Poems by several hands, and on several occasions collected by N. Tate.

Libri Primi ELEGIA Secunda.

WHat can this mean, what makes my Thus naked lie without a Coverlid? What makes me pass the live-long nights away In tedious expectation of the day, Whilst my Rackt Limbs with never ceasing pain Turn to this side, and then to that again? Sure I should know, if Love disturb'd my Rest; Unless it slily stole into my Breast; 'Tis so, for now I feel the pointed Dart: Tyrannie Love raging in every part. What, must I yield to the incroaching bane? Or by Reluctance aggravate my flame?

Well, I will yield; my Chains with Patience wear, The burden's light which we're resolv'd to bear. So I've observ'd resisted Fires to rage, Which, let alone, would suddenly asswage. The stubborn Ox that's haughty Neck can't bow, Does suffer more than he that draws the Plough. Th' unruly Horse that can't endure the Rein Is broke at last, and that with greater pain: Love more severely does chastise the Proud Than those that humbly have his power allow'd. O Love, I grant, I am a Convert grown: Enslav'd and Fetter'd, I approach your Throne. Forbear your Arms; for Peace I humbly sue, Oh don't so mean a Victory pursue, From which no Honour ever can accrue. With Mirtle Chaplets then enwreath thy hair, The God of War a Chariot shall prepare, And Venus Doves shall wing you through the Air. The World with loud applause your Triumph see, Whilst you make Love and War so well agree.

Young Men, and Maids, that did your Empire Scorn, Shall your Triumphal Chariot-wheels adorn. I, 'mongst the rest, your late made Captive, bound, Proclaim your grandeur with a bleeding wound. And every Passion be a Prisoner led, All that have ever from Loves Ensigns fled. All things before your mighty Power shall fly: The vulgar with their throats shall rend the Sky, Io Triumphe, Io Cupid, cry. Error, and Fury, and allurements too These shall Attendants of your Triumph be These are the Soldiers always follow'd you. By which you've even o'ercome the Deity: Should these advantages be took away, The God of Love might sometimes lose the day. Your Beauteous Mother from above will spread Eternal blooming Roses on your head. Here all your dazling Glories you unfold; Bedeck'd with Roses, Jewels, and with Gold,

The yet unconquer'd World you shall subdue; Who, in your March, shall wounded follow you. The scorching fire does so infectious grow, That you must wound, whether you will, or no. Such was the Triumph of Wines Conquering God, When, drawn by Tygers, he o'er Ganges Rode. Since then I'm part of your Illustrious Train, O spend no more Artillerys in vain. Behold Augustus Caesar's Glorious Charms Those who're reduc'd by his All-Conquering Arms, With God-like Mercy he defends from harms.