Miscellany poems upon several occasions consisting of original poems / by the late Duke of Buckingham, Mr. Cowly, Mr. Milton, Mr. Prior, Mrs. Behn, Mr. Tho. Brown, &c. ; and the translations from Horace, Persius, Petronius Arbiter, &c. ; with an essay upon satyr, by the famous M. Dacier.

POEMS, &c.

A Letter from Mr. Prior, to Mr. Fleetwood Sheppard.

SIR,

AS once a Twelve month to the Priest, Whom some call Pope, some Antichrist, The Spanish Monarch sends a Gennet, To shew his Love, that's all that's in it: For if his Holiness would thump His Rev'rend Bum 'gainst Horses Rump, He might be 'quip'd from his own Stable With one more White, and eke more able.

Or as with Gondola's and Men, his Good Excellence the Duke of Venice, (I wish for Rhime 'thad been the King) Sails out, and gives the Sea a Ring: Which Trick of State he wisely maintains, Keeps Kindness up 'twixt old Acquaintance; For else, in honest Truth, the Sea Has much less need of Gold than he. Or, not to rove and pump ones Fancy, For Popish Similies beyond Sea; As Folks from Mud-wall'd Tenement Bring Land-Lords Pepper-Corn for Rent, Present a Turkey or a Hen To those might better spare them Ten: Ev'n so, with all Submission, I (For first Men instance, than apply) Send you each Year a homely Letter, Who may return me much a better.

Then take it, Sir, as it was writ, To pay Respect, and not show Wit: Nor look askew at what it saith, There's no Petition in it—Faith. Here some would scratch their Heads and try What they should write, and how, and why; But I conceive such Folks are quite in Mistakes, in Theory of Writing: If once for Principles 'tis laid That Thought is Trouble to the Head; I argue thus, the World agrees, That he writes well, who writes with Ease; Then he, by Sequel Logical, Writes best, who never thinks at all. Verse comes from Heav'n, like Inward Light, Meer Human Pains can ne're come by it. The God, not we, the Poem makes, We only tell Folks what he Speaks.

Hence when Anatomists discourse How like Brutes Organs are to ours; They grant, if higher Powers think fit, A Bear might soon be made a Wit: And that, for any thing in Nature, Pigs might squeak Love-Odes, Dogs bark Satyr. Memnon, tho' Stone, was counted Vocal, But 'twas the God, mean while, that spoke all. Rome oft' has heard a Cross haranguing, With prompting Priest behind the Hanging; The Wooden Head resolv'd the Question, Whilst you and Pettys help'd the Jest on. Your crabbed Rogues that read Lucretius, Are against Gods, you know, and teach us, The God makes not the Poet, but The Thesis vice versa put Should Hebrew-wise be understood, And means the Poet makes the God.

Egyptian Gard'ners thus are said to Have set the Leeks they after pray'd to: And Romish Bakers praise the Deity They chip'd, whilst yet in it's Paniety. That when you Poets Swear and Cry The God Inspires, I rave, I die; If inward Wind does truly swell ye, 'Tmust be the Colick in the Belly. That Writing is but just like Dice, And lucky Mains make People Wise: That jumbled Words, If Fortune throw 'em, Can well as Dryden form a Poem; Or make a Speech correct and witty, As you know who—at the Committee: So Atoms dancing round the Centre, They urge, form'd all things at a venture. But granting Matters should be spoke By Method rather than by Luck,

This may confine their younger Styles, Whom Dr—n pedagogues at Wills: But never could be meant to tye Authentick Wits, like you and I: For as young Children who are try'd in Go Carts to keep their Steps from Sliding; When Members knit, and Legs grow stronger, Make use of such Machine no longer, But leap, pro libitu, and scout On Horse call'd Hobby, or without: So when at School we first declaim, Old Busby walks us in a Theme, Whose Props support our Infant Vein, And help the Rickets in the Brain: But when our Souls their Force dilate, And Thoughts grow up to Wits Estate, In Verse or Prose we Write or Chat, Not Six Pence Matter upon what.

'Tis not how well a Writer says, But 'tis how much that gathers Praise: T—n, who is himself a Wit, Counts Authors Merits by the Sheet; Thus each should down with all he thinks, As Boys eat Bread to fill up Chinks. Kind Sir, I should be glad to see you, I hope you're well, so God be with y', Was all at first I thought to write, But Things since that are alter'd quite; Fancies flow in, and Muse flies high, So God knows when my Clack will lie; I must, Sir, prattle on as afore, And beg your Pardon yet this half Hour. So, where I've with my Gran'am gone, At Sacred Barne of pure Noncon— When Lobb has sifted all his Text, And I well hop'd the Pudding next,

The Rogue has cough'd up to'ther Hour, And to apply has plagu'd me more Than all his Villain Stuff before. For your Religion, then, I hear A very good Account of her; They say she's honest as your Claret, Not sowr'd with Cant, nor stum'd with Merit, Your Chamber is the sole retreat Of Chaplains ev'ry Sunday-Night, Of Grace no Doubt a certain Sign, When Lay-Man herds with Man Divine; For if their Fame be justly high, who Would never treat the Pope's Nuncio, That his is higher, we must grant, Who will treat Nuncio's Protestant. In Politicks, I hear, you'r stanch, Directly bent against the French, Deny to have your free-born Toe Dragoon'd into a Wooden Shoe,

Are in no Plots, but fairly drive at The Publick Welfare in your Private, And will for England's Glory try Turks, Iews and Iesuits, to defie, And keep your Places till you die. For me, whom wand'ring Fortune threw From what I lov'd, the Town and you, Let me just tell you how my Time is Past in a Country-Life—Imprimis. As soon as Phaebus's Rays inspect Us, I rise to Read, perhaps to Breakfast, So on till 'foresaid God does Set, I sometimes Study, sometimes Eat; Thus of your Heroes and Brave Boys, With whom Old Homer makes such Noise, The greatest Actions I can find, Are, that they did their Work and Din'd. The Books of which I'm chiefly fond, Are such as you have whilom con'd,

That Treat of China's Civil-Law, And Subjects Rights in Golconda: Of High-way Elephants at Ceylan, That Rob in Clans, like Men o'th' High Land. Of Apes that Storm or Keep a Town Better, perhaps, than Count Lausune: Of Unicorns and Alligators, Elks, Mermaids, Mummies, Witches, Satyrs, And Twenty other stranger Matters: Which, tho' they'r things I've no concern in, Make all our Grooms admire my Learning. Criticks I Read on other Men, And Hypers upon them again, From whose Remarks I give Opinion On Twenty Books, yet ne'r look in One: Then all your Wits that fleer and Sham, Down from Don Quixot to Tom Tram; From whom I Jeasts and Puns Purloin,

And slily put 'em off for Mine. Fond to be thought a Country-Wit, The rest when Fate and You think fit. Sometimes I climb my Mare, and kick her, To Bottled Ale, and Neighb'ring Vicar; Sometimes at Stamford take a Quart, 'Squire Sheppard's Health with all my Heart. Thus far from Pleasure, Sir, or Grief, I fool away an Idle Life, Till Mr. Maidwell cease to Teach, Then I'll Jerk Youth, and say Inspeech; Or Shadwell from the Town retires, Choak'd up with Fame and Sea-Coal-Fires, To bless the Woods with Peaceful Lyric, Then hey! for Praise and Panegyric; Justice restord, and Nations free'd, And Wreaths round William's Glorious Head.

HORACE, Lib. II. Ode 14. Imitated by Mr. Congreve.

Eheu Fugaces, Posthume, Posthume, Labuntur Anni, &c.

I.

AH! No, 'tis all in vain, believe me 'tis 'This Pious Artifice. Not all these Prayers and Alms, can Buy One Moment tow'rd Eternity. Eternity! that boundless Race, Which, Time himself can never run: (Swift, as he flies, with an unweari'd pace,) Which, when Ten Thousand, Thousand Years are done, Is still the same, and still to be begun. Fix'd are those Limits, which prescribe A short Extent to the most lasting Breath,

And though thou couldst for Sacrifice, lay down Millions of other Lives to save thine own; 'Twere fruitless all; not all would Bribe One Supernumerary Gasp from Death.

II.

In vain's thy Inexhausted Store Of Wealth, in vain thy Pow'r, Thy Honours, Titles; all must fail, Where Piety it self does nought avail. The Rich, the Great, the Innocent and Just, Must all be huddl'd to the Grave, With the most Vile and Ignominious Slave, And undistinguish'd lie in Dust. In vain, the Fearful, flies Alarms, In vain, he is secure, from wounds of Arms, In vain, avoids the Faithless Seas, And is confin'd to Home and Ease, Bounding his Knowledg, to extend his Days.

In vain, are all those Arts we try, All our Evasions, and Regret to Die: From the Contagion of Mortality, No Clime is pure, no Air is free: And no Retreat Is so Obscure, as to be hid from Fate.

III.

Thou must, alas! thou must my Friend; (The very Hour thou now dost spend In studying to avoid, brings on thine end,) Thou must forego the dearest Joys of Life; Leave the warm Bosome of thy tender Wife, And all the much lov'd Offspring of her Womb, To molder in the Cold Embraces of a Tomb. All must be left, and all be lost; Thy House, whose stately Structure so much cost,

Shall not afford Room for the stinking Carkass of its Lord. Of all thy pleasant Gardens, Grots, and Bowers, Thy Costly Fruits, thy far-fetch'd Plants and Flow'rs: Nought shalt thou save; Unless a Sprig of Rosemary thou have, To wither with thee in the Grave: The rest shall live and flourish, to upbraid Their Transitory Master Dead.

IV.

Then shall thy long-expecting Heir, A Joyful Mourning wear: And Riot in the waste of that Estate Which thou hast taken so much pains to get. All thy hid Stores he shall unsold, And set at large thy Captiv'd Gold.

That precious Wine, condemn'd by thee To Vaults and Prisons, shall again be free: Buried alive, tho' now it lies, Again't shall rise, Again its sparkling Surface show, And free as Element, profusely flow. With such choice Food he shall set forth his Feasts, That Cardinals shall wish to be his Guests; And pamper'd Prelates see Themselves out-done in Luxury.

An ODE, In imitation of HORACE, Ode IX. Lib. 1.

By Mr. CONGREVE.

Vides ut alta, &c.—

I.

BLess me, 'tis cold! how chill the Air? How naked does the World appear! But see (big with the Off-spring of the North) The teeming Clouds bring forth. A Show'r of soft and fleecy Rain, Falls, to new-cloath the Earth again. Behold the Mountain-Tops, around, As if with Fur of Ermins crown'd: And lo! how by degrees The universal Mantle hides the Trees,

In hoary Flakes, which downward fly, As if it were the Autumn of the Sky; Whose Fall of Leaf would theirs supply: Trembling, the Groves sustain the Weight, and bow Like aged Limbs, which feebly go Beneath a venerable Head of Snow.

II.

Diffusive Cold does the whole Earth invade, Like a Disease, through all its Veins 'tis spread, And each late living Stream, is num'd and dead; Lets melt the frozen Hours, make warm the Air. Let cheerful Fires Sol's feeble Beams repair; Fill the large Bowl with sparkling Wine; Let's drink, till our own Faces shine, Till we like Suns appear, To light and warm the Hemisphere. Wine can dispence to all both Light and Heat,

They are with Wine incorporate: That pow'rful Juice, with which no Cold dares mix, Which still is fluid, and no Frost can fix: Let that but in abundance flow, And let it storm and thunder, hail and snow, 'Tis Heav'ns Concern; and let it be The Care of Heaven still for me: These Winds, which rend the Oaks and plough the Seas; Great Iove can, if he please, With one commanding Nod appease.

III.

Seek not to know to Morrows Doom; That is not ours, which is to come. The present Moment's all our Store: The next, should Heav'n allow, Then this will be no more: So all our Life is but one instant Now.

Look on each Day you've past To be a mighty Treasure won: And lay each Moment out in haste; We're sure to live too fast, And cannot live too soon. Youth does a thousand Pleasures bring, Which from decrepid Age will fly; Sweets that wanton ith' Bosome of the Spring, In Winter's cold Embraces dye.

IV.

Now Love, that everlasting Boy, invites To revel while you may, in soft Delights: Now the kind Nymph yields all her Charms, Nor yields in vain to youthful Arms. Slowly she promises at Night to meet, But eagerly prevents the Hour with swifter Feet. To gloomy Groves and obscure Shades she flies,

There vails the bright Confession of her Eyes. Unwillingly she stays, VVould more unwillingly depart, And in soft Sighs conveys The Whispers of her Heart. Still she invites and still denies, And vows she'll leave you if y'are rude; Then from her Ravisher she flies, But flies to be pursu'd: If from his Sight she does herself convey, VVith a feign'd Laugh she will herself betray, And cunningly instruct him in the way.

Horace Ode 27, Book 1. imitated.

Natis in usum laetitiae Scyphis, &c.

WHat Boys, are ye mad? is the Dutch Devil in ye? Must your Quarrels as long as your Glasses con∣tinue? Give it o're, ye dull Sots! let the dull-pated Boors, Snic or snee, at their Punch-Bowls, or slash for their Whores, We'll be merry and wise, but for Bloodshed we bar it, No Red shall be seen here but your Port and good Claret.

What a P— should we fight for? No Bayonets here But the Sconces all round & the Bottles appear. Look, the Wine blushes for us! while it gent∣ly disgraces Our unnatural Freaks and our mortifi'd Faces. Come let's do what we came for! let the Brim∣mers be crown'd, And a Health to all quiet Good-fellows go round!

Must I take off my Glass too? then Iack prethee tell us Thy new Mistresses Name: What a Mischief art Jealous? Must her Name be a Secret? Alons then I've done, Hang the greedy Curmudgeon that will eat all alone. Come discover you Block-head! I'm sure I mistook ye, Or else in these Amours Iack was us'd to be lucky

Well, but whisper it then! I'll keep Counsel, ne'r fear it, Is it she? the damn'd Jilt! Gad let no Body hear it; Why, Faith Iack thou'rt undone then, 'twas some Witchcraft I'm sure Could betray thee to th' Arms of a Pockified Whore. Well, 'tis vain to repine Boy; let us drink away Sorrow, Use thy freedom to Night Man, let the Punk reign to Morrow.

To a Lady, who deny'd him Entrance into her Closet.

PArdon at least it merits, if not Praise, To this high Wish, our bold Desires to raise. For what Place more our longing Eyes can bless, Than that where you alone your self possess, Where in a calm and undisturb'd Retreat All your mild tender Thoughts together meet, And Love and Innocence each other greet? Here some unhappy Virgin's Fate you read, And your soft Soul with her sad Story feed: Admire the Truth which she, tho' injur'd, bears, And praise the mournful Beauty of her Tears; Such charming Tears as those alone excel, Which from your Eyes for lov'd Pamela fell: There, with concern of Heroes past you read; How do we envy then the happier dead!

But oh! what Hopes can living Lovers find, If they alone take up your gentle Mind! To this blest Place are all our Wishes bound, Where no unhallow'd Feet e're toucht the ground: Hither w'approach not so profane or rude, As without your Permission to intrude: Nor can we of this mighty Grace despair, From the bright Nymph that's gentle as she's fair, In whom we Nature's noblest Strife may find, Which should excel, her Beauty or her Mind; In the warm Snow of whose soft tender Breast, Mildness and gentlest Pity build their Nest; And Virtue, stronglier, noblier fortify'd By easie Freedom than disdainful Pride.

King Charles I. at Oxford, being at a Sport called Sortes Virgilianae, drew for his Lott some part of the 4th Eneid, abut Verse 615. and had six Verses translated by Mr. Cowley.

BY a bold People's stubborn Arms opprest, Forc'd to forsake the Land which he possest, Torn from his dearest Son, let him in vain Beg help, and see his Friends unjustly slain: Let him to bold unequal Terms submit, In hopes to save his Crown; yet lose both it And Life at once: Untimely let him dye, And on an open Stage unburied lye.

The Latine Verses.

AT bello audacis populi vexatus & armis, Finibus extorris, complexu avulsus Iuli Auxilium imploret, videat{que} indigna suorum

Funera, nec cum se sub leges pacis iniquae Tradiderit, regno aut optata lace fruatur, Sed cadat ante diem, media{que} inhumatus arena.

The Deist's Plea, answered by the Honourable, Robert Boyle, Esq.

The Deist's Plea.

NAtural Religion, easie first and Plain; Tales made it Mystery, Offerings made it gain; Sacrifices and Feasts were at length prepar'd▪ The Priests eat roast Meat, and the People star'd.

The Christian's Plea.

NAtural Religion does indeed display The Duty of serving God, but not the way: Man of himself roving, perverse and blind, A Precipice sooner than that way would find,

What Worship God will like: Himself must teach, And so he did, by those he sent to preach; Who Doctrins worthy to be thought Divine, Confirm'd by Miracles, where his Power did shine: Who by those Wonders, Instances did give Of things, as strange as they bid us believe; Who promis'd endless Joys, and Lives requir'd Worthy of those, that to such Joys aspir'd, Who what they taught so much believ'd and pris'd That, for its sake, they all things else despis'd: And both by its strict Rules their Lives did guide, And to attest its Truth most gladly dy'd; And without Arms subdu'd the World, save those Whom Vice, not Wit, engag'd clear Truths t'oppose.

Iulii Mazirini, Cardinalis, Epita∣phium: Authore Ioh. Milton.

HIC jacet Iulius Mazirinus, Galliae Rex, Italus Ecclesiae Praesul Laicus, Europae praedo purpuratus, Fortunam omnem ambiit omnem corrupit; Aerarium administravit, & exhausit; Civile bellum compressit, sed commovit; Regni jura tuitus est, & invasit; Beneficia possedit, & vendidit; Pacem dedit aliquando, sed distulit, Hostes cladibus, cives oneribus afflixit, Arrisit paucis, irrisit plurimos, Omnibus nocuit. Negotiator in Templo, Tyrannus in Regno,

Praedo in Ministerio, Vulpes in Consilio, Grassator in Bello, Solus nobis in Pace Hostis. Fortunam olim adversam, aut elusit aut vicit: E nostro seculo vidimus Adorari fugitivum, Imperare Civibus Exulem, Regnare proscriptum. Quid deinde egerit, rogas? Paucis accipe. Lusit, fefellit, rapuit; Ferreum nobis seculum induxit, sibi ex auro nostro Aureum fecit. Quorundam capiti nullius fortunis pepercit, Homo crudeliter clemens; Pluribus tandem morbis elanguit, Plures ei mortes coelo irrogante, Cui Senatus olim unam decreverat:

Vincenni se arcibus inclusit moriturus; Id quidem apte Quaesivit carcerem; Diu laedentem animam retinuit, aegre reddidit, Sic retinere omnia didicerat, Nil sua sponte reddere, Constanter tamen visurus est mori, quid mirum? Vt vixit, sic obiit dissimulans, Ne morbum quidem novere qui curabant. Hac una fraude nobis profuit, Fefellit Medicos; Mortuus est tamen, ni fallimur, & moriens Regem regno, Regnum Regi restituit; Reliquit▪ Praesulibus pessima exempla, Aulicis infida consilia, Adoptivo amplissima spolia, Paupertatem populis;

Successoribus suis omnes praedandi artes, Sed praedam nullam. Immensas tamen opes licet profuderit, Id unum habuit ex suo quod daret, Nomen suum. Pectus ejus, post mortem apertum est, Tunc primum patuit vafrum cor Mazirini Quod nec precibus, nec lacrymis, nec injuriis moveretur. Diu quaesivimus, invenere medici Cor Lapideum. Quod mortuus adhuc omnia moveat & administret ne mireris: Stipendia in hunc annum accepit, Nec fraudat post Mortem bonae fidei: Quo tandem evaserit forsitan, rogas? Coelum (si rapitur) tenet, si datur meritis longe abest.

Sed abi Viator, & cave; Nam hic Tumulus Est Specus Latronis.

In Vrbanum viii. P. M.

EST ne Papa Christianus? Immo vero, Christianissimus. Estne verus Petri Successor? Immo verissimus: Quotiescunque enim Gallus Cantat, Dominum abnegat.

EPITAPH upon Felton, by his Grace the late D. of Buckingham.

HEre uninter'd suspends (tho not to save Surviving Friends th'Expences of a Grave)

Felton's dead Earth, which to the World must be, His own sad Monument, His Elegy, As large as Fame, but whether bad, or good, I say not, by himself 'twas writ in Blood. Having his Body thus entomb'd in Air, Arch'd ore with Heaven, and set with many a fair And glorious Diamond-Star; a Sepulchre Which Time can't ruinate, and where The impartial Worm, which is not brib'd to spare Princes, when wrapt in Marble, cannot share His Flesh, which oft the charitable Skies Embalm with Tears, doing those Obsequies Belong to Men, until the pitying Fowl, Contend to reach his Body to his Soul.

Upon a Lady's Singing PINDARICK ODE,

By Mr. CONGREVE.

I.

LEt all be husht, each softest Motion cease, Be every loud tumultuous Thought at Peace, And ev'ry ruder Gasp of Breath Be calm, as in the Arms of Death. And thou most fickle, most uneasie Part, Thou restless Wanderer, my Heart, Be still; gently, ah gently, leave, Thou busie, idle thing, to heave. Stir not a Pulse; and let my Blood, That turbulent, unruly Flood, Be softly staid: Let me be all, but my Attention, dead.

Go, rest, y'unnecessary Springs of Life, Leave your officious Toil and Strife; For I would hear this Voice, and try If it be possible to dye.

II.

Come all ye Love-sick Maids and wounded Swains, And listen to her Healing Strains. A wondrous Balm, between her Lips she wears, Of Sov'reign Force to soften Cares; 'Tis piercing as your Thoughts, and melting as your Tears: And this, through ev'ry Ear she does impart, (By tuneful Breath diffus'd) to ev'ry Heart. Swiftly the gentle Charmer Flies, And to the tender Grief soft Air applies, Which, warbling Mystick Sounds, Cements the bleeding Panter's Wounds. But ah! beware of clam'rous Moan: Let no unpleasing Murmur or harsh Groan,

Your slighted Loves declare: Your very tend'rest moving Sighs forbear, For even they will be too boistrous here. Hither let nought but Sacred Silence come, And let all sawcy Praise be dumb.

III.

And lo! Silence himself is here; Methinks I see the Midnight God appear, In all his downy Pomp aray'd, Behold the rev'rend Shade: An ancient Sigh he sits upon, Whose Memory of Sound is long since gone, And purposely annihilated for his Throne: Beneath two soft transparent Clouds do meet, In which he seems to sink his softer Feet. A melancholy Thought, condens'd to Air, Stol'n from a Lover in Despair,

Like a thin Mantle, serves to wrap In Fluid Folds, his visionary Shape. A wreath of Darkness round his Head he wears, Where curling Mists supply the want of Hairs: While the still Vapors, which from Poppies rise, Bedew his hoary Face and lull his Eyes.

IV.

But hark! the heav'nly Sphere turns round, And Silence now is drown'd In Ectasy of Sound. How on a suddain the still Air is charm'd, As if all Harmony were just alarm'd! And ev'ry Soul with Transport fill'd, Alternately is thaw'd and Chill'd. See how the Heavenly Choir Come flocking, to admire, And with what Speed and Care, Descending Angels cull the thinnest Air!

Haste then, come all th'immortal Throng, And listen to her Song; Leave your lov'd Mansions, in the Sky, And hither, quickly hither fly; Your Loss of Heav'n, nor shall you need to fear, While she sings 'tis Heav'n here.

V.

See how they crowd, see how the little Che∣rubs skip! While others sit around her Mouth, and sip Sweet Hellelujahs from her Lip. Those Lips, where in Surprise of Bliss they rove; For ne'r before were Angels blest With such a luscious Feast Of Musick and of Love. Prepare then, ye immortal Choir Each sacred Minstrel tune his 〈◊〉〈◊〉 And with her Voice in Choru•• Her Voice, which next to yours i•• ••••st divine.

Bless the glad Earth with heavenly Lays, And to that Pitch th'eternal Accents raise, Which only Breath inspir'd can reach, To Notes, which only she can learn, and you can teach: While we, charm'd with the lov'd Excess, Are wrapt in sweet Forgetfulness Of all, of all, but of the present Happiness: Wishing, for ever in that State to lie, For ever to be dying so, yet never die.

Advice about Marriage: An Imi∣tation of a French Satyr; by Mr. Tho. Brown.

THE Husband's the Pilot, the Wife is the Ocean, He always in Danger, she always in Motion,

And he that in Wedlock twice hazards his Carcass Twice ventures a drowning; and Faith that's a hard Case. Even at our own Weapons the Females defeat us, And Death, only Death, can sign our Quietus. Not to tell you sad Stories of Liberty lost, How our Mirth is all pall'd, and our Pleasures all crost: This Pagan Confinement, this damnable Station Suits no order, nor age, nor degree in the Nation. The Levite it keeps from Parochial Duty, For who can at once mind Religion and Beauty? The Rich it alarms with Expences and Trouble, And a poor Beast, you know, can scarce carry double. 'Twas invented, they'll tell you, to keep us from falling, Oh the Virtue and Grace of a shrill Catter-wawling! But it pales in your Game— Ay, but how do you know Sir, How often your Neighbour breaks up your Enclosure?

For this is the principal Comfort of Marriage, You must eat, tho' an hundred have spit in your Porrige, If at Night you're unactive and fail of per∣forming, Enter Thunder and Lightning, and Bloodshed next Morning: Cries the Bone of your Side, "Thanks dear Mr. Horner, "This comes of your sinning with Crape in a Corner. Then, to make up the Breach, all your Strength you must rally, And labour and sweat like a Slave at the Gally: But still you must charge, oh blessed Condition! Tho' you know to your Cost you've no more Ammunition; Till at last my dear mortified Tool of a Man, You're not able to make a poor Flash in the Pan. Fire, Female and Flood begin with a Letter, And the World's for'em all scarce a Farthing the better, Your Flood soon is gone, and your Fire you may humble, If into the Flames store of Water you tumble:

But to cool the damn'd Heat of your Wive's Titillation, You may use half the Engines and Pumps in the Nation, But may piss out as well the last Conflagra∣tion. Thus Sir, I have sent you my Thoughts of the Matter, Judge you, as you please, but I scorn to flatter.

Part of a Panegyrick upon the Fa∣mous Colonel Walker, Governour of Londonderry; by Mr. Tho. Brown.

A Town he kept in spite of Fate, The Irish he confounded: For this he got five thousand Pound, Oh Hero most renown'd! More of his valiant Deeds and Worth, What need we then to cry-a,

Since Walker George has made amends For Walker Obadiah.

CAROLO Martyri Sacrum: Autore Thoma Brown.

CArole Gentis Honos, sate Carole sanguine Divum, Qui major magnis annumeraris Avis, Relligio accepit, quo Principe, nostra Coronam, Quo vivente decus, quo moriente fidem. Haec damus ultrici damnata volumina Flammae Manibus inferias, sancte Monarcha, tuis. Seu tulerint Batavae funesta venena paludes, Seu dederit saevam Scotia dira luem. Sic semper pereat quaecunque lacessere Charta Vel Reges ausa est, vel tetigisse Deos.

A Catch, by Mr. Taverner.

PAle Faces stand off, and our bright ones adore, We look like our Claret, they worse than our Score; Then light up your Pimples, all Art we'l out∣shine, When the plump God does paint, each Stroke is divine. Clean Glasses our Pencils, our Claret is Oil, He that sits for his Picture must sit a good while

The Beaux, an Ephigram, by Mr. Tho. Brown.

TEll me, Sage Will, thou, that the Town around For Wit, and Tea and Coffee art renown'd; Tell me, for as the common Rumor goes, Thy House is cramm'd eternally with Beaux,

How shall I that strange Animal define, What are his Marks, his Virtues or his Sign? So may'st thou still keep in the Wits good Graces, And never lose a Farthing more at Races. Thus I enquir'd, when streight Sage Will re∣replyed, His Nutmeg, Spoon, and Grater laid aside; "He that like M— Sings, like S— writes, "Dresses like R—, like T— Fights, "Like H— in a no ingagement swears, "Chatters like D—, Squints like W— at Prayers; "Dams every thing besides his own dull Jest, "That thing's a Beau: Why then that Beau's a Beast.

The Repenting Husband: Or a Satyr upon Marriage: By Mr. S. W.

Beaugard.

IT can't be he. Courtine! the brisk, the gay! What Hag has stoln the Friend and Man away? What Monster is he metamorphos'd to? How all unlike the Iolly Thing we knew? Such Vnderwoods have over-run the Coast, In his Beard's Thicket all his Face is lost; That hanging Look sad Ghesses does invite, And on his wrinkled Forehead Husband write.

Courtine.

For thy unseasonable Mirth a Curse, As heavy as that Fiend, that haunts me thus: That Constellation of Plagues be thine Which spightful Heaven has doom'd with Sylvia, mine:

Be thou condemn'd to lug an endless Life, The Gally-slave to an Eternal Wife.

Beaugard.

A friendly Wish! But Partners would destroy That Bliss, which none but one can well enjoy: Lucky Courtine, how ev'n in spight of me Does thy good Fortune make me envy thee? How like the neat Sir Davy, Sage and wise, New Aldermen sit Budding in her Eyes! A Face so fair as Sylvia's sure might move, Spight of his Hymns, a bloodless Angel's Love; And then what dull Platonick can behold The Beauty, and the Virtue of her Gold? The Atheist thinks a merry Life does well, Bartering short Pleasant Toys for a long future Hell. To Lovers thus the happy Night alone For a whole Age of Torments might attone,

After a Day of Eating, which might vie With the Lord Mayors or Shreeval Luxury: See where a Drove of envious wishing Freinds Around thy Bed, the Bower of Bliss Attends; Each squinting Gallant prays thy Place were his And by Delays excel the coming Blyss: Sack-posset then, while each green Virgin throws Prophetic Stocken, at thy patient Nose. Sack-posset still, and when they that remove; Next—enter the sweet Sillabub of LOVE. Soft Music then thy Laziness must chide, And give a fair Excuse to leave the Bride; Not wooing Puss can louder Songs compose, Nor more diversity of Airs than those Harmonious City-Music; such a Bliss; 'Twere worth the while to marry but for this. Nor must you think the Joys should end so soon, There's yet a live-long-heavenly-hony-moon

In Wedlocks pleasing Team, with equal Law, Thy courteous Yoke-fellow must ever draw, While Pictures of thy kind laborious Bride Shall still run softly bellowing by thy Side.

Courtine.

Since my fair Pack so wondrously does please, Thy Shoulders lend, and be an Hercules: I feel a Load, a heavy Hell above, For the expected gaudy Heaven of Love: How thin would you those Tinsel Pleasures find With which sly jilting Nature bribes Mankind? SATED FRVITION does the Bliss destroy, And the next Moment knows not the Tumultu∣ous Ioy. Who can reflect without just Rage and Fright, And deep regret on such a mean Delight! Ye Gods, if these Loves highest Banquets be, Brutes can love more, and better far than we:

This knew sly Iove, who when he left the Skies, Chose rather any other Beast's Disguise, The Bull, nay th'improportionable Swan, Much more the lusty Ass▪ can rival Man, Who all their Pleasure in Possession find, Without the curst Allay, and Sting behind; As Nature prompts, promiscuously they rove, And hunt free Ioys, through ev'ry Field and grove, But in a Pound, what Brute wou'd e'n make Love? Man, Man alone is damn'd to grinding still, And in the Prison of his Cage must Bill; Like a blind Stallion ever drudges on, And gets new Slaves for Wives to ride upon; Night-mar'd, like me, whom gastly Sights persue And scare with her lean Ghost, whom once I knew. That Sylvia's now no more, who big with Charms, Dropt a whole Dow'r of Charms within your Arms;

Loose hangs the Flower, lately so fresh and gay, And every Tempest bears new Leaves away: Unlovely now it flags, and overblown, And ev'ry Grace, and ev'ry Charm is gone; Her Tenderness is fond and awkward grows, And all her Female Art affected shews True Hag all o're: Ugly she grows, and old, And knowing this, turns Jealous and a Scold; Fletcher's Wife-tamer durst not dare to love her, Xantippe was a Patient Grizel to her; Each Look, each Step I tread's by her sur∣vey'd; She haunts me like my Conscience, or my shade, Expects t'a Statue, I should constant prove, And daily damns my unperforming Love; When e'r for Quiets-sake she hooks me in, What Mummy looks so dreadful as her Face! Heavens, how she ruffles in her Buckrum Skin, And frights my Soul away from the Imbrace!

So when from Gibbets and the Common-shore Th'Officious Devil has pimp'd, and brought his Friend a Whore, So shrieks the Wretch, when he next Morn has spy'd A ghastly Carcass rotting by his Side. Just such a Lot is mine; I drudg my Life Worse than, with Legion far, possess'd with WIFE; Wou'd Fate and Hell some higher ill provide, And club for any other Plague beside, I soon should easy and contented grow, In spight of Bolts above and Flames below: No—such luxurious Ease I ask in vain, And like poor Adam must alive remain, Whom vengeful Fate did to curs'd Woman chain, In Judgment gave him an unkind Reprieve, And damn'd him to ten thousand Hells in Eve.

Vpon the D. of Buckingham's Re∣tirement: By Madam Wharton, Jan. 1683.

IF darkest Shades could cloud so bright a Mind, Or universal Knowledg be confin'd, Then should I fear what vainly you persue, Exiling the offending World from you: Permit this Phrase, for their's the loss would be, To you, 'twere Gain of Ease and Liberty: For them alas! what is't I would not fear? If banished the rich World of Learning here, Within your Breast, where Knowledg is retir'd By vain Pursuits and false Explainers tir'd; Others bring dazling Light, and leave us more Opprest with Blindness than we were before: But gently by degrees, like dawning Day, The Mists that cloud the Mind you drive away.

If you retire, what Damps of black Despair Must cloud the World (no longer made your Care?) Who could alas deep Mysteries unfold? Who could Instruct the Young or Chear the Old? Who could like you in lively Colours paint Death's gastly Face to each expiring Saint? 'Tis you and only you can paint him fair, To those who Life & Pleasure make their Care. 'Tis you make Ease less lovely seem than Pain 'Tis you bring Heaven down to dying Men, And raise the drooping Minds to Heaven again; You chose Heaven's Saints, for still the mount∣ing Soul Is crown'd above whom you on Earth enrol. Quit not the World, because that Monarch's Brow So smooth to all, seems clouded o'r to you: His Anger, like the Wrath of Heaven, is slow, And all his Actions his Compassion shew:

Unjustice never can his Temper sute, Love, gentle Love, is his blest Attribute: A Soul enclin'd to such a peaceful Charm, No fear of Danger could his Soul alarm: Plot upon Plot intended or devis'd, He smil'd to see, look'd over and despis'd. When every Subject at his Danger shook, His Thoughts flow'd easily as a Summers Brook: He pardon'd still, and when unruly, they Forc'd him the Sword of Justice to display, Unwillingly he punish'd, to obey: I say, t'obey, for might he still command, Garlands of Peace would grow within his Hand; Then Love and Wit, in which he does excel, With Peace and Plenty, here would ever dwell. But now, alas, he rules a giddy Crowd, Who slight their Joys and tell their Grief aloud;

As fond of Troubles as he is of Peace, So factious Slaves and constant Foes to ease, Still forcing Fears unnatural and base; At home distracted, and abroad despis'd, The Grief of Fools, and laughter of the Wise. But hold! too far, I have mistook my way, I would return, and yet what can I say? The Subject is so vast to which I'm brought, That I am lost in the Abyss of Thought; I would persuade, and yet I know not how To make that Theam to my weak Numbers bow, Exalt my humble Notions to your height, I'll plainly tell my Thoughts, raise you their Flight. Leave not the World, but near that Monarch rest, Who all that's just still harbours in his Breast, And when that Head so fill'd with boundless Thought To his enlarged Heart is nearer brought,

What Wonders may we not expect should spring From such a Subject, and from such a King!

To Damon, the most Inconstant and Faithless of his Sex: Being the first Copy of Verses made by a fair Lady, who is since dead.

HAppy was I, O Love, when Innocent, And knew not what thy lawless Pow∣er meant! But since from Damon's Eyes thou'st shot thy Dart, Wing'd with his faithless Vows, into my Heart; Alas! away my happy Hours are flown, And I too plainly find I am undone! For by his Prayers and numerous Oaths be∣tray'd Too easie, I thought all was true he said; So piteously he look'd, and sigh'd much more, And with such wondrous feeling ardor swore!

But like the rest of his false, perjur'd Kind, He soon discover'd his base fickle Mind. Wilst Young Enjoyment, was all brisk and gay, How often didst thou, perjur'd Damon, say, That, had Alcmena, had such melting Charms, The happy Thunderer ne'r had left her Arms, But had prolong'd the pleasing, blisful Night, Till darken'd Mankind had forgot the Light. But thou art false, and therefore shouldst be scorn'd, And not with fruitless Tears and Sorrows mourn'd: But now my Scorn, alas! would please thee more Than all the Favours I bestow'd before: Then let some other Pride thy Soul Torment, And make thee feel what I too late repent, The hopeless Pangs of a despairing Love, And all the Racks the restless guilty prove.

Pet. Arbiter. Qui Pelago credit, magno se foenere tollit, &c.

THe ventring Merchant in his mighty Gains Meets a Reward for his past Toil & Pains; The hardy Soldier who delights in Wars, Ventures for Plunder whilst he ventures Scars; The servile cringing Flatterer, we see Triumphant in his purple Luxury; The Cuckold-maker spends his Blood and Health In toilsome Pleasure to procure him Wealth; Discarded Eloquence alone does wait, Shivering with Cold, and ragged, out of Date; And whilst admired Baseness upwards flies, Worth unregarded and neglected Lyes.

A SONG: By Henry Cromwel, Esq;.

I.

A Beauteous Face, fine Shape, engaging Air, With all the Graces that adorn the Fair, If these cou'd fail their so accustom'd Parts, And not secure the Conquest of our Hearts: Sylvia has yet a vast reserve in store; At Sight we love, but hearing must adore.

II.

There falls continual Musick from her Tongue, The Wit of Sappho, with her artful Song; From Syrens thus we lose the Power to fly, We listen to the Charm, and stay to dy: Ah! lovely Nymph, I yield, I am undone, Your Voice has finisht what your Eyes begun.

Vpon the Art of Love, a Book, sent to a Lady: By the same.

I.

IS Sylvia then to learn the Art of Love, Who with that Passion every Breast inspires? What pity 'tis she only should not prove What mighty Charms there are in soft Desires? Let her pursue the Dictates of her Heart, Nature's a Mistress better far than Art:

II.

But if by some unknown Indifference Her Eyes neglect the Conquests they have won, And whilst all yield to Love, without Defence, Sylvia can be insensible alone: Try then, my little Book, thy utmost Art, To make the Passage easy to her Heart.

A SONG: By the same.

I.

HOw! mortal Hate! for what Offence? For too much Love or Negligence? The first, who is it that denies? The Fault of your Victorious Eyes, As 'tis of your severer Arms, I pay no more my Tribute to your Charms.

II.

Yet I in Silence still admire, Have gaz'd till I have stole a Fire; A mighty Crime in one you hate; Yet who can see and shun the Fate? Ah! let it then not mortal prove, Not but I'd die to shew how much I love.

The DECAY, A SONG: By W. C.

I.

SAy not Olinda, I despise the faded Glories of your Face, The languish'd Vigour, of your Eyes, and that once, only lov'd Embrace.

II.

In vain, in vain, my constant Heart, on aged Wings, attempts to meet With wonted speed, those Flames you dart, it faints and flutters at your feet.

III.

I blame not your decay of Pow'r, you may have pointed Beauties still,

Though me alas, they wound no more, You cannot hurt what cannot feel.

IV.

On youthful Climes your Beams display, There, you may cherish with your Heat, And rise the Sun to guild their Day, To me benighted, when you set.

A SONG:

By Mr. S —.

I.

NO more proud Woman boast Your Empire over Men, For all your Pow'r now you have lost, And they're restor'd unto themselves again.

II.

They plainly now discern Those Tricks and all those Arts With which your Face and Eyes you arm, To Catch unguarded Hearts.

III.

And rather than submit To such Deceits, as these, They'l for a Mistress chuse a Man o'Wit, Who better knows to please.

By the same.

I.

THis proves, Clymene, what I said, Our Hearts o'th' hardest Rocks were made,

Since mine, unweary'd still has born Your killing Rigour and your Scorn; Yet yours nothing could melt, or move, Not all my Tears, nor all the force o'Love.

II.

Long with my hourly Pains I strove, Pains which I fear will endless prove, Never more vainly to urge to you This Truth, for my repose too true; I am a Rock in Constancy, As you are one in Cruelty.

SONG:

By Tho. Ch—. Esq.

I.

LOve's a Dream of mighty Treasure, Which in Fancy we possess; In the Folly lies the Pleasure, Wisdom ever makes it less: When we think, by Passion heated, We a Goddess have in Chase, Like Ixion we are cheated, And a gawdy Cloud embrace.

II.

Only happy is the Lover, Whom his Mistress well deceives,

Seeking nothing to discover, He contented lives at ease: But the Wretch that would be knowing What the fair one would disguise, Labors for his own undoing, Changing Happy to be wise.

SONG: By the same.

I.

LEt other Beauties boast in vain, How they a Heart ensnare, Which they by artful means obtain, And but preserve with Care: Whilst Cloe, with restless Pow'r,

Does all Mankind subdue, As are her Conquests ev'ry Hour, So are her Charms still new.

II.

Yet she for whom so many dye, Neglecting does surprize, As loath the utmost Force to try Of her victorious Eyes. Her Influence she does moderate, And some in Pity spare, That Beauties of a Lower Rate May have a little Share.

The Message, a SONG:

By W. C.

GO, thou unhappy Victim, go Thou poor distracted Heart, Oppress'd with all thy mighty woe, Thy endless Love, and Smart; Go to Aminta, tell thy Grief; Go to Aminta, beg Relief; Pray to that Cruel Fair, And let, oh let her hear The various Cries of thy Despair. In bleeding Wounds, and trembling Fears, In moving Sighs and melting Tears, Pant to her Eyes, and pierce her Ears.

Ah! sure she cannot see, A Heart, so clad in Misery, And yet no Pity have; Oh no—she cannot—sure she will In tender Mercy save, Or else in rigid Mercy kill.

By Henry Cromwel, Esq Martial. Epigram. De morte Festi, lib. 1. epig. 67.

Indignas premeret pestis cum tabida fauces, &c.

NO sooner had the dire Disease began, But o'r his Face the spreading Mischief ran; Around him his lamenting Friends did ly, All Eyes were bath'd in Tears—but his were dry; Firm in his Soul he was, and well resolv'd to die:

Yet does he mean inglorious ways disdain, By Famin scorns to linger out in Pain, Or with vile poisonous Dregs his manly Vi¦sage stain: But, as he ever Honour's Course did run, In Death to finish what his Life begun, With Roman Courage did his Fate obey, Which ever led to Death the noblest way: By falling thus he has acquir'd a Name, Out-vying Cato's in the List of Fame, For fear of Caesar forc'd to such an end; But thus he dy'd, and yet was Caesar's Friend.

A CATCH.

I.

LET the Woman be damn'd (a moderate Fate) Or dye an old Maid, as grey as a Cat, That her Lover refuses for want of Estate.

II.

Let her, that sets Man, like a Beast to be sold, And above mettle'd Flesh loves a Lump of dead Gold, Look green when she's young, and be poxt when she's old.

III.

But let those, that are wise contemn the dull Store, Wives chose by their Weight, will be weighty no more, If for Gold they will wed, for the same they will whore.

A Letter from Hen. Cr. Esq. to Tho. Ch. Esq. For Women and against Wine.

MY lovely Ch—, that takes Delight, To spend the silent Hours of Night With sparkling Wine, and sprightly Jest, And hates the lazy Thoughts of Rest, Unbending then with ease thy Cares, When drudging Cit to Shop repairs, Of thy weak Friend some Pity take, Who has not learnt the Art to wake, Unskill'd in offring at the Shrine Of thy dear Jovial God of Wine: Let him enjoy his little Punk, Be Clapt for Sin, but not be drunk: The Wretch that runs at ev'ry Whore Is often poxt, but can't give o're,

May well be thought a Slave to Passion, But yet he acts by Inclination, And Pleasures in one Moment gains To countervail an Age of Pains. Why should I by your Method live? Against my Genius vainly strive? This ev'n common Sense destroys; This the wise Eunuch well disproves, Is't fit that I, who know no Joys, Should die, ye Gods, because she loves? Let Venus be at distance drawn, To make the nauseous Draught go down, As when I drank for red-hair'd Wench Substantial Bowles of lusty Punch. Or was there Interest in the Case, It might go down without Grimace, As lusty Stallion, who for Hire, Oblig'd to quench some Awker'd Fire,

Forces himself against Desire, And robs from Nature to supply her. No more will I pursue your Fashion, Nor ever drink by Obligation, But seek a softer Recreation. Thus though a different way we move, Your Passion Wine, mine for Love, Yet may we, as we change our Sphere, Like the Twin-Gods, meet once a Year.

An Answer to the foregoing Letter, by Tho. Ch. Esq. for Wine.

WHen lately with some special Friends, For Fops, and Fools to make amends, In Bow-street, at a certain House, We drank a notable Carouse;

And whilst Mirth, and good Humor lasted, The Nights in Joys sublime we wasted; Against good Wine cou'd I imagine, That you a Satyr wou'd engage in? Good Wine, that raises us above The most transporting Thoughts of Love, Inspires us with great Wit and Sense; When Love does ever drain from thence. When by indulging over Night Much Wine has cloid the Appetite, Next Day a Bumper will restore, Correct the Faults o'th Day before, But, by Experience taught, I find, It ne'r was so with Womankind: Yet, Sir, I am not in defyance With the soft Sex, but in compliance, Wou'd kindly take Commiseration On her that had for me a Passion;

But like a Beau to fawn, and wait, Is that of all Things, that I hate. I use a Woman at my Leisure, Not make a Business of a Pleasure: But you, whom Female Chains can fetter, I never heard was treated better. Or may be of an Amorous League, You cannot bear the grand fatigue; Something of that I am afraid, I'll tell you what the World has said; My Dear, it's credibly reported, You want strong Vigor when you sport it: In vain you say soft things and tender, When 'tis a stiff thing, that must bend her: But yours is such a modest Devil, It is afraid to be uncivil; And when she wishes for the Blessing, You idly stand and praise her Dressing,

The pretty Cornets on her Head, When you should throw her on the Bed, The fancied Colours of a Knot, When you should be upon the Spot: Then with her Fan, perhaps, you play, When you should cool her t'other way. These are the Reasons, as I ghess, That makes you have such ill Success; But if by chance you have the Fortune To win the Lady you importune, 'Tis one you pick up at Hypolito's, Whom for a Month or two you follow close, And though enjoy'd by half the Town, Keeps you at Distance with a Frown, Till by persuasive Presents gain'd, The mighty Victory's obtain'd; And when you think your self most happy, 'Tis ten to one, the Jade will Clap you.

Successively my Pleasures move, From Love to Wine, from Wine to Love: Kindly each other they relieve, And Change does double Pleasure give: Then against Wine be not inveterate, Because the other you are better at; But use them both, and the Delight Will prove your Friend is in the Right.

A SONG, By Henry Cromwel, Esq.

I.

NO, no, I ne'r shall love thee less, For all thy fierce Disdain, So fast thy blooming Charms increase, Thy sparkling Eyes my Heart oppress, Each Glance renews my Pain.

II.

Yet must I, (Fate!) like busie Flies, Still to thy Brightness turn; Pursue thee with my restless Eyes, Till, as each flaming Blush does rise, Insensibly I burn.

An Invitation to the Musick Meet∣ing: By the same.

I.

REturn, ah charming Nymphs! return To your once-lov'd forsaken Plains; Let us no more your Absence mourn, But soon resume our pleasing Strains; O'r all our useless Instruments unstrung, No more your shining Beauties shall be sung:

II.

Come all ye Shepheards to our Groves; 'Tis here a Glance with ease imparts, To the fair Object of your Loves, The moving Stories of your Hearts; Our Songs and Strings shall favour the Design, And every Breast to Tenderness incline.

VERSES by Madam Behn, never before printed.

On a CONVENTICLE.

BEhold that Race, whence England's Woes proceed, The Viper's Nest, where all our Mischiefs breed, There, guided, by Inspiration, Treason speaks, And through the Holy Bag-pipe Legion squeaks.

The Nation's Curse, Religion's ridicule, The Rabble's God, the Politicians Tool, Scorn of the Wise, and Scandal of the Just, The Villain's Refuge, and the Womens Lust.

VERSES design'd by Mrs. A. Behn, to be sent to a fair Lady, that desir'd she would absent her∣self, to cure her Love. Left unfinish'd.

IN vain to Woods and Deserts I retire, To shun the lovely Charmer I admire, Where the soft Breezes do but fann my Fire! In vain in Grotto's dark unseen I lie, Love pierces where the Sun could never spy. No place, no Art his Godhead can exclude, The Dear Distemper reigns in Solitude: Distance, alas, contributes to my Grief; No more, of what fond Lovers call, Relief Than to the wounded Hind does sudden Flight From the chast Goddesses pursuing Sight:

When in the Heart the fatal Shaft remains, And darts the Venom through our bleeding Veins. If I resolve no longer to submit My self a wretched Conquest to your Wit, More swift than fleeting Shades, ten thousand Charms From your bright Eyes that Rebel Thought disarms: The more I strugl'd, to my Grief I found My self in Cupid's Chains more surely bound: Like Birds in Nets, the more I strive, I find My self the faster in the Snare confin'd.

VENUS and CUPID.

VENVS.

CVpid, my darling Cupid and my Joy, Thy Mother Venus calls come away, come away.

CVPID.

Alas! I cannot, I am at Play.

VENVS.

Fond Boy, I do command thee, haste; Thy precious Hours no longer waste: In Groves and Cottages you make abode, Too mean a Condescention for a God! On barren Mountains idly play, For shame thou Wanton come away, come away! All useless lies thy Bow and Darts, That should be wounding heedless Hearts: The Swain that guards his Drove, Alas! no Leisure has for Love: His Flocks and Heards are all his Joy, Then leave the Shades and come away, come away.

CVPID.

Alas, what would you have me do? Command and I'll Obedience shew.

VENVS.

Hye then to Cities and to Court, Where all the Young and Fair resort; There try thy Power, let fly thy Darts, And bring me in some noble Hearts, Worthy to be by thee undone, For here's no Glory to be won.

CVPID.

Mistaken Queen, look down and see, What Trophies are prepar'd for thee, What glorious Slaves are destin'd me.

VENVS.

Now, by my self, a Noble Throng; How Fair the Nymphs, the Swains how Young!

No wonder if my little Loves Delight and play in Shades and Groves.

CVPID.

Then, Mother, here I'll bend my Bow, And bring you wounded Hearts enough.

VENVS.

My pretty Charming Wanton do.

Chorus.

'Tis thus we over Mortals reign, And thus we adoration gain From the proud Monarch to the humble Swain.

The Old Man's Complaint: By Mr. Wells.

AH, pity Love where e'r it grows! See how in me it overflows, In dripping Eyes and dropping Nose.

So strange a thing is seldom seen; My Age is dull, my Love is keen; Above I'm grey, but elswhere green.

Aloof, perhaps I court and prate; But something near I would be at, Tho' I'm so old I scarce know what.

The Maid's Answer.

For Shame your Green-wood Fires then smother, You drop at one End, burn at t'other, You'd have a Wife to spoil a Mother.

I pity much your Eyes o'rflowing; But sure the World must needs be going, When Rheums and Rottenness run a woeing.

Then let Age make you cease your chat; And since you have forgot what's what; Old Rats love Cheese, go construe that.

Vpon MARRIAGE: An Epigram: By Dr. N.

UNhappy State! to thee, poor Man does owe The loss of Innocence and Being too. Marriage alone brought in the Tempter Eve, It was the Serpent Woman did deceive: The Mischief still continues she began, For every Woman is an Eve to Man.

A SONG: By Mr. J. S. of the Middle Temple.

ALL Thoughts of Freedom are too late, Not any new fair Lady's Art, Nor both the India's Wealth nor Fate Itself can disengage my Heart.

Not, which kind Heaven forbid, your Hate And that which follows, proud Disdain My Passion could at all abate, But only make it last with Pain.

Thus all my Quiet does depend On Hopes t'obtain a Smile from you; That so my Love, that knows no end, May last with equal Pleasure too.

To SYLVIA, a SONG:

By C. G.

I.

SYlvia, could your Eyes but see The Wounds your killing Beauties give; A Lover you might read in me, Who, if you frown, disdains to live.

II.

But oh! the Artless fair ones know No more, than Tongues or Eyes persuade: Tongues that deceive, and Eyes that shew Too often Love an Art is made,

III.

For a sincere and tender Passion: Ah! how severe and hard a Fate!

That Faith's not known from Oaths for fashion, Nor naked Truth from gay Deceit.

IV.

Soft as your balmy Breath's my Flame, When strugling Love breaks out in Sighs; Immortal, as I'll make your Name, And as bewitching as your Eyes.

V.

But hold, fond Swain! Ah! tell no more! For Heav'n and the heav'nly fair Their Favours on the Happy show'r, Leaving the Wretch still to Despair.

To SYLVIA, the Meeting: By the same.

I.

GOds! when we meet how dull was I▪ My Tongue, that us'd to move So glibly on the Theme of Love, Now, when 'twas real, lay motionless and still; Nor wou'd it to fair Sylvia tell, The eager Pangs and Torments of my Mind: But like a false deceitful Friend, Officious in my Sun shine Day, Profering his Service and his Coin, (When he was here I wanted none) But when I needed most, he prov'd most shy, Leaving me Speechless, when I'd most to say.

My very Fancy, and my Thoughts were flown, So wholly was I lost in unexpected Joy.

II.

All extream Joy in Silence reigns; As Grief, when in excess A fluent Tale proves either less, The lighter Wounds of Fortune are made known In formal Words, and mournful Tone: But when she deeper strikes her Dart, 'Tis mute, and festers in the Heart. So lesser Joy is noisy, brisk, and gay, Flows in full Tides of Laugh, and Talk, Admits no silent Check or Balk: But when so great as mine, the Sense it chains. Imperfect Words! a Sigh! a soft Caress! A trembling Body, and a ravish'd Kiss, Was all the wondrous Language of m'unruly Joy.

III.

Ah! if your only Presence give Such elevated Bliss, What Raptures and what Extasies Have you, bright Sylvia, yet in store, For the blest Man you love! Too mighty sure for Man's frail Sense to bear, Or to enjoy and live! If but a gentle Touch such Transports move, What must Divine Fruition prove! Encircl'd in those tender Arms, Dissolving with those melting Charms; And oh!— on that soft panting Bosome lye! Sylvia that Death, grant Heaven and you, I dye.

The beginning of the First Satyr of Persius imitated.

The Prologue, to Dr. M—dly.

'TIs true, nor is it worth denial, My Verse has never yet stood Tryal Of Poetick-Smiths, that meet still, At Vrwin Toms, or Vrwin Will's; (For thus, Sir, Modern Revolution Has split the Wits, t'avoid Confusion, And set up Brother against Brother, That they mayn't clapper-claw each other.) That I should think my self a Poet, And vainly dare in Print to shew it: I, who have never pass'd as yet The Test of the mis-judging Pit,

Nor ith' Galleries tickl'd Crowd, 'Till they have clap'd and laugh'd aloud: Nor from the tender Boxes e'r Yet have drawn one pitying Tear: Nor with Sir Courtly, Roundelays Have made to garnish out new Plays: Nor Virgil's great majestick Lines Melted into enervate Rhimes: Nor witty Horace, e'r did venture To burlesque into modern Banter: Nor gentle Ovid e'r did force To zounds a River for a Horse: Nor sharp Iuvenal's stronger Verse, Perverted into Dogrel Farce: Nor ever durst as yet presume To venture on a meer Lampoon: Nor, in short, few Words being best, Ne'r yet could make a bawdy Jest.

I'll tell you then, since you'l needs know it, Why I set up now for a Poet: 'Tis not for what most of Vs write, To fill my Purse, or shew my Wit; But purely out of Affection, To fill up my Friend's Collection. Therefore, sweet Sir, in haste, adieu t'ye, For I'll adjourn now to my Duty.

The beginning of the First Satyr of Persius imitated.

Poet.

OH the prepostrous Cares of Human kind! Which in each Action and each Wish we find!

Friend.

Prithee that Cant give o'r, or who will read? You preach as solemnly, as 'twere your Trade.

P.

Speak you to me?

F.

To thee sayst? yes egad — Why surely, Iack, thou 'rt absolutely mad, For none will on such formal Verses look, But damn the Author, and despise the Book.

P.

None, say you Sir?

F.

Or one or two at most; And is't not hard to've All your Labour lost? To have your Works on Bulks all dusty lye, And all your Thoughts for want of Rea¦ders dye? Your precious Lines serv'd up to Nocks, or Pye?

P.

Mistake not, Friend, I chase not empty Fame, Nor write to please the Town, or get a Name. Let the Vain Herd of noisy Wits, and Beaux, To whom they please their worthless Praise dispose, It ne'r one Moment shall break my Repose. Or what care I, if th'undiscerning Town Prefer dull A—to me, or Perter Br—n;

Let his tagg'd Nonsense, t'others Wilds of Wit, With Cits, and Boys still fond Applauses get: But you, my Friend, steer a securer Course, And by the common Judgment ne'r form yours. Most Men, by publick Vogue condemn or praise, And never weigh the Merits of the Cause: Let not that balance you to either Side, By Wisdom's Nobler Rule your Sentence guide. Oh! that I could, spight of my beardless Youth, With a prevailing Force, now urge the Truth!

Fr.

Stay but a while, till Reverend Age comes on, (Thy fleeting Years of Youth will soon be gone) Then will grey Hairs on all thou say'st print Aw, Authority with all thy Precepts go. A dictatorial Youth does Envy draw, Tho' from his Pen the noblest Truths do flow.

P.

Oh! that's too long, I must before that Time Lash the vile Town with my Satyric Rhime.

F.

That must not be—pray take a Friend's Advice.

P.

Prithee no more, indeed thou'rt over-nice. I can no longer hold, nor silent, see Such numerous Pamphlets on each quarter fly, Some in Prose, and some in mightier Verse, Which each will daily to his Friends re∣hearse. Here a Pert Sot, with six Months Pains brings forth A strange, mishapen, and ridiculous Birth: A glimps of Human Stamp it has, the rest Is Serpent, Fish, and Bird, but larger Beast: In that odd Monster Horace once design'd, We may some Method and some meaning find, Tho' diffring Parts, yet distinct Parts it had, Tail of Fish, Horses Neck, a Human Head.

Nor Head, nor Tail, nor any Part is here, Through the whole Lump no certain Forms appear: 'Tis Chaos all—Mark how the jarring Seed Of ill agreeing things, perpetual Discord breed! Together huddled, now this, now that prevails, HOT Simile now, now COLD Winters Tales! More pondrous GHESS, with lighter BANTER meets, With clashing Fury each the other greets; MOIST spreading Scandal, with DRY Dulness fights. But oh! 't requires, this Mortal Strife to end, A stronger Judgment, a diviner Mind, Than his; for whatsoe'r the World may think, Pudding's his Food, and drowsy Mum his drink: For read his Trifles, and scarce in one Line You'll find him guilty of the least Design.

By the thick Fogs, which from his Diet rise, His Sense is smother'd, and his Judgment dyes. Well has he then the seven Sleepers grac'd By yearly Sacrifice, and annual Feast, For sure his Studies are but Sleep at best: And all the Town must needs be in a Dream, When such wild Ramblings got him some poor Fame. But quitting now this poor Prose Pam∣phleteer, To mightier Verse, I must my Vessel steer. But here the Chiming Fops so numerous grow, And in such various Follies dress'd they go, 'Twould be an endless Task to lash'em all, And now I find my Muse grows some∣thing dull.

F.

Enough for one time, sure is one such Fool.

On Affairs abroad, and K. William's Expedition: By Mr. Durfey.

CHurch-Scruples, and Jars, Plunge all Europe in Wars, English Caesar espouses our Quarrel, Predestin'd to stand, Against Lewis le Grand, And wear his now flourishing Laurel. The Cause that is best Now comes to the Test, For Heav'n will no longer stand neuter, But pronounce the grand Doom, For old Luther, or Rome, And prevent all our Doubts for the future. 'Twould turn a wise Brain To consider what Pain Fools take to become Politicians;

Fops, Bullies and Cits, All set up for Wits, And ingeniously hatch new Divisions: Some shew their hot Zeal For a new Common Weal, And some for a new Restauration; Thus we cavil and brawl, Till the Monsieur gets all, And best proves the Wit of the Nation: Though we Medcines apply, Yet the Fever swells high, First caused by a Catholick Riot, Which no Cure can gain, Till the breathing a Vein Corrects the mad Pulse into quiet. Yet what e'r disease on our Country may chance Let's drink to its healing condition, And rather wish Will. were Victor in France, Than Lewis were England's Physician.

On my Lord Fairfax: By the late Duke of Buckingham.

EPITAPH.

Vnder this Stone doth lye, One born for Victory.

ELEGY.

FAirfax the valiant, and the only he, Who e'r for that alone a Conqueror would be; Both Sexes Vertues were in him combin'd, He had the fierceness of the manliest Mind, And all the meekness too of Womankind: He never knew what Envy was, or Hate; His Soul was fill'd with Worth, and Honesty, And with another thing besides, quite out of date Call'd Modesty. He ne'r seem'd impudent but in the Field, a place Where Impudence it self dares seldom shew its Face,

Had any Stranger Spied him in a Room, With some of those whom he had overcome, And had not heard their Talk, but only seen Their Gesture and their Meen, They would have swore he had the vanquish'd been; For as they brag'd, and dreadful would appear, Whilst they their own ill luck in war repeated; His Modesty still made him blush to hear, How often he had them defeated.

II.

Through his whole Life the part he bore Was wonderful and great; And yet it so appear'd in nothing more Than in his private last Retreat; For 'tis a stranger thing to find, One Man of such a glorious Mind, As can despise the Power he hath got;

Than Millions of those Polls and Braves, Those despicable Fools and Knaves, Who such a poother make, Through Dulness and Mistake, In seeking after Power, and get it not.

III.

When all the Nation he had won, And with Expence of Blood had bought Store great enough he thought, Of Fame and of Renown, He then his Arms laid down, With full as little Pride, As if he had been on the Enemies Side. He neither Wealth nor Places sought, For others (not himself) he fought, He was content to know; For he had found it so,

That when he pleas'd, to conquer he was able, And left the Spoil and Plunder to the Rabble.

IV.

He might have been a King, But that he understood, How much it is a meaner thing To be unjustly Great than honourably Good. This from the World did Admiration draw, And from his Friends both Love and Awe, Remembring what he did in Fight before. Nay, his Foes lov'd him too, As they were bound to do, Because he was resolv'd to fight no more. So blest of all he dy'd, but far more blest were we, If we were sure to live till we could see A Man so great in War, in Peace so just as he.

FINIS.