Poems on several occasions, with a pastoral to which is added, A discourse of life / by John Tutchin.

Miscellanies.

The FIRST PART.

A SATYR AGAINST VICE.

NOW blessings on ye all, ye Vertuous Souls! Who boundless Mankind brought to Laws and Rules. Eternally may hallowed Incense burn, In Sacred flames, around your pious Urn:

Your rational Laws gave Piety its rise; And your dread hand first struck the Monster Vice. We (thanks to Heav'en and you) can plainly see The modern cheat of grave Iniquity. But blest (and more if Heav'en can do't) be you, Who naked Virtue boldly did pursue: When Swords, and direful Spears before you lay, You greatly trod in the Imperial Way: And grizly Death triumphantly did meet; Faggots your Grave, and Flames your Winding∣sheet. To make your ratio'nal Tenents true and good, You bravely seal'd 'em with your dying blood.

Vice, thou first born of Hell! and blacker far, Than the black Fiends, damn'd Pluto's Subjects are: Supinely thou hadst slept in thy dark Cell, Where mighty Sinners in oblivion dwell; And ne're untimely had this monstrous Birth, Had not some Devil brought thee up to Earth: Soon thou hadst been deposed from thy Reign, And ne're hadst seen the lightsome world again; Had not some Earthly Fiends ador'd thy rise, And settle'd on its Throne the Monarch Vice.

Now though the Scepter's in thy impious hand, And like a potent Prince thou dost command; Amongst the Fools thy Empire's bound does spread, And 'mongst the solid Wise, near show'st thy head: To the lewd Stews thou hast thy great resort, And meanly sneak'st to the lascivious Court: Pimps, Bawds, Buffoons, and all the numerous throng Of wanton Lechers guard thee all along: Lewd noisome Courtezans support thy raign, And fill the crowd of thy inglorious train. Tell me, ye Lordly Sots; who Vice adore, You, who a Patent have to Lust and Whore; Who mighty Sins, and great Estates bring forth; Rare pompous things to agrandize your worth: Tell me, wherein your mighty pleasure lies; The sweet delicious good of charming Vice; That makes you thus the Strumpet Vice adore, And make each Sot your Pimp, & Bawd your Whore? Factors for Hell, of the right stamp and kind, The younger brood of the Infernal Fiend, For Vice's traffick all alike design'd. Sinners of all degrees come rowling on; From Earls, and Dukes, even down to Fop Sr. John.

Sinners of little Wit, and great Estates, Of mighty bulks, your first and second Rates: On whose lewd stock such numerous branches grow, And from whose, loins such goodly thousands flow; Would make one think, to re-assume his reign, The Malmesbury Devil's come again. He, the bold Hector of the Gods, could Write, Rail, and explode the Powers above in spite. The Atheists Monarch, and the Courtiers tool, The Scholars Laughing-stock, and Heavens Fool. Always unwilling, still unfit to die; The very dregs of damn'd Philosophy. Irrational Brute! in whose gross Brain we see Nonsence digested in Epitome. Couldst contradictions joyn, and couldst perswade Th' immortal Gods are unimmortal made? Arm'd with thy Pen, with direful brow wast seen, Just like some God-defying Maximin. Out from thy Mouth a threatning Bullet flies; And God-like Curses scale th' impartial Skies. The echo of thy breath the Woods repeat, Its violent storm makes the strong Tides retreat, And puffs the very Gods from off their seat.

As if thou Sins Columbus meant'st to be, Thou view'dst the Orb of large Iniquity. And having view'd each Creek, thy fatal breath Thou didst resign to Chance, that made thy Earth. And thus our mighty Atheist liv'd, thus fell The goodliest Brand that ever burnt in Hell. Ah! Had I Wit but equal to my Spite, With what a learned malice would I write? Not one of Lusts lewd Company should be From my more generous rage and passion free. No, not those Kingly Sots, those Vertues Rods, Who for their sinning have been counted Gods. Here, Bawdy Cupid, I would have thee know, I scorn thy Quiver, and contemn thy Bow! Thou the great God of Lust! whose Empire spreads Where Courts & Stews erect their ominous heads. Grand Fiend! who art invok'd for mighty aid; And for thy fatal help with Sins art paid: False as thy Children, Whores, whose every Prayer And plighted Oaths, like thine, dissolve in Air. Cruel as Tyrants, when to Empire brought, Puff't up with Blood, with direful Vengance fraught. Who slew the mighty Turnus, I can tell; And by whose hand great Agamemnon fell;

Why weeping Phillis slew Demophoon's Bride, And in the Waves the lov'd Leander dy'd; Why sad Oenone through the shady Groves Laments for Paris, her unhappy Loves; Why mournful Philomel does tell her tales For absent Tereus through the hollow Vales. 'Tis you, God Cupid, and your Mother's Doves, Do make the Scenes of all our Tragick Loves. Thou stain'dst with Mortal Blood, thy self to please, The Marriage-Bed of the Danaides. Old Polyphemus had the Stone from you, With which the Wretch his Rival Atis slew. You made the poison and the fatal strife, Which took away fair Sophonisba's life. 'Tis you invent what bloody Lovers act, And laugh at Mischief and a cruel Fact: Nay, your own Priests, the gladsome Bards, you wrong, And give 'em Tears for Mirth, and Groans for Song. Thou exil'd Ovid didst to Scythia send, The best of Bards, the Muses dearest Friend; By thy disdain he'd lost his Poets Name; But from his hand some mournful Letters came:

Came, but unbound, ungilt, of colours bare; The genuine off-spring of a wanderer. Though at thy hand one Bard did mercy find, Thou mad'st him wretched e're Castara kind. One of his Gloriana does complain; And Daniel woes his Delia but in vain: Nay, greatest Cowley did his Love survive, And all his life without his Mistress live. If ever pity from thy bowels came, It was to crown some base adulterate flame. Each wandring Leecher does thy shrine adore, Enjoys his Mistress and ten thousand more. Thou thy descent hadst never from above; Thou art the God of Lust, and not of Love. If ever mortal shall thy God-head owne Curst be the hand rebuilds thy bankrupt Throne; Plague, Pestilence, and Fire, and what is worse, Thy own dear Pox attend him with a Curse. And you, fond Maids, if e're again you dare On's Altar lay a bawdy Hymn or Prayer; Heaven blast your Beauty and your native Pride, 'Till you're abhor'd, and he undeify'd. May you with Curses be in triumph born; The universal hiss of publick scorn.

May all your glances unsuccessful prove, And force Men's Envy when you would their Love. Hence, hated Vice, from our once happy Land, E're thy ignoble tribe did here command: Here no triumphal honours shall be paid; Altars to Vice, and Sacred Unction made. The grand Imposture here will ne're prevail: With thy polluted breath swell full thy Sail; Steer thy lewd Ship to some damn'd peoples coast, Whom God has curst, and have their reason lost: There thou may'st temples build & bear the sway; And with auspicious pride may'st rule the day: There may'st impose thy rigorous commands; Have converts numerous as Arabian Sands: There uncontroul'd thou may'st in safety dwell, Blest with th' influence of powerful Hell. Much happier we, thy Empire disavow, Abjure thy Precepts, and contemn thy Law: Let gawdy Prowess, for grave Sloth be seen; Let Virtue strut, where creeping Vice has been: Let no fantastick fool obstruct its way, Or with vile Clouds obscure its ardent ray; But in imperial guise let it march on, And view around the British Horizon:

Then to our fair Augusta bend its way, And there in sweet repose its blessing lay: Our fair Augusta, once the Nations pride, To whom new honours brought each flowing Tide; Now, by its peoples crimes, a Desart made, And though a well built Town, a very shade. Once more, damn'd lewdness, I invoke thy name! Shew me some mystick Art to spread thy shame; No more a peaceful name I e're can use, 'Tis spite and madness shall inspire my Muse. Damn'd be your Plays, and all Stage-Fops that write! Immortal Satyr is my whole delight: Let all your Stygian Votaries adore, And find new Paint for this Lethaean Whore; I'll of her crimes a just resentment get, And plague, and scourge her with the force of Wit.

A SATYR AGAINST WHORING.

SLaves to Debauchery and Lustful Rage, That drain the Streets, and prostitute the Stage, Begot in heat of Lust on Hackney Whores, Souls wrapt in Excrements of common Shoars. Standing for patterns, 'fore the Limners Eye, To draw the Lustful God Priapus by. Pox take ye all! This Curse I doubt's too late, It long has been, 'tis like, your Whoring Fate; Then all the Courses ever Sodom knew, Or pocky Jilts, light on your Race and You; Inflam'd by Lust, may you with Passion move, And have the Pox return'd instead of Love;

May you with stinking Breaths pass unador'd, And Breath a fulsome Clap at every Word; May Dreams disturb by Night, & Whores by Day, And ravenous Shankers eat your flesh away; May Sores without, and fervent Heat within, Consume and waste away your loathsome Skin; May you be so Debaucht, so vilely Lewd, 'Till grown so great, Lust cannot be renew'd; 'Till one sad Ach expels another Pain, And Claps in circles meet with Claps again; 'Till Stone, and Gout, and Stranguries contend, Which to Old-Nick your lustful Soul shall send; Haulting may you in Lifes dull Journey go, Condemn'd to Stews above, and Hell below; May bawling Bawds about your Dwellings roame, And all your Spurious Issue haunt your home; Having spent all your Wealth in Leachery, May you unpittied on a Dunghil die; May all these Curses, and Ten thousand more Than all the angry Gods have in their store, Light on you; then may Darted Vengeance come, With hoarded Bolts of Wrath to raise your Tomb. Gods! why o'er Nature did you take such Care, In making Women exquisitely Fair?

Why build you dazling Altars like the Skies, And do provide no better Votaries Than Men? Lascivious Men! whose lustful frown Spoils all that's fair, and pulls what's Sacred down; Will all enjoy, and Married be to none, Though Nature dictates only to use one. In broken Language Beasts by pairs do prate; The cooing Dove bills but his single Mate; But Man, unbounded Man! Attempts all ill, His Lust is grown as Boundless as his Will; That Name call'd Husband is of Terror full, The State Uneasie, Melancholy, Dull; The Kennel, Kitchin, Oyster, rampant Whore, Before a Wife, 's the Creature they Adore. What Sot would wander, that has by his side The Powerful Charms of a Smiling Bride? Cool as the coldest Night, and Chaster far Than Anchorets, or Vestal Virgins are; Whose equal Love, do's equal Heat Inspire, Prompted by Kindness, not a base Desire; In whose Embraces gladly pass away Whole tedious years in but one Halcyon day. Fate Favours him, that makes him spend his Life, Doom'd to those Golden Chains, to please a Wife.

To the Memory of Mr. JOHN OLDHAM.

WHen some great Prince, or greater Poet dies, He spends his tears in vain, who vainly cries. All, soon or late, Life's glimmering Lamp bequeath Unto the Fatal Puff of gloomy Death: Mark you bold Mortal now, that threats the Skies, How soon he's Born, and how soon he Dies! Whil'st we of Life and endless pleasures prate, Death whets his Scythe, and hastes the Sands of Fate: But sure our Oldham should his stroak survive, And to th' ungrateful Age his blessings give: Much better Fate fresh Laurels would bestow, And kindly took him from his toils below. Scarce can the greatest Cowley get from me A praise, when thy immortal Verse I see; Crithaw and Cowley both did live in thee.

Let the dull Fools admire the golden Ore, And 'midst their pompous boasts be always Poor: I in thy praise immortal Notes will prove, Such as I whilome wrote in Mirth and Love. Ah! would to God I had the Pen that wrote Of all the toils the fam'd Achilles sought; Of all the valiant Acts that e're were done, By brave King Priam, or King Priam's Son; The kindest Verse that Princes Courts adorn, Or God-like Poets sing beneath the Morn: Each charming Note did with true praise agree; My much lov'd Oldham, should be kept for thee. Phillis laments thy fall, and weeps, thee gone, And sadly in her Alcove sits alone: She vows, no more the wonted Song shall please, Now you, blest Man, your joyful Notes do cease: She hates the giddy Crowd, the noisie Town, And on some baleful Grotto sits her down; Bites her red Lips, and tears her aubourn Hair; She courts wild Frenzie, and, as mad, Despair: Let Desarts be my home, in Caves my Bed; Let the sad Yew, she cryes, adorn my Head:

Ye wieldy Satyrs my companions be, And in the shady Groves come mourn with me. But how shall I, blest Soul! my grief express, Whose mournful accents are confin'd to Verse. Should I, like Niobe, a Stone become, Cold as thy Grave, and senseless as thy Tomb; From hence no praise could to thy worth arise, For Fools in Monuments out-do the Wise: Then take what Nature gave me, lasting Verse, The solid glory of a Shepherds Hearse. True real Wit did Cowley's Statue rear, More the good Muses than the Monarch's care; 'Tis stupid Mavius must the Laurel wear. How well wou'd Laurels have adorn thy Head, Whose Grave is now with mournful Cypress spread: Much happier Soul! from Life's dull business free; Free from the nauseous world we daily see; What are the Joys of which our Cullies boast? And what the toilsome pleasure thou hast lost? What 'mongst us busie Mortals could'st thou find, But Seas of Sins to drown an honest mind?

To see of Bawds and Pimps a numerous herd; To see vast Cocks-combs, and great Rogues pre∣ferr'd, Wou'd a worse Fatigue be than tedious Death; This Air is too polluted for thy Breath.

TO THE Memory of the Right Honourable THE EARL of ROCHESTER.

CEase, Poets, cease, you are undone; The Muses dearest darling Son Is to the blest Elysium gone. If Poets have in Heaven aboad, There he'll commence a happy God: For sure no Earthly Star cou'd shine, With such a lustre, so Divine. Oh! Had I trembling at thy Death, Stood to suck in thy parting Breath, That charming Philtre, which could prove The source of Poetry and Love. Ah! who shall Paint thy Passion right? That lasting Torch of endless Light. What manly force thy temper sway'd? Yet gentle as a Love-sick Maid.

Unhappy I, by self-conceit, By Fools applause, and Vulgar Cheat, Thy Fancy strive' to imitate. Let me, Ah let me! but presume, From thy gay Wings to pluck one Plume; How would I brustle then, and spread My Feathers on the Muses Bed? But how dare I approach thy Shrine, That's Sacred all, and all Divine: Yet let my lesser Fire burn, And be attendant at thy Urn; When Orpheus, all lament and cry, And senseless Stones, why should not I? Under you Beech but 'tother Day, Young Philocles and Cloris lay To hear thy Pipe, and hear thy Lays, That shorter made the tedious Days. But now as much they grieve and moan; The Lord Adonis dead and gone. Lov'd Silver Thames, so fam'd in Song, With groaning streams does glide along: Dropping like Tears, its Waters fall, As if it wept thy Funeral.

When I the fair Corinna see, I grieve, I sigh, to think on thee; But more I grieve when I peruse The Bawdy flashes of thy Muse. This to the Publishers was due, Not Licens'd and Allow'd by you: But the lewd wretches took the pain To act the Bawdy Lectures o're again.

ODE.

I.

HArd by the Scenes of Cruel Fate The neighb'ring Groves o're-spreadin•• boughs, The discontented Calia fate Bewailing her unhappy Joys: Ah faithless Swain, she cry'd, have I So Lov'd you then! Melting my Soul in Ecstasie, A Passion I ne're thought could die. Ah faithless Man!

II.

How vain then are the sweets of Love? How weak the pleasure it allows? Since disregarded are above, False Oaths and broken vows. A thousand times he swore by Jove He'd Love me still:

He call'd upon the Powers above, And all the Deities of Love, To prove his skill.

III.

Then gently thus he says, my Dear, Thou that excell'st the Paphian Queen, E're I untrue can prove, the Year In lasting Frosts shall still be seen, Yet he's untrue, while Caelia dies By base despair: With moans she rends the yielding Skies, Mixing her undistinguish'd sighs With common Air.

IV.

Ah think, Ingrate! upon the Plain, The pleasure we, once happy, had; When thou wer't stil'd, the Lovely Swain, And I was call'd the Beauteous Maid When after Death you shall repair, The Shades to see, Amongst the Troops of all the Fair, And Lovers Ghosts, you'll find none there That lov'd like me.

THE Tory Catch.

I.

A Friend of mine, and I did follow A Cart and Six, with Brandy fraught; We sate us down, and up did swallow Each a Gallon at a draught: The sober Sot can't drink with us, May kiss coy Wine with Tantalus.

II.

With Musick fit for Serenading, We did ramble to and fro; Then to Drink and Masquerading, 'Till we cannot stand nor go: One Leg by Bacchus was quite lamed, 'Tother Venus had defamed.

III.

At the Tavern we did whisk it, And full Pipes did empty drain:

We eat Pint-Pots instead of Bisket, And piss'd 'em melted out again: We beat the Vintner, kiss'd his Wife, And kill'd three Drawers in the strife.

IV.

In the Street we found some Bullies, And to make our valour known, We call'd 'em Fops, and silly Cullies, And knock'd the foremost of 'em down: And with praise to end the Fray, We, like good Souldiers, ran away.

V.

To the Play-House we descended, For to get a grain of Wit, Our own with Wine was so defended. We sate spuing in the Pit, 'Mongst Drunken Lords and Whoring Ladies, To see such sights whose only Trade is.

HYPERMNESTRA TO LINUS.

The ARGUMENET.

Danaus, King of Argos, had by several Wives Fifty Daughters; his Brother Aegyptus as many Sons. Danaus refusing to Marry his Daughters to his Brother's Sons, was at last compelled by an Army. In revenge, he commands his Daugh∣ters each to Murder her Husband on the Wed∣ding Night, All obeyed but Hypermnestra, who assisted her Husband Linus to escape, for which being afterwards Imprisoned, and put in Irons, she writes this Epistle.

THOSE words I would have spoke, your hasty flight Would not allow, here trembling, loe! I write; I thank the Fates, that do the time afford To use my Pen before I use my Sword:

To make the Tragedy well understood, I'll write the Epilogue in wreaking Blood, That when my Fame a bloody Wife survives; Preserv'd by me my much lov'd Linus lives. The dead of Night that favour'd your Escape, Shew'd me pale Fear in its most ugly shape. Why are the Destinies so cruel grown? But newly Married must we part so soon? Why from Embraces do we make such hast? This the first Kiss, and must it be the last? Scarce were you gone, but in my Father came; His Eyes spake Terror, and my Sisters shame; Turning his raging Eyes about, he spy'd The Sword unsheathed, and bloodless by my side. Does Linus live? he said, why is not he Silent in Death as all his Brethren be? He vow'd that I was to my Sires disgrace, And swore that I should die in Linus place. 'Tis true, my Sisters have their Husbands slain, And only I the guiltless Wife remain: Let my dread Sisters in their fury rave, And make the Marriage Bed a dismal Grave;

Who can with unrelenting Eyes desire, To see their Husbands by their sides expire, And make the Marriage Torch a Funeral Fire. Can I more fierce than Wolves or Tygers prove, In that soft Bed, which was design'd for Love? Can my weak Hands lift up the pointed Steel, Against that Breast? Can I a Husband kill? Whilest he, poor innocent, does sleep so fast, Must wake no more, but slumber out his last? Let fatal Lovers their keen Poniards take, And on themselves their bloody Vengeance wreak: Yet fame shan't say, with unrelenting Steel, Sad Hypermnestra did her Husband kill. How my cold Limbs with trembling Terror shook, When in my Hand the Fatal Sword I took? I held it o're thy Breast, aim'd at thy Heart; But mine, alas! did only feel the smart. My trembling Hand made me the Body miss, And for a deadly Wound I gave a Kiss. Must fatal deeds appease the angry Skies? A Husbands Blood's too dear a Sacrifice. Good natur'd Man! he meant no Death for me; Shall I both Cruel and Unconstant be?

Had I been nurst in some wild Desart place, Sprung of a Lyon or a Tygers Race; So that in all my Life I ne're did see The gentle Rules of soft Humanity, I from the Marriage Bed might bear away The guilt of those that do their Husbands slay: But you, kind Heavens! have given me a Soul, That Malice cann't deceive, nor Fraud controul; Fixt as your Bolts, it never shall remove, From Rules of Honour, and from Laws of Love. Though the keen Sword present unto my sight, The coming Terrors of Eternal Night; I still will live my Linus dearest Wife, And thank the Fate that rids me of my Life.

And now, my Dearest, if you chance to hear These sadder Groans the raging Storms bear: If once this Letter be so blest to come To your Aboade, your melancholy Home; Kiss the lamenting Paper, and then make Some mournful Obsequies for your Wife's sake.

CORINNA TO PHILOCLES.

The ARGUMENT.

Philocles, a Swain of Sicily, falling in Love with the beauteous Corinna, a Nymph of the Plain (after Mutual Vows of Constancy) gets her with Child, and then flies into Scythia; whereupon she writes him the following Letter.

TO thee, Dear Philocles, to thee I send, The much abus'd Corinna's faithless Friend. Scythia, a Sanctuary sure allows For broken Oaths, and unregarded Vows. Ah, perjur'd Youth! to leave those dearest Arms, He once confest were mere Circean Charms!

Cast at my Feet he oft would panting lie. While growing Love did turn to Ecstasie: Pensive he look'd, he groan'd, he breath'd forth sighs; Sad was his Heart, and languishing his Eyes. Grown Drunk with gazing, he would reeling stand, And, drown'd in Raptures, kiss my charming Hand: Then all in Passions, by the Gods he swore, I was his Saint, and me he would adore. Before our Friends he unseen looks would take, And undiscerned assignations make: Duty to them would make him words refrain, But's Eye made Love in a fur nobler strain. His Eyes grown languid, did soft Vows im∣part: (The Eye's the natural Index of the Heart) Yet after Vows and Tears he Faithless proves; The just result of our too conscious Loves. When to the silent Groves Corinna hies, Those guilty Scenes of our once dearest joys; Here I can find no sweets, nor wonted ease, But sadly mourn my absent Philocles.

Down to the spreading Beech I go, whose boughs Have oft bore witness of our mutual Vows: There see our names upon the paler Rind, In Amorous Characters together joyn'd: By annual growth, the Names now distant show; Ah! must the Lovers be at distance too? Relentless Fate! in vain do Mortals grieve, And chide at Destiny they cann't retrieve. Who could have thought our joys so fresh and green, So big with Love, had ever Mortal been? Uninterrupted sweets ran rowling by, In boundless days, like vast Eternity. No hours big with Fate our rest annoys, Nor sudden change our unadulterate joys. Indulgent Nature strove with care to please The lov'd Corinna and her Philocles: Whilest he the lovely Swain did sit and sing, Beneath the pleasures of the blooming Spring. The neighbouring Swains lay silent on the Plain; And Philomel did chant her Lays in vain: Down goes his Pipe, and qualms of Love come on: (Then Mixing Vows and Kisses all in one)

Ah! tender Nymph, he said, was beauty given; (Beauty the chiefest Gift of bounteous Heaven) To die like yielding flowers before the Sun, And give no scent before its race be run? Ah! lovely Mistress of my kindest fires, Who in my active Soul beget'st desires; Bless with a smile my melancholy hours, And I Eternally am stiled yours. Ah! cruel fair One, smile! and smiling say, My anxious days you will with Love repay. And here I smiling said, (for who cold hold, When ravish'd looks the Heart's lov'd message told) "Know, Philocles, your Love I've always seen, "And e're this time it had rewarded been. "With gazing Eyes I oft your form did view; "When you were sick I sympathiz'd with you: "But Love-sick Maids will any thing endure; "Refuse the Physick, though they love the Cure. "But now I find, in vain I long have strove; "Excuse me, if I blushing say, I Love. "Take no advantage 'ore my weak replyes; "In silence cherish a poor Virgins sighs.

Then here he swore, by all the Powers Divine, He wou'd be always True, be always Mine. But, Ah! says he, How weak the Joy does prove, If we still rest on that slight Thing, call'd Love? Sighs are but Airy Blasts, that move the Heart, And drive the winged downy Cupid's Dart. Kisses are empty Prologues to the Play, And, like the Morning Dew, soon melt away. Ah! 'tis Enjoyment must our Souls inspire, And prove the Vigour of our Youthful Fire. Tell me, sweet Maid, How blessed Venus sped With all the Pleasures of the Genial Bed, When she Adonis drew unto her Breast, And, with stoln Joys, the Youthful Lover blest? This was a better Act, and pleas'd her more, Than, o're rude Hills, to see him chase the Boar. If Languid Looks were all Love's Mystery, The Dead, in Tombs, might court as well as we. Yield, Beauteous Virgin, ere the Time comes on, When nought but the Desire shall fresh remain; Ere fumbling Age shall soberer things perswade, And you be call'd that hated thing, Old Maid. Yield, yield, I say.—But here I stopt his Speech, And, with alluring Words, did him beseech,

Never again that impious Passion name, So vilely great, and so adulterous flame, The just procurer of our future shame. Thus the Almighty Gods will angry be, And who can brook a thundring Deity? Oh! Mention not the Gods, he says, for they In amorous sports do pass whole years away. No Mortal here on Earth, or God above, Is such a Lecher as Almighty Jove. Great rampant Whores, Punks lewd and over∣grown, And sprawling Bastards do surround his Throne. Out from unlawful Beds the Heavenly Race Did spring, and ever since have lov'd the place. We never yet have wicked Lovers been; None but the guilty should lament for Sin. How many sweets we lose, and dear delights, While the dull Priest performs the Nuptial Rites: And silly Children grieve their Parents mind, And fret themselves when Nuptial knots they bind. Happy Macareus, who didst gladly prove, The pleasing joy of an incestuous Love;

To toy with Canace would slily creep, When storms had rock't his Windy Sire asleep. For this she never sigh'd, though she did mourn His tedious absence, and his wish'd return: But e're I leave my Mistress and my Dear, The Gods shall come and shall inhabit here. Come down, ye Gods, from Heavenly Seats come down! The perjur'd Swain is from his Mistris gone, And left a Teeming wretch to sigh alone. Think, lov'd Apostate, how this tender Child, And his sad Mother you have thus beguil'd. Methinks his Infant voice does screeching cry, In my loath'd Womb, his and my Misery: My Child-bed Throes come on, yet I take care Of seeing thee, my Faithless Wanderer. When drousie Night comes on, all Creatures fly To sweet repose, yet restless still am I. One Night the drousie God came to my Bed, And with soft slumber did my Temples spread: Senseless I lay, as if I had been dead. Just as sick Lovers use, a pleasing Dream Came softly on, and for its lovely Theam, Before mine Eyes thy faithless Image came.

Feeble with Love; my utmost force I try'd, To lay the airy Phantome by my side: But strugling hard, a parting Kiss it drew, And from my Arms my empty Lover flew. But when I wak'd, the Sun had deck'd my Bed, And with the Night my sleepy Vision fled. Good Gods! I cry'd, is this the bliss we prove? This, this the promis'd Joy of Cupid's Love? Then grown distracted, in my rage I tare The golden Locks of my once lovely Hair: Whil'st in my dismal Breast fear meets with fears, I wash my Lilly Hands in briny Tears: You may believe't, my Eyes are watry still; And, while I write, upon my Paper spill Their liquid Juice: A Juice well known to me, Yet such as Lovers never care to see. Why do I weep, when woe is past relief; But there's a certain pleasure found in grief. ▪Tis vain to speak to Woods and Rocks, 'tis vain To cry to thee who 'rt harder, perjur'd Swain: Yet read these Lines, read 'em as sent by me; The only Legacy I leave to thee. When unconfin'd at Liberty you rome, Think on the wretched Nymph you've left at home▪

And when to windy Mountains you repair, Waft one kind sigh to poor Corinna here. Whil'st thou dost Scythia's Frost and Snow dis∣cover, (The fittest Climate for so cold a Lover) Think how in scorching Love at home I burn, And all the Night thy much loath'd absence mourn. Thy tatter'd Flocks lie moaning 'ore the Plains; A prey to greedy Wolves, and Pirate Swains: Thy lowing Herds, by thee once lov'd so well, In hoarser moans their Master's absence tell: Scorch'd by the Summers heat, while these expire, I die, I die, by no less scorching fire. If to this Country▪ you shall chance to come, And view again your melancholy home, Here you'll behold your dear Corinna's Tomb. Then to my Tomb one tender sigh commit, Unless your Heart be grown as hard as it. Then write upon my Tomb, my Ghost t'appease, Here lies Corinna, kill'd by Philocles.

CLEOPATRA TO ANTHONY.

The ARGUMENT.

Anthony having lost most of his Men and Arms, is like to be overcome by Caesar: Ventidius pro∣mises his Parthian Army, consisting of Twelve Legions. The Souldiers refuse to fight, because, they say, they only fight for Cleopatra; who was the Cause of Anthony's losing so many Battles. Anthony, drawn by the Importunity of Ventidi∣us, and the Necessity of repairing his Honour on One side; and obliged to stay by the Charms and Soothing of Cleopatra on the Other, is doubt∣ful whether he shall submit to Love or Honour: Resolves, at last, to regain his former Trophies; and gives out, he is going to fight Caesar. Cleo∣patra hearing this ill News, sends him the follow∣ing Letter.

AND will you go, my Souldier, to the Wars? Leave harmless Combats, Love's tumul∣tuous Jarrs?

Can you in Winter-Nights more safely rest On Beds of Steel, than Cleopatra's Breast? A greater Bliss, my Mars, it cannot be, To Fight with Caesar, than to Toy with Me. But why should I my Counsel thus afford (My Discontented, and my Angry Lord) To You? Yet sure, in Justice, you should view Your dearest Mistress, bid one kind Adieu. Did you but know the Fears that vex my Mind, You would, my Lord, you would, you would be kind. Pensive I lie, depress'd by Ominous Fate; And all the Ills on the Unhappy wait. I know Venridius frowns, and says, That I Am the Contriver of your Destiny. I counsel'd you to fight at Sea; you did: I from the Fight a frightful Woman fled. Oh! had I been a Man, a Heart like Yours, I never then had fled from Caesar's Powers, I grant all this; yet challenge you to tell, Did you e're know a Woman love so well? To me, when Young, my Nurse would often say, Thy tender Limbs are made for Love and Play▪

Noble Ambition does attend the Fair; And handsom Ladies still presumptuous are: But my Presumption, surely, none can blame; Or term my Loving an Ambitious Flame. No Magick Spells, or Philtre's do I prove, By which Medea got her Jason's Love. Our softest Joys no Hydra Serpents yield; You, with rough Bulls, ne're plough the Flinty Field. 'Tis to my Eyes my fatal Conquest's due; 'Twere they perswaded, and they charmed you. Yours fixt on Mine for ever seem'd to Live; Then you were kind, and easie to forgive. I value not your Wealth, nor your Disdain; Only return the Love I gave, again. The Rabble say, I with your Foes accord; Betray your Country, and betray my Lord: Witness, ye Gods! how I have kept my Vows; My plighted Oaths, and all my Faith allows! Witness ye Scenes of Joy, that we have seen, That I am True, and still have Constant been! True to your Bed; Why then should perjur'd Fate Perswade you, I am false unto the State?

And what with Politicks should Women do? They to Love's Onacles should pay their due, And to their Lords be Constant still, and True. Fie, Anthony! Are these your Vows? You swore By your dead Sire, whose Image then you bore, You swore, you did, that I should bear the sway; Your Heart was mine, and Me you would obey, Ventidius flatters you with Hopes of Fame; And says, From War you'll raise a lasting Name: Bids you take noble War for rusty Peace, And Fields of Honour for Inglorious Ease: Feel Juno's Rage, and Jove's important Ire; His bluest Thunder, and his palest Fire. But yet, How light does Fame and Honour prove, Put in the Ballance with immortal Love? Love, at whose Altars mighty Monarchs fall; And tender Love ought to bear sway in all. Let Souldiers Fight, and Tyrants Kings subdue, And greatly strutt amongst the Martial Crew: In Conquer'd Fields their Monuments may raise, And write in Bloody Letters all their Praise: Heav'ns grant us Peace, and crown with Mirth our Days.

Can you a greater Fame or Conquest win, Than that already you have got, a Queen: And were I not a Queen, I could despise Your gawdy Shows, and Roman Gallantries. I to my Native Splendor could repeat; For Pageant Pomp does still attend the Great. 'Tis Love that makes me act the Things I do; Makes me demean my self, to look on You. I (when in Aegypt) had a Thousand Eyes Were constant Slaves; for You I all despise. When I upon the Silver-Cydnos Row'd, You on the Shoar, How solemnly you bow'd? I mark't your Motion to the Neighbouring Grove: It seem'd distracted, all confus'd with Love. With longing Eyes upon the Shoar you stand, And press, among the Crowd, to see me land. I entertain'd your Passion, Lov'd you too; And, Heaven knows, advanc'd more than my due: I cherish't all your Love 'twixt Hope and Fear; For Cleopatra then was Caesar's Dear: Yet leaving him, to your Embraces run; And fondly sought the way to be undone.

Now you'll leave me amidst my Envious Foes; Your self to Dangers, and to Death expose: Your plighted Oaths, and Faith you bear away; If Love won't do, then I command you, stay.

Translations OUT OF HORACE.

BOOK II. ODE 14.

Eheu, fugaces, Posthume, Posthume, Labuntur anni, &c.

I.

AH Posthumus! How quick our years Do slide away! The winged hours for none will stay, Virtue, that always pillars rears, Eternal Monuments of Fame, Leaving behind a lasting Name, To her best Friend it can no time allow, Or keep deep Furrows from his aged brow.

II.

Should'st thou a thousand Bribes, as Offrings bring, To the I••fer••al King 'Twould move no pity in his hardh'd Breast; 'Twould give thy weary Soul no rest. He the bold Stygian water aws: He gives to Gerion and to Titius Laws. Ah sooty Lake thy waves, alas. We all or soon or late must pass.

III.

All the bold Mortals, that do sport On Earths round Globe, From the base Rabble to the Court; From Plush and ErminsIto the homely Robe, Must all descend to Charon's Boat, and be Wasted by him to vast Eternity.

IV.

In vain we Martial fury shun; In vain from swelling Waves we run; In vain we fear the ominous time; Of sickly Autumns prime.

Down to the gloomy shore we soon must go; Through Pitchy Waves must row, To dread Cacytus, that amazing shoar, Where Danaus wicked race does roar, And Sysiphus does roll his Stone In endless grief, alone.

V.

Thou soon thy pleasant Lands no more, shalt view; To thy dear smiling Wife shalt bid a long adieu. Nought of thy shady Groves with thee shall go, But the sad Cypress, that does mourning show. Thy nobler Heir with joy shall spend All thou didst save, and Feast his Friend; And wash the Stones with better Wine Than that which makes the Bishops ruby Noses shine.

BOOK II. ODE 4.

Ne sit ancillae tibi amor pudori, Xanthia Phoreu, &c.

I.

TO love a Serving-Maid no Sin can be: Servants to us in Love are free. The rough Achilles fell in Love With the white Skin'd Briseis, and did prove Her humble Servant, once her lofty Lord. The Son of Telamon, so fam'd in War, His Female Slave ador'd. A Girle fair Was all the great Atrides did esteem, Of all the Wealth and Victories got by him.

II.

How canst thou tell but that fair Phillis may Be born of as noble clay As that which makes those Pageants we call Kingst Thou know'st not but she springs

From a great Regal Line; And weeps because the Gods have cast her down: Believe me, Phocus, she deserves a Crown. She needs must be Divine; She, who no breach of Oaths did ever know, Who for an honest fame could wealth for-go, Must needs of some high Parentage be born. I, whom Age doth seize With its incurable Disease: I, who all wanton wishes scorn, Admire her Face, her Arms, and every Limb, And think it worth my just esteem.

BOOK II. ODE 16.

Otium Divos rogat in patenti Prensus Aegeo, &c.

I.

WHen the poor Mariner can nought espie But Sea and Skie, Caught in the large Aegean Waves, The dismal Clouds chasing away the Day; The waining Moon no Light does give, The guiding Lamps of Heaven are gone away; Then the poor Merchant prays the Gods to live, Peace, cry the Thracians, lame with War, The Medes as quiet as their Quivers are, Would be. But Peace, alas! is sold Not for rich gems, nor Purple, nor for Gold.

II.

'Tis not, Oh Grosphus! treasures great Can make perplexing care retreat;

'Tis not the Spears, with Horses joyn'd, Remove the tumults of the Mind; Or drive the busie thoughts from off ones Bed. His Mite a Million is, who lives so well, As no base Fear molests his sleep: No great Ambition does disturb his Head, Whose Board with homely Dainties doth excell, Above a King's desire; Set off with one old Salt, that once did grace his Sire.

III.

Why for Eternal Pleasures do we strive, In a decaying mortal life? Why must our station be remov'd From that dear Country once we lov'd? Why do we seek another Air, And leave our Native Land? The change of Climates does not change our care: Who aws a Nation can't himself command. Care, from the sturdy Ships won't keep adoof, Though they were all of Canon proof: The Card, the Compass, Helm and all the Art That Neptunes briny Subjects know, Perplexes the poor Seamans Heart:

Sometimes he dreads the Rock, and then the Seas, And knows not where to go. Fear trips it faster than frightn'd Hind, Flies with more hast than the rough Easter Wind, To rob a Mind of Ease.

IV.

He that at present has a joyful Mind, Ne're thinks on what's to come: He scorns to think on things that are not made, Without a Being are in Chaos laid. What pleasure can he find To dream of future care, or think of future ease? He keeps his pleasant home, And mixes his sad thoughts with those that please. None that the Gods have blest we happy call; For whom they happy made, was never blest in all. How soon the great Achilles did to Death Yield his departing Breath? How soon Death took him hence, Who had Millions slew? Soon did old Tython bid his House adieu: His snowie Hairs cou'd not their wearer save,

From the inexorable Grave: What is deni'd to thee, to me may fall by chance.

V.

Thou tell'st thy hundred Flocks of bleating Sheep, Art pleas'd when thy Sicilian Heisers low: No Musick is so good, As Neighing Mares, that rattle through the Wood: Thou in bright Tissues, in deep red dost go; When the good natur'd Gods have given me, A Soul of Verse, a Poets name, That's writ on the chief Pinnacle of Fame; A Heart from all perplexing Passions free: Free from the Cowards cold, and Madman's Heat▪ But scorns the Vulgar, and contems the great.

BOOK III. ODE 9.

Donec gratus eram tibi Nec quis quam, &c.

A DIALOGUE BETWIXT HORACE and LYDIA.

HORACE.

WHen I alone my Mistress did enjoy, When She was kindly free, not vilely coy, When no smooth Lad about her Neck did cling; I vy'd in pleasure with the Persian King.

LYDIA.

When you no Beauty lov'd but only mine, And Lydia was no slave to Chloe's shrine,

Then fairest Lydia had a lasting Name, Preceded Ilia in the rank of Fame.

HORACE.

The Thracian Chloe now has got my Heart, Sweet at her Lute, excelling in her Art: For whose dear sake I joyfully would die, If I might gain the living Maid thereby.

LYDIA.

Calys, Ornitho's Son, a worthy Name, Scorches my Heart with no unequal flame: For whom I would a double Death enjoy, If Heaven would give me the surviving Boy.

HORACE.

What now if Venus should the game retrieve, And Marriage bonds betwixt us two should give? If I should hate fair Chloes Aubourn Hair, And ope' the Gate to Lydia, as my Dear?

LYDIA.

Though thou wert wilder than the raging Sea, And he as beauteous as the Milky-way; Thou angry as the Seas that threat the Skie, In thy lov'd bosom I would live and die.

ODE.

I.

AND why in red dost thou appear? Heavens! how you look, and how I gaze? Can you the Martial Livery wear, And with it tread the Lovers Maze? Though red and furious you are seen, I'm sure you're white and kind within.

II.

For you I sigh, I grieve alone; Give me your Heart to ease my pain; I'll kindly mark it for mine own, And give it back to you again: Free from times blot, my Name shall rest, Enroll'd so safe within your Breast.

ODE.

I.

CUrse on your Friends! Why should they interpose? I never sought their Love: And if my Loving you they disapprove; You say, You Love, and you I chose. Base, awkard Sots! To tell of Blood and Name, And Titles, and Estate, and talk of Fame; Things not worth the having; Of which Young Lovers never have a Thought: Though they by Fools are dearly bought, They are not worth the saving.

II.

Would you that Young tawdry Cockscomb wed, Your Father so admires? No; bind him to your Waiting-Maid, She's fit for his Desires.

I grant him store of Wealth, and I have none; But yet my Wit will last, when all his Money's gone. Poor silly Fool! Must he my Rival be, 'Cause he's set off with gawdy Shows, Lace, Ribbons, and fine colour'd Cloaths? And this is all his Equipage and Worth. I too will dress my Sword, and set it forth In the new fashion'd Pedantry; It shall make Love as well, nay, better far than he.

III.

Let the old Fumblers dote at home, And make long Baggs for whom they please; In wanton Joys young Lovers roam, And Fancies crosses still their Ease. Friendship and Love all Tyes will break, And will, from Nature, License seek. Why then, Dear Caelia, should your Friends make such ado About your Joynture, and your Portion given? Which, if once done, ere 'tis obtain'd by You, Their Souls will be either in Hell or Heaven.

Ne're think of Wealth, and painted Joys, That please the Men, and cheat the Boys: The same to All's the God of Love; All Affections he does move; Over all he spreads his Wings, Making Beggars equal Kings. Ne're from his Dictates then remove; But give your Person where you gave your Love.

ODE.

I.

WEll; Caelia's Married! If she be, I do not care, Since some unmarried are. I thought, at first, my Love could never die; But now I find it otherwise. When Fuel's taken from the Fire, How soon the hottest Flame in gloomy Darkness dies? Smoak puts out Flame, Marriage Desire; All things must wait The Revolution of their Fate. The Gods for us decree, and we for them obey; They manage us like Engines, They the First Mo∣vers are; We move in a Circumscribed Sphere: They make the Night, and They the Day:

They manage Love, and Leagues command: They make those Vows above, to which we Mor∣tals set our Hand.

II.

Did Caelia think, she anger'd me, When she forsook her Vow? No; such a Sot I ne're could be, To die in Love for You. Mad Men upon themselves their Poniards prove; I am not Mad, for I am not in Love. Shall I in some dark Corner die alone, 'Cause I have lost a Faithless One? No, Madam, Thanks to you, my Heart is grown As hard as any Stone: And it has the Attractive Virtue too; It draws a Thousand Beauties to it every Day, Clear as the Sun, and sweet as May; And, in my Eyes, more Bright than You.

III.

Now, Heavens be prais'd, I'm free! And thank my Mistress for my Goal-Delivery.

Like some poor Prisoner, from a Tyrant got, I'm surfeited with Ease. Sun-Shine of Beauty was too hot; But now, being to the Shadow got, I find that Love was a Disease. Now shall I, as your Gallants do, Rail at her, that me forsook, In whose Words I Pleasure took; Curse her, cause she is untrue: No; that's beneath a Man, much less a Lover, His own dear Love to hide, or Mistress Crimes discovers.

ODE.

YOU merry Virgins, mad Maids, Of busie London Town, Abuse the Country sad Maids, And every Rusty Clown: Your Beauties all shall wither, You Bawds and Whores together. For if your Painting Were but wanting, Where would your Beauty be? The Glances of your Eyes, By which you do surprize, Are all to Art, not Nature, due: All your Charms are untrue; Your faithless Vows do with your Paint agree.

ODE.

I.

WHere discontented Lovers walk, Hard by the glyding Brooks, and smi∣ling Springs, And mournfully together talk Of Love's vain Joys, and fruitless Things: Here I once scorcht by Heat of Love and Day, Cupid and Phoebus both my Ruine meant. I, chiding Fortune, here expiring lay: Alas! cry'd I; What means she now to do? Am I her Prisoner, and her Exile too? Come, Savage Tygers, come! and quickly tear This dismal gloomy Breast, By Tyrannous Love opprest; Come quick, and all your cruel Tortures show: But, when you find my Heart, I charge you, spare Her Image there, Though she be crueller than you, And thus I cry'd; And thus sad Echo soon reply'd:

Enough, enough of Lover's Pain; Poor wretched Mortal, thou hast spent in vain Enough of fruitless Pain.

II.

Then on the Grass I lay me down again: Sleep, sleep, I cry'd; Sleep, wretched Mortal here! Eternal Thoughts of Joy begets Despair, And foolish Loving ever is a Pain.

Could thou enjoy thy scornful Dear, Soon She must part from Thee, or Thou from Her. See yonder Amorous Waters, how they sport,

And the coy Bank, their Mistress, court; And though they would in long Embraces stay, They only kiss the Banks, and glide away. Of Thee, my Dear, but one soft Smile I crave; And those that Love like me, so small a Gift may have.

And thus I cry'd; And thus sad Echo soon reply'd: Enough, enough of Lover's Pain; Poor wretched Mortal, thou hast spent in vain Enough of fruitless Pain.

A LETTER TO A FRIEND.

THanks for your Praises! were they due, I wou'd Pamper my self with Joy, and think 'em Good. Loaden with Laurels for mine unknown Art, You paint me Great, although beneath Desert. But if Maecenas had a lasting Fame, Because the best of Poets us'd his Name; Then Merit justly may to me belong, Because 'tis sung by your all-skilful Tongue. Oft have I blam'd my Stars, that I should be Plagu'd with this soft deluding Poetry▪ This Charming Mistress, that has kept my Heart, Quite from a Child, by her bewitching Art.

From her glad Fountain I can always find A pleasing Philtre to make Phillis kind: For tell me that coy Maid could ever be Cruel, when urg'd by Charming Poesie? Verse is the Poet's Beauty, Wealth and Wit; And what soft Virgin won't be won by it? But, wearied with Delight, I always try Against this Spell to find a Remedy. By good Divinity I think to find A Soveraign Remedy for Soul and Mind: But then, with Holy Flame, I strait do burn, And all to Hymns, and Sacred Anthems turn. Nay, when the Night does waking Thoughts re∣dress, And Guardian Angels with our Souls converse, To busie Mortals is the sleeping Time; I dream and slumber all the Night in Rhyme. Then puzling Logick next I take in hand; But this, Alas! can't Poesie withstand. Barbara, Celerent, I with Ease express, And yoke tough Ergo's into well-made Verse: My Faithless Lover's Syllogism tries; I by stout Logick find their Fallacies.

Then Scheibler, Suarez, Bellarmine I get, And sound the depth of Metaphysick wit: Streight, in a fret, I damn 'em all at once, And vow they are as dull as Zabarel or Dunce.

Credit me, Sir, no greater plague can be, Than to be poison'd with mad Poetrie: Like Pocky Letchers, who have got a Clap, And paid the Doctor for the dear mishap; But newly eased of their nausceous pain, Return to their wanton Sin again. So Poets be they plague'd with naughty Verse, They never value good nor bad success: Or be they trebly damn'd, they will prefer Their next vile scribling to the Theater. Well might the Audience, with their hisses, damn The Bawdy Sot that late wrote Limberham: But yet you see, the Stage he will command, And hold the Laurel in's polluted Hand. In slothful ease, a while I took delight, And thought all Poets mad that us'd to write. So long I kept from Verse, I thought I'd lost My Versing Vein, and of my Fortune boast: But having tryal made, I quickly found My store renew'd, in numbers strong and sound.

With ease my happy fancies come and go, As Rivulets do from Parnassus flow. Then finding that in vain I long had try'd The Poet from the Tutchin to divide; I charming Poesie make my delight, And propagate the humor still to Write.

Our new Divines do alter not one jot, From what their Tribe in older times have wrot; Except, like Parker, to have something new, They broach new Doctrines, either false or true: A Publick Conscience, which for nought does pass, But proves the Writer is a publick Ass; Who the new Philosophick world have told, Have for a new but varnish'd o're the old. But all Poetick Phancy can't draw dry, Th' unfathom'd Wells of deepest Poesie, The Bifront Hill is always stout and strong; The Muses still are handsome, always young, The clearest streams of Chrystal Helicon Do o're the Pebles in sweet Rhymings run, Why then should you, Dear Sir, (that have pre∣tence To the extreamest bounds of Wit and Sense)

Lay by your Quills and hold your Tune-ful, Tongue, While all the witty want your pleasing Song? Once more renew those Lays that gave delight, That chear the Day, and glad the gloomy Night: May with your dying breath your Verses end; Thus prays your constant, and

Your truest Friend, J. T.

ON THE DEATH OF M^RS E. P.

Who Died of the SMALL-POX.

I.

A Dreadful day it was, a lowring time, Nature appear'd in black, a Mourner too; When first I heard the Message read, The doleful Message, that my Friend was dead. Weep on ye Clouds, weep on till you grow dry, At least as free from Tears as I: Who'd lavish'd all my stock before, And wept, till I could weep no more, For Sylvia fled to the Elysian Shore.

II.

Scarce was lov'd Sylvia Buried; Scarce had I Clear'd up my Eyes, and wipe'd 'em dry, But loe! another Bill of Fate appears, Black as the Night, and all be-dropt with Tears: It told, (Oh, that I ne're had heard it told!) How my best Friend was gone; How pinnion'd, like a Dove, she fled, And drove the beauteous Aether on, Till she had forc'd her passage to the Immortal Dead.

III.

Hail, Sacred Maid; for sure we know, Thou art the same above thou wast below. Mistaken Mortals! so unjust, unkind; While thou wer't here we thought thee Woman∣kind, And call'd thee so; but now thou'rt gone, What shall we do to recompence? How shall we this impiety atone? How oft have we blasphem'd thy Name, And said, she's humane frame? Ah, dire Mistake! in our dull acts of Sense.

IV.

'Tis true, thou hadst a Body, but it was Clearer than transparent Glass; Through which thy Virtue did appear: The gawdy pleasure of the blooming Year, Was never half so fair. Ah, ungentile Disease! to take thee hence; To crop this flower, e're 't cou'd enough dispence The sweets of Wit, and solid fruits of Sense.

V.

So does some God-like Hero walk among The crowded pressing of the Mortal throng: Th' illiterate crowd knows not his real worth, Or what immortal power brought him forth: Sees not, through homely weeds, his Souls array; Mistakes his Heavenly Frame for common Clay. Unprais'd, unenvy'd, for a time does roam, 'Till kinder Heaven does take the God-like Crea∣ture home.

VI.

She, like a Comet, was but shown; A beauteous Comet in the glorious Skies,

To tell the World the Events of Fate; The falls of Crowns, and overthrows of State: But e're the Omens are entirely done, See, in the dark, the Constellation dies! Too bright for Mortal Eyes to gaze upon.

VII.

How soon the Good do spend their days? How fast their downy hours post along? The Bad their Monuments do raise, And fill their time with Mirth and Song. Goodness and real worth one day can't give; She from this lightsome world had never gone away, If solid Virtue could have brib'd her stay: For all that we call good or great, In her assum'd a glorious Seat; And with her too, I doubt they went, Except some Female did their flight prevent.

VIII.

The Monster Man long since has worn out His rags of Virtue, which he did retain: In Goodness weak, in Villanies grown stout; He vows he'll ne're be good again.

Stupid he lyes, and senseless in his Vice; He shar'd the Fall in Sin, but not in Virtues Rise. Woman alone does climb the Holy Hill; But Man below remains a Devil still: They ne're expect in Heaven a room, Only good Poets and good Women thither come.

IX.

Blest Maid! once more accept my tuneless Verse, Which does in link't proportion not agree: No Poet ever trod this Path, no Woman ever liv'd like thee. Rude and unthought, I must my grief express; Soft Words and tuneful Notes were here unfit, For Grief of Harmony cou'd ne're admit.