Poems on several occasions. Humbly dedicated to the right honourable the Marchioness of Tavestock. By the author.

A Letter to Mr. R. C. in the Countrey.

DEar Sir, Till now my Thoughts your Course pursu'd, Trac'd o're your Steps, and found your Progress Good. O're th' extended Plains, and grassy Meads, On whose Rich Banks the flowing Rivers feeds; Thro' every shady Lane, and woody Hill, Across each peaceful Vale, and o're each murmur∣ing Rill.

Every Delight the Birds in busie Song Of gratulating Meeter, did prolong. Thus slid my Thoughts— When Lo presented strait From a recover'd Mounts prosp••ctive height, In bluest distance, Verulam, whom Fame, Ev'n in this private Letter, bids me name. Thither with cautious awe and pace I drew, Modest my Queries there, and grave my View. Where aged Grandeur in Its Ruins lye, And Bacer smouldring Tomb, whose Self too can∣not die. Hail Sacred Twine of Fate, the Town, now he Is gone, grown craz'd with Sick Mortality, Will shor••ly by a passionate Coment, Quit her old Form•• to Build his Monument. Wisely, if for her self she would secure A Name, might longer than her Stones endure:

But vain, if so She think t'ingross his Worth, Nor She, nor the wide Circuit of the Earth, It Heaven alone can hold that gave him Birth. Much She already owes her happy Fate, That when among the Bless'd his Soul was sat, His Body gave to Her, as One for That. With Benediction then I Nam'd his Fate, And Reverence due perform'd, renew'd my Gate. No tedious Subburb intercepts the Road, But Nature's suddain Hand bestows abroad Her best Affections 'mongst the happy Swains, And dress with Golden Locks the Neighb'ring Plains. The Rural Dames beneath the Hedges sate, And all the Bounties on the Soil repeat, How It no Niggard was, nor in Arrears, But Pleasure in Ten Thousand shapes it bears.

Thus they of Nature, and indulgent Pan, And (fir'd with Rapture) on my Fancy ran. But Oh! the Curst Disturber of my Ease, Vext that Its greatest Opposite should please, Vext that Its Child (for so it call'd my Thought) Should be with those Intrinsick Blessings caught, Business o'retook me traversing your Downs, Seiz'd on my Thoughts, and sporting Fancy wounds; Plunder'd my Hopes, and spares me only this, Now I'm Its Pris'ner, barely Time to Wish. Say then your Self, for Oh! I long to know, Are you in Health, and Happy? Where? And how?