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.

57. The unequall Match.

ANd why unto this stump would you be ti'd, That were so hopefull and so fair a bride? How dull? how dead? how drowsie? and how cold Are all your amplectations? and how old? How crasie? crouched? and how feeble is He that should surfeit you with Hymens blisse? Better you never had the smallest sense Of love, then not in joy its influence. What can expected be from him, whose head Is fleec'd with snow-bals; and imbattered With sixty years assaults: whose breath affords Him language but in groans, and not in words. Pity, thrice pity, that so sweet a she Should lose her teeming time, and barren be For want of agriculture: what's the cause You derogate so far from Cupid's lawes? And spoyle his tenets? why should Gems that shine Quite through the surface of your sacred Mine, Perish for want of gathering? and decay By wrong perusals in an unknown way?