtier's Art;
And brought at last unto the Nuptial Bed•
Adieu to Ioy and Freedom, for they're •led.
She's then involv'd in troubles without end,
Which always do's a Married Life attend:
When as before she might have liv'd at ease,
In Prayers, and Hymns and Psalms have pass'd her days;
Been chief Commandress of her Will and Mind,
And acted any thing her Will design'd;
She might go travel
where and when she please,
To pass away the tedious time with ease:
But when once subject to the Iugal Band,
Her Wills confin'd, she's under a Command;
And to reside at home must be her lot,
Till Atropos unloose the Nuptial Knot.
UPON CLARINDA'S Putting on Her Vizard Mask.
SO have I seen the Sun in his full pride,
O'er cast with sullen Clouds, and then deny'd
To shew its lustre in some gloomy night,
When brightest Stars extinguish'd were of light:
So Angels Pictures have I seen vail'd o'er,
That more devoutly Men shou'd them adore;
So with a Mask
saw I Clarinda
Her Face, more bright than was the Lemnian Bride.
So I an off'ring to her ruby Lips
Wou'd make, but cannot pay't for the Eclipse,
That keeps off my be-nighted Eye; I mean
The Curtain that divides it from the Scene.
Say, my Clarinda, for what Discontent,
Keep thy all Rosie Cheeks so strict a Lent?
Or is thy Face, which thou do'st thus disguise,
In Mourning for the Murthers of thine Eyes?
If so, and thoud'st resolve not to be seen,
A Frown to me had more than Mid-night been.
THE MIDDLE SISTER, Ascribed to CLARINDA.
DAme Nature seems to make your Sisters stand,
As Handmaids that attend on either hand;
To right or left I turn not, Poets say,
The middle is the best and safest way.
Fortune and Nature are your Friends (my Fair)
For they have plac'd you here in Vertue's Chair:
Doubtless in you the Middle Grace I see,
On this side Faith, on that sweet Charity.
Your Sisters stand like Banks on either side,
Whilst you the Crystal stream betwixt them glide;
Or, if you will, they walk on either side
Like Bride-Maids, you in middle like a Bride.
What shall I farther add? The Trav'ller sees
A pleasant Walk between two rows of Trees:
The smooth and silent Flood in th' middle flows,
But the Shoars murmur from the Banks rough Brows.
AN ELOGY ON Mrs. M. H.
SOme do compare their Mistress in dull Rhimes,
To Pearl and Diamonds brought from Indian Mines;
Their Lips to Corral, & their Neck to Snow,
Robbing both Indies to adorn them so.
But these, alas, are Metaphors too bare
To make perfection half it self appear;
And to prophane you so, wou'd be a Sin,
Worse to be pardon'd, than commenced in:
A Crime, that brings my Muse into suspence,
'Twere blasphemy to setch a Simile hence.
In You each Member shows the whole to be,
Not bare perfection, but a Prodigie.
turn'd spend-thrift, now designs no mo•
T' amuse poor Mortals with such monst'rous s•ore,
Since you have made her Bankrupt quite, and poor.
Your Eyes (like Heav'ns Illustrious Lamps) dispen•e
By Beams more bright a secret in•luence
On all Admirers; and, like Heav'n, do give
A Pow'r whereby poor Mortals be and live:
Nor is this all, the Charms that constellate
In your fair Eyes, they do not terminate.
An equal share of those Celestial Rays,
Crowns ev'ry Member with an equal praise;
They're not confin'd to Lip, or Chin, or Hand,
But universal are, as Sea and Land.
Who views your Body with a curious Eye,
May through that milky hew a Soul descry:
A Soul! that breaths nought but Seraphick Love,
The sweet Monopoly of that above:
Modest as Virgins are, yet not unkind;
Fair, but not proud; your Goodness unconfin'd
To Time or Person, and your Iudgment great,
But not possessed with a self-conceit:
so divine, so pure and bright,
Nor Pen nor Tongue can e'er express it right.
The loftiest Epithite my Muse e'er knew,
Admits a Greater, when apply'd to You;
Who can resist such Charms, at whose Access
Sol sneaks away to the Antipodes:
Or in the Umbrage of some Cloud do's hide
His Face, as if he fear'd to be out-vy'd.
A Fabrick so Polite, and so compleat,
Heav'n may behold with Envy and regret;
To see in one poor Mortal thus Ingrost,
All the perfections that she e'er cou'd boast.
And were you but immortal too (like it)
Angels wou'd pay that duty we omit;
As if you were a Deity confin'd
To humane Flesh, not wretched, but refin'd.
TO what kind GOD am I in debt for this
Obliging Minute that bestows such bliss,
As now to represent unto my sight,
That which to Me alone can cause delight!
How long in mournful Silence has my Sighs
Bemoan'd thy Absence? witness, O ye Skies.
But now I have obtain'd my wish'd success,
And have in view my chiefest happiness;
I must with hast my prison'd thoughts reveal,
Which has been long a torment to conceal.
Phyllis, ah lovely Phyllis, thou art she
Who showest Heav'n in Epitome.
Angels with pleasure view thy Matchless Grace,
And both admire and love thy beauteous Face.
some greater Master-piece
Set out with all the Glories of the Skies;
That Beauty yet in vain he shou'd decree,
Nothing like you can be belov'd by Me.
VVhat Ornament and Symmetry I view,
VVhere each part seems as Beautiful as New.
I long t' enjoy those Hands, those Lips, those Eyes•
VVhich I, who love you most, know how to prize.
But when my Arms imbrace thy Virgin-Love,
Angels shall sing our Bridal Hymn above.
Nature then pleas'd, shall give her glad consent,
And gild with brighter Beams the Firmament.
Roses unbud, and ev'ry fragrant Flower
Shall strip their Stalks to strow the Nuptial Bowe•:
The firr'd and feather'd kind the triumph shall pur∣sue,
And Fishes leap above the Water to see you;
And wheresoe'er thy happy foot-steps•read,
Nature in triumph after thee is led.
My Eyes shall then look languishing on thine,
And wreathing Arms our soft Embraces joyn;
And in a pleasing trembling seiz'd all o'er,
Shall feel delights unknown to us before.
VVhat follows will our pleasures most inhance,
VVhen we shall swim in Ecstasie and Trance,
•nd speechless Ioys; in which sweet transport toss'd,
VVe both shall in a pleasant Death be lost.
I know not where to end this happy Theam;
But is it real? or some airy Dream?
A sudden fear do's all my thoughts surprize,
I dare not trust the witn•ss of my Eyes.
How fixt I stand, and indispos'd to move
These pleasant Charms, unwilling to disprove:
Like him, who Heav'n in a soft Dream enjoys,
To stir and wake, his Paradise destroys.
PRide of the World in Beauty, Pow'r, and Love;
Best of thy Sex! Equal to Gods above:
Unparalell'd Vertue; they that search about
The World, to find thy Vertues equal out,
Must take a Iourney longer than the Sun;
And Pilgrims dye e'er half their race is run.
Your charming Beauty can't but please the sight,
With all that is in Nature exquisite.
About those Lips Ambrosial odours flow,
Nectar, and all the Sweets of Hybla grow.
Those sparkling Eyes resistless Magick bear;
I see young wanton Cupids dancing there.
What melting Charms there waves about thy Breast!
On whose transporting Billows Iove might rest•
And with immortal Sweets be ever blest.
Shall I but name the other charming Bliss,
That wou'd conveigh our Souls to Paradise?
Gods! how she charms!
none sure was e'er like thee,
Whose very sight do's cause an Ecstasie:
Thou art so soft, so sweet, and silent all,
As Births of Roses, or as Blossoms fall.
Hide then those Eyes; take this soft Magick hence,
My Happiness so much transports my Sence;
That such another look, will make me grow
Too firmly fix't, ever to let you go.
Soul, summon all thy force thy joy to bear,
Whilst on this Hand eternal Love I swear.
Sweetest of Creatures! if there Angels be!
What Angel is not wishing to be Thee?
Can any happiness compare with mine?
'Tis wretched sure to be a Pow'r Divine;
And not the Ioys of happy Lovers know:
Wou'dst thou, my Dearest, be an Angel now?
O how the Moments sweetly glide away!
Nothing of Night appears, but all is Day.
Inflam'd with Love, these Minutes I'll improve,
And sum an Ages Bliss in one Hours Love.
But shou'd I long such vehement raptures feel,
I fear the transports of delight wou'd kill.
THE Lover's Will.
LET me not sigh my last, before I breathe
(Great Love) some Legacies; I here bequeathe
Mine Eyes to Argus, if mine Eyes can see;
If they be blind, then Love I give them thee;
My Tongue to Fame, t' Embassadors mine Ears,
And unto Women, or the Sea, my Tears.
My Constancy I to the Planets give,
My Truth to them who at the Court do live;
My Silence t' any who abroad have been,
My Money to a Capuchin;
My Modesty I give to Souldiers bare,
And all my Patience let the Gamesters share.
I give my Reputation unto those
Which were my Friends; my Industry to Fo•s;
I bequeath my Doubtfulness,
My Sickness to Physicians or Excess;
To Nature all that I in Rhime have writ,
And to my Company I leave my Wit.
To him for whom the Passing-bell next tolls,
I g•ve my Physick-Books; my Written Rolls
Of Moral Counsels I to Bedlam give,
My Brazen Medals unto them which live
In want of Bread; To them which pass among
All Foreigners, I leave my English Tongue.
Thou Love taught'st me, by making me adore
That charming Maid, whose Twenty Servants more,
To give to those who had too much before;
Or else by loving where no Love receiv'd cou'd be,
To give to such as have an incapacitie.
YOur conqu'ring Eyes have by their Magick Art,
Convey'd such Flames into my Captiv'd Heart,
I cannot rest; Ah therefore, do not prove
Cruel to him whom your Eyes taught to Love;
Nor blame this rude attempt, since what I do,
My ardent Passion do's compell me to;
I wou'd be silent, fearing to offend,
But then my Torments ne'er wou'd have an end.
Yet though in this I may appear too bold,
My Love is pure, and therefore may be told:
Besides, you are so fair, your Vertues such,
That shou'd I strive, I cannot say too much.
So well accomplish'd you're in th' Art of Love,
You've Charms enough t' inflame another Iove.
Let not your coyness therefore blind the light
Of your fair Eyes, which now do shine so bright;
For she that gives occasion to despair,
By all that's good is neither kind nor fair;
Though outward Beauty
soon may charm the Mind,
And make the most obdurate Heart prove kind:
Yet nothing charms an Am'rous Heart so strong,
As the sweet Notes of a fair Female Tongue,
That charms the Soul, and all the Senses move,
And adds new Sweets to the delights of Love.
Love is the noblest Passion of the Mind,
And she that unto it can prove unkind,
Is either simple, destitute of Wit,
Or else her Pride will not acknowledge it.
But that's too black to dwell in your fair Breast,
Nothing but things divine can there have rest.
If therefore wilfull Pride don't taint your Mind,
But as your Face is fair, your Heart is kind.
My Pen shall then maintain your worth and praise,
And from all others I'll possess the Bays:
But if by frowns against me you take Arms,
Your Beauty has no Snares, your Eyes no Charms.
And though a Stranger yet to you I am,
If you prove kind, I'll not conceal my Name;
Till then I rest to see these lines success,
On which depends my future happiness.
A Speech to his Mistress in a Garden.
THE Glory which we see invest these Flow'rs
Is lent, & they must live but some few hours;
So Time, what we forbear to use• devours.
From fading Leaves, you see how Time resumes
Their fragrant scent, and sweet perfumes.
Look but within the most retired places,
Where utmost Skill is us'd to keep good Faces.
Yet in some distant time they will be seen
The spoil of Age: witness th' Egyptian Queen;
Or the fair charming Hellen, who by Time
Had nothing left—
But what at last express'd were by her Shrine.
Or thus; Shou'd some Malignant Planet bring
Upon the Autumn, or the blooming Spring
A barren drought, or rain a ceaseless show'r,
Yet 'twou'd not Winters coming stop one hour.
But cou'd you be preserv'd by Loves neglect
From coming Years decay, then more respect
Were justly due to so divine a Fashion,
Nor wou'd I give indulgence to my passion.
AN ADDRESS TO A Gentlewoman Walking in a Garden.
MAdam, I hope, though I a Stranger am,
Your candid Goodness will not let you blame
This bold intrusion, that do's now bereave
You of these privacies without your leave;
And as you're fair, I hope you're no less kind,
Craving your pardon then, I'll speak my mind:
But oh! I fear my troubled Heart bodes ill,
One word from you my life do's save or kill;
First for your pity then I must beseech,
Lodg'd at your feet, you would behold this wretch.
O that the Gods above wou'd bring to pass,
You might my suit, without my speaking guess;
But that won't be, relating then, fair Saint,
My firm-fix't Love in murmuring complaint.
Not long since, walking through the shady Grove,
To see those tender budding Plants improve;
And coming downwards from the Rivers head,
To hear the noise the purling Waters made,
And see her various and delightfull pride,
Streaming in Circles as the Waters glide.
Then 'twas I heard a shrill melodions sound,
Pleasanter far than what I there had found.
One while I thought it was some Angel's tune,
Whose pleasing Echo still wou'd re-assume
Its first high quav'ring strein, and then fall low'r;
In short, too charming for the strongest pow'r.
My curiosity then brought me to
A lonesome Grotto, where as prying through
Its verdant spreading branches, I did see
That beauteous Form which thus has wounded me•
And ever since my Passion is the same,
Resist not then so true and pure a Flame;
But with kind pity send me some relief,
Since my Heart's stole by you, the pretty Thief,
From whose bright Eyes such conqu'ring Charms do dart,
As might enslave and captivate each Heart:
The greatest Praise
is to your Beauty
All must their Homage pay when seen by you.
The Fruit-tree nodding with each blast that blows,
Through the great pressure of her loaden Boughs,
Seems to design none but your hand to crop
Her pendent Clusters, from her Branches top.
The purple Vi'let, and the blushing Rose,
With sweet Carnations, wait till you dispose
Their fragrant scent to your sagacious Nose.
If you're displeas'd the fairest downwards drop
Its fading pensive head, and wither'd top:
But if you're angry, possibly the Sun
Might stop his course, and not his journey run;
At which th' amazed and affrighted World
Might to its first rude Chaos soon be hurl'd.
And since my Fate's wrapt up in what you doom,
Do not my Passion with your scorn o'er-come;
But with the Sweets of Love, and then we'll be
Lock't in Embraces to Eternity.
UPON A Gentlewomans Refusal of a LETTER from one she was ingaged to.
NOT hear my Message, but the Bearer shun!
What hellish Fiend inrag'd cou'd more have done?
Surely the Gods design to make my Fate
Of all most wretched, and unfortunate.
'Twas but a Letter, and the Words were few,
Fill'd with kind wishes, but my Fate's too true.
I'm lost for ever, banish'd from her sight,
Although by Oaths and Vows she's mine by right.
Ye Gods! look down, and hear my Sorrows moan,
Like the faint Echoes of a dying groan.
But how is't possible so fair a Face
Shou'd have a Soul so treacherous and base,
To promise constancy, and then to prove
False and unkind to him she vow'd to love?
Oh, Barb'rous Sex!
whose Nature is to rook
•nd cheat Mankind with a betraying look.
Hence I'll keep guard within from all your Charms,
And ever more resist all fresh Alarms;
•'ll trace your windings through the darkest Cell,
And find your Stratagems, though lodg'd in Hell.
Your gilded Paintings, and each treacherous Wile,
By which so eas'ly you Mankind beguile;
Winds are more constant than a Womans Mind,
Who holds to none but to the present kind:
For when by absence th' Object is remov'd,
The time is gone and spent wherein she lov'd.
And is it not the very same with me,
To slight my Love, when I must absent be?
Perhaps sh'has seen a more atracting Face,
And a new Paramour has taken place.
And shall my injur'd Soul stand Mute, and live,
Whilst that another reaps what she can give?
Glutted with pleasures, and again renew
Their past delights, although my claim and due•
Oh, no, my Soul's inrag'd, revenge calls on,
I'll tear her piece-meal e'er my fury's gone;
Stretch out my Arm
all o'er th' inconstant stain,
And then cleave down her treach'rous limbs in twai••
The greatest plagues Invention e'er cou'd •ind,
Is not sufficient for th' inconstant Mind.
I think I have o'er-come my Passion quite,
And cou'd not love, although 'twere in despight.
As for the Man who must enjoy my room,
He'll soon be partner in my wretched doom;
He by her Faith, alas, no more will find,
Than when she swore to me to prove most kind.
Therefore I'll leave her, and esteem her less;
And in my self both joy and acquiesce.
But oh, my Heart, there's something moves there still,
Sure 'tis the vigour of unbounded Will.
Too much, I fear, my Fetters are not gone,
Or I at least again must put them on.
Methinks I feel my Heart is not got free,
Nor all my Passions set at liberty,
From the bright glances of her am'rous Eye.
Down Rebel-love, and hide thy boyish Head,
I'm too much Man to hear thy follies plead:
Go seek some other Breast of lower note;
Go make some Old decrepit Cuckold dote:
egone, I say, or strait thy Quiver,
And thou thy self fall to destruction too.
But oh, I'm gone, my Foes have all got ground,
My Brains grow giddy, and my Head turns round.
My Heart's intangled with the Nets of Love;
My Passions rave, and now ye Gods above
Help on my doom, and heave me to your Skies;
Look, look, Mervinda's just before my Eyes:
Help me to catch her e'er her Shadow fly,
And I fall downward from this rowling Sky.
In Praise of a Deformed, but Virtuous, LADY; OR, A SATYR on BEAUTY.
FIne Shape, good Features, and a handsom Face,
Such do the glory of the Mind deface;
But Vertue is the best and only grace.
Venus Man's Mind inflames with lustfull fires,
Consumes his Reason, burns his best desires.
Wer't thou, my Soul,
but from my Body free;
Had Flesh and Blood no influence on thee;
Then woud'st thou love a Woman, & woud'st chu•••
The Soul-fair-she to be thy blessed Spouse.
Beauty's corrupt, and like a Flower stands,
To be collected by impurest hands;
'Tis hard, nay 'tis scarce possible to find
Vertue and Venus both together joyn•d;
For the fair She, who knows the force and strength
Of Beauty's charms, grows proud, and then at length
Lust and Ambition will possess her Breast,
Which always will disturb Man's peacefull rest.
Beware my Soul, lest she ensnare thy sence;
Against her Wiles, let Vertue be thy fence.
Some please their fancies with a Picture well,
And for meer toys, do real pleasures sell:
No bliss, fond Cupid thinks like what is in
The smoothing of his Ladies tender Skin.
Her snowy Breasts, kind Looks, and sparkling Eye,
Strait Limbs, with blushing Cheeks and Forehead high,
In these his best and chiefest pleasures lye:
What other parts she can for pleasure show,
You can produce as well as she, I know.
with furrows shall have plow'd her Face,
And all her Body o'er thick wrinkles place;
Her Breasts turn black, her sparkling Eyes sink in,
Fearfull to see the bristles on her Chin,
Her painted Face grown swarthy, wan, and thin;
Her Hands all shrivel'd o'er, her Nails of length
Enough to dig her Grave, had she but strength.
Such is the Mistress, that blind Poets praise;
Such foolish Theams, their grov'ling fancies raise.
My Mistress is more lovely, and more fair;
Graces divine in her, more brighter are:
She is the source of Bliss, whilst Vertue reigns
In her, all things impure her Soul disdains.
Those fools ne'er knew pure Love's most sacred Arts,
That e'er were conquer'd by blind Cupid's Darts,
Or stand as slaves to their own carnal hearts.
'TIS the preheminence that'• seen in you,
Which do's with sacred Love my heart subdue;
For all must own who've read in Nature's Books,
Modesty and Good-nature's in your Looks:
Your Conversation's mild, these sacred Charms,
Protection are 'gainst Lusts impurer harms.
These and your other Vertues do excell,
And matchless seem to want a parallel.
In your most sacred Presence none can think
Of Lust, or once its horrid Venom drink;
You are an object that will soon dispell
Lusts most delightfull poisons sent from Hell;
Your Self's the substance of the Saints above,
You move my Soul with chast and holy Love;
For you alone large Off'rings I design,
And with continual prayers I wish you mine.
Oh that Omnipotence wou'd Bounty shew,
And make me happy in contracting you.
'TWou'd prove a needless thing, shou'd I
Strive to set forth what's obvious to each Eye;
To speak your Worth and Beauty, wou'd but be
To show the Sun at noon, which all Men see.
Beauty it self, Youth smiles, and ev'ry grace,
Do all pay tribute to your Heav'nly Face.
One smile from you might make the Dead to live,
Yielding more Wealth than lavish Worlds can give•
Your sparkling Eyes out-dart the pale-fac'd Moon;
You are far brighter than the Eye of Noon.
Phoebus his Golden Fleece looks not so fair,
As the fine silver threads of your soft Hair.
Aurora mantled in her spreading Beams,
To rouse up Mortals from their slumb'ring Dreams;
When summoning the Morning, can't compleat
That modest blush which in your Cheeks take• seat•
than untrod Snow
on Mountains seen,
And which I must confess beyond esteem,
Are those white Iv'ry Teeth, whose even row,
The harmony of Love in Union show.
In various wantonness, each branching Vein
Do's your white Breasts with blue Meanders stain;
From which clear Fountains flow with greatest mea∣sure,
The most delightfull Magazine of treasure.
The Muses and the Syrens cease their Song,
At the soft Musick of your charming Tongue:
Angel or Saint, I know not which by feature,
Sure both are joyn'd to make so sweet a Creature,
The lovely chance-work, Master-piece of Nature.
As if the Gods mistaking Mould, that time
Had cast your Species more than half divine;
Who can his Passion from such Beauty tame,
You've Charms enough to set the World on flame:
Mix't with more tempting and atractive graces,
Than can extracted be from humane Faces!
Oh let me at those balmy Lips take •ire,
And with pursuit of Kisses ev'n tire;
Which do display such a Vermilion red,
And when with pleasure fill'd, then hold thy head
Fast to my kindled and inflamed Heart,
Pierc'd by your Eyes bright glancing beams, which dart
Through my Souls secret and most inward part;
Which done, let mine in your fair Bosom lye,
Till in excess of joy and ecstasie,
I there shall languish out my Soul and dye;
And afterwards with like transport of Mind•
Revive again, and all my Senses find.
In Praise of LETTERS.
LEtters are wing'd Postillions, and do move
From East to West on Embassies of Love.
The bashfull Lover, when his stamm'ring Lips
Falter with fear from unadvised slips,
May boldly Court his Mistress with the Quill,
And his hot Passions to her Breast instill.
The Pen can furrow a fond Females He•rt,
And pierce it more than Cupid's feigned Dart.
Letters a kind of Magick Vertue have,
And like strong Philtres humane Souls inslave;
They can the Poles,
What Towns in Hungary are won by storm
From the great Turk: Mounsieur of them may know
How Foreign States on French Intriegues do blow.
The lucky Goose sav'd Iove's beleagu'rd Hill,
Once by her Noise, but oftner by her Quill.
It twice prevented Rome was not o'er-run,
By the tough Vandal, and the rough-hewn Hun.
Letters can Plots, though moulded under-ground,
Disclose, and their fell complices confound.
Witness that fiery Pile, which wou'd have blown
Up to the Clouds, Prince, People, Peers, and Town,
Tribunals, Church, and Chappel, and had dry'd
The Thames, though swelling in her highest pride;
And parboyl'd the poor Fish, which from her Sands
Had been toss'd up to the adjoyning Lands.
Lawyers as Vultures, had soar'd up and down,
Prelates like Mag•yes in the Air had flown,
Had not the Eagle's Letter brought to light
That Subterranean horrid work of Night.
Letters may more than History inclose,
The choicest learning both in Verse and Prose:
Witness Mich. Drayton,
whose sweet-charming Pen
Produc'd those Letters so admir'd by Men.
Words vanish soon, and vapour into Air,
While Letters on record stand fresh and fair;
And like to Gordian Knots do Nature tye,
Else all Commerce and Love 'twixt Men wou'd dye.
ART thou then absent, O thou dear
And only Subject of my Flame?
Are these fair Objects that appear
But shadows of that noble frame,
For which I do all other form disclaim?
Am I deluded? do I only rave?
Was it a Phantasme only that I saw?
Have Dreams such power to deceive?
Oh, lovely Shade, thou did'st too soon withdraw,
Like fleecy Snow, that as it falls, doth thaw.
Glorious Illusion! Lovely shade!
Once more deceive me with thy light;
'Tis pleasure so to be betray'd,
And I for ever shall delight,
To be pursu'd by such a charming Sprite.
SOul of my Soul! it cannot be
That you shou'd weep, and I from tears be free.
All the vast room between both Poles,
Can never dull the sence of Souls,
Knit in so fast a knot:
Oh can you grieve, and think that I
Can feel no smart, because not nigh,
Or that I know it not.
Th'are heretick thoughts, Two Lutes when strung,
And on a Table tun'd alike for Song;
Strike one, and that which none did touch,
Shall sympathizing sound as much,
As that which touch'd you see:
Think then this World (which Heav'n inrolls)
Is but a Table round, and Souls
More apprehensive be.
Know they that in their grossest parts,
Mix by their hallow'd Loves intwined Hearts;
This priviledge boast, that no remove
Can e'er infringe their sense of Love:
Iudge hence then our Estate,
Since when we lov'd, there was not put
Two Earthen hearts in one breast, but
Two Souls Co-animate.
A PINDARIQUE ODE ON Mr. COWLEY.
TO tune thy praise, what Muse shall I invoke, what Quire?
None but thy Davideis, or thy David's Lyre:
True Poet, and true Man,
Say more than this who can;
No, not an Angel's mighty Eloquence.
These only doe,
Of all perfections make a Quintessence.
Then, my dear Cowley, dye,
For why shou'd foolish I,
Or foolish Sympathy,
Wish thee to live? since 'tis no more to live, no more to dye,
Than to be here on Earth, and to be there about the Sky,
Both to you shared equally.
O Ye blest Pow'rs, propitious be
Unto my growing Love!
None can create my Misery,
If Cloe but constant prove.
Tell her if that she pity me,
From her you'll ne'er remove.
Each Brize of Air, my groans shall bear,
Unto her gentle Breast;
Silently whisp'ring in her Ear,
I never can be blest;
If she refuse to be my Dear,
I never can have rest.
Ye Groves, that hear each day my grief,
Bear witness of my pain;
I from her Pow'r can gain;
Tell her, ah, tell that pretty Thief,
I dye through her disdain.
Likely she may with piteous Eyes,
When dead, my Hearse survey;
And when my Soul 'mongst Deities
Doth melt in Sweets away,
Then may she curse those Victories
That did my Heart betray.
AN ODE of ANACREON Paraphras'd. Beauties Force.
I Wonder why Dame Nature thus
Her various gifts dispences,
She ev'ry Creature else but us
With Arms or Armour fences.
with bended horns she arms,
With hoofs she guards the Horse;
The Hare can nimbly run from harms,
All know the Lyon's force.
The Bird can danger fly on's Wing,
She Fish with Fins adorns;
The Cuckold too, that harmless thing,
His patience guards, and's horns:
And Men she Valiant makes, and wise,
To shun or baffle harms;
But to poor Women she denies
Armour to give, or Arms.
Instead of all, she this do's do;
Our Beauty she bestows,
Which serves for Arms, and Armour too,
'Gainst all our pow'rfull Foes:
And 'tis no matter, so she doth
Still beauteous Faces yield;
We'll conquer Sword and Fire, for both
To Beauty leave the Field.
A PINDARIQUE ODE.
MAdam, at first I thought,
My Passions might to my Commands be brought,
When, Love me not, you cry'd,
And said in vain I did pursue
The hopes of ever winning you;
So I to slight it try'd,
But 'twou'd not doe;
For in the conflict I was almost crucify'd.
At first did rise
Beauty, which fought me with your pow'rfull Eyes;
And when I had in vain
Driv'n th' Usurper from my heart,
She drew her Bow, and shot a Dart,
Which vanquish'd me again:
What strength of Man, what Art
Cou'd with this Amazon a Combat long maintain.
Next after her,
Vertue well arm'd for Battle did appear,
Attending on her side,
Charity, Mercy, Eloquence,
Wit and a Virgin Innocence,
In war-like state did ride;
And I find since
I cou'd not with all these contend, but must have dy'd.
But if still you
Do cry, forbear this Conquest to pursue;
You must debauch your Mind,
Turn all your Vertues into Vice,
And make an Hell of Paradise,
Be false, deform'd, unkind:
By this device,
And by no other, I from Love may be declin'd.
But why? but why
Name I this great impossibility?
I scarce cou'd so remove
The great affection
which I bear,
Were you as bad, as good you are,
So difficult 't will prove
To you, I swear;
Eternal is your Goodness, and Eternal is my Love.
From Ovid's Amorum, lib. 2. El. 4. and Lucretius, lib. 4. That he loves Women of all sorts and sizes.
PRess'd with my thoughts, I to consession fall,
With anxious fears, till I lay open all;
I sin and I repent, clear of the score,
Then afterward relapse in Sin the more.
My self I guide, like some swist Pinnace toss'd
In Storms; the Rudder gone, and Compass lost;
No certain shape or features stint my mind,
I still •or Love a thousand Reasons find;
Melodiously one sings, then straight I long
To quaver on her Lips, ev'n in her Song.
If she be vers'd in Arts, and deeply read,
I'm taken with her learned Maiden-head:
Or if untaught, and ignorant she be,
She takes me then with her simplicitie.
I like whom rigid Education fools,
Who wou'd not try to put her past her rules;
Though look demure, her Inclinations-swerve,
And, once let loose, she jigs without reserve.
Sanguine her looks, her colour high and good,
For all the rest I trust her flesh and blood.
Here living Snow my passion strangely warms,
And streight I wish her melting in my Arms;
White, Red, or Guinny black, or Gypsey brown,
My dearly-well-beloved ev'ry one.
If she is tall, my courage mounts as high,
To stamp some new heroick Progeny:
If little, oh how quick the Spirit moves!
If large, who wou'd not rowl in what he loves?
The lean provokes me with her naughty rubs;
But if she's plump, 'tis then my pretty Fubs;
And doubtless one might truck convenient sport,
With either fat, or lean, or long, or short,
With yellow Curls Aurora pleas'd her Fop,
And Leda (Iove well saw) was black-a-top.
are alike to me,
My Love will suit with ev'ry History.
If Caelia sing, she, like a Syrene, draws;
If she sing not, we kiss without a pause:
I love to rifle amongst Gems and Dress;
Yet lumber they to God-like nakedness.
Buzzards and Owls on special quarry fall,
Mine is a gen'rous Love, and flies at all.
I like the Rich, 'cause she is pamper'd high,
And merry Beggar love for Charity;
Widow or Wife, I'm for a Pad that's made;
If Virgin troth, who wou'd not love a Maid?
If she be young, I take her in the nick;
If she has Age, she helps it with a trick.
If nothing charms me in her Wit or Face,
She has her Fiddle in some other place.
Come ev'ry sort and size, the great or small,
My Love will find a Tally for 'em all.
The foregoing Elegy having been Publish'd imper∣fect, is here Printed from the best Copy.
AS when proud Lucifer aim'd at the Throne,
To have Usurp't it, and made Heav'n his own•
(Blasphemous, damn'd design) but soon he fell,
Guarded with dreadfull lightning down to Hell;
Or as when Nimrod lofty Babel built,
(A Structure as Eternal as his guilt;)
Let us, said he, raise the proud Tow'r so high,
As may amaze the Gods, and kiss their Sky;
He spoke—but the success was diff'rent found;
Heav'ns angry Thunder crush't him to the ground;
So Lucifer, and so proud Babel fell,
And 'tis a cursed fall from Heav'n to Hell.
So falls our Courtier now to Pride a prey,
And falls too with as much reproach as They•
That with his nauseous Courtship durst defile
The sweetest, choicest Beauty of our Isle:
That he was proud, we knew; but now we see,
Like Ianus, looking on Eternity,
Both what he was, and what he meant to be.
Stern was his Look, and sturdy was his Gate;
He walk't, and talk't, and wou'd have kiss'd in state.
Disdain and Scorn sate perching on his Brow;
But, Presto! where is all that Grandeur now?
Why vanish't, fled, dissolv'd to empty Air,
Fine Ornaments indeed to cheat the Fair:
And which is yet the strangest thing of all,
He has not got one Friend to mourn his fall:
But 'tis but just that he who has maintain'd
Such ill designs, shou'd be by all disdain'd.
Had not the lazy Drone been quite as blind,
Equally dim both in his Eyes and Mind,
He might have plainly seen—
For the Example's visible to all,
How strangely low ingratefull Pride may fall.
Presumptuous Wretch! but that's too kind a Name
For one so careless of a Virgins Fame:
For as the Serpent did by fraud deceive
Th' unwary Soul of the first Virgin Eve;
So he as impudently strove t' inspire
The lovely Maid with his delusive fire:
But Heav'n be prais'd, now with the same success;
For though his pride's as great, his cunning's less.
MUsing on Cares of humane Fate,
In a sad Cypress Grove;
A strange dispute I heard of late,
'Twixt Vertue, Fame, and Love.
A Pensive Shepherd ask'd advice,
And their Opinions crav'd,
How he might hope to be so wise,
To get a place beyond the Skies,
And how he might be sav'd.
Nice Vertue preach'd Religions Laws,
Paths to Eternal Rest;
To fight his Kings and Countries Cause,
Fame Counsell'd him was best.
oppos'd their noisy Tongues,
And thus their Votes out-brav'd;
Get, get a Mistress, fair and young,
Love fiercely, constantly and long,
And then thou shalt be sav'd.
Swift as a thought the Am'rous Swain
To Sylvia's Cottage flies,
In soft Expressions told her plain
The way to Heav'nly Ioys.
She who with Piety was stor'd,
Delays no longer crav'd;
Charm'd by the God whom they ador'd.
She smil'd and took him at his Word;
And thus they both were sav'd.
SONG. The YOUNG LOVER.
TUsh, never tell me I'm too Young
For loving, or too green;
She stays at least sev'n years too long,
That's wedded at fourteen.
Lambs bring forth Lambs, and Doves bring Doves,
As soon as they're begotten:
Then why shou'd Ladies linger Loves,
As if not ripe till rotten.
Gray hairs are fitter for the Grave,
Than for the Bridal Bed;
What pleasure can a Lover have,
In a wither'd Maiden-head?
Nature's exalted in our time,
And what our Grandams then
At four and twenty scarce cou'd climb,
We can arrive at Ten.
SONG. The Prodigal's Resolution.
I Am a lusty lively Lad,
Arriv'd at One-and-Twenty;
My Father left me all he had,
Both Gold and Silver plenty.
Now He's in Grave, I will be brave,
The Ladies shall adore me;
I'll Court and Kiss, what hurt's in this?
My Dad did so before me.
My Father, to get my Estate,
Though selfish, yet was slavish;
I'll spend it at another rate,
And be as leudly lavish.
From Mad-men, Fools, and Knaves he did,
Litigiously receive it;
If so he did, Iustice forbid,
But I to such shou'd leave it.
Then I'll to Court, where Venus sport,
Doth Revel it in plenty;
And deal with all, both great and small,
From twelve to five and twenty.
In Play-houses I'll spend my Days,
For there are store of Misses;
Ladies, make room, behold I come,
To purchase many Kisses.
SONG. The Doubtfull Lover Resolv'd.
FAin wou'd I Love, but that I fear,
I quickly shou'd the Willow wear:
Fain wou'd I Marry, but Men say,
When Love is try'd, he will away.
Then tell me, Love, what I shall doe,
To cure these Fears when e'er I Wooe.
The Fair one, she's a mark to all;
The Brown one each doth lovely call;
The Black a Pearl in fair Mens Eyes,
The rest will stoop to any prize.
Then tell me, Love, what I shall doe,
To cure these Fears when e'er I Woe.
Go, Lover, know, it is not I
That wound with fear or jealousie;
Nor do Men feel those smarts,
Untill they have confin'd their Hearts.
Then if you'll cure your Fears, you shall
Love neither Fair, Black, Brown, but all.
SONG. The CAVALIER's CATCH.
DID you see this Cup of Liquor,
How invitingly it looks;
'Twill make a Lawyer prattle quicker,
And a Scholar burn his Books:
'Twill make a Cripple for to Caper,
And a Dumb Man clearly Sing;
'Twill make a Coward draw his Rapier,
Here's a Health to Iames our King.
If that here be any Round-head,
That refuse this Health to pledge•
I wish he then may be confounded,
Underneath some rotten Hedge,
May the French Disease o'er-take him,
And upon h•s Face appear,
And his Wife a Cuckold make him,
By some Iovial Cavalier.
SONG. On Sight of a LADY's Face in the Water.
STand still, ye Floods, do not deface
That Image which you bear:
So Votaries from ev'ry place,
To you shall Altars rear.
No Winds, but Lovers sighs blow here,
To trouble these glad streams;
On which no Star from any Sphere,
Did ever dart such Beams.
To Crystal then in hast congeal,
Lest you shou'd lose your bliss;
And to my cruel Fair reveal,
How cold, how hard she is.
But if the envious Nymphs shall fear,
Their Beauties will be scorn'd;
And hire the ruder Winds to tear,
That Face which you adorn'd.
Then rage and foam amain, that we
Their Malice may despise;
And from your froths we soon shall see
A second Venus rise.
IF mighty Wealth, that gives the Rules
To Vitious Men, and cheated Fools,
Cou'd but preserve me in the prime
Of blooming Youth, and purchase Time;
Then I wou'd covet Riches too,
And scrape and cheat as others doe.
But since that Life must slide away,
And Wealth can't purchase one poor day;
Why shou'd my cares encrease my pain,
And wast my time with sighs in vain;
Since Riches cannot Life supply,
It is a useless Poverty.
Swift time, that can't be bought to stay,
I'll try to guide the gentlest way.
With chearfull Friends brisk Wine shall pass,
And drown a care in ev'ry Glass.
Sometimes diverted with Loves Charms,
I'll pleasure take in Celia's Arms.
On the Serpentine Combustion by Squibs on my Lord Mayor's Day. An HEROICK POEM. Written Octob. 29. 1686.
OF Hoods demolish'd, Towers laid full low,
Of crackling Crape, and Manto's brought to woe;
Of Scarf consum'd, and Periwig on fire,
Flaming Cravat, and ruinated Squire;
Of lighted Petticoat, and Neck-cloth blazing,
Whisk turn'd to Ashes, and fond Fops a gazing;
Cuffs chark'd to Coal, and Point turn'd all to Cinder,
And Gause soon Me•amorphos'd into Tinder:
Of shining Gorget,
And Apron deeply lac'd in dire Combustion;
Scorch'd Quoif aloft, and sindged Smock alow,
I thought to sing in ample wise, I trow,
Unto the tune of, Fortune is my Foe.
But found the task too great for my weak Quill,
For who is he that artfully can tell?
How skipp'd the Squire, how the frighted Maid;
And, like to Rocket, danc'd the Serenade.
To shun the track of Serpent, looking out
For neat-made Manto, and well-fashion'd Suit.
As if when he had cast his Paper-skin,
With those he did intend to cloath again:
Or that to humane covering in spite,
He'd have each Mortal to turn Adamite;
And fire all, although but thinly clad,
Esteeming Cloaths as Goods prohibited.
Fierce in a quick pursuit, he scouts around,
Where Linnen, or where Woollen's to be found;
And in his greedy rage, and hungry wroth,
Devours Garments faster than the Moth.
Within his blazing Circuit, as he wheels,
Still making faster at the Head than Heels.
Mounting aloft on ground, he makes small stay,
But into arched Windows leads his way;
Where Myriads following, make each Balcone,
Involv'd in Flames, look like the torrid Zone.
Swiftly they move about, with dismal quest,
Not to be charm'd by an Egyptian Priest;
But still must cruise about where good Attire is,
Spight both of Isis and her Friend Osiris;
Scorning each Talisman, or Magick Spell,
Dreadfull as Dragons, and as Python fell;
Scarce e'er to be destroy'd, for Sages write,
These Monsters still will annually affright;
And Hoods and Perukes, with hot jaws will swallow,
Untill the City Praetor turn Apollo.
Lest there shou'd some misconstruction be made of this last Verse, let the Reader know that it alludes to that Fiction of Apollo's killing the Serpent Python; And so Allegorically intimates, that those fiery Ser∣pents which usually fly about on my Lord Mayor's day, will annually continue so to do, unless destroy'd by him.
TO MY Much-esteemed Friend Mr. I. N. ON HIS Reading the first line of PINDAR 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉, &c.
HOld, there's enough, nay 'tis o'er mickle,
'Tis worse than Cant in Conventicle.
Is this the much-fam'd Friend to th' Muses,
Who thus their Helicon abuses?
Whose praise on Water thus is wasted,
Claret the Puppy never tasted:
What the Devil was his humour,
To raise so scandalous a rumour?
'Tis well 'tis Greek, that few may know it,
Or 'twere enough t' infect a Poet:
It is High Treason (I'll aver it)
Against the Majesty of Claret.
Sternhold and Hopkins heard it said so,
(Not that I believe they read so)
Therefore they gorg'd their Muse with Water,
And spew'd up eke, and also after.
To bouze Old Wine, mad Pindar wonted,
Till by a Vintner being affronted,
The peevish Cur (what could be ruder?)
Forc'd on us 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉.
He Water's damn'd Encomium made,
Maliciously to spoil his Trade.
But that shan't pass on me, by th' Mass•
If I drink Water, I'm an Ass.
To two great Kings I will be Loyal,
My Monarch Iames, and Claret-Royal:
Nor shall I love that Greek of thine,
Scarce any Greek, except Greek Wine.
Who'd be of Old mad Timon's mind,
(Because he did) to hate Mankind?
No, Soveraign Claret, I'll adore thee,
Submissively fall down before thee;
And will by Whores be burnt to Tinder,
If I adore that Rebel Pindar.
Yours, I. Whitehall.
A DIALOGUE Between IACK and DICK, Concerning the PROHIBITION OF French Wines.
AH Iack, had'st thou bin t'other day,
To see the Teeming Vine display
The swelling Glories of her Womb,
And hopefull Progeny to come,
(Which Mirth and Iollity create,
And sweeten up the Frowns of Fate)
Thou would'st with me have sigh'd and said,
Why has Obliging Nature made
A Iuice, which duly understood,
With kindly heats ferments the Blood;
Not makes it posting to miscarry,
As do's the Hot-spur, styl'd Canary;
Nearly related •tis unto't,
And colour'd o'er with the same Coat.
Half Blood already, in one round
It is assimulated found.
With gentle Tides, Poetick Vein
It swells into a comely strain.
And binding all its Numbers tight,
Breeds nothing dissolute, nor light.
Whereas Canary, with Combustion,
Makes still the Writer speak in Fustian.
When e'ry stroak by this devis'd,
Is in Red•letters signaliz'd.
Dear Dick, it is not thou alone,
That thus in wofull plaint makes moan;
The main of the whole Kingdom joyns,
And weeps the loss of Claret Wines.
With unknown Griefs my Breast was pent:
The cause I knew not, but did fear
Some dreadfull danger to be near.
Turning my Eyes aside, I found
A num'rous Croud, in wofull sound,
Banning a Wight, with Accent •ierce,
About to Stave a well-teem'd Tierce.
Oh, 'twas a dismal sight to view!
With Sleeves tuck't up, and Apron blue,
The cruel and remorsless wretch,
His blow was ready •or to fetch.
When streight a Philoclareteer
Made up, and in this wise drew near:
"Hold, hold, I say, that horrid Hand,
"Enough our Mournfull Streets are •lain'd
"With Scarlet dye, of dire contusion,
"By braining Pipe in Execution.
"What is the crime has bin committed
"By this poor Liquor, how endited?
To which he grimly gives Response,
(As if he'd stave my Monsieur's Sconse.)
Sir, mind your business, you are ruder
Than e'er I yet found bold Intruder;
In short, Sir, 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉.
'Twas all the answer he could get,
Which put my Youngster in a pet,
And forc'd him to this language keen,
"Oh thou more fierce than e'er has been:
"The wildest Tigers Bacchus drew,
"Or hottest Rage yet ever knew,
"Of harmless Claret thus to spill
"The Blood, and Urban gutters fill;
"As 'twere no more to be lookt after,
"Than Urine stale, or Kennel Water.
"How many of the thirsty train,
"Open their Mouths, as Earth for Rain;
"For one poor drop of the rich Iuice,
"This swelling Vessel do's produce.
"The better half of all the crude
"And undigested multitude;
"Now demi-Rogues, and near Disloyal,
"Two spoonfulls makes them all turn Royal.
"When did you know the Lad did love
"True Claret, and rebellious prove?
"Besides, it Rubies
"Of richer dye, and greater state,
"Than e'er was planted as a Trophy
"On Mogull's Crown, or Persian Sophy.
"Rascal, look to't, you'll rue it one day,
"For spoiling of this brisk Burgundy.
Oh, had you seen the People stand,
Each one with Handkerchief in hand,
With watry Eyes, surveying o'er
The coming Floods of Purple gore.
You, you your self had shed one Tear,
Among the Thousands let fall there!
To see a hopefull Vessel come,
With Gales of Sighs 'twas usher'd from
The peacefull Harbour where it lay,
In shamefull wise, to view the day.
From Mansions of dark Sable Night,
And shady Grots, stor'd with delight,
Of luscious tast, and racy smell,
And rosie blush of Carbuncle;
VVith Hoops disjoynted, Tackle broke,
VVould force a Groan from Heart of Oak.
Half ruptur'd, bruis'd, in dismal shew,
He thrust up ev'ry avenue;
Till to the open Street he comes,
Bestrid by many ill-bred Bums,
Over his bulky Body striding,
You never saw so ill a riding;
For the fierce Wight no more regret had,
Than Greek or Tartar ready booted,
To seize with their light Horse, the prey
Of Youth, or Damsel gone astray.
The Vagabond, and Truant Tub,
VVhich held so many Quarts of Bub,
Forc'd by Ill luck, and Wind, to fall
(By missing Port) on Canniball,
And savage Shoars, he basely binding,
And all his Teeth together grinding.
VVith Words insulting thus accosts:
France, boast no more, that by thy Vine
Thou canst an English Soul confine,
To soop up nought but what is gotten,
From sowre Burgundian Grape grown rotten.
Drinks (which Bard of Yore
Tasted, and liv'd till near Five score)
We'ave got the Art now for to heighten,
And our endarkned Souls enlighten,
Above what pitch you e'er can mannage,
By all your bo•sting French Appannage.
The Apple o'er the Grape shall reign,
And Hereford's above Campaign.
The Vine no more shall rule the Field,
But to Pomona, Bacchus yield.
This said, he gives the fatal blow;
And now the Streets o'er-whelm'd do flow,
With ruddy Iuice of Crimson gore,
Which in loud Cataracts do pour
Through ev'ry Channel; and the Tide
Mounts up alo•t on ev'ry side.
'Tis hard to guess which flow'd more high,
That in the Streets, or in the Eye.
Each Tunicle•ull deep was sunk,
You'd thought all to be Maudlin drunk.
Yet, amongst all this noise and weeping,
Some (though their Sorrows were full deep in)
Made shift to muster Bowl
For to attend the Fun'ral train;
Which they had got from gorg'd Canal,
Lest some to fainting Fits should fall.
For why should Gutter swallow all up,
When many a dry Soul wish'd a gullup?
Dams being made, the Good wife brings out
Her Churn and Kettle; Damsel springs out
With Pipkin, Chamber-pot and Ladle.
And Sucking-Bottle (fetch'd from Cradle.)
Treys brought by Butcher, Trough by Mason,
And forth the Barber brings his Bason.
The Tinker (wisely as I judge it)
Makes Leathern-Bottle of his Budget.
O'th' broken Ribs, full many a piece
They got, and suck'd like Liquorish;
And to their Children Splinters good,
Of the ruby-tinctur'd Wood,
Instead of Coral, they bestow,
To rub their Gums, aloft and low;
VVhilst others o'er the Dams lye lolling,
(As ready the Red Sea to fall in)
VVith frequent Laps, their Thirst allaying,
Pronouncing many a ruefull saying,
Concerning loss of Champaign, Burdeaux,
And what a grinning ugly Cur 'twas,
That dash'd out brain of Hogshead awfull,
E'er Thirsty Mortal had his Maw full:
Giving out many words (half raving)
'Gainst Hammers, Knocks, and Blows, and Staving.
Continuing such a dismal pother,
They'd like at last to'ave stav'd each other.
All going handy-dandy to't,
Till Constable do's drive the Rout
To their own home, from Claret Bank,
There to weep out the VVine they'ave drank.
Troth, Iack, thy News in manner wofull,
My Heart has seiz'd, and fill'd up so full,
It through mine Eyes must take some vent,
Or I shall miserably faint.
There never was more dismal Tale
Repeated o'er Spic'd Cup of Ale,
By deep Cabal, and nodding Quire,
Of Matrons old, near VVinter's fire.
VVeep, Mortals, weep, untill your Eyes
Be red as th' Wine they sacrifice.
How will you now your Passions vent,
To her you long your Heart have lent?
Phillis without regard may go,
And lovely Amarillis too,
May often see her charming Name,
Without Attendant Anagram.
Gone is the Wine that did inspire
The Poet with his Amorous fire;
That did assist him to invoke,
And gave his Pen the happy stroak.
Fools may go on, and Scribling write,
Yet fear no Satyr that shall bite;
Its sting is dull'd by ev'ry blow
The wronged Vessels undergo:
For all the Salt, and all the Flame,
Whence Wounds, and Plagues, and Vengeance came,
Is melted, quench'd, sunk, lost, and drown'd,
And never, never to be found,
Without the leave of pulling down,
The Dams of Prohibition;
That ruby Floods again may fall,
And freely fill the Mass•e Bowl:
Then thou and I, and ev'ry Soul
That has a Muse or Mistress there,
Shall in one hand a Goblet bear,
And with the other charm the Ear.
Shall briskly each his brimmer drink,
And live and love, and laugh and think
Of something fit to entertain
The peacefull hours once again.
Till then adieu; with Lips a-dry,
For once we'll part; and so Good-buy.
For who with baser Iuice would •ully
His servile Lips, is much a Cully.
And though full thirsty, fit no more
To have his Body varnish'd o'er;
Or ever to be ting'd again,
With its Rosie-colour'd grain.
Once more farewell, till kindly Seas
Rowl Claret Casks upon our Keys.
Then (Haec) we'll say, and laugh and kiss ye,
Iuvabit olim meminisse.