Poems by Hugh Crompton, the son of Bacchus, and god-son of Apollo being a fardle of fancies, or a medley of musick, stewed in four ounces of the oyl of epigrams.

40. Her Reply.

I.

YEs, I could follow Cupid's tents; But when I see such presidents Of woe ingendered there, I check my fancies, and recall My looser resolutions all, And sleck my flames with fear.

II.

What shall poor tempted Ladies doe? Into whose bosomes shall they throw The Lotteries of their love? When every moment we may see How unresolv'd their servants bee; And how awry they move.

III.

Their fat professions are most free: Phrases flow fast, of constancy, Expression doth excell. Now their swift fancy flies as high As Titan in the towring skie; Then sinks as low as hell.

IV.

Bright as the taper of the night, At first they do extend their light: Exposing love enough. And then become ere they have done, More odious then comparison: Their exit makes a snuffe.

V.

Give me the solid Lover then, That goes away and comes agen; And breaks no spousal vow: That's not by every smile ore-thrown, Nor dasht aside by every frown, Nor answers every bow.

VI.

If such invite me with his flame, With equall heat I'le meet the same Through every case and state, To him my bosome I'le unlace; His love and him I will imbrace In spite of foe or fate.