A very heroical epistle from my Lord All-pride to Dol-common. The argument. Dol-common being forsaken by my Lord All-pride, and having written him a most lamentable letter, his Lordship sends her the following answer. Rochester, John Wilmot, Earl of, 1647-1680. 1679 Approx. 5 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 1 1-bit group-IV TIFF page image. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2008-09 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1). A91914 Wing R1761B ESTC R202737 43078127 ocm 43078127 151673 This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership. This Phase I text is available for reuse, according to the terms of Creative Commons 0 1.0 Universal . The text can be copied, modified, distributed and performed, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission. Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A91914) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 151673) Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English Books, 1641-1700 ; 2270:20) A very heroical epistle from my Lord All-pride to Dol-common. The argument. Dol-common being forsaken by my Lord All-pride, and having written him a most lamentable letter, his Lordship sends her the following answer. Rochester, John Wilmot, Earl of, 1647-1680. Scroope, Carr, Sir, 1649-1680. 1 sheet ([1] p.) s.n.], [London? : Printed in the year, 1679. Title from caption. Attributed to the Earl of Rochester by Wing. Attributed to Sir Carr Scroope by DNB. Place of publication suggested by Wing. "Satirical verses upon the Duke of Buckingham. By Sir C. Scrope??" - Brit. mus. cat. Reproduction of original in: Newberry Library, Chicago, Illinois. Created by converting TCP files to TEI P5 using tcp2tei.xsl, TEI @ Oxford. Re-processed by University of Nebraska-Lincoln and Northwestern, with changes to facilitate morpho-syntactic tagging. 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Broadsides -- London (England) -- 17th century. 2007-07 TCP Assigned for keying and markup 2007-07 Apex CoVantage Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2007-08 Mona Logarbo Sampled and proofread 2007-08 Mona Logarbo Text and markup reviewed and edited 2008-02 pfs Batch review (QC) and XML conversion A Very Heroical EPISTLE FROM MY Lord ALL-PRIDE to DOL-COMMON . The ARGUMENT . Dol-Common being forsaken by my Lord All-pride , and having written him a most lamentable Letter , his Lordship sends her the following answer . IF you 're deceived , it is not by my cheat , For all disguises are below the great . What Man or Woman upon earth can say I ever us'd 'em well above a day ? How is it then that I inconstant am ? He changes not , who alwayes is the same . In my dear self , I center every thing , My Servants , Friends , my Mistress , and my King , Nay Heaven and earth to that one point I bring . Well-manner'd , honest , generous and stout , ( Names by dull Fools to plague mankind found out ) Should I regard , I must my self constrain , And 't is my maxim to avoid all pain . You fondly look for what none e're could find Deceive your self , and then call me unkind ; And by false reasons would my falshood prove , For 't is as natural to change as Love. You may as justly at the Sun repine Because alike it does not alwayes shine . No glorious thing was ever made to stay , My Blazing Star but visits and away ; As Fatal too , it shines as those i' th' skies , 'T is never seen but some great Lady dies . The boasted favour you so precious hold To me 's no more than changing of my gold . What e're you gave , I paid you back in bliss , Then where 's the obligation , pray , of this ? If heretofore you found grace in my eyes , Be thankful for it , and let that suffice . But Women Beggarlike , still haunt the door Where they 've receiv'd a Charity before . O happy Sultan ! whom we barbarous call , How much refin'd art thou above us all ! Who envies not the joys of thy Serrail ! Thee , like some God , the trembling crowd adore , Each man 's thy slave , and Woman-kind thy Whore. Methinks I see thee underneath the shade Of golden Canopies supinely laid ; Thy crowching slaves all silent as the night , But at thy nod all active as the light . Secure in solid Sloath thou there dost raign , And feel'st the joys of love without th● pain . Each Female courts thee with a wishing eye , While thou with awful pride walk'st careless by . Till thy kind pledge at last mark 's out the Dame Thou fanciest most to quench thy present flame . Then from thy bed submissive she retires , And thankful for th● grace no more requires ▪ No loud reproach , nor fond unwelcome sound Of Womens tongues thy sacred ear dares wound . If any do , a nimble Mute straight tye's The true love knot , and stops her foolish cries . Thou fear'st no injur'd Kinsman's threatning blade , Nor Midnight ambushes by Rivals laid . While here with aking hearts our joys we taste Disturb'd by Swords like Damocles his feast , Epigram upon my Lord All-pride . Bursting with pride the loath'd Impostu●e swel's , Prick him he shed's his venom straight and smel 's , But is so lewd , a Scribler that he writes With as much force to nature as he fights . Harden'd in shame , 't is such a baffled Fop That every School-boy whips him like a Top. And with his arm and heart his brain 's so weak , That his starv'd fancy is compell'd to rake Among the excrements of others wit To make a stinking meal of what they shit . So Swine for nasty meat to dunghills run , And toss their gruntling Snouts up when they 've done . Against his stars the Coxcomb ever strives , And to be something they forbid contrives . With a red Nose , splay-foot , and goggle eye , A plowman's looby meen , face all awry , A filthy breath , and every loathsome mark The Punchinello set's up for a Spark . With equal self-conceit he takes up arms , But with such vile successe his part perform's , That he burlesque's the trade , and what is best In others , turn's like Harlequin tojest . So have I seen at Smithfield's wondrous fair ( When all his Brother Monsters flourish there ) A lubbard Elephant divert the Town With making legs and shooting off a gun . Go where he will he never find's a Friend , Shame and derision all his steps attend , Alike abroad , at home , i' th Camp and Court This Knight o' th' burning pestle makes us sport . Printed in the Year , 1679.