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

Ineffectual.

I Will no longer, therefore Muse be gone, Too much I've been impos'd upon, To let thee settle in my Breast, And heat my Fancy, and disturb my Rest, Too Courteous I have been, too Rude my Guest. I gave thee kind Admission there, And Entertain'd thee with my homely Cheer, Tho' sudden and unseasonable you were: But on my Mind Imperiously you sate, And tasted all my Thoughts with scornful State, This is too harsh, you cry'd, and this too flat.

And with that specious pretence, Would needs imploy your mellowing Heat; But what does the unhappy Damon get? Not one kind Look from Sylvia yet, By all thy Oily Words, by all thy Painted Sence.

I told you all would never do, Ay, and I gave you Reasons for it too; In spight of very Love I did: I told you she was Rich, most plaguy Rich, A Circumstance I'm sure which Ought to have scar'd, Audacious Muse, thy flight. When guarded round with Eyes severe, And Friends in Ambush every where, With Jealousie that watchful Owl of Night, From whose broad Gaze, not Fairy, thou wer't hid.

Be gone then, or content with meaner Things, And flutter low with thy sing'd Wings; Roam thro' the Fields, and thro' the Woods, And tell the Growth of Flowers and Buds, Yet these Mischievous Muse refer Thy Trait'rous Memory to her; The blushing Rose so sweet, so sleek, Took Its Complection from her Cheek, The Lilly from her Hands and Neck. A Brook that rouls it self hard by, With ceasless Moans, Which unrelenting Stones Still multiply, Thou'l't think th' unconsolable I.