The Second, fourth, and seventh satyrs of Monsieur Boileau imitated with some other poems and translations, written upon several occasions.

TO BELINDA, On Her Recovery from her Fever.

AS men when stormy winds begin to rise, And threatning Clowds o're cast the gloomy Skies; By fears of future want, and death opprest, Their suppliant eyes and hands to Heaven addrest, Beg a reprieve, and speak in tears the rest. So when Belinda's danger wak'd our fears, With vows our prayers, with sighs we mix'd our tears; And humbly ask'd, relenting fate would Spare To blast the early beauties of the Fair.

Nor vain has been the wish; she lives to know What she to us, what we to Heav'n owe. She Lives: nor has the deadly ill decay'd, Those Graces, which in all her Features play'd. Her sparkling Eyes their wonted lustre dart. Her ev'ry look can still command a Heart. Unblasted Roses in her cheeks appear, And out-blown-Lillys spread their glories there. Her coral lips those downy seats of bliss With the same ardour wanton Zephirs kiss. 'Till forc'd from thence, to her white neck they go, And wondring view the yet unmelted Snow. There stay to gaze, like us amaz'd to find Where fire so lately rag'd, That left behind. Unchang'd in all things, she with cold disdain Still hears her Lovers of their fate complain; Remembers not those pains she lately bore: But frowns, and loads unhappy us with more. Yet since Belinda lives we gladly dye, Proud such a treasure at that rate to buy.

So Curtius once into Earth's bowels rode, And to his own, prefer'd a publick good.